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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought has an idea occurring. 

“What about dating someone…older?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the sex…Jesus fucking Christ. 

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

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

“I’m not glowy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like usual, she seems to get what she wants. 

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

“I need to check on the pizzas.”

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

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

Until you’ve finally had enough. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mommy?”

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

“Can Jack have a sleepover tonight?” 

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

Jack…a sleepover. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As if he didn’t already. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You won’t offend him like that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Smiths.” She whispers back. 

Jack smiles, hums. “Any specific request?” 

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

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

“Yeah, it’s Mommy’s favorite.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He speaks before you can. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She really does love you, you know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’kay. Take my key.”

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

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

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

“You showered when you checked on Sally?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want pyjamas?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, baby,” Jack whimpers breathlessly. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl, baby. Doing so good.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

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

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

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

10 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hums. “But Tom is an ass.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tom.” You agree.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

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

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

tag list:

@gennywennypenny / @thefemininemystiquee / @mrsjgbuck / @linnyalou / @rathatosy 

@averyhotchner / @blackirisesinthesunlight / @vicky066 / @amacphet / @gaypoetsblog 

@littlewolfbird / @woodxtock / @myescapefromthislife / @freakedtfout4 / @whatyagottado 

@kaitieskidmore97 / @what-the-jams / @ryannnleigh / @freshouttheslammmer / @theaskeeps

@whimsilverhand / @yiiiikesmish / @kacananda / @solastasims / @stardustdd 

@cestmoijola / @xh444 / @venus584 / @celestialceremonials / @jordz34

@milflover-72 / @melissa66orion / @peaches-and-sunshine / @profoundbelieverpeach / @maya-j0y

@unsaidjaelinrose / @deathbyvexs / @4ria790 / @jayjay-218 / @slipfastrry 

@novamiss / @themarvelousbee / @stardustworlds / @magi999 / @sarahhxx03 

By the time Jack turned into his driveway, the sky had gone pale at the edges.

Not bright yet. Not really.

Just that thin, washed-out gray that came after a night shift, when the world looked like it had been rinsed and left damp, when headlights still made sense, but birds were already starting to make noise like they had some kind of personal vendetta against people who worked twelve hours under fluorescent lights.

You sat in the passenger seat with your work bag between your feet and your head turned toward the window, watching Jack’s neighborhood slide by in quiet, familiar pieces. Mailbox. Porch light. Empty sidewalk. His truck wasn’t in the driveway.

That still made your stomach tighten.

Not the way it would have yesterday. Not sharp enough to steal your breath. Just enough to remind you. Jack pulled your car into his driveway and put it in park. His hand stayed on the gearshift for a second longer than it needed to.

You noticed because you had started noticing everything.

The way his jaw held tension when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his shoulders stayed a little too set. The way his eyes moved over the street before he reached for the door handle. He did not make a production of it. Jack never did. He just checked. The driveway. The porch. The street behind you. The side yard. The windows. Then Jack looked at you.

“You good?” Jack asked.

You let your head rest back against the seat. “I’m tired.”

His face changed, just slightly. Not fear. Not exactly. Attention.

“Bad tired?” Jack asked.

You thought about it. Your feet hurt. Your lower back ached from being on hard floors all night. Your eyes felt gritty. There was a faint pressure behind your temples from charting, alarms, voices, overhead pages, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from holding yourself upright for a whole shift after your body had spent days expecting danger.

But your chest was not caving in. Your hands were not shaking. Your phone had not become a live wire in your pocket every time it lit up. You were tired because you had worked. You were tired because you had caught Lorraine Mercer’s stroke symptoms before they were dismissed as dizziness. You were tired because Ellis had asked you to grab labs. You were tired because Crus had pretended to need a flush just to check on you. You were tired because Shen had called your catch clinically significant with the kind of solemnity that made Ellis roll her eyes. You were tired because Jack had found your eyes across the department and let you keep standing on your own.

You swallowed.

“No,” you said. “Work tired.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then the smallest bit of tension left his mouth.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your heart did something tired and soft inside your chest.

“Yeah,” you said. “Good.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered more than he was going to say. Then he reached for his door.

“Come on,” Jack said.

You grabbed your bag and followed him out. The morning air was cool enough to make your scrub top feel thin. You hugged your jacket around yourself while Jack locked your car with the key fob and moved toward the front walk.

That was when you saw it. Not all at once. Just a hitch. A tiny one. Jack stepped up onto the walkway, and his weight shifted wrong. His hand went briefly to his thigh, high and quick, there and gone before anyone who didn’t know him would have caught it. But you knew him. Or you were learning him. Jack kept walking.

You frowned. “Jack.”

He did not turn around fast enough. That was answer enough. You followed him up the porch steps while he unlocked the front door.

“How long has that been bothering you?” you asked.

Jack pushed the door open and gave the dark entryway a quick glance before stepping inside. “How long has what been bothering me?”

You walked in after him. “Don’t do that.”

Jack shut the door behind you, locked it, slid the deadbolt home, and checked the handle. “Do what?”

You dropped your work bag beside the bench in his entryway. “Use your attending voice on me when you know exactly what I’m asking.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to be proud of you and annoyed at the same time. “That wasn’t attending voice.”

You tilted your head at him. “That was evasive attending voice.”

Jack looked down at you. “You categorizing them now?”

You crossed your arms. “I have a list.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m sure you do.”

You looked pointedly at his leg. “Your leg.”

Jack’s expression went flatter. Not colder. Just guarded.

“My leg is attached,” Jack said.

You gave him a look.

Jack sighed through his nose. “Mostly.”

You softened your voice. “Jack.”

He turned away before you could get a better read on his face, moving toward the kitchen with that same controlled gait.

“It’s fine,” Jack said.

You followed him. “That was unconvincing.”

Jack braced one hand on the kitchen island. “It’s been a long shift.”

You stopped across from him. “You were favoring it before the shift.”

He went quiet. The silence told you too much. Your stomach sank a little.

“Before the shift,” you repeated.

Jack looked toward the sink instead of at you. “I’m sore.”

You kept your voice even. “I can see that.”

Jack’s shoulders moved with a breath he did not quite let become a sigh. “It’s not a crisis.”

You stepped closer. “I didn’t say it was.”

Jack finally looked at you. “Then don’t look at me like that.”

You held his gaze. “Like what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Like you’re about to start worrying.”

You gave him a tired, unimpressed look. “I am worried.”

Jack said, “Don’t.”

You stared at him. “That has literally never worked on anyone.”

His mouth twitched again, but the humor didn’t stick. You glanced down, not at the prosthetic exactly, but at the way he stood with too much care.

“How long have you had it on?” you asked.

Jack did not answer. The ache in your chest changed shape.

“Jack,” you said softly.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. “Since before work.”

You shook your head. “That’s not an answer.”

Jack looked at you. “It’s an answer.”

You stepped around the island. “It’s a bad one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “It’s the one you’re getting.”

You moved close enough that he had to feel you there. “Did you sleep in it?” you asked.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Your throat tightened. “Jack,” you said again.

Jack looked away. “Not the whole time.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You looked at him, at the set of his shoulders, at the stubborn line of his mouth, at the man who had sat beside you through paperwork and court and your first shift back, who had looked calm enough for both of you while quietly grinding himself down underneath it.

“Why?” you asked.

Jack looked at the counter, then said, “Didn’t like the idea of needing to move fast and not being able to.”

Your breath caught. There it was. Not dramatic. Not noble. Not dressed up as some sweeping confession. Just Jack. Blunt and honest and exhausted.

“Because of me,” you said.

Jack’s head came up immediately. “No.”

You tried to speak. “Jack—”

Jack cut in, sharper this time. “No. Not because of you.”

You flinched a little at the force of it, and he saw it. His face changed. His voice lowered.

“Because of him,” Jack said. “Because of what he did. Because I didn’t like being in my own house wondering if I could get to the door fast enough if I had to.”

His hand tightened once on the counter before he made it let go.

“That is not because of you,” Jack said.

Your eyes burned, and you hated that they did. “I know that.” 

Jack looked unconvinced. You stepped closer anyway. “I’m trying to know that.”

Something softened around his eyes. “Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “I know.”

You let the quiet sit there for a second. Then you pointed toward the stairs.

“Bedroom,” you said.

Jack blinked. “Excuse me?”

You pointed again. “You heard me.”

His eyebrows rose. “You ordering me around in my own house?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack leaned a little more heavily on the island than he probably realized. “That a professional order?”

You lifted your chin. “That is your girlfriend asking you to let her take care of you.” 

Jack’s mouth did the thing again, that almost-smile that always looked like it had to fight its way through three layers of exhaustion and sarcasm to reach the surface.

“My girlfriend’s bossy,” Jack said.

You stepped toward the stairs. “Your girlfriend is right.”

Jack pushed away from the counter. “Both can be true.”

You pointed upstairs again. “Upstairs.”

Jack held your gaze for a beat too long. Then he pushed away from the counter with a low, irritated sound that did not hide the way his first step cost him. You saw it. He knew you saw it. Neither of you said anything. You followed him up the stairs, staying close without hovering. Jack took them carefully, one hand skimming the rail, jaw locked by the time he reached the landing. At the top, you touched his back. He stopped. Your palm settled between his shoulder blades.

“Hey,” you said.

Jack looked over his shoulder. “What?”

You kept your hand where it was. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His face went still. You kept your voice soft. “Not with me.”

For a second, he looked like he had an answer ready. Something dry. Something deflecting. Something designed to put the weight back somewhere he could manage. Then he looked at you, really looked at you, and whatever he saw must have taken the words out of him.

“Okay,” Jack said.

It was one word. It still felt like something opening. In his bedroom, the bed was unmade from the few hours of sleep you had both managed before work. Your hoodie was still folded over the chair in the corner. The evidence packet Sofia had helped you organize was tucked into your bag. The protective order was printed, signed, and real.

For once, none of that was the center of the room. Jack was. Jack sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. Jack bending forward to unlace his shoes with more patience than comfort. Jack’s hands steady because they were always steady, even when the rest of him hurt. You crossed the room and crouched in front of him. His hands paused on the laces.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said.

You looked up at him. “I know.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I can take my own shoes off.”

You nodded. “I know that too.”

He stared at you. You stared back. Finally, Jack leaned back on his hands.

“You’re very hard to argue with after a night shift,” Jack said.

You tugged one lace loose. “I’m very hard to argue with, always.”

Jack gave you a look. “Debatable.”

You pulled the shoe free and set it aside. “Incorrect.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on you while you worked the second shoe off. It was not helpless. It was not pity. It was not anything except tired hands and quiet trust and the strange intimacy of being allowed near someone’s pain. When you looked up, his expression had gone serious.

“What?” you asked.

Jack shook his head once. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never true.”

His mouth softened. “No.”

You set his shoes aside.

“Pants,” you said.

His eyebrows lifted. You gave him a flat look. “Do not make that face.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “What face?”

You pointed at him. “The face that says you’re about to weaponize this.”

Jack’s eyes darkened just enough to make your stomach dip. “Sweetheart, if I was weaponizing it, you’d know.”

Heat climbed through you, slow and inconvenient. You pointed at him again. “You are injured.”

Jack corrected you immediately. “I’m sore.”

You crossed your arms. “You are sore because you were being stubborn.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “I was being prepared.”

You held his gaze. “You slept in your prosthetic.”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Part of the night.”

You gave him a look. “Jack.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

You stood and turned around, mostly to give him privacy, mostly because if you watched him undress while he was looking at you like that, you were going to forget the entire reason you had dragged him upstairs. Behind you, fabric shifted. The buckle and quiet mechanical sounds of the prosthetic being removed were familiar, but intimate enough that you did not pretend not to hear them.

Jack was quiet. Too quiet. You kept your eyes on the wall.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” you said.

A few seconds passed. “Ready,” Jack said.

You turned back. He sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear and a white T-shirt, prosthetic set carefully beside the nightstand, right thigh exposed and his good foot planted on the floor. His face was controlled, but you could see the strain around his mouth now that he was no longer moving through it. You stepped between his knees, slowly enough that he could tell you no. He did not.

“Can I touch you?” you asked.

Jack looked up at you. Something flickered in his eyes. Not surprise exactly. More like the question mattered.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You can.”

You rested one hand on his shoulder first. Then you let the other settle carefully on his thigh, above where the soreness seemed worst. His muscle jumped under your palm.

“Too much?” you asked.

Jack shook his head. “No.”

You watched his face. “You sure?”

Jack exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

You rubbed gently at first, testing pressure, watching his expression instead of your hand.

“Here?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

You eased your thumb into the tense muscle. Jack’s eyes closed. The sight of it hit you somewhere deep. Not because he looked weak. He didn’t. He looked like a man who had been standing guard inside his own skin for too long and had finally, finally let one door unlock. You kept your touch slow.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” you said.

Jack answered without opening his eyes. “You won’t.”

You frowned softly. “You don’t know that.”

His eyes opened. “I trust you,” Jack said.

Your hand stopped for half a second. Jack watched you. There it was again. That thing neither of you had said. Not love. Not yet. But something close enough to change the air. You swallowed and started moving your hand again.

“You’re allowed to tell me anyway,” you said.

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

You worked in silence for a while. His breathing changed first. Then his shoulders. The tension in his neck loosened by degrees, stubbornly, like even his muscles had to be talked into surrendering. You rubbed down toward the sore places, careful around the tender skin, careful where friction had clearly made everything worse. Anger moved through you, not hot and wild, but quiet.

Not at him. At the fear that had made him do this. At the fact that Trent had reached into Jack’s house without ever setting foot in it. At the thought of Jack lying beside you with his body braced for a threat that had already taken too much.

Jack noticed.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked and looked up. “What?”

Jack searched your face. “Where’d you go?”

You shook your head. “Nowhere.”

Jack gave you a look. “Liar.”

Your hand slowed over his thigh. “I hate that you felt like you had to do this.”

Jack’s expression gentled in a way that almost hurt worse. “I know.” 

You kept your hand on him, warm and careful. “You don’t have to be ready every second.”

He looked away. Your chest tightened. “Jack.” 

His voice was quiet when he answered. “Feels like I do.”

There was no performance in it. No bravado. Just truth. You moved closer and rested your free hand against his jaw, turning his face back to yours.

“Not right now,” you said.

His eyes held yours. You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “Right now you’re here. Door’s locked. I’m here. Nobody needs you on your feet in three seconds.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

A beat passed. Then another. His hand came up and covered yours where it rested against his face.

“Okay,” Jack said.

Your throat ached. You leaned in and kissed him softly. Just once. Just enough to let him feel what you could not quite say. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker. You looked down at his leg, at the tension still held there, and moved your hand gently over his thigh again.

“Do you think a bath would help?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. Even tired, even sore, even stripped down to something quieter than usual, the look he gave you had heat in it.

“Depends,” Jack said.

Your hand paused. “On what?”

His thumb moved once over the back of your hand.

“You joining me?” Jack asked.

Warmth slipped through you, slow and deep. You held his gaze.

“I was hoping to be invited,” you said.

For a moment, Jack just looked at you. The humor softened first. Then something else moved underneath it. Something tender enough to make your breath catch. Jack took your hand from his jaw and kissed the inside of your wrist.

“Then come with me,” Jack said.

The words moved through you, warm and low. Jack released your hand and reached toward the side of the nightstand, where a pair of forearm crutches rested against the wall. He fitted his arms into the cuffs with practiced ease, then pushed himself upright.

You stepped back to give him room. He moved toward the bathroom, slower than usual but steady, the crutches quiet against the floor. You followed behind him, close enough to be there and far enough back to let him do what he knew how to do.

The bathroom light came on soft and warm. You had been in here before, but not like this. Not with Jack down to a white T-shirt and underwear, prosthetic off, shoulders tired from a full shift and a longer week, his body finally allowed to stop pretending it was ready to run. The tub sat against the far wall, deep and practical, with a side door, grab bars, a built-in seat, and a handheld shower head clipped neatly within reach. A folded towel waited on the shelf beside it. The tile beneath your feet was nonslip. Everything had a place. Everything made sense.

Jack leaned one crutch against the wall and glanced back at you.

“What?” Jack asked.

You looked at the tub, then at him. “I like that you’re able to relax in here.”

Something small shifted in his face. 

You touched the folded towel on the shelf. “I like that it works for you.”

Jack’s mouth tugged faintly at one corner. “Seemed smarter than eating shit in my own bathroom.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Very poetic.”

Jack gave you a dry look. “I contain multitudes.”

You shook your head and moved to the tub. “Sit before I start taking back all the nice things I was thinking about you.”

Jack’s eyes followed you. “There were nice things?”

You turned the faucet on and tested the water with your wrist. “A few.”

Jack braced one hand on the grab bar and opened the tub's side door. “Generous.”

You adjusted the tap warmer. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jack stayed where he was for a second, watching you. Then his hand moved to the hem of his T-shirt. Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack noticed that too.

His mouth curved faintly. “Problem?”

You kept your eyes on the water like that helped anything. “No.”

Jack pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it onto the closed toilet lid. “That sounded like a problem.”

You checked the temperature again even though you had already checked it. “I’m being professional.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “You are absolutely not being professional.”

You glanced at him then, which was a mistake.

Because he was shirtless now, bare under the warm bathroom light, all hard-earned muscle and scars and tired restraint. His hair was a mess from the night and your hands. His shoulders looked broad and tense. His chest rose and fell more slowly than yours did. He looked exhausted.

He looked beautiful.

He looked like yours in a way that scared you if you let yourself think about it too long. Jack’s expression softened as he watched you look at him.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said quietly.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

His voice stayed low. “Water.”

You blinked, then looked down to find the tub still running warm over your wrist.

“Right,” you said, turning the faucet down a little. “Water.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You turned your back before he could make that worse. “I’m giving you privacy.”

Behind you, Jack made a low sound, almost amused. “That what we’re calling it?”

You stared very hard at the towel shelf. “Yes.”

Fabric shifted behind you. Your whole body noticed. You kept your eyes on the wall because the bathroom suddenly felt warmer than it had a minute ago, and because Jack had already let you see enough vulnerability for one morning without you making the act of undressing feel like another thing he had to manage.

“Ready,” Jack said after a few seconds.

You turned back. He stood beside the tub, bare and steady with one hand on the grab bar, his crutches leaned within reach and his clothes folded messily beside the sink. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look like he needed you to look away.

He looked like Jack. Sore. Tired. Still himself.

You kept your eyes on his face first. Something in his expression warmed. Jack stepped in through the side door and lowered himself onto the built-in seat with a controlled breath. You stayed by the faucet, one hand under the water as it ran warm over your wrist.

“Tell me if that’s okay,” you said.

Jack reached down and let the water run over his fingers. For a second, his eyes closed. Then his shoulders dropped by a fraction.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “That’s good.”

You adjusted the plug and let the tub start filling. “Not too hot?”

Jack opened his eyes and looked at you. “It’s good.”

You gave him a look. “That sounds like something someone would say if it was too hot and he didn’t feel like admitting it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “You always this suspicious?”

You checked the water again. “With patients who sleep in their prosthetics? Yes.”

Jack leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled. “Girlfriend and nurse. Dangerous combination.”

You looked over at him. “You invited me.”

His eyes warmed. “I did.”

The water rose slowly around him, steam gathering in the quiet space between you. Jack’s crutches rested against the wall. His prosthetic was back in the bedroom. His boots were by the bed. The front door was locked downstairs. For the first time since you had noticed him favoring his leg, he looked like he was not actively fighting his own body.

He looked tired. He looked sore. He looked safe. Your chest tightened around the word.

Jack opened one eye. “You gonna stand there supervising all morning?”

You rested your hand on the edge of the tub. “I was making sure the water was okay.”

Jack looked at your hand, then back at your face. “Water’s okay.”

You swallowed. “Good.”

His gaze held yours. “You still joining me?”

Your pulse moved low in your stomach. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s voice softened. “Then come here.”

Your pulse moved low in your stomach. For a second, neither of you moved. The bathroom was warm now, steam gathering along the edges of the mirror, softening Jack’s reflection until he looked almost unreal in the tub. His shoulders were bare above the rising water. His head rested back against the wall. His eyes stayed on you with a patience that did not feel passive.

Waiting, not taking. Inviting, not pulling. You reached for the hem of your scrub top. Jack’s gaze dropped for one second. Then he looked back at your face. That made it worse somehow. The restraint. The choice. The way he wanted you and still let you be the one to decide what happened next.

You pulled your scrub top over your head and set it on the counter. Your scrub pants followed, then the rest, piece by piece, until there was nothing between your skin and the damp warmth of the room.

Jack watched you quietly. Not clinically. Not hungrily in a way that made you feel consumed. Just completely. Like he was taking you in because he wanted to remember the moment exactly as it was. His throat moved once.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You stepped closer to the tub. “Yeah.”

His eyes held yours. “Still work tired?”

A small laugh slipped out of you, softer than you meant it to be. “Yeah.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

You rested one hand on the edge of the tub. “You?”

His expression shifted. You could see him thinking about deflecting. You could see him choosing not to.

“Sore,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack watched your face. “Okay?”

You stepped in carefully and settled into the tub with him. “Okay, because we can do something about sore.”

Jack’s hand moved to your hip beneath the water, steadying you without guiding you. “You have a plan?”

You lowered yourself slowly, facing him, your knees settling on either side of his hips with enough space between you to keep it careful. “I usually do.”

Jack’s thumb moved once against your skin under the water. “That so?”

You reached for the soap on the ledge. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Jack looked down as you worked the soap between your wet hands. “I’m not surprised.”

You rubbed your palms together until they were slick. “You sounded surprised.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours. “I like listening to you be bossy.”

The heat in your stomach sharpened. You tried to give him a look. “I’m taking care of you.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I know.”

The way he said it made your hands slow. Not teasing. Not dismissive. He knew. And he was letting you. You set your hands on his shoulders first. Jack’s breath left him slowly. You moved over the tense muscle there, palms slick with soap and warm water, thumbs pressing carefully into the places that felt tightest. His skin shifted under your hands. His shoulders were hard from work, from restraint, from holding himself ready for too long.

You took your time.

You moved from one shoulder to the other, then down the strong line of his upper arms, washing him with slow, deliberate strokes. Jack watched you the entire time, his hands loose beneath the water, resting against your thighs without pressure. The water lapped quietly against the sides of the tub.

Outside the bathroom, the house stayed silent. No overhead pages. No monitor alarms. No ringing phones. No knock at the door.

Just warm water, Jack’s breathing, and your hands learning what he would let them do. You slid your hands back up his arms and over his collarbones, careful over an old scar near his chest. Jack’s eyes flicked down to your hand.

You paused. “Okay?”

His gaze returned to your face. “Okay.”

You moved lower, over the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm for one brief second before your hands kept moving. It was steady. Of course it was. Jack’s heart, steady beneath your hands, like the rest of him was not sitting in front of you worn thin from keeping himself ready to move. Your throat tightened. Jack noticed immediately. His hand shifted beneath the water, fingers settling more firmly against your thigh.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

His eyes searched yours. “You went quiet.”

You looked down at your hands on his chest. “I’m thinking.”

Jack’s thumb moved once. “About?”

You rubbed your palm over his shoulder again, mostly because you needed somewhere to put the ache in your chest. “About how much of this week has gotten to you too.”

Jack’s face changed. You kept going before he could tell you it hadn’t.

“You don’t have to make me feel better about that,” you said, keeping your voice soft. “I’m not blaming myself.”

Jack held very still. You lifted your eyes to his. “I’m just seeing it.”

His jaw worked once. Then Jack said, “Yeah.”

One word. Honest enough to make your chest ache. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist under the water. “I’m fine.”

You gave him a look. His mouth twitched, tired and faint. “Fine-adjacent.”

“That’s more believable,” you said, and you pressed your hands gently to his chest again.

Jack looked at your mouth. “Glad I found the acceptable range.”

You tried not to smile. “Barely.”

His thumb moved against your waist. You kept washing him. Shoulders. Chest. Arms. The strong line of his forearm. His hand, when you lifted it out of the water and rubbed soap over his knuckles, his fingers, his palm.

Jack watched you do that with an expression you could not quite name. You turned his hand over and washed the inside of his wrist. His fingers curled slightly around yours. You looked up.

His voice was rougher when he spoke. “Sweetheart.”

Your stomach dipped. “What?”

Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “You’re killing me a little.”

The words should have felt like teasing. They did not. They felt too honest.

You looked down at his hand in yours. “I’m just washing you.”

Jack’s fingers tightened gently around yours. “No, you’re not.”

Your breath caught. The bathroom seemed to get quieter. You let his hand slip back beneath the water, then brought both of your hands to his shoulders again. Your thumbs pressed carefully into the tense muscle there, working the ache the way you had in the bedroom.

Jack’s eyes closed.

You watched him let his head fall back again, watched the line of his throat lengthen, watched his chest rise beneath your touch.

“You carry everything here,” you said, massaging the base of his neck.

Jack huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “My neck?”

You pressed your thumb into a knot near his shoulder. “Your shoulders.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but not from pain. “Occupational hazard.”

You shook your head. “Jack.”

He opened his eyes. You kept your hands on him. “Let me.”

The teasing left his face. His hands settled at your hips, quiet and warm beneath the water.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You leaned closer and kissed his shoulder.

It was not meant to be sexual.

Not at first.

It was just there, that bare skin under your mouth, warm from the bath and him. You kissed the place where his shoulder met his neck because you wanted him to feel cared for somewhere other than pain. Jack’s breath changed. You felt it more than you heard it. Your mouth paused against his skin. His hands flexed once at your hips. You kissed him again, slower this time. Jack’s head tipped slightly toward yours.

“Careful,” Jack said, his voice low.

You lifted your face enough to look at him. “Too much?”

His eyes opened, dark and focused. “No.”

Your pulse kicked. Jack’s hands stayed still on your hips. “That’s the problem.”

You swallowed. “Oh.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Yeah. Oh.”

The warmth in the tub was nothing compared to the heat that moved through you then. You should have pulled back. Maybe. You did not. You leaned in and kissed the side of his throat. Jack’s fingers tightened at your hips, still not pulling, still not taking. Just holding on like something in him needed somewhere to put the wanting.

You kissed his jaw next. Then the corner of his mouth. Jack turned into you with a low breath, and then his mouth was on yours. Slow. Careful. Deep enough that the whole room seemed to tilt.

You kissed him back with wet hands on his shoulders and your knees bracketing his hips under the water. Jack’s hand slid up your back, broad and warm, pulling you closer by inches, giving you enough time to stop him if you wanted to.

You did not want to stop him. You moved closer until your chests brushed. That was when you felt him. Hard against you beneath the water. Your breath caught in his mouth. Jack went still immediately. His hand stopped on your back. His other hand tightened at your waist, not pulling you down, not pushing you away. Holding himself in place.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, rough and quiet.

You stayed close enough that your mouth brushed his when you answered. “I know.”

Jack’s eyes opened. The restraint in his face nearly undid you.

“You know?” Jack asked.

You nodded, your hands sliding up to the sides of his neck. “I know.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not trying to rush you.”

“I know,” you said again, softer.

Jack’s gaze searched yours. “I mean it.”

You touched your forehead to his. “I know you do.”

His breath left him unevenly. For a moment, neither of you moved. The water shifted softly around your bodies. His prosthetic was in the bedroom. His crutches were against the wall. Your scrubs were on the bathroom floor. The front door was locked downstairs. There was nothing between you and him except the last thin thread of waiting.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“I want you,” you said.

Jack’s eyes darkened. His hand slid carefully over your back. “I want you too.”

You swallowed. “I want this.”

Jack’s thumb brushed your waist. “I need you to be sure.”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

His eyes held yours.  Your chest tightened at the care in that. At the way he asked because he was not going to let his want make the decision for both of you.

You brushed your thumb over his jaw. “I want you. I want this. I want to feel good, and I want it to be you.”

Jack went very still. The words landed. You saw them land.

His voice came out lower. “Say that again.”

You moved closer until your lips brushed his. “I want it to be you.”

Jack kissed you then. 

Not gently enough to hide what it did to him. Not hard enough to take the choice from you. Just deep. Devastating. Full of everything he was still holding back. You shifted your hips under the water, and the blunt pressure of him slid against you. Jack broke the kiss with a low, controlled breath.

“Easy,” Jack murmured against your mouth.

You stilled immediately. “Because of you or because of me?”

His eyes opened. Something like pride moved through them.

“Because I want this to last,” Jack said.

Your whole body warmed. “Oh,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved against yours. “Yeah.”

You reached between your bodies beneath the water, your hand closing carefully around him. Jack’s head tipped back against the wall.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

You watched his face. “Okay?”

His eyes were dark when they found yours again. “Yeah.”

You moved your hand slowly, feeling him hard and heavy in your palm, feeling the restraint in every line of his body. Jack’s fingers pressed into your waist.

“You’re sure?” Jack asked, his voice strained.

You nodded as you rose onto your knees. “I’m sure.”

He watched you as if he were trying to memorize you and survive you at the same time. You positioned yourself over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other still between your bodies, guiding him carefully. Jack’s hand spread over your hip.

“Go slow,” Jack said.

Your chest ached. You nodded. “Okay.”

Then you lowered yourself onto him. Slowly. Carefully. Enough that the first stretch made your breath catch and your fingers tighten on his shoulder. Jack’s eyes locked on yours. His jaw went tight. His hand stayed steady at your hip, there to ground you, not move you.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded, but the nod wasn’t enough. You made yourself breathe.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your skin. “Take your time.”

You sank down another inch, the water rocking around you, heat opening through your body in slow, overwhelming waves. Your forehead dropped to his. Jack’s breath shook against your lips.

“Still okay?” Jack asked.

Your eyes closed. “Yeah.”

His voice was rough. “Look at me.”

You opened your eyes. The second you did, something in his face cracked open. Not control. Not exactly. Something underneath it. You kept your eyes on his as you took the rest of him. Slow. Deep.

Intentional.

By the time you were fully seated, your body pressed close to his beneath the water, neither of you spoke for a second. Jack’s hands were on you. Your hands were on him. His breathing was not steady anymore. Neither was yours.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said softly.

A laugh almost broke out of you, but it turned into something shakier. You touched his face. “Good?”

Jack looked at you like the question had personally offended him. “Good?”

Your mouth curved, breathless. “Answer the question.”

His hand slid up your back, pulling you close enough that your chest pressed to his. “So fucking good.”

The words moved through you like heat. You kissed him because you needed to. Jack kissed you back, open-mouthed and slow, one hand at the back of your neck while the other held your waist. You did not move yet. You only sat there with him inside you, adjusting to the fullness, to the warmth, to the terrible tenderness of his body under yours.

It should have felt like too much. Maybe it was. But too much did not feel like danger here. Too much felt like Jack’s hand on your back. Too much felt like his mouth at your cheek. Too much felt like warm water and locked doors and his voice asking before he took anything.

You kissed him again.

This time, when your hips moved, it was deliberate.

A slow lift.

A slow sink.

The water moved with you, quiet and warm around your bodies. Jack’s grip tightened at your waist, but he still let you set the pace. You moved again. His head fell back against the wall.

“Fuck,” Jack said, low and wrecked.

The sound went through you.

You made love to him in warm water, in the bathroom built around his body, in the quiet of the house where he had tried so hard to stay ready for danger.

And for once, neither of you was braced for impact. You were not running. He was not standing guard. You were just there. Your hands in his hair. His mouth on your throat. Your hips moving over his.

His voice rough in your ear every time he told you to breathe, every time he said your name, every time his hand spread over your back like he could hold the whole moment still if he tried hard enough.

The pace stayed slow.

It had to.

The tub did not allow for frantic, and neither of you seemed to want frantic anyway. Every movement was smaller here, deeper because of it. Your knees pressed into the warm surface beneath the water. Your arms stayed around his neck. His hands stayed on you, one at your waist and one firm between your shoulder blades, keeping you close without forcing the rhythm.

You lifted your hips, then sank back down.

Jack’s breath broke against your throat.

“Fuck,” Jack said, his voice low and wrecked.

The sound went through you.

You moved again, slow enough to feel everything. The stretch. The heat. The way his body filled yours. The way his fingers tightened when you took him deeper. The way his restraint shook but did not vanish.

You pressed your mouth to his temple.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His hand slid up your spine.

“I know,” Jack said against your skin.

You pulled back enough to see his face. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

His eyes opened, dark and unguarded. “I know how you said my name.”

Your chest ached.

You kissed him because you had to.

Jack met you halfway, his mouth warm and open beneath yours. The kiss was messy now, not careless, but less controlled than before. Water shifted around your hips with every slow movement. Steam clung to your skin. His damp hair slid between your fingers when you tightened your hand in it.

You moved over him again.

Jack groaned into your mouth.

The sound made you clench around him.

His hand tightened at your waist, and his head tipped back against the wall for half a second before he dragged himself back to you.

“There,” Jack said, his voice rough with recognition. “Just like that.”

The words went through you hot.

Not a command that took anything away.

Permission.

Grounding.

His voice telling you he was there, he had you, he wanted you to have this.

You moved again.

Then again.

For once, being seen did not make you want to disappear. It did not make your body feel like something under inspection, something judged, something that could betray you by being visible.

Jack looked at you like your body was not evidence.

Not of fear.

Not of what had happened.

Not of what someone else had tried to take from you.

He looked at you like your body was where you lived.

Like he was grateful you had let him come close.

Your breath shook.

You pressed your hand to his chest.

“You make me feel safe,” you said before you could lose the nerve.

Jack went still beneath your hands.

His eyes lifted to yours, and the heat in them changed into something that looked almost wounded.

You shook your head before he could speak. “No, I need you to hear me.”

Jack swallowed. “I’m listening.”

Your hand stayed over his heart. “You do.”

His jaw tightened.

You moved closer, close enough that the water shifted around your bodies, close enough that the movement made both of you breathe harder.

“And you make me feel good,” you said.

Jack’s breath caught.

You held his gaze. “Not just this.”

His hand spread wider over your back.

You touched his chest, then your own, because the words mattered too much to leave vague.

“Not just your hands,” you said. “You make me feel good in my body again.”

Jack looked at you like you had put your hand somewhere more dangerous than his skin.

Like you had reached right into the place he kept locked down, careful and armed.

His voice came out rough. “Sweetheart.”

You nodded once, your throat tight. “I mean it.”

Jack’s hand rose from your waist to the back of your neck. He did not pull you in. He just held you there, his thumb resting below your ear, his touch almost unbearably gentle.

“That’s all I want,” Jack said. “For you to feel safe with me.”

“I do,” you said.

His eyes searched yours like he needed to believe it and was afraid of needing anything that badly.

You said it again, softer but steadier. “I do, Jack.”

His mouth found yours.

The kiss was different this time. Not harder. Deeper. Like the words had gone somewhere neither of you could take them back from. You felt him everywhere. His hand at your neck. His palm against your back. His chest under yours. The heat of him through the water. The steady, careful strength of him beneath all that tenderness.

Your hips moved again, almost without permission. Jack broke the kiss on a rough breath, his forehead pressing to yours.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice low and strained. “That’s it.”

Your hands slid into his damp hair.

His hand moved back to your waist, steadying you as you found the rhythm again. Small. Deep. Devastating. The water moved with you, quiet and warm around your bodies. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face, even when his own control looked thin enough to tear. His jaw was tight. His breathing was uneven. His hands flexed and settled, flexed and settled, as if he were reminding himself over and over that this was yours too.

You kissed him hard.

He groaned into your mouth.

The sound pushed you closer.

Your hips lost their rhythm for a second, and Jack’s hand slid lower, steadying you at your waist.

“Easy,” Jack said.

You shook your head, breathless. “I’m close.”

His expression changed. Heat and tenderness moved through him at once.

“Yeah?” Jack asked, his voice wrecked.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “Good.”

Your body tightened around him. His eyes closed for half a second, and when they opened again, they were almost too much to look at.

“Let me feel it,” Jack said.

The words broke something open. Your arms locked around his neck. Your face pressed into the side of his. The pleasure hit slow and deep at first, then all at once, building in you until your thighs trembled under the water and your breath caught on his name.

“There you are,” Jack said, rough against your cheek.

The words slipped under your skin.

Not finding you after fear this time. Finding you in pleasure. Finding you in your own body. Finding you because you had chosen to be there. You shook against him, hips still moving in tiny, helpless motions while the pleasure kept building in you. Jack’s hand spread wide over your back.

“That’s it,” Jack said, his voice low and uneven.

You kissed his jaw, breathless and shaking. “Jack.”

His whole body tightened beneath yours. You felt him holding back. You felt it in his stomach under your palm, in his hand at your hip, in the rough edge of his breathing. You pulled back enough to look at him.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His eyes opened.

You touched his face. “Come with me.”

The words hit him hard. You saw it happen. His expression cracked open, heat and want and something dangerously close to devotion moving across his face before he could hide it.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, almost warning.

You moved your hips, slow and deliberate. “I want you to.”

His jaw tightened. “You sure?”

You held his gaze. “I’m choosing this.”

Everything stopped. Not your bodies. Not completely. But something in the room did. The words hung between you, warm and impossible to take back. Jack stared at you. Then his hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you like something precious and unbearable.

“Then I’m choosing you back,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. He kissed you before you could answer. Or maybe because you couldn’t. Jack kissed you like the words had finally given him somewhere to put everything he was not saying. His hand held the back of your neck. His other arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you closer without changing the careful rhythm of your hips.

You moved with him. Slow. Deep. Together.

Jack’s control slipped by degrees. A rougher breath. A broken sound against your mouth. His hand tightening at your back. His body going tense beneath yours. You stayed with him through every second of it, your forehead against his, your hands in his hair, your body wrapped around him in the warm water.

“Let go with me,” you whispered.

The pleasure broke through both of you at once, deep and slow and overwhelming. Your body tightened around him as he came beneath you, his breath breaking hard against your mouth, his hands holding you close while your own release rolled through you in warm, shaking waves.

Jack groaned your name into your mouth.

You answered with his, barely a sound, barely a word, more breath than language. For a few long seconds, there was only that. His body beneath yours. Your body around his. Warm water shifting around both of you. The two of you falling apart together and holding each other through it.

Jack’s hand stayed at the back of your neck. Your fingers stayed tangled in his damp hair.

Neither of you moved away.

For a while, neither of you seemed to remember how.

The water settled around your bodies in small, fading ripples. Steam clung to the mirror and softened the edges of the room. Jack’s hand stayed at the back of your neck, his thumb still resting beneath your ear like he had forgotten it was there.

Or like he had decided he was allowed to keep it there. Your forehead rested against his. His breathing was still uneven. So was yours. No one spoke for a minute. There was nothing useful to say. Your body was still wrapped around his. His body was still warm beneath yours. The place where you had both fallen apart together still seemed to hum under your skin, deep and quiet and impossible to name without making it too small.

Jack’s thumb moved once. You closed your eyes. The words were there again. Right there. Too close. Too easy. Too true.

You could feel them sitting behind your teeth, warm and terrifying.

Jack’s breath touched your mouth, and when you opened your eyes, he was already looking at you. Not expectant. Not demanding. Just there.

Like maybe he had words too. Like maybe his were just as close. Neither of you said them.

Jack’s hand slid from the back of your neck to the center of your back, slow and careful.

“Water’s getting cold,” Jack said, his voice still rough.

A small, helpless laugh left you. “That your professional opinion?”

His mouth curved faintly. “That’s your boyfriend trying not to let us turn into two hypothermic idiots in a bathtub.”

You tucked your face against his neck for one more second. “Romantic.”

Jack’s hand moved over your back. “Practical.”

You lifted your head. “You can be both.”

Something soft moved through his expression.

“Yeah?” Jack asked.

You nodded, touching his jaw with wet fingers. “Yeah.”

He looked at you for one more second, and there it was again. The thing neither of you said. Then Jack kissed you once, slow and warm and almost achingly gentle. When he pulled back, his mouth brushed yours.

“Come on,” Jack said quietly. “Let’s get you warm.”

You gave him a look. “Me?”

His eyebrow lifted. “You’re naked in cooling bathwater.”

“You are also naked in cooling bathwater,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m aware.”

You shifted carefully, and his hands steadied you without gripping too hard. Your body protested the movement in small, tender ways, and Jack noticed because, of course, he did.

His hand paused at your hip.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded, your palm braced against his shoulder. “Yeah. Just…”

His gaze warmed. “Yeah.”

Heat moved up your neck. “Don’t look smug,” you said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed with tired amusement. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly,” you said.

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

You moved carefully off him, settling back into the water with a shaky breath. “I learned from the best.”

Jack watched you for another second, his face open in a way that made your chest ache. Then he reached for the drain. The water began to pull away in a quiet swirl. You climbed out first, stepping carefully onto the nonslip mat. Your legs felt unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with fear, and that realization made something warm and fragile bloom in your chest.

Jack noticed. He did not make it a thing. He only reached for the folded towel on the shelf and held it out to you.

“Here,” Jack said.

You took it from him. “Thank you.”

Jack braced one hand on the grab bar and shifted toward the side door of the tub. “You’re welcome.”

You wrapped the towel around yourself while he moved, practiced, and steady, opening the side door and reaching for the crutches where they leaned against the wall. You let him do his thing. No hovering. No fussing. Just staying. Jack got himself out with a controlled breath, water sliding over his skin and dripping onto the mat. He reached for the second towel, and you handed it to him before he had to ask. His eyes flicked to yours.

“Thanks,” Jack said.

You leaned against the counter, towel tucked around your body. “You’re welcome.”

He dried himself with efficient, tired movements, then rubbed the towel over his hair until it stuck up worse than before. You stared at him.

Jack lowered the towel. “What?”

Your mouth curved. “Your hair.”

He glanced toward the fogged mirror like that would help. “What about it?”

“It’s terrible,” you said.

Jack gave you a dry look. “You just had your hands in it.”

You lifted one shoulder. “That was before it became a structural problem.”

His mouth twitched. “A structural problem.”

You nodded solemnly. “Severe.”

Jack shook his head and reached for his crutches. “I’m wounded.”

You touched his arm as he passed you, light and brief. “You’re handsome.”

He stopped. The words had come out softer than you meant them to. Jack looked down at you, all warm skin and tired eyes and damp hair, and the humor faded around the edges.

“Yeah?” Jack asked quietly.

You held his gaze. “Yeah.”

His jaw worked once. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead. Jack’s towel was still wrapped low around his waist. Yours was tucked around your chest. The bathroom was warm, damp, and quiet around you. 

You turned toward the sink and reached for the little pouch you had shoved into your overnight bag. Cleanser. Moisturizer. A toothbrush. The small, ordinary pieces of yourself you had packed when you left your apartment because you did not know how long you would be gone.

Jack stayed near the wall, crutches tucked under his arms, watching with a softness that made the room feel warmer than the steam did.

You set your things on the counter. Cleanser beside the sink. Moisturizer next to it. Toothbrush near his. The sight of it made something in your chest go quiet. Not empty. Quiet. Like your body had been waiting for ordinary and did not know what to do now that it had found some.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the little line of your things on his counter. His mouth softened.

“What?” you asked, glancing at him.

Jack looked back at you. “Nothing.”

You gave him a look. His mouth twitched. “Fine. Not nothing.”

You reached for the cleanser. “That’s what I thought.”

Jack shifted his weight on the crutches, comfortable enough with them that the movement looked automatic. “I like this.”

Your fingers stilled over the cap. “My skincare?”

Jack nodded once, serious enough to make it funny. “Riveting.”

You laughed under your breath. “Shut up.”

His expression softened. “This. You. Doing your stuff in here.”

Your fingers tightened around the cleanser. Jack looked away first, like he had said more than he meant to.

You turned on the faucet and let the water warm. “You like me taking up counter space?”

Jack’s gaze came back to yours. “Yeah.”

Your throat went tight. He said it simply. Like it was not a confession. Like it did not land in the middle of you and stay there. You splashed warm water over your face, rubbed cleanser between your palms, and worked it over your skin. The mirror was too fogged to show you clearly.

Jack stayed quiet. Not bored. Not impatient. Just watching. You rinsed your face and patted it dry with a hand towel.

“This is going to get annoying,” you said, reaching for your moisturizer.

Jack leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall. “What is?”

You squeezed moisturizer onto your fingertips. “Me. My stuff. My little routines. The fact that I use counter space like I pay rent here.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Good.”

You paused. “Good?”

Jack nodded. “Good.”

You rubbed moisturizer into your skin slowly, giving your hands something to do. “You say that now.”

“I’ll say it later too,” Jack said.

The words came out too easy. Too sure. Your hand slowed against your cheek. Jack held your gaze through the fogged mirror, and there it was again. The almost. The not-yet. The thing neither of you had named because naming it would change the shape of the room.

You looked down and capped the moisturizer before it could slip out of you. Jack let you. He did not chase the words. He did not ask for them. That was part of what made you want to give them to him. You put your moisturizer back into the pouch and reached for your toothbrush. Jack huffed quietly.

You looked at him. “What?”

His mouth curved. “You brought your own toothpaste.”

You glanced down at the tiny tube. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t trust mine?”

You picked up the toothpaste. “Your fridge has three mustards and emotional damage.”

“That has nothing to do with my toothpaste,” Jack said.

“It speaks to your decision-making,” you said.

Jack stared at you. You stared back. Then his mouth twitched.

“You’re a menace,” Jack said.

You squeezed toothpaste onto your toothbrush. “You invited me.”

His face softened again. “I did.”

You brushed your teeth while Jack stayed there, damp and tired and watching you like the world had narrowed down to this ridiculous, ordinary thing. You. Barefoot in his bathroom. Your toothbrush beside his sink. Your moisturizer on his counter. Your body warm from the bath and him. His body finally loose enough to rest.

When you rinsed and set your toothbrush down beside his, the gesture felt small. It also felt enormous. Jack looked at it. Then he looked at you.

“There she is,” Jack said softly.

Your chest tightened. The callback hit differently here, with your face clean and your body still warm from him. Not in the ER. Not after catching a stroke. Not while proving you could stand. Here. In his bathroom. Doing ordinary things.

You looked at him through the mirror. “You keep saying that.”

Jack held your gaze. “I keep meaning it.”

Your heart turned over. The words came close again. Too close. You picked up your pouch and zipped it slowly.

“We should get dressed,” you said.

Jack’s gaze dipped once, then returned to your face. “Probably.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Probably?”

His mouth curved. “I’m being responsible.”

“You’re being something,” you said.

Jack pushed off the wall with his crutches. “Come on.”

You gathered your pouch and followed him back into the bedroom. The room felt cooler after the bathroom, the air touching your damp skin and making you shiver. Jack noticed immediately.

He moved toward the dresser. “Shirt?”

You pulled your towel tighter around yourself. “Please.”

Jack opened a drawer and tossed a soft, worn T-shirt onto the bed. Then he reached into another drawer for clean boxer briefs and a pair of loose shorts.

You picked up the shirt and held it against your chest. “Is this one emotionally available?”

Jack glanced at it. “That shirt has seen some shit.”

You smiled. “So no.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “It’s trying.”

You slipped the shirt over your head while he turned slightly to give you privacy, even after everything. Maybe because of everything. The fabric fell soft against your skin and smelled like detergent and Jack. 

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Across the room, Jack moved with the same practical steadiness as before. He got dressed without ceremony, using the bed and the dresser for balance when he needed to, crutches within reach, his movements slower now that the bath had pulled the worst of the tension out of him.

When you turned back, Jack had his sleep shorts on and was reaching for a T-shirt. You stepped forward before he could pull it over his head.

“Wait,” you said.

Jack paused, shirt in hand. “What?”

You touched his shoulder, then his chest, just once. Not to start anything. Not to ask for more. Just because you could. Just because he was there. Just because his body had been sore and guarded and then warm beneath yours, and now he was standing in front of you in the quiet room, letting himself be seen. Jack’s gaze softened.

You let your hand fall. “Okay.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Okay?”

You nodded. “You can put the shirt on.”

Jack looked amused and wrecked at the same time. “Thank you for the permission.”

You stepped back. “You’re welcome.”

He pulled the shirt on, and somehow that felt intimate too. The covering. The returning to ordinary. The choosing to keep going after the unbearable softness instead of pretending it had not happened. Jack set the crutches near his side of the bed, close enough to reach, then sat carefully on the mattress. The movement looked easier now, less guarded, but you still saw the fatigue catch up to him once he was down. He rubbed a hand over his face.

You walked to your side of the bed. “You okay?”

Jack lowered his hand and gave you a tired look. “Yes.”

You lifted your eyebrows. His expression softened. “Actually yes.”

Your chest loosened. “Good,” you said.

Jack pulled back the blankets. “Come here.”

You climbed into bed beside him. The sheets were cool at first, then warm where his body settled close. Jack shifted onto his side, and you turned with him, fitting yourself against him with your back to his chest. His arm came around your waist, not tight, just there. His hand settled over your stomach.

Warm. Heavy. Careful.

You covered it with your own. For a while, the room was quiet. Your work bag was still downstairs. The protective order was still printed and folded inside it.

The next hearing was still coming. Your apartment was still waiting to be reclaimed. Trent still existed somewhere outside this house, angry and contained and not gone.

None of it had disappeared.

But Jack’s bed was warm. His body was loose behind yours in a way you had not seen all week. His breathing was steady against the back of your neck.

And your body—

Your body did not feel like evidence.

Not tonight. Not after his hands. Not after warm water. Not after the way he had looked at you, like being wanted and being safe could live in the same place.

Your body felt tired. Sore in the softest places. Clean.

Yours.

You tightened your fingers over his.

Jack’s mouth brushed the back of your neck.

“Sleep,” Jack murmured.

You let your eyes close. “Bossy.”

His hand spread gently over your stomach. “Tired.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Work tired?”

Jack’s breath warmed your skin. “Good tired.” 

Your chest ached. There it was again. The almost. The not-yet. The love sitting quietly in the dark between you, patient and warm and no less real because neither of you had named it.

You did not say it. Jack did not say it either. But his hand stayed over yours. Your body stayed tucked against his.

And when sleep finally pulled you under, it did not feel like surrender.

It felt like choosing to rest.

By the time Jack turned into his driveway, the sky had gone pale at the edges.

Not bright yet. Not really.

Just that thin, washed-out gray that came after a night shift, when the world looked like it had been rinsed and left damp, when headlights still made sense, but birds were already starting to make noise like they had some kind of personal vendetta against people who worked twelve hours under fluorescent lights.

You sat in the passenger seat with your work bag between your feet and your head turned toward the window, watching Jack’s neighborhood slide by in quiet, familiar pieces. Mailbox. Porch light. Empty sidewalk. His truck wasn’t in the driveway.

That still made your stomach tighten.

Not the way it would have yesterday. Not sharp enough to steal your breath. Just enough to remind you. Jack pulled your car into his driveway and put it in park. His hand stayed on the gearshift for a second longer than it needed to.

You noticed because you had started noticing everything.

The way his jaw held tension when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his shoulders stayed a little too set. The way his eyes moved over the street before he reached for the door handle. He did not make a production of it. Jack never did. He just checked. The driveway. The porch. The street behind you. The side yard. The windows. Then Jack looked at you.

“You good?” Jack asked.

You let your head rest back against the seat. “I’m tired.”

His face changed, just slightly. Not fear. Not exactly. Attention.

“Bad tired?” Jack asked.

You thought about it. Your feet hurt. Your lower back ached from being on hard floors all night. Your eyes felt gritty. There was a faint pressure behind your temples from charting, alarms, voices, overhead pages, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from holding yourself upright for a whole shift after your body had spent days expecting danger.

But your chest was not caving in. Your hands were not shaking. Your phone had not become a live wire in your pocket every time it lit up. You were tired because you had worked. You were tired because you had caught Lorraine Mercer’s stroke symptoms before they were dismissed as dizziness. You were tired because Ellis had asked you to grab labs. You were tired because Crus had pretended to need a flush just to check on you. You were tired because Shen had called your catch clinically significant with the kind of solemnity that made Ellis roll her eyes. You were tired because Jack had found your eyes across the department and let you keep standing on your own.

You swallowed.

“No,” you said. “Work tired.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then the smallest bit of tension left his mouth.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your heart did something tired and soft inside your chest.

“Yeah,” you said. “Good.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered more than he was going to say. Then he reached for his door.

“Come on,” Jack said.

You grabbed your bag and followed him out. The morning air was cool enough to make your scrub top feel thin. You hugged your jacket around yourself while Jack locked your car with the key fob and moved toward the front walk.

That was when you saw it. Not all at once. Just a hitch. A tiny one. Jack stepped up onto the walkway, and his weight shifted wrong. His hand went briefly to his thigh, high and quick, there and gone before anyone who didn’t know him would have caught it. But you knew him. Or you were learning him. Jack kept walking.

You frowned. “Jack.”

He did not turn around fast enough. That was answer enough. You followed him up the porch steps while he unlocked the front door.

“How long has that been bothering you?” you asked.

Jack pushed the door open and gave the dark entryway a quick glance before stepping inside. “How long has what been bothering me?”

You walked in after him. “Don’t do that.”

Jack shut the door behind you, locked it, slid the deadbolt home, and checked the handle. “Do what?”

You dropped your work bag beside the bench in his entryway. “Use your attending voice on me when you know exactly what I’m asking.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to be proud of you and annoyed at the same time. “That wasn’t attending voice.”

You tilted your head at him. “That was evasive attending voice.”

Jack looked down at you. “You categorizing them now?”

You crossed your arms. “I have a list.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m sure you do.”

You looked pointedly at his leg. “Your leg.”

Jack’s expression went flatter. Not colder. Just guarded.

“My leg is attached,” Jack said.

You gave him a look.

Jack sighed through his nose. “Mostly.”

You softened your voice. “Jack.”

He turned away before you could get a better read on his face, moving toward the kitchen with that same controlled gait.

“It’s fine,” Jack said.

You followed him. “That was unconvincing.”

Jack braced one hand on the kitchen island. “It’s been a long shift.”

You stopped across from him. “You were favoring it before the shift.”

He went quiet. The silence told you too much. Your stomach sank a little.

“Before the shift,” you repeated.

Jack looked toward the sink instead of at you. “I’m sore.”

You kept your voice even. “I can see that.”

Jack’s shoulders moved with a breath he did not quite let become a sigh. “It’s not a crisis.”

You stepped closer. “I didn’t say it was.”

Jack finally looked at you. “Then don’t look at me like that.”

You held his gaze. “Like what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Like you’re about to start worrying.”

You gave him a tired, unimpressed look. “I am worried.”

Jack said, “Don’t.”

You stared at him. “That has literally never worked on anyone.”

His mouth twitched again, but the humor didn’t stick. You glanced down, not at the prosthetic exactly, but at the way he stood with too much care.

“How long have you had it on?” you asked.

Jack did not answer. The ache in your chest changed shape.

“Jack,” you said softly.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. “Since before work.”

You shook your head. “That’s not an answer.”

Jack looked at you. “It’s an answer.”

You stepped around the island. “It’s a bad one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “It’s the one you’re getting.”

You moved close enough that he had to feel you there. “Did you sleep in it?” you asked.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Your throat tightened. “Jack,” you said again.

Jack looked away. “Not the whole time.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You looked at him, at the set of his shoulders, at the stubborn line of his mouth, at the man who had sat beside you through paperwork and court and your first shift back, who had looked calm enough for both of you while quietly grinding himself down underneath it.

“Why?” you asked.

Jack looked at the counter, then said, “Didn’t like the idea of needing to move fast and not being able to.”

Your breath caught. There it was. Not dramatic. Not noble. Not dressed up as some sweeping confession. Just Jack. Blunt and honest and exhausted.

“Because of me,” you said.

Jack’s head came up immediately. “No.”

You tried to speak. “Jack—”

Jack cut in, sharper this time. “No. Not because of you.”

You flinched a little at the force of it, and he saw it. His face changed. His voice lowered.

“Because of him,” Jack said. “Because of what he did. Because I didn’t like being in my own house wondering if I could get to the door fast enough if I had to.”

His hand tightened once on the counter before he made it let go.

“That is not because of you,” Jack said.

Your eyes burned, and you hated that they did. “I know that.” 

Jack looked unconvinced. You stepped closer anyway. “I’m trying to know that.”

Something softened around his eyes. “Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “I know.”

You let the quiet sit there for a second. Then you pointed toward the stairs.

“Bedroom,” you said.

Jack blinked. “Excuse me?”

You pointed again. “You heard me.”

His eyebrows rose. “You ordering me around in my own house?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack leaned a little more heavily on the island than he probably realized. “That a professional order?”

You lifted your chin. “That is your girlfriend asking you to let her take care of you.” 

Jack’s mouth did the thing again, that almost-smile that always looked like it had to fight its way through three layers of exhaustion and sarcasm to reach the surface.

“My girlfriend’s bossy,” Jack said.

You stepped toward the stairs. “Your girlfriend is right.”

Jack pushed away from the counter. “Both can be true.”

You pointed upstairs again. “Upstairs.”

Jack held your gaze for a beat too long. Then he pushed away from the counter with a low, irritated sound that did not hide the way his first step cost him. You saw it. He knew you saw it. Neither of you said anything. You followed him up the stairs, staying close without hovering. Jack took them carefully, one hand skimming the rail, jaw locked by the time he reached the landing. At the top, you touched his back. He stopped. Your palm settled between his shoulder blades.

“Hey,” you said.

Jack looked over his shoulder. “What?”

You kept your hand where it was. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His face went still. You kept your voice soft. “Not with me.”

For a second, he looked like he had an answer ready. Something dry. Something deflecting. Something designed to put the weight back somewhere he could manage. Then he looked at you, really looked at you, and whatever he saw must have taken the words out of him.

“Okay,” Jack said.

It was one word. It still felt like something opening. In his bedroom, the bed was unmade from the few hours of sleep you had both managed before work. Your hoodie was still folded over the chair in the corner. The evidence packet Sofia had helped you organize was tucked into your bag. The protective order was printed, signed, and real.

For once, none of that was the center of the room. Jack was. Jack sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. Jack bending forward to unlace his shoes with more patience than comfort. Jack’s hands steady because they were always steady, even when the rest of him hurt. You crossed the room and crouched in front of him. His hands paused on the laces.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said.

You looked up at him. “I know.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I can take my own shoes off.”

You nodded. “I know that too.”

He stared at you. You stared back. Finally, Jack leaned back on his hands.

“You’re very hard to argue with after a night shift,” Jack said.

You tugged one lace loose. “I’m very hard to argue with, always.”

Jack gave you a look. “Debatable.”

You pulled the shoe free and set it aside. “Incorrect.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on you while you worked the second shoe off. It was not helpless. It was not pity. It was not anything except tired hands and quiet trust and the strange intimacy of being allowed near someone’s pain. When you looked up, his expression had gone serious.

“What?” you asked.

Jack shook his head once. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never true.”

His mouth softened. “No.”

You set his shoes aside.

“Pants,” you said.

His eyebrows lifted. You gave him a flat look. “Do not make that face.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “What face?”

You pointed at him. “The face that says you’re about to weaponize this.”

Jack’s eyes darkened just enough to make your stomach dip. “Sweetheart, if I was weaponizing it, you’d know.”

Heat climbed through you, slow and inconvenient. You pointed at him again. “You are injured.”

Jack corrected you immediately. “I’m sore.”

You crossed your arms. “You are sore because you were being stubborn.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “I was being prepared.”

You held his gaze. “You slept in your prosthetic.”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Part of the night.”

You gave him a look. “Jack.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

You stood and turned around, mostly to give him privacy, mostly because if you watched him undress while he was looking at you like that, you were going to forget the entire reason you had dragged him upstairs. Behind you, fabric shifted. The buckle and quiet mechanical sounds of the prosthetic being removed were familiar, but intimate enough that you did not pretend not to hear them.

Jack was quiet. Too quiet. You kept your eyes on the wall.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” you said.

A few seconds passed. “Ready,” Jack said.

You turned back. He sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear and a white T-shirt, prosthetic set carefully beside the nightstand, right thigh exposed and his good foot planted on the floor. His face was controlled, but you could see the strain around his mouth now that he was no longer moving through it. You stepped between his knees, slowly enough that he could tell you no. He did not.

“Can I touch you?” you asked.

Jack looked up at you. Something flickered in his eyes. Not surprise exactly. More like the question mattered.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You can.”

You rested one hand on his shoulder first. Then you let the other settle carefully on his thigh, above where the soreness seemed worst. His muscle jumped under your palm.

“Too much?” you asked.

Jack shook his head. “No.”

You watched his face. “You sure?”

Jack exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

You rubbed gently at first, testing pressure, watching his expression instead of your hand.

“Here?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

You eased your thumb into the tense muscle. Jack’s eyes closed. The sight of it hit you somewhere deep. Not because he looked weak. He didn’t. He looked like a man who had been standing guard inside his own skin for too long and had finally, finally let one door unlock. You kept your touch slow.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” you said.

Jack answered without opening his eyes. “You won’t.”

You frowned softly. “You don’t know that.”

His eyes opened. “I trust you,” Jack said.

Your hand stopped for half a second. Jack watched you. There it was again. That thing neither of you had said. Not love. Not yet. But something close enough to change the air. You swallowed and started moving your hand again.

“You’re allowed to tell me anyway,” you said.

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

You worked in silence for a while. His breathing changed first. Then his shoulders. The tension in his neck loosened by degrees, stubbornly, like even his muscles had to be talked into surrendering. You rubbed down toward the sore places, careful around the tender skin, careful where friction had clearly made everything worse. Anger moved through you, not hot and wild, but quiet.

Not at him. At the fear that had made him do this. At the fact that Trent had reached into Jack’s house without ever setting foot in it. At the thought of Jack lying beside you with his body braced for a threat that had already taken too much.

Jack noticed.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked and looked up. “What?”

Jack searched your face. “Where’d you go?”

You shook your head. “Nowhere.”

Jack gave you a look. “Liar.”

Your hand slowed over his thigh. “I hate that you felt like you had to do this.”

Jack’s expression gentled in a way that almost hurt worse. “I know.” 

You kept your hand on him, warm and careful. “You don’t have to be ready every second.”

He looked away. Your chest tightened. “Jack.” 

His voice was quiet when he answered. “Feels like I do.”

There was no performance in it. No bravado. Just truth. You moved closer and rested your free hand against his jaw, turning his face back to yours.

“Not right now,” you said.

His eyes held yours. You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “Right now you’re here. Door’s locked. I’m here. Nobody needs you on your feet in three seconds.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

A beat passed. Then another. His hand came up and covered yours where it rested against his face.

“Okay,” Jack said.

Your throat ached. You leaned in and kissed him softly. Just once. Just enough to let him feel what you could not quite say. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker. You looked down at his leg, at the tension still held there, and moved your hand gently over his thigh again.

“Do you think a bath would help?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. Even tired, even sore, even stripped down to something quieter than usual, the look he gave you had heat in it.

“Depends,” Jack said.

Your hand paused. “On what?”

His thumb moved once over the back of your hand.

“You joining me?” Jack asked.

Warmth slipped through you, slow and deep. You held his gaze.

“I was hoping to be invited,” you said.

For a moment, Jack just looked at you. The humor softened first. Then something else moved underneath it. Something tender enough to make your breath catch. Jack took your hand from his jaw and kissed the inside of your wrist.

“Then come with me,” Jack said.

The words moved through you, warm and low. Jack released your hand and reached toward the side of the nightstand, where a pair of forearm crutches rested against the wall. He fitted his arms into the cuffs with practiced ease, then pushed himself upright.

You stepped back to give him room. He moved toward the bathroom, slower than usual but steady, the crutches quiet against the floor. You followed behind him, close enough to be there and far enough back to let him do what he knew how to do.

The bathroom light came on soft and warm. You had been in here before, but not like this. Not with Jack down to a white T-shirt and underwear, prosthetic off, shoulders tired from a full shift and a longer week, his body finally allowed to stop pretending it was ready to run. The tub sat against the far wall, deep and practical, with a side door, grab bars, a built-in seat, and a handheld shower head clipped neatly within reach. A folded towel waited on the shelf beside it. The tile beneath your feet was nonslip. Everything had a place. Everything made sense.

Jack leaned one crutch against the wall and glanced back at you.

“What?” Jack asked.

You looked at the tub, then at him. “I like that you’re able to relax in here.”

Something small shifted in his face. 

You touched the folded towel on the shelf. “I like that it works for you.”

Jack’s mouth tugged faintly at one corner. “Seemed smarter than eating shit in my own bathroom.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Very poetic.”

Jack gave you a dry look. “I contain multitudes.”

You shook your head and moved to the tub. “Sit before I start taking back all the nice things I was thinking about you.”

Jack’s eyes followed you. “There were nice things?”

You turned the faucet on and tested the water with your wrist. “A few.”

Jack braced one hand on the grab bar and opened the tub's side door. “Generous.”

You adjusted the tap warmer. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jack stayed where he was for a second, watching you. Then his hand moved to the hem of his T-shirt. Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack noticed that too.

His mouth curved faintly. “Problem?”

You kept your eyes on the water like that helped anything. “No.”

Jack pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it onto the closed toilet lid. “That sounded like a problem.”

You checked the temperature again even though you had already checked it. “I’m being professional.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “You are absolutely not being professional.”

You glanced at him then, which was a mistake.

Because he was shirtless now, bare under the warm bathroom light, all hard-earned muscle and scars and tired restraint. His hair was a mess from the night and your hands. His shoulders looked broad and tense. His chest rose and fell more slowly than yours did. He looked exhausted.

He looked beautiful.

He looked like yours in a way that scared you if you let yourself think about it too long. Jack’s expression softened as he watched you look at him.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said quietly.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

His voice stayed low. “Water.”

You blinked, then looked down to find the tub still running warm over your wrist.

“Right,” you said, turning the faucet down a little. “Water.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You turned your back before he could make that worse. “I’m giving you privacy.”

Behind you, Jack made a low sound, almost amused. “That what we’re calling it?”

You stared very hard at the towel shelf. “Yes.”

Fabric shifted behind you. Your whole body noticed. You kept your eyes on the wall because the bathroom suddenly felt warmer than it had a minute ago, and because Jack had already let you see enough vulnerability for one morning without you making the act of undressing feel like another thing he had to manage.

“Ready,” Jack said after a few seconds.

You turned back. He stood beside the tub, bare and steady with one hand on the grab bar, his crutches leaned within reach and his clothes folded messily beside the sink. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look like he needed you to look away.

He looked like Jack. Sore. Tired. Still himself.

You kept your eyes on his face first. Something in his expression warmed. Jack stepped in through the side door and lowered himself onto the built-in seat with a controlled breath. You stayed by the faucet, one hand under the water as it ran warm over your wrist.

“Tell me if that’s okay,” you said.

Jack reached down and let the water run over his fingers. For a second, his eyes closed. Then his shoulders dropped by a fraction.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “That’s good.”

You adjusted the plug and let the tub start filling. “Not too hot?”

Jack opened his eyes and looked at you. “It’s good.”

You gave him a look. “That sounds like something someone would say if it was too hot and he didn’t feel like admitting it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “You always this suspicious?”

You checked the water again. “With patients who sleep in their prosthetics? Yes.”

Jack leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled. “Girlfriend and nurse. Dangerous combination.”

You looked over at him. “You invited me.”

His eyes warmed. “I did.”

The water rose slowly around him, steam gathering in the quiet space between you. Jack’s crutches rested against the wall. His prosthetic was back in the bedroom. His boots were by the bed. The front door was locked downstairs. For the first time since you had noticed him favoring his leg, he looked like he was not actively fighting his own body.

He looked tired. He looked sore. He looked safe. Your chest tightened around the word.

Jack opened one eye. “You gonna stand there supervising all morning?”

You rested your hand on the edge of the tub. “I was making sure the water was okay.”

Jack looked at your hand, then back at your face. “Water’s okay.”

You swallowed. “Good.”

His gaze held yours. “You still joining me?”

Your pulse moved low in your stomach. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s voice softened. “Then come here.”

Your pulse moved low in your stomach. For a second, neither of you moved. The bathroom was warm now, steam gathering along the edges of the mirror, softening Jack’s reflection until he looked almost unreal in the tub. His shoulders were bare above the rising water. His head rested back against the wall. His eyes stayed on you with a patience that did not feel passive.

Waiting, not taking. Inviting, not pulling. You reached for the hem of your scrub top. Jack’s gaze dropped for one second. Then he looked back at your face. That made it worse somehow. The restraint. The choice. The way he wanted you and still let you be the one to decide what happened next.

You pulled your scrub top over your head and set it on the counter. Your scrub pants followed, then the rest, piece by piece, until there was nothing between your skin and the damp warmth of the room.

Jack watched you quietly. Not clinically. Not hungrily in a way that made you feel consumed. Just completely. Like he was taking you in because he wanted to remember the moment exactly as it was. His throat moved once.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You stepped closer to the tub. “Yeah.”

His eyes held yours. “Still work tired?”

A small laugh slipped out of you, softer than you meant it to be. “Yeah.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

You rested one hand on the edge of the tub. “You?”

His expression shifted. You could see him thinking about deflecting. You could see him choosing not to.

“Sore,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack watched your face. “Okay?”

You stepped in carefully and settled into the tub with him. “Okay, because we can do something about sore.”

Jack’s hand moved to your hip beneath the water, steadying you without guiding you. “You have a plan?”

You lowered yourself slowly, facing him, your knees settling on either side of his hips with enough space between you to keep it careful. “I usually do.”

Jack’s thumb moved once against your skin under the water. “That so?”

You reached for the soap on the ledge. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Jack looked down as you worked the soap between your wet hands. “I’m not surprised.”

You rubbed your palms together until they were slick. “You sounded surprised.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours. “I like listening to you be bossy.”

The heat in your stomach sharpened. You tried to give him a look. “I’m taking care of you.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I know.”

The way he said it made your hands slow. Not teasing. Not dismissive. He knew. And he was letting you. You set your hands on his shoulders first. Jack’s breath left him slowly. You moved over the tense muscle there, palms slick with soap and warm water, thumbs pressing carefully into the places that felt tightest. His skin shifted under your hands. His shoulders were hard from work, from restraint, from holding himself ready for too long.

You took your time.

You moved from one shoulder to the other, then down the strong line of his upper arms, washing him with slow, deliberate strokes. Jack watched you the entire time, his hands loose beneath the water, resting against your thighs without pressure. The water lapped quietly against the sides of the tub.

Outside the bathroom, the house stayed silent. No overhead pages. No monitor alarms. No ringing phones. No knock at the door.

Just warm water, Jack’s breathing, and your hands learning what he would let them do. You slid your hands back up his arms and over his collarbones, careful over an old scar near his chest. Jack’s eyes flicked down to your hand.

You paused. “Okay?”

His gaze returned to your face. “Okay.”

You moved lower, over the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm for one brief second before your hands kept moving. It was steady. Of course it was. Jack’s heart, steady beneath your hands, like the rest of him was not sitting in front of you worn thin from keeping himself ready to move. Your throat tightened. Jack noticed immediately. His hand shifted beneath the water, fingers settling more firmly against your thigh.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

His eyes searched yours. “You went quiet.”

You looked down at your hands on his chest. “I’m thinking.”

Jack’s thumb moved once. “About?”

You rubbed your palm over his shoulder again, mostly because you needed somewhere to put the ache in your chest. “About how much of this week has gotten to you too.”

Jack’s face changed. You kept going before he could tell you it hadn’t.

“You don’t have to make me feel better about that,” you said, keeping your voice soft. “I’m not blaming myself.”

Jack held very still. You lifted your eyes to his. “I’m just seeing it.”

His jaw worked once. Then Jack said, “Yeah.”

One word. Honest enough to make your chest ache. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist under the water. “I’m fine.”

You gave him a look. His mouth twitched, tired and faint. “Fine-adjacent.”

“That’s more believable,” you said, and you pressed your hands gently to his chest again.

Jack looked at your mouth. “Glad I found the acceptable range.”

You tried not to smile. “Barely.”

His thumb moved against your waist. You kept washing him. Shoulders. Chest. Arms. The strong line of his forearm. His hand, when you lifted it out of the water and rubbed soap over his knuckles, his fingers, his palm.

Jack watched you do that with an expression you could not quite name. You turned his hand over and washed the inside of his wrist. His fingers curled slightly around yours. You looked up.

His voice was rougher when he spoke. “Sweetheart.”

Your stomach dipped. “What?”

Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “You’re killing me a little.”

The words should have felt like teasing. They did not. They felt too honest.

You looked down at his hand in yours. “I’m just washing you.”

Jack’s fingers tightened gently around yours. “No, you’re not.”

Your breath caught. The bathroom seemed to get quieter. You let his hand slip back beneath the water, then brought both of your hands to his shoulders again. Your thumbs pressed carefully into the tense muscle there, working the ache the way you had in the bedroom.

Jack’s eyes closed.

You watched him let his head fall back again, watched the line of his throat lengthen, watched his chest rise beneath your touch.

“You carry everything here,” you said, massaging the base of his neck.

Jack huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “My neck?”

You pressed your thumb into a knot near his shoulder. “Your shoulders.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but not from pain. “Occupational hazard.”

You shook your head. “Jack.”

He opened his eyes. You kept your hands on him. “Let me.”

The teasing left his face. His hands settled at your hips, quiet and warm beneath the water.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You leaned closer and kissed his shoulder.

It was not meant to be sexual.

Not at first.

It was just there, that bare skin under your mouth, warm from the bath and him. You kissed the place where his shoulder met his neck because you wanted him to feel cared for somewhere other than pain. Jack’s breath changed. You felt it more than you heard it. Your mouth paused against his skin. His hands flexed once at your hips. You kissed him again, slower this time. Jack’s head tipped slightly toward yours.

“Careful,” Jack said, his voice low.

You lifted your face enough to look at him. “Too much?”

His eyes opened, dark and focused. “No.”

Your pulse kicked. Jack’s hands stayed still on your hips. “That’s the problem.”

You swallowed. “Oh.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Yeah. Oh.”

The warmth in the tub was nothing compared to the heat that moved through you then. You should have pulled back. Maybe. You did not. You leaned in and kissed the side of his throat. Jack’s fingers tightened at your hips, still not pulling, still not taking. Just holding on like something in him needed somewhere to put the wanting.

You kissed his jaw next. Then the corner of his mouth. Jack turned into you with a low breath, and then his mouth was on yours. Slow. Careful. Deep enough that the whole room seemed to tilt.

You kissed him back with wet hands on his shoulders and your knees bracketing his hips under the water. Jack’s hand slid up your back, broad and warm, pulling you closer by inches, giving you enough time to stop him if you wanted to.

You did not want to stop him. You moved closer until your chests brushed. That was when you felt him. Hard against you beneath the water. Your breath caught in his mouth. Jack went still immediately. His hand stopped on your back. His other hand tightened at your waist, not pulling you down, not pushing you away. Holding himself in place.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, rough and quiet.

You stayed close enough that your mouth brushed his when you answered. “I know.”

Jack’s eyes opened. The restraint in his face nearly undid you.

“You know?” Jack asked.

You nodded, your hands sliding up to the sides of his neck. “I know.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not trying to rush you.”

“I know,” you said again, softer.

Jack’s gaze searched yours. “I mean it.”

You touched your forehead to his. “I know you do.”

His breath left him unevenly. For a moment, neither of you moved. The water shifted softly around your bodies. His prosthetic was in the bedroom. His crutches were against the wall. Your scrubs were on the bathroom floor. The front door was locked downstairs. There was nothing between you and him except the last thin thread of waiting.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“I want you,” you said.

Jack’s eyes darkened. His hand slid carefully over your back. “I want you too.”

You swallowed. “I want this.”

Jack’s thumb brushed your waist. “I need you to be sure.”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

His eyes held yours.  Your chest tightened at the care in that. At the way he asked because he was not going to let his want make the decision for both of you.

You brushed your thumb over his jaw. “I want you. I want this. I want to feel good, and I want it to be you.”

Jack went very still. The words landed. You saw them land.

His voice came out lower. “Say that again.”

You moved closer until your lips brushed his. “I want it to be you.”

Jack kissed you then. 

Not gently enough to hide what it did to him. Not hard enough to take the choice from you. Just deep. Devastating. Full of everything he was still holding back. You shifted your hips under the water, and the blunt pressure of him slid against you. Jack broke the kiss with a low, controlled breath.

“Easy,” Jack murmured against your mouth.

You stilled immediately. “Because of you or because of me?”

His eyes opened. Something like pride moved through them.

“Because I want this to last,” Jack said.

Your whole body warmed. “Oh,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved against yours. “Yeah.”

You reached between your bodies beneath the water, your hand closing carefully around him. Jack’s head tipped back against the wall.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

You watched his face. “Okay?”

His eyes were dark when they found yours again. “Yeah.”

You moved your hand slowly, feeling him hard and heavy in your palm, feeling the restraint in every line of his body. Jack’s fingers pressed into your waist.

“You’re sure?” Jack asked, his voice strained.

You nodded as you rose onto your knees. “I’m sure.”

He watched you as if he were trying to memorize you and survive you at the same time. You positioned yourself over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other still between your bodies, guiding him carefully. Jack’s hand spread over your hip.

“Go slow,” Jack said.

Your chest ached. You nodded. “Okay.”

Then you lowered yourself onto him. Slowly. Carefully. Enough that the first stretch made your breath catch and your fingers tighten on his shoulder. Jack’s eyes locked on yours. His jaw went tight. His hand stayed steady at your hip, there to ground you, not move you.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded, but the nod wasn’t enough. You made yourself breathe.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your skin. “Take your time.”

You sank down another inch, the water rocking around you, heat opening through your body in slow, overwhelming waves. Your forehead dropped to his. Jack’s breath shook against your lips.

“Still okay?” Jack asked.

Your eyes closed. “Yeah.”

His voice was rough. “Look at me.”

You opened your eyes. The second you did, something in his face cracked open. Not control. Not exactly. Something underneath it. You kept your eyes on his as you took the rest of him. Slow. Deep.

Intentional.

By the time you were fully seated, your body pressed close to his beneath the water, neither of you spoke for a second. Jack’s hands were on you. Your hands were on him. His breathing was not steady anymore. Neither was yours.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said softly.

A laugh almost broke out of you, but it turned into something shakier. You touched his face. “Good?”

Jack looked at you like the question had personally offended him. “Good?”

Your mouth curved, breathless. “Answer the question.”

His hand slid up your back, pulling you close enough that your chest pressed to his. “So fucking good.”

The words moved through you like heat. You kissed him because you needed to. Jack kissed you back, open-mouthed and slow, one hand at the back of your neck while the other held your waist. You did not move yet. You only sat there with him inside you, adjusting to the fullness, to the warmth, to the terrible tenderness of his body under yours.

It should have felt like too much. Maybe it was. But too much did not feel like danger here. Too much felt like Jack’s hand on your back. Too much felt like his mouth at your cheek. Too much felt like warm water and locked doors and his voice asking before he took anything.

You kissed him again.

This time, when your hips moved, it was deliberate.

A slow lift.

A slow sink.

The water moved with you, quiet and warm around your bodies. Jack’s grip tightened at your waist, but he still let you set the pace. You moved again. His head fell back against the wall.

“Fuck,” Jack said, low and wrecked.

The sound went through you.

You made love to him in warm water, in the bathroom built around his body, in the quiet of the house where he had tried so hard to stay ready for danger.

And for once, neither of you was braced for impact. You were not running. He was not standing guard. You were just there. Your hands in his hair. His mouth on your throat. Your hips moving over his.

His voice rough in your ear every time he told you to breathe, every time he said your name, every time his hand spread over your back like he could hold the whole moment still if he tried hard enough.

The pace stayed slow.

It had to.

The tub did not allow for frantic, and neither of you seemed to want frantic anyway. Every movement was smaller here, deeper because of it. Your knees pressed into the warm surface beneath the water. Your arms stayed around his neck. His hands stayed on you, one at your waist and one firm between your shoulder blades, keeping you close without forcing the rhythm.

You lifted your hips, then sank back down.

Jack’s breath broke against your throat.

“Fuck,” Jack said, his voice low and wrecked.

The sound went through you.

You moved again, slow enough to feel everything. The stretch. The heat. The way his body filled yours. The way his fingers tightened when you took him deeper. The way his restraint shook but did not vanish.

You pressed your mouth to his temple.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His hand slid up your spine.

“I know,” Jack said against your skin.

You pulled back enough to see his face. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

His eyes opened, dark and unguarded. “I know how you said my name.”

Your chest ached.

You kissed him because you had to.

Jack met you halfway, his mouth warm and open beneath yours. The kiss was messy now, not careless, but less controlled than before. Water shifted around your hips with every slow movement. Steam clung to your skin. His damp hair slid between your fingers when you tightened your hand in it.

You moved over him again.

Jack groaned into your mouth.

The sound made you clench around him.

His hand tightened at your waist, and his head tipped back against the wall for half a second before he dragged himself back to you.

“There,” Jack said, his voice rough with recognition. “Just like that.”

The words went through you hot.

Not a command that took anything away.

Permission.

Grounding.

His voice telling you he was there, he had you, he wanted you to have this.

You moved again.

Then again.

For once, being seen did not make you want to disappear. It did not make your body feel like something under inspection, something judged, something that could betray you by being visible.

Jack looked at you like your body was not evidence.

Not of fear.

Not of what had happened.

Not of what someone else had tried to take from you.

He looked at you like your body was where you lived.

Like he was grateful you had let him come close.

Your breath shook.

You pressed your hand to his chest.

“You make me feel safe,” you said before you could lose the nerve.

Jack went still beneath your hands.

His eyes lifted to yours, and the heat in them changed into something that looked almost wounded.

You shook your head before he could speak. “No, I need you to hear me.”

Jack swallowed. “I’m listening.”

Your hand stayed over his heart. “You do.”

His jaw tightened.

You moved closer, close enough that the water shifted around your bodies, close enough that the movement made both of you breathe harder.

“And you make me feel good,” you said.

Jack’s breath caught.

You held his gaze. “Not just this.”

His hand spread wider over your back.

You touched his chest, then your own, because the words mattered too much to leave vague.

“Not just your hands,” you said. “You make me feel good in my body again.”

Jack looked at you like you had put your hand somewhere more dangerous than his skin.

Like you had reached right into the place he kept locked down, careful and armed.

His voice came out rough. “Sweetheart.”

You nodded once, your throat tight. “I mean it.”

Jack’s hand rose from your waist to the back of your neck. He did not pull you in. He just held you there, his thumb resting below your ear, his touch almost unbearably gentle.

“That’s all I want,” Jack said. “For you to feel safe with me.”

“I do,” you said.

His eyes searched yours like he needed to believe it and was afraid of needing anything that badly.

You said it again, softer but steadier. “I do, Jack.”

His mouth found yours.

The kiss was different this time. Not harder. Deeper. Like the words had gone somewhere neither of you could take them back from. You felt him everywhere. His hand at your neck. His palm against your back. His chest under yours. The heat of him through the water. The steady, careful strength of him beneath all that tenderness.

Your hips moved again, almost without permission. Jack broke the kiss on a rough breath, his forehead pressing to yours.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice low and strained. “That’s it.”

Your hands slid into his damp hair.

His hand moved back to your waist, steadying you as you found the rhythm again. Small. Deep. Devastating. The water moved with you, quiet and warm around your bodies. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face, even when his own control looked thin enough to tear. His jaw was tight. His breathing was uneven. His hands flexed and settled, flexed and settled, as if he were reminding himself over and over that this was yours too.

You kissed him hard.

He groaned into your mouth.

The sound pushed you closer.

Your hips lost their rhythm for a second, and Jack’s hand slid lower, steadying you at your waist.

“Easy,” Jack said.

You shook your head, breathless. “I’m close.”

His expression changed. Heat and tenderness moved through him at once.

“Yeah?” Jack asked, his voice wrecked.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “Good.”

Your body tightened around him. His eyes closed for half a second, and when they opened again, they were almost too much to look at.

“Let me feel it,” Jack said.

The words broke something open. Your arms locked around his neck. Your face pressed into the side of his. The pleasure hit slow and deep at first, then all at once, building in you until your thighs trembled under the water and your breath caught on his name.

“There you are,” Jack said, rough against your cheek.

The words slipped under your skin.

Not finding you after fear this time. Finding you in pleasure. Finding you in your own body. Finding you because you had chosen to be there. You shook against him, hips still moving in tiny, helpless motions while the pleasure kept building in you. Jack’s hand spread wide over your back.

“That’s it,” Jack said, his voice low and uneven.

You kissed his jaw, breathless and shaking. “Jack.”

His whole body tightened beneath yours. You felt him holding back. You felt it in his stomach under your palm, in his hand at your hip, in the rough edge of his breathing. You pulled back enough to look at him.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His eyes opened.

You touched his face. “Come with me.”

The words hit him hard. You saw it happen. His expression cracked open, heat and want and something dangerously close to devotion moving across his face before he could hide it.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, almost warning.

You moved your hips, slow and deliberate. “I want you to.”

His jaw tightened. “You sure?”

You held his gaze. “I’m choosing this.”

Everything stopped. Not your bodies. Not completely. But something in the room did. The words hung between you, warm and impossible to take back. Jack stared at you. Then his hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you like something precious and unbearable.

“Then I’m choosing you back,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. He kissed you before you could answer. Or maybe because you couldn’t. Jack kissed you like the words had finally given him somewhere to put everything he was not saying. His hand held the back of your neck. His other arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you closer without changing the careful rhythm of your hips.

You moved with him. Slow. Deep. Together.

Jack’s control slipped by degrees. A rougher breath. A broken sound against your mouth. His hand tightening at your back. His body going tense beneath yours. You stayed with him through every second of it, your forehead against his, your hands in his hair, your body wrapped around him in the warm water.

“Let go with me,” you whispered.

The pleasure broke through both of you at once, deep and slow and overwhelming. Your body tightened around him as he came beneath you, his breath breaking hard against your mouth, his hands holding you close while your own release rolled through you in warm, shaking waves.

Jack groaned your name into your mouth.

You answered with his, barely a sound, barely a word, more breath than language. For a few long seconds, there was only that. His body beneath yours. Your body around his. Warm water shifting around both of you. The two of you falling apart together and holding each other through it.

Jack’s hand stayed at the back of your neck. Your fingers stayed tangled in his damp hair.

Neither of you moved away.

For a while, neither of you seemed to remember how.

The water settled around your bodies in small, fading ripples. Steam clung to the mirror and softened the edges of the room. Jack’s hand stayed at the back of your neck, his thumb still resting beneath your ear like he had forgotten it was there.

Or like he had decided he was allowed to keep it there. Your forehead rested against his. His breathing was still uneven. So was yours. No one spoke for a minute. There was nothing useful to say. Your body was still wrapped around his. His body was still warm beneath yours. The place where you had both fallen apart together still seemed to hum under your skin, deep and quiet and impossible to name without making it too small.

Jack’s thumb moved once. You closed your eyes. The words were there again. Right there. Too close. Too easy. Too true.

You could feel them sitting behind your teeth, warm and terrifying.

Jack’s breath touched your mouth, and when you opened your eyes, he was already looking at you. Not expectant. Not demanding. Just there.

Like maybe he had words too. Like maybe his were just as close. Neither of you said them.

Jack’s hand slid from the back of your neck to the center of your back, slow and careful.

“Water’s getting cold,” Jack said, his voice still rough.

A small, helpless laugh left you. “That your professional opinion?”

His mouth curved faintly. “That’s your boyfriend trying not to let us turn into two hypothermic idiots in a bathtub.”

You tucked your face against his neck for one more second. “Romantic.”

Jack’s hand moved over your back. “Practical.”

You lifted your head. “You can be both.”

Something soft moved through his expression.

“Yeah?” Jack asked.

You nodded, touching his jaw with wet fingers. “Yeah.”

He looked at you for one more second, and there it was again. The thing neither of you said. Then Jack kissed you once, slow and warm and almost achingly gentle. When he pulled back, his mouth brushed yours.

“Come on,” Jack said quietly. “Let’s get you warm.”

You gave him a look. “Me?”

His eyebrow lifted. “You’re naked in cooling bathwater.”

“You are also naked in cooling bathwater,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m aware.”

You shifted carefully, and his hands steadied you without gripping too hard. Your body protested the movement in small, tender ways, and Jack noticed because, of course, he did.

His hand paused at your hip.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded, your palm braced against his shoulder. “Yeah. Just…”

His gaze warmed. “Yeah.”

Heat moved up your neck. “Don’t look smug,” you said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed with tired amusement. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly,” you said.

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

You moved carefully off him, settling back into the water with a shaky breath. “I learned from the best.”

Jack watched you for another second, his face open in a way that made your chest ache. Then he reached for the drain. The water began to pull away in a quiet swirl. You climbed out first, stepping carefully onto the nonslip mat. Your legs felt unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with fear, and that realization made something warm and fragile bloom in your chest.

Jack noticed. He did not make it a thing. He only reached for the folded towel on the shelf and held it out to you.

“Here,” Jack said.

You took it from him. “Thank you.”

Jack braced one hand on the grab bar and shifted toward the side door of the tub. “You’re welcome.”

You wrapped the towel around yourself while he moved, practiced, and steady, opening the side door and reaching for the crutches where they leaned against the wall. You let him do his thing. No hovering. No fussing. Just staying. Jack got himself out with a controlled breath, water sliding over his skin and dripping onto the mat. He reached for the second towel, and you handed it to him before he had to ask. His eyes flicked to yours.

“Thanks,” Jack said.

You leaned against the counter, towel tucked around your body. “You’re welcome.”

He dried himself with efficient, tired movements, then rubbed the towel over his hair until it stuck up worse than before. You stared at him.

Jack lowered the towel. “What?”

Your mouth curved. “Your hair.”

He glanced toward the fogged mirror like that would help. “What about it?”

“It’s terrible,” you said.

Jack gave you a dry look. “You just had your hands in it.”

You lifted one shoulder. “That was before it became a structural problem.”

His mouth twitched. “A structural problem.”

You nodded solemnly. “Severe.”

Jack shook his head and reached for his crutches. “I’m wounded.”

You touched his arm as he passed you, light and brief. “You’re handsome.”

He stopped. The words had come out softer than you meant them to. Jack looked down at you, all warm skin and tired eyes and damp hair, and the humor faded around the edges.

“Yeah?” Jack asked quietly.

You held his gaze. “Yeah.”

His jaw worked once. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead. Jack’s towel was still wrapped low around his waist. Yours was tucked around your chest. The bathroom was warm, damp, and quiet around you. 

You turned toward the sink and reached for the little pouch you had shoved into your overnight bag. Cleanser. Moisturizer. A toothbrush. The small, ordinary pieces of yourself you had packed when you left your apartment because you did not know how long you would be gone.

Jack stayed near the wall, crutches tucked under his arms, watching with a softness that made the room feel warmer than the steam did.

You set your things on the counter. Cleanser beside the sink. Moisturizer next to it. Toothbrush near his. The sight of it made something in your chest go quiet. Not empty. Quiet. Like your body had been waiting for ordinary and did not know what to do now that it had found some.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the little line of your things on his counter. His mouth softened.

“What?” you asked, glancing at him.

Jack looked back at you. “Nothing.”

You gave him a look. His mouth twitched. “Fine. Not nothing.”

You reached for the cleanser. “That’s what I thought.”

Jack shifted his weight on the crutches, comfortable enough with them that the movement looked automatic. “I like this.”

Your fingers stilled over the cap. “My skincare?”

Jack nodded once, serious enough to make it funny. “Riveting.”

You laughed under your breath. “Shut up.”

His expression softened. “This. You. Doing your stuff in here.”

Your fingers tightened around the cleanser. Jack looked away first, like he had said more than he meant to.

You turned on the faucet and let the water warm. “You like me taking up counter space?”

Jack’s gaze came back to yours. “Yeah.”

Your throat went tight. He said it simply. Like it was not a confession. Like it did not land in the middle of you and stay there. You splashed warm water over your face, rubbed cleanser between your palms, and worked it over your skin. The mirror was too fogged to show you clearly.

Jack stayed quiet. Not bored. Not impatient. Just watching. You rinsed your face and patted it dry with a hand towel.

“This is going to get annoying,” you said, reaching for your moisturizer.

Jack leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall. “What is?”

You squeezed moisturizer onto your fingertips. “Me. My stuff. My little routines. The fact that I use counter space like I pay rent here.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Good.”

You paused. “Good?”

Jack nodded. “Good.”

You rubbed moisturizer into your skin slowly, giving your hands something to do. “You say that now.”

“I’ll say it later too,” Jack said.

The words came out too easy. Too sure. Your hand slowed against your cheek. Jack held your gaze through the fogged mirror, and there it was again. The almost. The not-yet. The thing neither of you had named because naming it would change the shape of the room.

You looked down and capped the moisturizer before it could slip out of you. Jack let you. He did not chase the words. He did not ask for them. That was part of what made you want to give them to him. You put your moisturizer back into the pouch and reached for your toothbrush. Jack huffed quietly.

You looked at him. “What?”

His mouth curved. “You brought your own toothpaste.”

You glanced down at the tiny tube. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t trust mine?”

You picked up the toothpaste. “Your fridge has three mustards and emotional damage.”

“That has nothing to do with my toothpaste,” Jack said.

“It speaks to your decision-making,” you said.

Jack stared at you. You stared back. Then his mouth twitched.

“You’re a menace,” Jack said.

You squeezed toothpaste onto your toothbrush. “You invited me.”

His face softened again. “I did.”

You brushed your teeth while Jack stayed there, damp and tired and watching you like the world had narrowed down to this ridiculous, ordinary thing. You. Barefoot in his bathroom. Your toothbrush beside his sink. Your moisturizer on his counter. Your body warm from the bath and him. His body finally loose enough to rest.

When you rinsed and set your toothbrush down beside his, the gesture felt small. It also felt enormous. Jack looked at it. Then he looked at you.

“There she is,” Jack said softly.

Your chest tightened. The callback hit differently here, with your face clean and your body still warm from him. Not in the ER. Not after catching a stroke. Not while proving you could stand. Here. In his bathroom. Doing ordinary things.

You looked at him through the mirror. “You keep saying that.”

Jack held your gaze. “I keep meaning it.”

Your heart turned over. The words came close again. Too close. You picked up your pouch and zipped it slowly.

“We should get dressed,” you said.

Jack’s gaze dipped once, then returned to your face. “Probably.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Probably?”

His mouth curved. “I’m being responsible.”

“You’re being something,” you said.

Jack pushed off the wall with his crutches. “Come on.”

You gathered your pouch and followed him back into the bedroom. The room felt cooler after the bathroom, the air touching your damp skin and making you shiver. Jack noticed immediately.

He moved toward the dresser. “Shirt?”

You pulled your towel tighter around yourself. “Please.”

Jack opened a drawer and tossed a soft, worn T-shirt onto the bed. Then he reached into another drawer for clean boxer briefs and a pair of loose shorts.

You picked up the shirt and held it against your chest. “Is this one emotionally available?”

Jack glanced at it. “That shirt has seen some shit.”

You smiled. “So no.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “It’s trying.”

You slipped the shirt over your head while he turned slightly to give you privacy, even after everything. Maybe because of everything. The fabric fell soft against your skin and smelled like detergent and Jack. 

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Across the room, Jack moved with the same practical steadiness as before. He got dressed without ceremony, using the bed and the dresser for balance when he needed to, crutches within reach, his movements slower now that the bath had pulled the worst of the tension out of him.

When you turned back, Jack had his sleep shorts on and was reaching for a T-shirt. You stepped forward before he could pull it over his head.

“Wait,” you said.

Jack paused, shirt in hand. “What?”

You touched his shoulder, then his chest, just once. Not to start anything. Not to ask for more. Just because you could. Just because he was there. Just because his body had been sore and guarded and then warm beneath yours, and now he was standing in front of you in the quiet room, letting himself be seen. Jack’s gaze softened.

You let your hand fall. “Okay.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Okay?”

You nodded. “You can put the shirt on.”

Jack looked amused and wrecked at the same time. “Thank you for the permission.”

You stepped back. “You’re welcome.”

He pulled the shirt on, and somehow that felt intimate too. The covering. The returning to ordinary. The choosing to keep going after the unbearable softness instead of pretending it had not happened. Jack set the crutches near his side of the bed, close enough to reach, then sat carefully on the mattress. The movement looked easier now, less guarded, but you still saw the fatigue catch up to him once he was down. He rubbed a hand over his face.

You walked to your side of the bed. “You okay?”

Jack lowered his hand and gave you a tired look. “Yes.”

You lifted your eyebrows. His expression softened. “Actually yes.”

Your chest loosened. “Good,” you said.

Jack pulled back the blankets. “Come here.”

You climbed into bed beside him. The sheets were cool at first, then warm where his body settled close. Jack shifted onto his side, and you turned with him, fitting yourself against him with your back to his chest. His arm came around your waist, not tight, just there. His hand settled over your stomach.

Warm. Heavy. Careful.

You covered it with your own. For a while, the room was quiet. Your work bag was still downstairs. The protective order was still printed and folded inside it.

The next hearing was still coming. Your apartment was still waiting to be reclaimed. Trent still existed somewhere outside this house, angry and contained and not gone.

None of it had disappeared.

But Jack’s bed was warm. His body was loose behind yours in a way you had not seen all week. His breathing was steady against the back of your neck.

And your body—

Your body did not feel like evidence.

Not tonight. Not after his hands. Not after warm water. Not after the way he had looked at you, like being wanted and being safe could live in the same place.

Your body felt tired. Sore in the softest places. Clean.

Yours.

You tightened your fingers over his.

Jack’s mouth brushed the back of your neck.

“Sleep,” Jack murmured.

You let your eyes close. “Bossy.”

His hand spread gently over your stomach. “Tired.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Work tired?”

Jack’s breath warmed your skin. “Good tired.” 

Your chest ached. There it was again. The almost. The not-yet. The love sitting quietly in the dark between you, patient and warm and no less real because neither of you had named it.

You did not say it. Jack did not say it either. But his hand stayed over yours. Your body stayed tucked against his.

And when sleep finally pulled you under, it did not feel like surrender.

It felt like choosing to rest.

You met Jack Abbot on a hot evening in July.

Not unbearable, not anymore. The worst of the heat had loosened its grip by then, leaving the pavement warm beneath your sandals and the air thick with the smell of asphalt, exhaust, and the faint antiseptic chill that slipped out every time PTMC’s sliding doors opened.

The sun had started to dip behind the parking garage, throwing long gold lines across the curb where you stood beside your car with an iced coffee in one hand and your phone in the other.

Mel had texted you three minutes ago.

Mel: Leaving at 6:50. If anyone asks, I died heroically.

You smiled down at your screen and typed back.

You: I’ll tell them you perished charting.

Her reply came almost instantly.

Mel: Thank you. Make it sound noble.

You were still smiling when you looked up.

That was when you saw him.

He came in from the parking garage alone, moving toward the hospital entrance with a coffee in one hand and a camo backpack slung over one shoulder. He wore black scrubs, the collar of a white T-shirt visible beneath them. Salt threaded through his hair. The setting sun caught along the tired, handsome line of his face, rough around the jaw and calm around the eyes in a way that made him look like he knew exactly how bad a night could get and had decided to walk into it anyway.

You looked away before staring got embarrassing.

Then, because you had apparently learned nothing, you looked back.

He was looking at you. Only for a second.

Then he kept walking.

You dropped your eyes to your phone and pretended to read Mel’s message again, your mouth still curved like you could hide it from a stranger fifteen feet away.

The sound of his footsteps shifted. Not toward the doors anymore.

Toward you.

Your thumb stilled against your phone screen.

When you glanced up, he had changed direction and was crossing the curb with the kind of easy confidence that made it very clear he had decided to come over before he had fully decided what to say.

He stopped a few feet away from you, close enough to talk, not close enough to crowd.

His eyes moved over your face once, quick and steady, then settled on yours.

“You waiting for someone?” he asked, his voice low and even.

You tilted your head, letting your gaze flick briefly toward the hospital doors before returning to him. “That depends.”

One corner of his mouth moved. “On?”

You shifted back against your car, your phone loose in your hand. “Whether that was a normal question or the beginning of a kidnapping.”

A quiet huff left him, more breath than laugh. “Fair.”

You studied him for a beat, openly enough that he noticed. “You ask a lot of strangers that?”

His answer came without hesitation. “No.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “No?”

His gaze dropped briefly to the iced coffee in your hand before returning to your face. “You looked like you were waiting.”

You glanced down at the coffee, then back up at him. “Impressive detective work.”

His mouth twitched. “I have my moments.”

You looked at his scrubs, his jacket, the hospital badge clipped near his pocket. “You a cop?”

He took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes still on yours over the lid. “Worse.”

Your smile widened before you could stop it. “Doctor?”

His hand lowered the coffee from his mouth. “E.D. night shift attending.”

You nodded toward the cup in his hand. “That explains the coffee.”

His gaze sharpened with amusement. “The coffee explains me still standing.”

You laughed softly, surprised by him.

His eyes flicked to your mouth. Only once.

Not enough to be obvious to anyone else. Plenty enough for you.

You shifted your weight against the car door. “So. Emergency doctor. Mystery man. Parking lot conversationalist.”

He held your gaze for a second, then offered his free hand. “Jack Abbot.”

You looked at his hand before taking it. “That was smoother than the kidnapping opener.”

His fingers closed around yours, warm and firm, his palm rougher than you expected. “I recovered.”

You gave him your name.

Jack repeated it once, low and careful, like he wanted to know how it felt to say.

Your stomach did something deeply inconvenient.

You let go of his hand before your dignity could fully abandon you. “Well, Jack Abbot, that makes you slightly less mysterious.”

His eyes stayed on you. “Only slightly?”

You gave him a small shrug. “You did walk up to me outside a hospital and ask who I was waiting for.”

His mouth curved a little more. “I didn’t ask who.”

You narrowed your eyes, amused. “You were getting there.”

Jack’s shoulder lifted in a faint shrug. “Maybe.”

You took a sip of your iced coffee mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “And if I said no one?”

His eyes moved across your face with quiet interest. “Then I’d ask if you always hang around emergency departments at shift change.”

You smiled over the rim of your cup. “Maybe I like the ambiance.”

Jack glanced toward the ambulance bay before looking back at you. “The sirens?”

You lowered the cup from your mouth. “The fluorescent lighting. Very romantic.”

His face stayed mostly serious, but his eyes gave him away. “You have strange taste.”

You looked pointedly at his black scrubs, his work bag, his coffee, then back at his face. “You’re the one flirting in front of a trauma center.”

His smile deepened by a fraction. “Am I?”

You held his gaze, refusing to look away first. “Are you asking me or yourself?”

Jack’s voice lowered slightly. “I know what I’m doing.”

The air between you changed. Nothing dramatic happened. The automatic doors still opened and closed behind him. Cars still passed along the curb. Somewhere nearby, a siren cried once and faded into traffic. But the space in front of your car suddenly felt smaller.

Warmer. More dangerous.

You looked down at his coffee again, because looking at his face was starting to feel like a dare. “Aren’t you going in?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on you. “I’m early.”

You nodded once. “Responsible.”

His gaze dipped briefly over you, appreciative without being careless. “Usually.”

You felt heat climb your neck. “Usually?”

Jack’s mouth softened into something almost like a smile. “I’m standing out here talking to you.”

You crossed one ankle over the other, trying and failing not to look pleased. “So this is irresponsible Dr. Abbot?”

His eyes narrowed slightly at the title. “Jack.”

You let the correction sit between you for a second before you answered. “Jack.”

Something shifted in his expression when you said his name.

Small. Private.

Before either of you could decide what to do with it, the sliding doors behind him opened.

Mel stepped out with her bag over one shoulder, moving quickly until she spotted you by the curb. Then she saw him. Her entire body stopped.

“Oh,” Mel said, one hand tightening around the strap of her bag.

Jack did not turn around immediately. His eyes stayed on you for one more beat, like he already knew exactly who had walked out and was deciding how annoyed he felt about being interrupted.

Then Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Dr. King.”

Mel’s eyes widened. “Dr. Abbot.”

You looked between them, your smile already starting. “You two know each other?”

Mel adjusted her bag higher on her shoulder. “Yes. Professionally. At work. Where I work. Until seven.”

Jack looked at his watch.

Mel’s panic sharpened. “I charted everything.”

Jack’s face did not change.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

Mel pointed vaguely back toward the doors. “And Robby knew I was leaving. Sort of. I mean, he didn’t explicitly say, ‘Mel, you can leave ten minutes early,’ but he did say, ‘Get out of here before I find something else for you to do,’ which I interpreted as permission.”

Jack stared at her.

Mel inhaled, her shoulders lifting. “Please don’t tell Robby.”

Jack looked at Mel for half a second.

Then his gaze slid back to you.

You saw the secret amusement in his eyes before he said anything. The almost-smile he did not quite let happen. The way he could not have cared less that Mel had escaped ten minutes early, because whatever had been happening between the two of you mattered far more than hospital technicalities.

Jack kept his voice even. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Mel’s shoulders dropped with immediate relief. “Deal.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for another second. You smiled slowly because the line was not really about Mel leaving early. Not entirely.

Mel looked between you and Jack, the relief on her face softening into something more curious. “Oh.”

Jack glanced at her. “You said that already.”

Mel wrapped both hands around the iced coffee you offered her. “I’m processing.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Do it quietly.”

Mel nodded too fast. “Right. Quiet processing.”

You laughed, and Jack looked back at you like the sound had pulled him there.

Mel’s expression warmed, delighted but not sharp. “I should probably introduce you, except I think Dr. Abbot may have already handled that himself.”

Jack said your name before Mel could.

Mel’s eyebrows lifted.

Your breath caught a little because he remembered it. Because he said it as if it belonged in his mouth.

Jack looked at Mel then. “We met.”

Mel’s smile grew. “I noticed.”

You looked back at Jack. “Did we?”

His gaze returned to yours, steady and smooth. “I was getting there.”

Mel made a tiny sound beside you. Jack’s eyes cut to her.

Mel immediately looked down. “Quiet processing.”

You bit back a smile. “You’re not very good at that.”

Mel shook her head, looking genuinely apologetic. “No. I’m really not.”

Jack shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder, the movement reminding all three of you that he was still technically on his way into the hospital.

Jack looked toward the entrance, then back to you. “I have a shift.”

You nodded. “Night shift.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “That’s the rumor.”

Mel looked toward the doors, then back at Jack. “You are still early.”

Jack gave Mel a dry look. “You are still supposed to be working.”

Mel pressed her lips together. “Fair.”

You smiled at him. “Sounds like both of you are keeping secrets tonight.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened with interest.

Mel looked mildly alarmed. “I feel like mine is more chart-related.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Mine isn’t.”

The air between you changed again. Mel went very still beside you.

You felt your smile soften before you could stop it. “No?”

Jack’s voice dropped slightly. “No.”

Mel looked down at the ground like she was trying very hard to give you privacy while standing three feet away from both of you.

Jack finally stepped back toward the entrance, but his attention stayed on your face.

Jack’s hand tightened once around the strap of his work bag. “You two have plans.”

You leaned back lightly against your car. “We do.”

Jack nodded once. “I have a shift.”

You smiled. “You mentioned.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Another time, then.”

You tilted your head. “That sounds like you’re assuming there’ll be another time.”

His mouth curved, small and dangerous. “I’m hoping.”

Mel’s eyes snapped up.

You smiled before you could make yourself play it cooler. “That was smooth, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack paused. His expression shifted at the title again, subtle but unmistakable.

Jack corrected you quietly. “Jack.”

You held his gaze. “Jack.”

Mel looked like she might actually vibrate out of her skin. Jack nodded once, like hearing his name from you had settled something.

Then he looked at Mel. “Dr. King.”

Mel straightened automatically. “Dr. Abbot.”

Jack’s eyes flicked back to you. “Enjoy your night.”

You smiled. “Have a good shift.”

Jack looked toward the hospital doors, then back at you one last time. “I’ll try.”

He turned and walked inside. You watched him until the doors slid shut behind him. Mel waited exactly two seconds. Then she turned to you, eyes wide and bright.

Mel’s voice softened with certainty. “He never does that.”

You kept looking at the doors. “Does what?”

Mel squeezed her iced coffee like she needed something to do with her hands. “Stops.”

A year and one month later, summer had come back around.

Jack Abbot was no longer the handsome ER doctor who had flirted with you outside PTMC before night shift.

He was your boyfriend.

Which was how you ended up at a bar two blocks from the hospital on one of Jack’s rare nights off, wearing a sundress you had absolutely chosen because you knew he liked it. It was soft and simple, with thin straps and a skirt that moved around your thighs when you walked. Easy enough for a hot July night. Pretty enough that Jack’s gaze had swept down it when you stepped out of the front door earlier, his hand still on the doorframe and his expression giving away almost nothing except the brief, dark flicker in his eyes.

You had looked down at yourself, smiling because you had caught him. “What?”

Jack had dragged his gaze back to your face. “Nothing.”

You had lifted your eyebrows.

Jack had held the door open wider. “You ready?”

You had stepped closer instead of leaving. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Jack’s mouth had barely moved. “I’m trying to get you out of the house.”

You had smiled up at him. “Why?”

Jack’s eyes had dropped to the sundress again, more slowly this time. “Because I said we’d go.”

You had felt warmth climb your neck. “And?”

Jack had looked back at your face. “And you know what you’re doing.”

You had smiled all the way to the bar.

So now you were here.

The bar was crowded in the way hospital bars always seemed to be after shift change, full of badge clips, tired laughter, and people trying to remember how to be human somewhere that did not smell like antiseptic.

There was karaoke on the tiny stage near the back wall, though calling it a stage felt generous. It was more of a raised platform beside a speaker system and a screen that glowed blue between songs. Someone from radiology had just finished a passionate rendition of a song that involved more pointing than pitch, and the whole bar had cheered anyway.

Mel sat tight against your left side, her shoulder bumping yours every time she got excited. Jack sat on your right, one arm stretched along the back of the booth behind you, not quite touching your shoulders until he wanted to. Robby sat across from you with a beer in hand and the expression of a man who had seen too much and still had opinions. Dana sat beside him, straight-backed and sharp-eyed even off shift, cutting through the table’s nonsense with the occasional dry comment.

Santos had claimed the end of the booth. Javadi sat beside her, listening hard and laughing half a beat late whenever she realized something was a joke. Whitaker was on the outside chair, quiet but smiling, his fries slowly disappearing because Santos kept stealing them.

Mel leaned close to your ear and whispered, “I’m really glad you came.”

You smiled at her. “You saw me last week.”

Mel nodded, completely sincere. “I know. I still missed you.”

Your heart warmed. You bumped your shoulder against hers. “I missed you too.”

Jack’s thumb brushed once against the back of your shoulder. You looked over at him. Jack kept his eyes on Robby, but his mouth softened like he knew you had noticed.

Robby pointed at Jack with his beer. “You look miserable.”

Jack looked back at him. “I’m having a wonderful time.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “You said that like a threat.”

Jack lifted his glass. “You invited me.”

Dana looked at Robby. “He has a point.”

Robby turned toward Dana. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Dana took a calm sip of her drink. “I’m off duty.”

Santos leaned back with one of Whitaker’s fries between her fingers. “I’m on whoever’s side gets me another round.”

Whitaker looked at her hand. “That was my fry.”

Santos glanced at the fry as if she were seeing it for the first time. “Was it?”

Whitaker gave her a patient look. “It was on my plate.”

Santos ate the fry. “You should guard your plate better.”

Javadi looked between them, then quietly slid her own fries closer to herself.

Mel noticed and whispered to you, “That was smart.”

You whispered back, “Survival instinct.”

Jack leaned slightly closer, his voice low near your ear. “You two whispering about fries?”

You turned your head enough to see him. “Maybe.”

Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. “Important topic.”

You smiled. “Very.”

His arm settled more firmly along the back of the booth behind you. Not possessive enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. Enough for you.

Santos tapped her fingers on the table and looked toward the karaoke screen. “We should do karaoke.”

Mel’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Santos gave Mel a look. “Don’t sound so shocked, King.”

Mel’s hands wrapped around her glass. “I’m not shocked. I’m excited.”

Santos pointed at you. “You’re coming too.”

You blinked. “I am?”

Santos nodded like the decision had already been filed in a chart. “You are. I need people who won’t embarrass me.”

Robby looked at Santos over his beer. “That’s a high-risk strategy.”

Santos narrowed her eyes at him. “I didn’t invite you, did I?”

Robby smiled. “No.”

Santos looked pleased. “Exactly.”

Mel turned to you with bright, hopeful eyes. “Will you do it with us?”

You looked at Jack. Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Why are you looking at me?”

You smiled. “Because you’re about to make a face.”

Jack’s face stayed flat on purpose. “This is my face.”

You leaned closer to him. “That’s the face.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Go sing.”

You studied him. “You’ll watch?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “I’m sitting right here.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” you said, your smile growing.

Jack looked you over for one slow second, then settled back against the booth. “Yeah, baby. I’ll watch.”

Your stomach warmed. Mel made a tiny pleased sound beside you. Jack looked at her. “Quiet processing.”

Mel stood from the booth, already smiling. “I was being quiet.”

Santos slid out after her. “You were squeaking.”

Mel looked genuinely concerned. “Was I?”

You stood and touched Mel’s arm. “A little.”

Mel nodded once. “Okay. I’ll regulate.”

Santos pointed toward the karaoke sign-up binder. “Regulate while walking.”

You laughed and followed them toward the stage. Jack watched you go. You could feel it between your shoulder blades. When you glanced back, Jack was still in the booth, beer in one hand, eyes on you like the rest of the bar had blurred just enough to become irrelevant.

You smiled at him.

Jack lifted his beer slightly. Robby leaned back across from him, his gaze moving from Jack to you and back again. “You look calm.”

Jack did not look away from you. “I am calm.”

Robby’s mouth curved. “Sure.”

Jack glanced at him. “Don’t start.”

Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t do anything.”

Jack looked back toward the stage. “You were thinking loudly.”

Robby took a drink of his beer. “That’s probably a symptom.”

At the karaoke machine, Santos flipped through the binder with clinical focus. Santos frowned down at the page. “No ballads.”

Mel stood beside her, hands clasped. “Some ballads are emotionally important.”

Santos looked at her. “We are not making this bar cry.”

You leaned over Mel’s shoulder. “What if we do something fun?”

Santos pointed at you without looking up. “That’s why you’re here.”

Mel brightened and tapped a title on the page. “Oh. This one.”

Santos looked down. “That is aggressively girl sleepover.”

You smiled. “Exactly.”

Santos thought about it for one second too long. Then Santos closed the binder. “Fine. But we commit.”

Mel nodded seriously. “I can commit.”

You glanced toward Jack again and caught him watching. Your smile softened.

Santos took the microphone with a sharp smile. Mel accepted the second microphone with both hands.  You took the third microphone and tried not to laugh when Santos immediately squared her shoulders like she was about to intubate the first verse.

The song started. The opening beat filled the bar. Mel’s eyes went wide with instant delight.

Santos pointed toward the screen. “Do not miss your cue.”

You laughed into the microphone. “Yes, doctor.”

From the booth, Jack’s mouth curved. He heard you. You knew he did. Then you sang. Not perfectly. Not even close. But loudly enough to make Mel laugh, warmly enough to make Santos stop pretending she was above it, and with just enough drama that Dana actually smiled into her drink. Mel got braver by the chorus. Santos got competitive by the second verse. You got caught somewhere between them, laughing so hard you almost missed your line.

By the time the chorus came around again, all three of you were singing together, shoulders bumping, hips swaying, one of Mel’s hands flying up in delighted emphasis while Santos pointed at the screen like it had personally challenged her.

Jack watched from the booth. He had seen you in plenty of ways by then. Sleepy in his shirt. Barefoot in the kitchen. Serious over breakfast. Soft in bed. Annoyed when he used his doctor voice outside of work.

But there was something about you like this, laughing under bar lights with Mel and Santos, hair loose around your face, cheeks warming from your drink and the heat of the room, that caught him low in the chest. You looked happy. Not because of him. Not only because of him.

You had your own people here. Your own friendships. Your own way of moving through his world without needing him to explain you to it.

Then you looked over at him mid-chorus. You pointed the microphone at him for one beat, smiling like you were singing directly to him even though the words belonged to the screen.

Jack’s expression did not change much. His eyes did. You saw it from the stage. That was enough. You turned back to Mel, laughing when she bumped your shoulder again. From across the booth, Robby watched Jack watch you.

Robby took a slow sip of beer. “You know you’re allowed to blink, right?”

Jack kept his eyes on you. “I blink.”

“Not when she’s up there,” Robby said.

Jack looked at him. “You keeping track?”

Robby’s mouth curved. “Hard not to.”

Jack looked back toward the stage. “Find a hobby.”

Robby lifted his beer. On stage, Santos finished the song with an unnecessary amount of confidence, Mel dissolved into laughter, and you gave a tiny bow mostly to make Jack roll his eyes. Jack did roll his eyes. Then he clapped. Once. Dryly.

You pointed at him from the stage. “I saw that.”

Jack lifted his voice just enough to reach you. “Saw what?”

You stepped down from the platform, still smiling. “That enthusiastic display of support.”

Jack set his beer down as you came back to the booth. “You got one clap.”

You slid into the seat beside him, warm from laughing. “One?”

Jack’s arm settled behind you again. “I’m pacing myself.”

Mel dropped into the booth on your other side, flushed and pleased. “That was really fun.”

You leaned into Jack’s side, still smiling, and let your hand settle on his thigh beneath the table. Jack went still for half a second. Then his hand covered yours. The table kept talking around you, the noise folding back into itself: Mel trying to recruit Dana for another song, Santos stealing fries, Robby saying something dry enough to make Dana look over her glass at him.

But Jack’s hand stayed over yours. Warm. Heavy. Sure.

You turned your face toward him. “For the record, you were not very supportive.”

Jack looked down at you. “I clapped.”

You smiled. “Once.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “Didn’t want to embarrass you.”

You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his chest. “You could never.”

Jack held your gaze for a beat. Then his voice dropped so only you could hear. “That right?”

Your pulse skipped. You nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles. Mel made another tiny sound beside you.

Jack did not look away from you when he said, “Dr. King.”

Mel took a sip of her drink, smiling around the straw. “Quiet processing.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”

Before Mel could confess what she was processing, the bar door opened, and Donnie walked in.

The table reacted all at once, not dramatically, but with that immediate shift ER people had when someone familiar entered a room. Heads turned. Conversations paused. Robby lifted his glass.

Donnie looked exhausted. Not shift-exhausted. Not even double-shift exhausted. Newborn exhausted.

Robby lifted his beer higher. “He lives.”

Donnie stopped at the edge of the booth and pointed at Robby. “Barely.”

Dana’s eyes moved over his face with practical concern. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Donnie dropped into the open chair near Whitaker. “I am allowed to have one drink.”

Mel leaned forward, immediately bright. “How’s the baby?”

Donnie’s whole face changed. The exhaustion stayed, but pride came through it so fast it softened him. Donnie reached for his phone. “Do not ask unless you mean it.”

You leaned around Mel instantly. “I mean it.”

Jack looked down into his beer. There it was. Immediate. Mel shifted her shoulder to give you room. “She really does.”

You touched Jack’s arm without looking away from Donnie. “There’s a baby.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I heard.”

You glanced up at him. “You have to look too.”

Jack’s eyes came to yours. “I will.”

Donnie turned his phone toward you. The first picture showed his newborn daughter asleep in a striped onesie, one tiny fist tucked under her cheek, her whole face scrunched into a furious little pout. Your breath caught.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, one hand pressing to your chest. “Look at her.”

Donnie smiled, tired and stupidly proud. “Yeah.”

You leaned closer. “She’s perfect.”

Donnie looked at the photo as if he still could not believe it. “She’s very loud.”

You looked at him. “She’s allowed.”

Mel nodded beside you. “She’s new.”

Donnie pointed at Mel. “Exactly.”

Jack looked at the picture. Then he looked at you. That was worse. Your whole expression had changed. Warm. Open. Completely defenseless. Donnie swiped to the next photo, and the baby appeared wrapped in a blanket with a tiny hat pulled over her head.

You made a soft, wounded sound. “Her hat.”

Jack’s hand tightened around his glass. Robby’s eyes flicked from you to Jack. Jack ignored him.

Donnie swiped again. “This was after she screamed because her sock came off.”

You looked genuinely offended on her behalf. “Well, that’s upsetting.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Is it?”

You turned toward him. “Imagine having a foot and then suddenly no sock.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. “Devastating.”

You pointed back at the phone. “Exactly.”

Donnie nodded gravely. “Finally, someone understands her position.”

The table laughed, but you were already looking at the next photo. This one showed the baby asleep on Donnie’s wife’s chest, both of them tucked under a blanket on the couch. The room in the picture was dim. Peaceful. Messy in the way new-parent spaces got messy, burp cloths and water bottles and half-folded laundry at the edge of the frame. Your smile gentled.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “That’s really sweet.”

Donnie looked at the picture for a beat longer than the others. “Yeah.”

You glanced up at him. “How’s your wife doing?”

Donnie blinked once, like he had expected another question about the baby and gotten something softer instead. Donnie set his phone lower. “She’s good.”

Your eyes stayed on him. Donnie exhaled. “Tired. Sore. Handling it better than I am.”

Dana’s face softened. “That sounds right.”

Donnie nodded toward her. “Fair.”

You rested your elbow on the table. “Does she have help?”

Donnie rubbed one hand over his jaw. “Her mom’s with her tonight. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

You nodded. “Good.”

Donnie glanced at his phone again. “Dana brought lasagna.”

Mel smiled. “Of course she did.”

Donnie’s mouth curved faintly. “Two pans.”

Dana nodded. “And I’d do it again.”

You smiled, but your voice stayed sincere. “Tell your wife she’s doing amazing.”

Donnie’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. And tell her the baby is perfect.”

Donnie’s throat moved. “I will.”

You looked back down at the picture. “And if she ever needs someone to hold the baby while she showers or eats or just sits there with both hands free, I volunteer.”

Jack went still beside you. Not enough for the table to notice. Enough for Robby to notice. Robby’s eyes flicked from you to Jack and then, wisely, back to his drink.

Donnie gave a tired little laugh. “Careful. She might take you up on that.”

You smiled up at him. “I hope she does.”

Jack heard it. He heard that you meant it. That was the problem. Donnie’s phone buzzed in his hand before anyone could say anything else. He looked down at the screen, and his face changed again. Soft. Immediate. Pulled home.

Donnie stood up. “That’s my cue.”

Dana straightened slightly. “Everything okay?”

Donnie nodded, already smiling. “Yeah. She’s up.”

Mel’s whole expression softened. “Go.”

Robby lifted his beer. “Go be a dad.”

Donnie looked at Robby, and for one second, the whole table seemed to feel the weight of that. Then Donnie smiled. “Yeah.”

You looked up at him. “Tell them we said hi.”

Donnie nodded. “I will.”

He paused near you before he left. Donnie’s voice went quieter. “And seriously, thanks for asking about them.”

You smiled. “Of course.”

Donnie tucked his phone into his pocket and left after a round of quick goodbyes, moving through the bar with the tired purpose of someone walking toward the thing that mattered most.

You watched him go. Jack watched you. For a moment, your drink sat forgotten in front of you.

Then you leaned back into Jack’s side with a soft sigh.

Jack’s arm settled around you. “You good?”

You looked up at him. “His baby is so cute.”

Jack huffed softly. “I noticed.”

You smiled, still soft from the pictures. “She’s perfect.”

Jack looked at you for a beat too long.

His voice went low. “You’re buzzed.”

You smiled. “A little.”

His hand tightened slightly at your waist. “A little?”

You nodded. “Buzzed and honest.”

Then you leaned in, your mouth near his ear.

Your voice turned soft enough that only he could hear you. “Do you know I wore this for you?”

Jack’s fingers flexed against your waist. His gaze dropped to your sundress again, slower this time, controlled enough that no one else at the table had any reason to notice.

Jack’s voice went low. “Did you?”

You leaned back just enough to see his face. “Mm-hmm.”

Jack’s gaze moved over you. Slow. Controlled. Not enough to make anyone else at the table comment. Enough to make your face warm.

Jack’s eyes returned to yours. “I know.”

You blinked. “You knew?”

His mouth curved. “Baby, I noticed you before I knew your name.”

Your breath caught. Mel made another tiny sound across from you.

Jack looked at her without lifting his head. “Dr. King.”

Mel wrapped both hands around her glass. “Quiet processing.”

You laughed, delighted, and tucked your face against Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s mouth brushed the top of your head for one brief second. Then his lips were gone. But his arm stayed around you. Your drink waited on the table. The night opened up warm and loose around you. And somewhere beneath Jack’s steady hand, beneath your laughter, beneath the soft buzz beginning to bloom in your chest, the picture of Donnie’s tiny daughter stayed with him longer than he wanted it to.

You, meanwhile, were thinking about Jack’s hands.

Not exclusively. Mostly. The drinks had loosened something in you, not enough to make the room tilt, not enough to make you careless, but enough that every warm, private thought you had about Jack seemed to drift closer to your mouth than usual. His hand was still over yours beneath the table. Big. Warm. Steady. You looked down at it, then back up at his face.

Jack caught you looking. “What?”

You looked up at him with open affection. “You’re so handsome.”

Jack went still for half a second. Across the table, Robby’s eyes lifted. Mel’s mouth softened immediately, like she knew exactly what phase of the evening you had entered.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “You doing all right?”

You nodded, still gazing up at him. “Mm-hmm.”

Jack studied your face. “How many drinks have you had?”

You held up two fingers, then frowned at them. “Two and a little bit.”

Santos leaned back in her seat. “That is medically imprecise.”

You turned your head toward her. “I’m not a doctor.”

Santos pointed at Jack. “He is.”

You looked back at Jack and smiled. “He is.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t say it like that.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

Jack leaned closer, his voice dropping near your ear. “Like you’re about to start something.”

Warmth climbed up your neck. You smiled anyway. “Maybe I am.”

Mel made a quiet, pleased sound into her straw. Jack looked past you. “Dr. King.”

Mel lowered her glass with wide eyes. “I’m being very normal.”

You laughed and tucked yourself closer into Jack’s side. His arm came around you more fully then, his hand settling at your waist. The simple weight of it nearly undid you.

You turned your face toward him again. “You’re very boyfriend.”

Jack looked down at you. “Very boyfriend?”

You nodded solemnly. “Extremely.”

Dana’s mouth curved behind her glass.

Jack’s expression stayed careful. “That mean something?”

You pressed your palm flat against his chest, right over the steady beat beneath his shirt. “It means you’re good at it.”

Jack’s face changed. Only a little. Only in the eyes. But you saw it because you were always looking at him.

Jack covered your hand with his. “At what?”

You smiled softly. “Being mine.”

The table quieted for half a second. Not fully. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough. Robby looked down at his beer with sudden interest. Mel looked at you like her heart had grown three sizes, and she did not know where to put it. Santos, to her credit, reached for another fry and said nothing.

Jack’s jaw shifted once under his skin. “Baby.”

You hummed. “That’s me.”

His thumb pressed lightly over your fingers. “You’re getting sentimental.”

You looked at him. “I’m allowed.”

Jack’s voice softened. “You are.”

You turned toward Mel, because the thought was too important not to share, and pointed gently at Jack. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Mel nodded with deep sincerity. “I know.”

You leaned closer to her. “He’s really hot.”

Jack looked across the table before Robby could say anything. “Don’t.”

Robby lifted one hand, already smiling. “I didn’t say a word.”

Dana took a calm sip of her drink. “Let the man survive one compliment.”

You turned back to Jack, still offended on his behalf. “You should get lots of compliments.”

Jack looked at you. “Should I?”

You touched his jaw, your fingers gentle against the rough scrape of stubble there. “Because look at you.”

Santos muttered into her drink. “Compelling argument.”

You smiled without looking away from Jack. “Thank you.”

Then you said it. “Husband material.”

The words came out warm and easy. Too easy. Jack’s whole body went still beneath your hand. The table did not miss that one. Mel’s eyes widened. Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Robby looked down into his beer again, but the corner of his mouth had gone very carefully neutral.

You did not notice any of it.

You were too busy looking at Jack like you had just discovered a universal truth and needed him to understand it.

Jack’s voice was lower when he spoke. “What did you say?”

You smiled up at him, soft and certain. “I said you’re husband material.”

His throat moved.

You leaned in closer, the strap of your sundress slipping slightly on your shoulder. “You are.”

Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to the bare line of your shoulder, but even that did not distract him the way it usually did.

His gaze came back to your face. “You think so?”

You gave him a look as if he had asked whether the sky was blue. “Obviously.”

You laughed, the sound warm and loose, and Jack’s eyes stayed fixed on you. You leaned toward him again, your mouth near his ear.

Your voice turned fond and conspiratorial. “You’re also very hot husband material.”

Jack exhaled through his nose. The sound was almost a laugh. Almost.

His hand slid a little more firmly around your waist. “You need water.”

You pulled back, scandalized. “I need to appreciate my boyfriend.”

Jack’s mouth twitched despite the tension still caught in his face. “You can appreciate me with water.”

You considered that. “That’s reasonable.”

Jack reached for the water glass near his beer and set it in front of you. You looked at it, then at him. “You’re taking care of me.”

Jack’s expression softened. “That’s the idea.”

Your heart did something painfully tender. You picked up the water and took a dutiful sip. Jack watched until you swallowed.

You lowered the glass. “See?”

Jack’s thumb brushed your waist. “Good girl.”

The words were quiet. Private. Not for the table. Heat swept through you so fast that you had to look down at the water.

Jack noticed, and his mouth curved faintly.

You pointed the glass at him. “You did that on purpose.”

Jack leaned back slightly. “I’m making sure you hydrate.”

You stared at him. “You’re dangerous.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “You started it.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Then you seemed to forget the argument halfway through, because your gaze drifted over his face again. His hair. His eyes. The tired lines at the corners of them. The mouth that always looked severe until he softened it for you.

You set the water down carefully. Then you touched his cheek again.

Jack went quiet.

You smiled at him, smaller this time. “I love you.”

The words were not new. You said them all the time now. In the kitchen. On the couch. Half-asleep against his chest. Into his shoulder when he held you after a hard day. But here, warm and buzzed in the middle of a crowded bar, with karaoke blaring too loudly behind you and your friends pretending not to listen, the words came out especially soft.

Especially sure.

Jack’s face changed. His hand covered yours against his cheek.

“I love you too,” Jack said, his voice quiet and rough around the edges.

You beamed at him. Absolutely beamed. Then you turned toward Mel again, unable to keep the joy inside your own body.

“He loves me,” you told her.

Mel’s expression melted completely. “He does.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”

You turned back to him. “What?”

His eyes opened, warm despite himself. “Everybody knows.”

You looked around the table. Robby lifted his beer in confirmation. Dana smiled faintly. Santos shrugged one shoulder. Whitaker gave you a small, kind nod. Javadi smiled like she was trying not to intrude. Mel looked like she was seconds away from making a scrapbook.

You turned back to Jack, delighted. “Everybody knows?”

Jack’s thumb swept over the back of your hand. “Yes.”

You leaned into him with a satisfied sigh. “Good.”

Jack looked down at you. “Good?”

You nodded against his shoulder. “I want everybody to know.”

His hand stilled at your waist. The words landed somewhere deep. Somewhere too close to the thing Donnie’s baby pictures had already stirred up. Jack stared at the side of your face while you settled against him, warm and happy and entirely unaware that every honest little thing you said was finding a place inside him he had kept locked for years.

Robby watched him from across the table. This time, Robby did not tease.

Mel did not make a sound.

The karaoke machine changed songs behind you, and Santos immediately complained about the selection, and the bar kept moving around them as if nothing important had happened.

But Jack felt it. Your hand over his heart. Your voice saying husband material. Your smile when you said you wanted everyone to know.

And, beneath all of it, the picture of Donnie’s newborn daughter. Tiny fist. Serious face.

A future Jack had taught himself not to look at for too long.

You tipped your chin up from his shoulder a minute later. “Jack?”

He looked down at you immediately. “Yeah?”

You smiled at him with all the soft, unguarded affection alcohol had pulled to the surface. “You’re my favorite.”

His throat moved again. Then his mouth softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “My favorite person.”

Jack’s hand slid up and down your side once, slow and grounding. “You’re mine too.”

Your eyes went shiny for half a second. Then your smile came back, bright and pleased. “I know.”

Jack huffed softly. “Do you?”

You nodded again. “You look at me like I am.”

Jack did not have an answer for that. Not one he could say in a bar. Not one he could say with Robby across the table and Mel glowing beside you and a ring hidden in the back of his dresser drawer at home.

So he leaned down and kissed your forehead instead.

You closed your eyes like that was enough. For now, it was.

By the time Jack got you home, you had told him he was handsome in the parking lot, devastating against the driver’s side door while he helped you into the car, and unfairly hot while unlocking the front door.

Jack pushed the door open with one shoulder. “Unfairly hot?”

You stepped inside ahead of him, smiling over your shoulder. “Yes.”

Jack shut the door behind you and locked it. “That sounds like a complaint.”

You turned around, walking backward into the house. “It is.”

His eyes narrowed as he dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, right beside yours. “You’re complaining that I’m attractive?”

You nodded, solemn and warm and a little unsteady. “It’s distracting.”

Jack’s mouth twitched as he set his wallet beside the keys. “You’ve mentioned that.”

You pointed at him. “Because you don’t seem sorry.”

Jack stepped closer, one hand finding your waist before you could sway too far backward. “I’m not.”

Your smile went soft and delighted. “See?”

Jack’s gaze moved over your face, careful and fond and assessing all at once. “You need water.”

You looped your fingers into the front of his shirt. “I need you.”

His hand tightened at your waist. For one second, something darker passed through his eyes. Then Jack covered your hand with his and gently peeled your fingers loose. “Water first.”

You frowned up at him. “You’re being responsible.”

Jack guided you toward the kitchen with steady pressure at your waist. “Someone has to.”

He opened one of the cabinets, reached for your usual glass, filled it at the sink, and set it in front of you. “Drink.”

You looked at the water, then at him. “You’re bossy.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Drink.”

Your stomach warmed. You picked up the glass with both hands and took a sip.

Jack watched until you swallowed. “More.”

You lowered the glass. “You like taking care of me.”

Jack’s expression did not change, but his voice softened. “I do.”

The easy admission made your face go tender. You took another sip without being told.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

You set the glass down and smiled at him. “You’re husband material.”

Jack went still. Not much. Not enough that you would have caught it sober, maybe. But enough. His hand rested on the edge of the counter, fingers flexing once against the stone.

You looked at him with open admiration. “You are.”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “You said that already.”

You nodded, pleased that he remembered. “Because it’s true.”

His throat moved. Then he stepped away from the counter before whatever had flashed across his face could become too visible. “Bedroom.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Oh?”

Jack gave you a dry look over his shoulder. “For pajamas.”

You pushed away from the counter and followed him. “That’s not as fun.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “You’ll survive.”

You caught up to him in the hallway and slid your arms around his waist from behind.

Jack stopped walking, his hand settling over yours where they were clasped against his stomach. “You’re dramatic.”

You smiled into his shirt. “You love me.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I do.”

You turned him enough to kiss him.

Jack caught you automatically, one hand sliding to the small of your back when your balance tipped forward. He kissed you back once, warm and careful, then forced himself to ease away.

You blinked up at him. “Why are you stopping?”

Jack’s hand stayed at the small of your back, steadying you. “Because you’re drunk.”

You smiled, warm and pleased. “Romantically drunk.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s not a legal category.”

You curled your fingers into the front of his shirt. “It should be.”

Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Probably not.”

You leaned in and brushed your mouth along the corner of his jaw. “You’re very responsible.”

His jaw tightened beneath your lips. “Trying to be.”

You smiled against his skin. “You want me.”

Jack’s hand flexed once at your waist before he answered. “Yeah.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, delighted by the honesty. “Yeah?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth and came back up slowly. “Very much.”

Your smile went soft and smug. “Then don’t be responsible.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh and almost not. “Not how this works, baby.”

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Bedroom. Pajamas.”

You sighed. “Fine.”

He guided you into the bedroom before you could negotiate.

The room was dim except for the lamp on the nightstand, washed in low amber light and scattered with the quiet evidence of both of you. His watch sat on the dresser beside your earrings. Your book was facedown on your side of the bed, spine cracked open to the place you had left it that morning. His old PTMC sweatshirt was folded over the chair, though you both knew you were the only one who wore it anymore. You looked around the room and smiled.

Jack followed your gaze. “What?”

You pointed vaguely at all of it. “We live here.”

Jack looked at the dresser, the nightstand, the sweatshirt, then back at you. “That just occurred to you?”

You smiled up at him, warm and drunk and pleased by the obvious. “No.”

His mouth twitched. “No?”

You shook your head. “I just like it.”

Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it. You caught that too. You reached for him with both hands. “Come here.”

Jack took your hands, but instead of stepping closer the way you wanted, he guided you backward until the backs of your legs touched the mattress. “Sit.”

You blinked at him. “Bossy.”

Jack kept hold of your hands while you sank onto the edge of the bed. “Practical.”

You looked up at him from the mattress. “Hot.”

His mouth twitched. “Also practical.”

You smiled, pleased with him. “You admit it.”

Jack released one of your hands and tapped the outside of your ankle. “Shoes first.”

You looked down at your sandals like you had forgotten your feet existed. “Oh.”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, his hand gentle around your calf. “Foot.”

You lifted one foot obediently. “You’re taking my shoes off?”

Jack’s fingers moved to the thin strap of your sandal. “That’s the plan.”

You watched him with increasing tenderness. “That’s very husband of you.”

His hand paused. Only for a second. Then Jack unfastened the strap and slid the sandal off your foot. “You’re drunk.”

You smiled down at him. “And observant.”

Jack set the first sandal beside the bed. “Other foot.”

You gave him the other foot, your sundress slipping higher on your thigh as you moved. “You’re always taking care of me.”

Jack kept his eyes on the buckle. “Somebody has to.”

You frowned at him. “I take care of me.”

His gaze lifted briefly. “I know you do.”

Your expression softened. Jack looked back down and loosened the second strap. “Doesn’t mean I don’t get to help.”

Something in your chest went warm and achy. You reached down before thinking and brushed your fingers through the salt-and-pepper hair above his temple. Jack went still beneath your touch.

You smiled at him, soft and completely unguarded. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”

The room changed. Jack’s fingers stopped on the strap of your sandal. His shoulders went very still.

For one long second, he did not look up.

You did not notice the way the words had landed. Not really. You were too warm, too open, too full of the certainty of him kneeling there in front of you, careful with your ankle, patient with your balance, kind with your body, in the bedroom you shared, in the house you came home to together. You kept touching his hair.

Jack’s voice came out lower than before. “What?”

You smiled down at him. “A dad.”

His hand stayed wrapped around your ankle. You tilted your head, like you were explaining something obvious. “You’d be good at it.”

Jack looked up at you then. His face was unreadable in the soft bedroom light, but his eyes were not. His eyes looked wrecked.

You smiled wider, encouraged by the attention. “Like, really good.”

Jack swallowed. “Baby.”

You nodded, still gentle, still certain. “Yes. A baby. I want your babies.”

The words landed between you with devastating ease. Jack stopped breathing.

You leaned forward slightly, your hand slipping from his hair to his cheek. “I want babies that look like you.”

His jaw flexed beneath your palm. You looked at him like this was a beautiful thing you had been carrying around all night and had finally remembered to hand him.

Your thumb brushed the edge of his cheekbone. “I want you forever.”

Jack’s hand tightened around your ankle.

You smiled at him, drunk and honest and glowing. “I want us forever.”

He stared up at you. For once, Jack Abbot had no dry answer ready. No deflection. No careful little almost-smile.

You sighed happily, as if the most important part had just occurred to you. “And I want the mind-blowing, amazing, life-changing sex forever.”

A sound left him. It might have been a laugh if it had not been so rough. Jack lowered his head for one second, his forehead nearly touching your knee. “Jesus Christ.”

You looked pleased with yourself. “I know.”

Jack looked up slowly. “You know?”

You nodded. “It’s very good sex.” His eyes closed. You touched his hair again. “Like, very good.”

Jack caught your wrist gently before your hand could slip farther into his hair. “Baby.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

His thumb moved once over your pulse. “You’re drunk.”

You gave him a patient look. “I’m also right.”

Jack stared at you. The second sandal was still half-unbuckled. His hand was still wrapped around your ankle. The room was still warm and quiet and full of everything he had spent years teaching himself not to want too loudly.

You smiled at him and whispered, “I love you.”

That was the part that broke something in his face. Not badly. Not all the way. Just enough. Jack exhaled slowly, then finished unfastening your sandal with hands that were almost steady.

Jack’s voice stayed careful. “I love you too.”

You watched him set the shoe beside the first one. “Then why do you look sad?”

Jack’s head lifted. You were looking at him with such open concern that it nearly ruined him.

He rested one hand on your knee, grounding himself there. “I’m not sad.”

You frowned. “You look sad.”

His thumb moved once over your skin. “I’m thinking.”

You leaned closer. “About babies?”

Jack’s chest tightened. “About getting you water.”

You made a face. “That’s not as romantic.”

Jack’s mouth twitched faintly despite everything. “No.”

You slid your foot against his thigh. “We could do romantic things.”

Jack’s eyes sharpened. You smiled, encouraged. “Naked romantic things.”

Jack closed his eyes again. “Of course.”

You leaned forward, your voice turning soft and persuasive. “I wore the sundress.”

Jack opened his eyes. “I noticed.”

You smiled. “You did?”

His gaze dropped briefly to the dress, to where the fabric had shifted around your thighs, then came back to your face with visible effort. “I did.”

You touched the front of his shirt. “You can take it off.”

His hand covered yours before you could slide your fingers lower. “No.”

Your face fell before you could hide it. “No?”

Jack’s expression softened immediately. “Not like that.”

You blinked, suddenly less playful. “You don’t want to?”

Jack moved closer on his knees, both hands now gentle on your thighs. “That is not the problem.”

Your mouth turned down. “Then what is?”

Jack leaned up and kissed your forehead. “You’re drunk.”

You sighed against him. “I’m romantic.”

Jack huffed softly. “You’re both.”

You looked at him through your lashes. “I consent.”

His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. “I know.”

You frowned. “Then?”

Jack’s hands squeezed your thighs once, steady and warm. “Then I want you sober when you ask me.”

Your expression softened in a way that made his chest ache. You asked softly, “For sex?”

Jack looked at you for a long beat. “For all of it.”

You did not understand. Not fully. Not tonight. He could see that.

Your brows drew together. “All of it?”

Jack brushed your hair back from your face. “Yeah.”

You leaned into his hand. “I want all of it.”

His throat moved. Jack’s voice went quiet. “I know.”

You brightened. “Good.”

Jack stood before he could answer that the way he wanted to. Before he could ask you to say it again. Before he could be selfish with your drunk honesty just because it sounded like every impossible thing he had wanted and denied himself.

He held out both hands. “Come on.”

You looked up at him. “Where are we going?”

Jack’s hands closed around yours and eased you carefully to your feet. “Bathroom. Makeup off. Teeth brushed. Pajamas.”

You leaned into him as soon as you stood. “You’re bossy again.”

Jack wrapped an arm around your waist when you swayed. “I’m consistent.”

You smiled against his chest. “Husband material.”

His eyes closed above your head. Jack’s voice came out low, because it was the only word he trusted himself with. “Bathroom.”

Jack got you through the bathroom by sheer force of patience.

He wiped the smudged mascara from beneath your eyes while you told him his hands were “unfairly gentle.” He made you brush your teeth while you leaned your hip into the counter and tried to convince him that minty breath made you “basically sober.” He got you into one of his old T-shirts and your sleep shorts while you informed him, very seriously, that helping someone change clothes was “deeply husband behavior.”

Jack survived all of it with his jaw tight and his hands careful. Barely. When he finally pulled the blanket over you, you caught his wrist before he could step away.

Jack looked down immediately. “What?”

Your fingers curled loosely around him. “Are you mad?”

His chest tightened. “No.”

Your eyes searched his, sleepy and worried. “Because I said the baby thing?”

Jack sat on the edge of the bed. “No, baby.”

You blinked slowly. “You got quiet.”

His hand covered yours. “I know.”

“You got sad,” you whispered.

Jack’s throat moved. “Not sad.”

Your brows drew together. “Then what?”

Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Careful.”

You looked at him for a moment, trying to understand. “With me?”

His voice softened. “Always.”

Your lashes dipped. “I meant it.” Jack stopped breathing. Your eyes were already closing. “I love you.”

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. “I love you too.”

Your mouth softened against the pillow. “Forever.”

Then you were gone.

Jack stayed beside the bed for longer than he needed to. The lamp was still on, throwing low amber light across the room. Your dress was folded over the chair because he had put it there. Your sandals sat near the foot of the bed because he had lined them up without thinking. Your lip gloss was on his nightstand beside the water glass he had made you drink from twice.

All these little pieces of you in the room. His shirt on your body. Your hand curled against the pillow.  Jack stood there and looked at you, and the full weight of the night came down so hard he nearly had to sit. *You’re going to be such a good dad.*

His hand flexed at his side. He could still feel the place your fingers had moved through his hair when you said it. Casual. Certain. Like you had not been cracking open a part of him he had buried with both hands years ago. *I want your babies.*

Jack closed his eyes. He should not let himself keep those words. Not tonight. Not when your voice had been soft from alcohol and your cheeks had been warm from the bar and your balance had leaned trustingly into his hands.

He knew better.

He knew better than to take drunk honesty and build a life on it before morning. But Christ, he wanted to. That was the problem. He wanted to so badly that it scared him.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at you again.

You were asleep, face soft, mouth parted slightly, entirely unaware of the damage you had done. Entirely unaware that he was standing there trying to talk himself out of hope like it was a bad habit. He had already bought the ring. It was in the back of his dresser drawer, tucked beneath old Army shirts he never wore and could not quite make himself throw away. He had put it there three weeks ago and then pretended he was waiting for the right time.

That was bullshit.

He knew it now. He had not been waiting for the right time. He had been waiting to become brave enough to ask for what he already wanted. Marriage, he could admit. Quietly. Privately. In the dark. He could imagine your hand in his. Your ring against his finger when he brought your knuckles to his mouth. Your name tangled with his on forms and reservations and stupid pieces of mail. Your toothbrush in the bathroom. Your books on the coffee table. Your laugh in the kitchen before sunrise. He could imagine calling you his wife. That alone had almost been too much.

But this?

This was something else.

This was a door opening into a room he had not let himself look inside for years. Jack’s gaze lowered to where the blanket rose and fell with your breathing. A baby. His baby. Yours. The thought hit him with such force that his chest tightened around it.

He saw it before he could stop himself.

You sitting on the edge of an exam table, nervous and bright-eyed, one hand wrapped around his while the other rested low on your stomach. Him standing beside you, useless in the face of it, pretending to understand the ultrasound screen before the sound filled the room. A heartbeat. Fast. Tiny. Impossible. He saw your face turning toward him the second you heard it. He saw himself trying not to fall apart.

Jack pressed his hand over his mouth and looked away. But the images kept coming. You in the kitchen wearing one of his shirts, one hand braced against the counter, your body changing because his child was growing inside it. His child.

 The words nearly undid him. He imagined coming up behind you carefully, because he would be careful with you, because he would be terrified of not being careful enough. He imagined his palm spread over the curve of your stomach, your hand covering his, your laugh catching when the baby moved. He imagined your feet in his lap because they hurt. He imagined leaving work and wanting to come home so badly it physically pulled at him. He imagined a bassinet beside the bed. Tiny socks in the laundry. A bottle drying near the sink.

 You asleep against his shoulder with a baby tucked between you, exhausted and beautiful and trusting him with the two most fragile things he had ever touched.

He imagined dark hair. Your smile. His eyes. Your stubborn mouth on a tiny face that would ruin him completely.

Jack’s throat worked. He should not do this. He should not stand there in the dark and give himself all of it. You were drunk. You were drunk, and he was fifty, and his body had been through too much, and his past was not clean, and his nights were not always quiet. He had a prosthetic leg leaning against the side of the bed. He had old nightmares. He had a job that brought death home under his skin no matter how well he scrubbed his hands. He had already had a life once. He had already lost one.

For years, he had believed that was the shape of things.

A man got one real chance at a family if he was lucky. Jack had been lucky. Then he had survived the losing of it. Surviving had felt like the end of the story for a long time. Then you had shown up outside PTMC in July, smiling at your phone with an iced coffee in your hand, and Jack had stopped walking. And somehow, a year later, you were asleep in your bed telling him forever like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Jack sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. You stirred but did not wake. His hand hovered near your hair for a second before he let himself touch you, brushing one loose strand back from your cheek. You sighed into the pillow. Jack’s face broke in the quiet where no one could see it. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just a crack through the center of him.

Hope hurt.

He had forgotten that. Fear was cleaner. Loneliness was familiar. Wanting nothing was easier than wanting too much and having to survive the answer. But hope? Hope had teeth. Jack looked at you and let himself ask the question he had been avoiding since the moment you touched his hair and told him he would be a good dad. *Could I have this again?* His thumb brushed your cheek once. *Could I have it with her?* You slept on. The room stayed quiet. The ring stayed hidden in the dresser. Jack bent forward slowly and kissed your temple.

“I’m not asking you tonight,” Jack whispered against your skin. You did not wake. His voice went rougher. “But Jesus, baby.”

He closed his eyes, his mouth still close to your temple. For one weak, dangerous second, he let himself hold the whole impossible picture. You as his wife. You pregnant with his child. Your hand in his during the first heartbeat. Your body changing. His hands learning every new shape of you. A baby with your smile and his eyes. A house full of noise. A life after the life he thought he had already used up. Jack breathed out slowly and sat back. Morning. He would wait until morning. He would make coffee. He would make you drink water. He would let you wake up embarrassed, because you always got embarrassed when you were honest, and then he would ask.

He would ask whether you remembered. He would ask whether you meant it. And if you said yes sober, if you looked at him in daylight and still wanted the future you had handed him drunk, Jack had no idea how he was supposed to survive that kind of happiness. You shifted in your sleep, your hand searching blindly over the blanket. Jack caught it without thinking. Your fingers curled around his. Even asleep, you found him. Jack stared down at your joined hands. Then he held on.

You woke up to sunlight, a dry mouth, and the dull ache of a mild hangover.

For a few seconds, you did not move.

Then the night came back. Karaoke. Donnie’s baby. Jack kneeling in front of you. Your fingers in his hair.

*You’re going to be such a good dad.*

You squeezed your eyes shut. Oh, God.

Then the rest of it followed.

*I want your babies. I want babies that look like you. I want you forever. I want us forever.*

And, because apparently your drunk self had wanted to leave no dignity behind—

*I want the mind-blowing, amazing, life-changing sex forever.*

You made a small, miserable sound into the pillow. You remembered Jack going quiet. Not angry. Not cold. Careful. That was worse.

Downstairs, the coffeemaker clicked softly. Jack. You sat up slowly, one hand pressed to your forehead, and looked at the empty side of the bed. Jack had taken care of you. And you had rewarded him by dropping an entire future in his lap while he was trying to take off your shoes.

“Great,” you whispered to yourself. “Perfect.”

You got up before you could talk yourself into hiding under the blanket for the rest of your life.

The house was too bright, too still, too full of everything you had said and everything Jack had not. Halfway down the stairs, you saw him.

Jack was on the couch, coffee on the side table, book open in one hand. He looked like he was reading. He was not reading. You knew because he did not turn the page. Jack looked up immediately.

“Morning,” Jack said, his voice low.

You held the railing. “Morning.”

His gaze moved over your face, checking. “Coffee?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack set the book facedown on the couch and stood.

You stepped off the last stair. “I can get it.”

Jack shook his head once. Then he jerked his chin toward the couch. “Sit.”

You sat. Jack moved into the kitchen without another word. He took your usual mug from the cabinet. The coffeemaker was still on, the pot warm because he had left it that way for you. He poured the coffee, added cream, stirred once, and did not have to ask how much. He knew. That made your throat tighten. He came back and held the mug out to you.

You took it carefully. “Thanks.”

Jack nodded once and sat on the other end of the couch. Not far. Not close. Just enough distance for all the things neither of you had said yet. You drank the first few sips in silence. The coffee was warm, familiar, exactly right. The morning was not.

Jack set his mug down first.

The soft sound of ceramic against wood made your stomach tighten.

Jack looked toward you. “About last night.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug. There it was.

You set the coffee on the table before you could spill it. “I’m sorry.”

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

You let out a thin, embarrassed breath. “Where should I start?”

Jack turned more fully toward you. “Baby.”

You shook your head quickly. “I know I said too much.”

His face went very still.

You looked down at your hands. “I remember the baby thing. And the forever thing. And the sex thing, which was mortifying, so I’m sorry about that too.”

Jack did not interrupt. That made you panic faster.

You rubbed your palms over your thighs. “I was drunk, and Donnie had the baby pictures, and you were being you, and I just—”

Your voice caught.

Jack leaned forward slightly. “You just what?”

You looked at him then. “I made you uncomfortable.”

His expression changed immediately. “No.”

You nodded like you had already decided it for him. “Jack, you went quiet.”

“I know,” Jack said.

Your eyes stung. “You went quiet in the way you go quiet when you’re trying really hard not to react.”

His throat moved.

You tried to smile, and it felt awful. “And I get it. Hearing your drunk girlfriend announce that she wants babies with you while you’re taking her shoes off is probably not the gentle domestic evening you were aiming for.”

Jack stared at you.

You kept going because stopping meant letting him answer. “And I know we live together, and we’re serious, and I love you, but I shouldn’t have said something that big without talking to you first. Sober. Like an adult. I’m sorry if it felt like pressure. I would never try to pressure you into something like that.”

“Stop,” Jack said softly. You went quiet at once. Jack’s eyes held yours. “Take a breath.”

You pulled one in, shaky and shallow.

His gaze dropped to your chest, then came back to your face. “Another one.”

You obeyed.

Jack waited until you breathed again.

Then he said, “I’m going to ask you something.”

Your fingers twisted in the hem of his T-shirt. “Okay.”

His voice was low. “And I need you to answer me sober.”

Your heart started pounding. You nodded once. “Okay.”

Jack’s eyes did not leave yours. “Did you mean it?”

The question landed quietly. Too quietly. For a second, you could only stare at him. You had expected him to soften the blow. To tell you it was okay. To say you had been drunk and embarrassed and that the two of you could forget it if you wanted to. You had not expected him to ask.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his T-shirt. “Which part?”

Jack’s jaw flexed once. “All of it.”

Your breath caught. He sat very still, like even shifting his weight might make the answer change before you gave it.

“The babies,” Jack said, his voice roughening around the word. “Forever. Me.”

Your eyes burned. Jack saw it immediately. His hand twitched against his knee, like he wanted to reach for you and was forcing himself not to. He was giving you room.

You looked down at your hands because looking at his face made it too hard to think. “I wish I had said it better.”

Jack did not answer.

You swallowed and made yourself keep going. “I wish I had not said it drunk. I wish I had not dropped it on you while you were trying to take my shoes off.”

His mouth moved faintly.

You looked back up at him. “I wish I had not added the sex part like a complete menace.”

Something almost like a laugh moved through him, but it did not quite make it out. Jack’s eyes stayed fixed on your face.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs. “But yes.”

The room went still. Jack stopped breathing.

You nodded once, smaller this time. “Yes, Jack. I meant it.”

His face changed. Not all at once. It never did with Jack. It happened in pieces. A faint tightening around his mouth. A slow, unsteady movement in his throat. The smallest break in the guarded set of his eyes. You saw hope before he could hide it. It made your chest ache.

You leaned toward him. “I meant the babies.”

Jack looked down.

You kept your voice gentle. “I meant forever.”

His hand closed into a loose fist against his knee. You reached for him slowly, giving him the same room he had given you. Jack looked at your hand before you touched him.

You stopped an inch away. “And I meant you.”

His eyes lifted to yours. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Then Jack let out a breath that sounded like it had been hurting him all night. You slipped your fingers into his. His hand closed around yours immediately. Careful. Hard. Like he had been waiting for permission to hold on.

You squeezed his fingers. “I’m sorry it came out like that.”

Jack shook his head once. “Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t apologize?”

His thumb moved over the side of your hand. “Not for meaning it.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack looked down at your joined hands. “You can apologize for the timing.”

You gave a wet, startled laugh. “The timing was bad.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “The timing was terrible.”

You wiped quickly beneath one eye with your free hand. “And the delivery.”

Jack looked back at you. “Could’ve been better.”

You let out another shaky laugh. “Okay, brutal.”

His eyes softened. “But not the meaning.”

Your smile faded.

He held your gaze. “Not that,” Jack said.

Your chest hurt with it. You nodded. “Okay.”

The silence that followed was different from the one before. Still nervous. Still fragile.

But warmer now.

Like the door was open. Like both of you were standing on either side of it, terrified to step through first.

Jack looked down again, and when he spoke, his voice was lower. “I didn’t answer you last night because I didn’t want it.”

You froze. Jack’s eyes closed briefly, frustration cutting across his face before he corrected himself.

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head once. “That’s not what I mean.”

You held very still. He opened his eyes and looked at you.

“I didn’t answer because I wanted it too much,” Jack said.

Your breath left you. Jack watched your face as the words landed.

You whispered, “What?”

His grip tightened around yours.

“I wanted to believe you,” Jack said. “I wanted to believe you so badly that I had to shut it down.”

Your eyes filled again. Jack dragged his free hand over his jaw, rough and tired and more exposed than you had ever seen him in daylight.

“Because if I let myself answer you last night,” Jack said, “I don’t know what the hell I would’ve said.”

You swallowed. “What did you want to say?”

His eyes held yours. For a second, he did not answer. Then Jack said, “I wanted to say yes.”

Your heart kicked hard.

Jack’s voice went quieter. “To all of it.”

The room blurred.

You stared at him through it. “Jack.”

He looked at you like your voice had done damage.

You moved closer on the couch, not all the way into his lap, not yet, but close enough that your knees nearly touched. “You want that?”

Jack’s face tightened. He looked away. That was answer enough to scare you. Not because it was no. Because it was too much yes.

You squeezed his hand. “Jack.”

His eyes stayed on the coffee table. “I want forever with you.”

Your throat closed. He looked back at you then, rough and honest in the morning light.

“I want marriage,” Jack said. “I want your name with mine if you want that. I want you in this house until every room has more of you in it than me.”

A broken little laugh slipped out of you. “That’s already happening.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

Then he went serious again.

“I want you first,” Jack said.

Your smile faded.

His thumb moved over your hand. “Before anything else.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Okay.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours. “Marriage first. Us first.”

Your chest ached.

“Yes,” you whispered.

His throat moved.

“And after that,” Jack said, quieter now, “if we both still want it after we talk about it like adults and figure out what it means and when and how…”

You held your breath. Jack looked at you.

“I want the rest,” he said.

Your face crumpled.

Jack’s grip tightened around yours. “Baby.”

You laughed wetly, wiping under your eyes. “This is just a lot for before breakfast.”

His mouth softened.

You drew a shaky breath. “I want marriage first too.”

Jack went still.

You looked at him through tears. “I want us first.”

His face changed.

You leaned closer. “But yes. Someday. If we both still want it and everything makes sense and we talk about all of it, I want babies with you.”

Jack’s eyes shone. You kept going because he needed to hear it. Not drunk. Not half-asleep. Not whispered into a pillow. Here. In daylight. Sober.

“I know what you’re thinking,” you said softly.

His jaw tightened.

You kept your hand on his cheek. “Your age. Your leg. The nightmares. The job. The things you carry home and don’t always say out loud.”

Jack swallowed.

“I know you loved someone before me,” you said.

His eyes closed for half a second. You stayed with him.

“I’m not asking you to erase her,” you whispered. “I’m not asking you to pretend you didn’t have a life before me. I’m not asking you to become some untouched version of yourself so I can feel like I got there first.”

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone.

“I love you,” you said. “All of you. Not the easier version. Not the cleaned-up version. You.”

His breath shook.

Your voice softened even more. “And I’m sorry you thought you didn’t get to want this again.”

Jack opened his eyes. That one hit. You saw it. His face went still in the dangerous way it did when something went too deep.

You leaned closer. “But you do.”

Jack stared at you.

“You get to want it,” you said. “You get to want me. Marriage. A baby someday. A noisy house and tiny socks and all the things you thought belonged to somebody else’s life.”

His eyes shone.

“You get to want it with me,” you whispered.

Jack’s hand came up then. Finally. His palm cupped the side of your face, warm and careful and shaking just enough for you to feel it.

“Say it again,” Jack said, rough and wrecked.

Your chest trembled.

His gaze held yours, bare now. “Sober.”

You nodded. “I want you forever,” you said.

His face broke.

You kept your hand against his cheek. “I want us forever.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of you saying it in daylight.

You swallowed. “And someday, if we both still want it after we talk about it like adults and figure out what it means and when and how, I want babies with you.”

A breath left him, broken and relieved.

You squeezed his hand. “Not today.”

His mouth curved faintly.

You gave him a watery look. “Not while I’m hungover and wearing your T-shirt.”

Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Good.”

You huffed a tiny laugh. “Good?”

His hand stayed on your face. “I’m not doing anything that important while you’re hungover.”

You looked at him. The words landed strangely. Not because of what he said. Because of how he said it. Careful. Measured. Like there was another thought somewhere behind his eyes.

Your fingers stilled against his cheek. “Jack.”

He looked at you for a long second. Then he leaned forward and touched his forehead to yours. You closed your eyes. His hand stayed warm against your face. For a while, neither of you moved. The coffeemaker hummed quietly in the kitchen.  Your coffee sat cooling on the table. Jack’s thumb moved slowly beneath your eye, then over your cheek, then down to your jaw, like he was making sure you were still there. You were. So was he.

You whispered, “So we talk?”

Jack nodded against you. “We talk.”

“About all of it?” you asked.

His voice stayed low. “All of it.”

Your throat tightened. “Marriage first.”

Jack’s hand slid to the back of your neck. “Us first.”

You breathed out, shaky but relieved. “Us first.”

Something settled in him at that. Not all the way. Maybe nothing that big ever settled all the way. But enough that you felt the tension change beneath your hands. Enough that you knew he was letting himself believe you. You leaned into him, and Jack’s arm came around your waist, drawing you close until your face tucked into the warm place beneath his jaw.

You breathed him in. Coffee. Soap. Jack.

His mouth pressed to your hair.

“I really did mean it,” you whispered against his shirt.

Jack’s hand spread across your back. “I know.”

You held onto him tighter. “Sober.”

His chest moved beneath your cheek. “I know.”

The words were quiet, but they mattered. They mattered because he believed you now. They mattered because you had said them in daylight. They mattered because the future did not feel like something you had thrown at him anymore. It felt like something he had caught. Something both of you were holding.

Jack did not tell you about the ring.

Not then. Not while your eyes were still red from crying and your coffee had gone cold on the table. Not while you were hungover and wearing his T-shirt in the middle of a morning that had already asked too much from both of you.

He wanted to. Christ, he wanted to.

The ring was upstairs, hidden in the back of his dresser.

For the first time since he had put it there, thinking about it did not feel like staring at a locked door. It felt like reaching for the handle.

Soon, Jack thought. Not someday. Soon.

He was afraid now. He would probably be afraid when he asked. That did not matter as much as it had yesterday.

You shifted against him, your cheek still pressed to his chest. “You’re thinking.”

Jack looked down at the top of your head. “Usually am.”

You huffed softly into his shirt. “Dangerous.”

His mouth curved against your hair. “You’re one to talk.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him. Your eyes were tired, still a little glassy, but warmer now. Less scared.

Jack brushed his thumb beneath one of them, catching the last trace of tears. “Headache?”

You blinked at him. “You’re checking my symptoms now?”

His expression stayed serious, but his eyes softened. “Somebody has to.”

A small smile pulled at your mouth. “Mild headache. Emotional damage. Coffee helped.”

Jack nodded once. “Food next.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “You emotionally devastate me before 10 a.m. and now you’re making breakfast?”

Jack stood and held out his hand. “That’s the plan.”

You looked at his hand, then up at him. “Very husband material.”

The words landed. Not like last night. Not like a shock through his whole body.

This time, they settled somewhere deep.

Jack looked down at your hand in his. At the empty place on your left ring finger. Then back at your face.

By the end of the week, he thought. His hand closed more firmly around yours.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled faintly. “With what?”

He pulled you gently to your feet, close enough that your chest brushed his. Then his voice dropped, rough and quiet. “With that husband material shit.”

Your smile grew, soft and unsuspecting. “Why?”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Because the ring was upstairs. Because he had spent three weeks pretending fear was timing. Because you had said forever sober.

Because he believed you.

Because soon, if he had anything to say about it, you were going to have his ring on your hand.

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“Because I’m starting to take you seriously,” Jack said.

Your eyes softened. “Good.”

Jack held your hand and led you toward the kitchen. The ring stayed upstairs.

For now.

It occurs to you when your alarm goes off at 5:30 in the morning that you have no idea what today is going to look like. You hated school until you finished your GED and went to college, so it wasn't until later in life that you got excited for the first day of school. The butterflies, the anticipation—you thrived under it. Preened under academic pressure, sort of like a peacock.

Now you're at the bottom of the food chain. And in less than two hours, you have to look Jack Abbot in the eye at handoffs. 

You roll out your yoga mat, and when you bend into a pretzel, you stare at your unbuilt coffee table and cringe. For all of your genius, you and wrenches don't mix, so you and IKEA are sworn enemies here on out. You exhale your frustration in a back bend, and finish your twenty-minute flow feeling more antsy than when you started. High-strung and uncertain, that's you.

You shower, braid your hair to keep it out of your face, change into your scrubs, hang your stethoscope around your neck, and slide your feet into comfortable tennis shoes. They're a chunky, orthopedic pair that give grandmother vibes more than anything, but if you wind up pulling a twenty-hour day, you'll thank yourself later. You step out of your front door with two steaming travel cups of espresso from your machine: a graduation present your father got you. Trinity was jealous the moment she saw it.

She takes the mug from you and yawns. "Doctorpedia, you're my hero."

"Don't thank me yet. I could've burned the beans. No idea how hot they're supposed to be."

"It's perfect, and I hate you," she cuts you off. "Making fucking lattes in your kitchen? Is there anything you can't do? That's the stuff of dreams, babe."

She's devouring her coffee, and you can't help but snort. "Glad you like it."

"Might have to give me a spare key."

"Mmmm, we'll see." You nudge her shoulder with yours, heading to your cars. You thought about carpooling, but depending on the residents and attendings, you don't know if you'll be off at the same time. 

Petunia's engine turns over as you switch the stereo on. The right playlist can set the mood, so you curated one carefully last night. The upbeat tune is a nice grounding tool as you cruise down the road, the music occasionally broken by your GPS chirping directions at you. Your new parking pass hangs from the rearview mirror, swinging as you enter the parking garage at PTMC. On your way in, you notice Jack's truck, and steady your breath as you park. It's a bit of a walk down to the ED, but you catch up to Trinity in the stairwell.

"You ready?" you ask her.

Trinity shrugs. "I was born ready."

"Next, you're going to tell everyone danger is your middle name or some shit."

"Unless you've seen my birth certificate, you don't know for sure." She wiggles her eyebrows at you, swiping her badge and holding the door. "After you."

The hospital, outside of the emergency department, looks like an idyllic catalog, the sort of corridors that belong on a brochure. The ED? You think comparing it to the Purge would be an understatement. The moment you step in through the staff door, you're assaulted with stimuli, lights flashing, and patients screaming. 

A woman thrashes on a gurney, hands in restraints, arms covered in track marks. "I'LL KILL YOU, YOU BASTARDS! I'LL KILL YOU ALL!" 

"She seems nice," Trinity mumbles once you're out of earshot.

The central desk is a hub, lined with the giant TVs that form the Board, with rooms, patient numbers, and brief abbreviations for chief complaints. Nurses are milling around the area, a tech delivering labs and racking an iPad, and a Black doctor dictating notes. You're reminded of a beehive, and you suppose that means you should start looking for the Queen.

When a tall, blonde woman with stern features pushes her sunglasses up on top of her head, you immediately notice the Charge Nurse badge clipped to her scrubs. 

The night shift charge nurse greets her with a smile. "Dana, thank god you're here. I've had to pee for the last hour and after four kids…"

"Don't gotta tell me twice, Lena," Dana says. "Go. We'll debrief when you're back."

The other nurse, who you now know as Lena, scurries off with a nod. 

"Suddenly regretting the coffee," you mutter drily. "Damn diuretics."

"I'll wear a diaper if I have to. No fucking way I'm getting through today without my bean juice."

"I feel the same way," a new voice says. The pair of you turn to see an Asian man in black scrubs with an attending badge clipped to his hip. He sits down behind one of the computers to chart, eyeing the two of you. "You must be the new interns. John Shen. Attending. The zombie over there is Parker Ellis, senior rez."

The Black woman pauses her dictations, groaning. "Don't forget I bite, Shen."

Shen holds his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm not the one who had a hot date yesterday. Not my fault you didn't get your beauty sleep."

"Bite me." Ellis rolls her eyes and continues rattling off her notes for the chart.

"I'm Trinity Santos, R1," Trinity says. 

You introduce yourself, and Shen's eyebrows raise. "The double boarder, yeah?" he asks.

You nod.

"Can't wait to have you on nights. None of us is that good with kids, except maybe Abbot, but he's the Senior, so he's pretty busy most of the time." He pats you on the shoulder. "When Robby gets in, we'll do rounds."

You nod, and Trinity glances over at you, elbowing you. "Already showing off."

"Just wait until they see you with a scalpel," you reply. "Then they'll really be impressed."

Dana, the charge nurse, walks over to you with the confident stroll of someone well established, even in the chaos. "New interns, huh? Welcome to the Pitt. I'm Dana Evans, the charge nurse on days, most of the time. And you are…" You introduce yourselves again, and she beams warmly. "It can be a lot at first, but trust that if you matched here, you're meant to be here. You can do this."

When she turns her back, Trinity mutters, "You think other interns have quit the first day?"

"Definitely," you whisper back.

You can find the med students immediately, who look a little lost, a little young, and it's strange to think that was you, not two months ago. You exchange the obligatory introductions, trying to breathe. Out and in. 

And then he walks out of Curtain Area 2. "Get the full work-up. Shotgun approach, all the labs. Robby will take over when he's in. You're gonna be okay, Mrs. Baker." You don't hear the patient's reply over the rush of blood in your ears as your heart slams into your ribs and stops. Because Jack's eyes are on yours. And it's like the whole world slows down for a second before he looks away.

Dr. Robinavitch enters looking a bit run ragged, his hair messy, his beard streaked with grey, but even still, there's warmth in his brown eyes. He and Jack exchange one of those handshakes turned hugs that must come in the guy handbook, and all the residents from both shifts gather at Central. 

"Welcome to the Pitt," Dr. Robinavitch says, clapping his hands together. "I am Dr. Michael Robinavitch, and I'm the Chief of Emergency Medicine at PTMC. Everyone calls me Dr. Robby, or just Robby. My senior attending, the VP of this shitshow oval office, is Dr. Jack Abbot, who primarily works nights."

Jack straightens his shoulders, and you try not to admire the way his scrub top strains over his chest, curving around his full biceps. Sweet Jesus, you could die from the fantasies alone. 

Robby continues talking, oblivious to the way you and Jack keep stealing looks at each other. "The ringleader of our circus is Charge Nurse Dana Evans. If you can't find an attending, she is a wealth of knowledge. Stay on the nurses' good side, and they'll save your asses. Don't? You'll be wiping asses until the end of your residency and won't be crying about it to me."

He goes through a few more housekeeping items, the basic how-to, and the functions of the Pitt. Then, you start looking around at the other residents. A handsome, tall man with blue eyes and a cleft in his chin, introduces himself as Frank Langdon, R4. Another R4, a Black woman with short dark hair and warm dark eyes, introduces herself next as Heather Collins. Samira Mohan is an R3 with bronze skin and curly hair who offers you a reassuring smile that makes you feel more at ease. An older, dark-haired woman in a hoodie calls herself Cassie McKay, R3.

You introduce yourself after Trinity, and Robby's eyes light up with recognition. "The pediatric doc, that's right."

You nod. "Yeah, that's me."

You start your rounds around the curtain area, where a small child is still waiting for a bed, doing a breathing treatment with a nebulizer device that spans half his body. 

Robby listens to the kid's chest, his smile soft. "Who can tell me the most common causes of pneumonia in a child under five?"

"RSV and bacteria, specifically Streptococcus pneumoniae," you answer.

"And what is accomplished by the nebulizer? Perhaps one of the students?"

Both of the med students stare blankly at Robby. One of them opens his notebook, frantically flipping through the pages like it'll give him the answer in a heartbeat. 

You hold up a finger and answer shyly, "Opening his airways, clearing mucus, and preventing further bronchospasms."

"And his Sats are climbing," Robby says. "Come on, keep it moving. Who can tell me the average wait time for an emergency room before seeing a physician?"

"Two hours?" one of the students guesses.

"In urban hospitals, over four hours," you mumble.

Robby nods. "Right again. We see patients in order of severity, prioritizing critical cases. We see people when we can, as fast as we can, and if a patient complains about the wait time, kindly remind them waiting means they'll live to complain another day."

A few people chuckle. You work through the rest of the patients, and every question that Robby asks, you wait before answering. No one likes a know-it-all, so you try to give the others the space. Inevitably, he always looks at you out of curiosity.

"Doctorpedia strikes again," Trinity remarks, though not unkindly.

Robby pairs Trinity with McKay in triage and tells you to stick around for the incoming trauma, an MVC pile-up with two criticals coming in five minutes. The rest of the residents disperse, and you wait at Central, running over the steps for navigating a trauma in your head. 

"Doctorpedia, huh?" Abbot remarks when she's walked away. "Suits you."

You shoot him a sharp glare, warning him with your eyes. A silent warning not to advertise that the two of you know each other. You introduce yourself, holding his stare, and offer your hand.

His eyes twinkle with mischief, but he plays along. "Jack Abbot."

You drop his hand, trying not to remember what his touch feels like, how he held your face at the baseball game and kissed you like he meant it. Like a promise. Too bad it was a promise he wouldn't be able to keep. 

"You look familiar," he adds. 

You bite your lip. "Can't imagine why."

He stands back, head cocked as his eyes skim over your face. He's assessing you, for a fragile second, before backing off. "I'll see you in twelve hours for handoffs," he says at last. "Doctorpedia."

At least it's not sweetheart, you think to yourself, as he walks away with his bag and jacket slung over his shoulder. Before you can think twice about it, the medics burst through the double doors of the ambulance bay. You glove up as they rattle off vital signs, looking at the middle-aged woman on the stretcher, her neck held in a C-collar, a huge gash bleeding above her brow. Small nicks from shattered glass paint her cheek, some pieces still wedged beneath the skin.

You glove up, gown up, and get to work.

Robby walks you through an intubation, and you correctly diagnose the splenic laceration causing her respiratory distress. Her pulse is tachy and thready, and you run the fluids at Robby's instruction, stabilizing her just enough to get her up to the OR. After the trauma, you remove your gown and gloves, and Robby nods his approval.

"Fantastic work with that trauma," Robby says. "You'll be working with Dr. Langdon today. He's one of our senior residents, and I trust you'll learn a lot from him."

"Frank," Langdon says, shaking your hand. "Let's move."

The first six hours of your day are a blur. 

Any emergency department is pure chaos; that's just the job, but the Pitt is a different beast entirely. Urban trauma centers are always underfunded and understaffed, and the burden on doctors increases when homeless populations and low-income families come in without insurance. It breaks your heart and contributes to the brutal wait times. 

Langdon is a cowboy. A lot of emergency physicians are the shoot-first, ask-questions-later types who act on instinct and experience rather than on calculated diagnostics. Nine times out of ten, it pays off. You fear the one time. It's why you're usually careful in a trauma, relying on what you've read. Statistics are your edge. You stick with the numbers, the careful approach.

Langdon is a good teacher, and he's funny too. A bit ADHD, bouncing around the place, but he guides you through an intubation and listens to your feedback when ordering work-ups for patients. 

You're charting at Central in the early afternoon when Trinity comes by. "Hey, Doctorpedia, I need a favor. Translators were paged an hour ago, and this woman only speaks Spanish." 

"One sec," you say, before signing out and walking over.

The patient is an older woman, possibly with an altered mental status, but you sit with her and patiently ask her questions in Spanish. By the time labs are ordered, translators have come down, and you have more patients to see.

"Gracias," the woman says. 

"De nada," you reply. "Vamos a cuidar bien de ti."

"You speak Spanish?" Langdon asks when you come back to Central. 

You nod. "French and ASL too. I pick up languages fast, I guess. Plus, the only satellite channels we got in our trailer were telenovelas. You'd be shocked how much you can learn from a good soap."

"I'll take your word for it," he replies. "Update me on Curtain Five?"

The patient's name is Andrew Gallagher, and his teenage daughter brought him in after they were weight training and he felt a tearing sensation in the chest. Otherwise, he's perfectly healthy. Non-smoking, no drugs or alcohol. He teaches history at a local high school, and despite his pain, he seemed to be in good spirits. 

"I think we need to do a CT," you begin hesitantly, "he has no risk factors for aortic dissection, but he's not having a heart attack, and the pain level is disproportionate to any non-cardiac causes. The ultrasound was also a little muddy."

"Muddy how? You probably did it wrong," Langdon says. "The guy probably just pulled a muscle in the gym. He's only forty-two, in good shape. The EKG was normal."

"I just think a CT is warranted." Your tone sharpens a bit, and you stand straighter. Jack would tell you to advocate for yourself, to assert your opinion, and fight for the patient. You know the test is expensive, even for an insured patient, but you're willing to bet on it. 

Langdon sighs, shaking his head. "Look, I get that you're smart, but you're looking for a zebra when it's just a horse. It's okay, it happens, but we need the bed, and he's doing fine. Get him a cardiology follow-up if pain persists, and send him home. Robby will tell you the same thing."

He walks away before you can say anything else, and you mull it over, frowning. 

Dr. Collins glances over at you from her position in front of the board. "How sure are you?"

You blink a few times, a bit confused. "What do you mean?"

"You think it's an aortic dissection, even if the evidence says otherwise," she replies calmly. "How sure are you that it's a cardiac emergency? Enough to subject him to a longer wait and a CT scan?"

You consider it for a moment, then nod. "I think it's worth the scan. To rule it out. Because if we send him home, he could deteriorate, and if it is a dissection, especially Type A, he could drop dead before making it back to the ER."

"I'll sign off," she says. "My first week here, I had an instinct, and my resident ignored it. The kid had an aneurysm that burst and killed him. CT was clean, but if we'd done an angiogram, we would've found it. Could have saved him. It's hard, being a woman in medicine, but trust your gut."

"I'll order the scan," you decide. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me until you're sure it's a Zebra. I'm putting my neck out for you." 

An hour later, you're working up a patient near Central when you hear Robby at the board. "Hey, what's up with Curtain Five? I thought we were discharging him. Why's he still there?"

Dana shrugs. "He's Langdon's."

"And he should be discharged," Langdon says, frowning. His eyes find yours, accusatory. "Why the hell is he still here?"

"I ordered a CT."

"Who told you to do that?"

"Collins said—"

"Collins is not his doctor, I am," Langdon interjects. "You've been a doctor for five minutes, and now you've wasted his time and subjected him to more unnecessary tests. For what? Not to mention, you went behind my back—"

Dr. Collins rushes over, holding one of the tablets with test results on the screen. "CT's back. It's a Type A. He's bleeding into his chest cavity, and the damage is only increasing. He's getting redlined up to the OR."

She hands the iPad over to Robby, who whistles. "That's a nasty one. Good pick-up, Doc, but next time, run a disagreement with your resident by me first. Talk to an attending, okay?"

You nod. "I apologize."

"Don't apologize for advocating for your patients," Robby says, squeezing your shoulder. "Keep those instincts. Langdon's fantastic, but seniority does not always mean right."

Langdon's jaw clenches. "You got lucky, okay?"

"I know."

"Just remember your place," he says. "Mr. Sandoval needs a rectal. Handle it."

You know you're not above rectal examinations and disimpactions, but you also know he's doing it on purpose. The timing is too deliberate to be ignored. Still, you handle it like a pro, and just as you're ready to discharge him, another trauma comes in, and Robby yells your name.

"What do we got?" Robby asks, gowning up. 

"Active labor, thirty-nine weeks, symptoms of pre-eclampsia." The medic rattles off more vitals as they transfer the patient, a sweaty woman covered in blood, howling in agony.

You tell her your name, helping place her O2 mask. "What's your name?" 

"Emily," she stammers out. 

"Okay, Emily, we've got you. We have to get this baby delivered to minimize the risk to you," Robby says, snapping his gloves into place. He calls you over. "What do you see?"

"Fully effaced and dilated," you report back.

"That means we're delivering."

Another contraction hits Emily, and she screams. 

"You can do this," a nurse, you think her name is Perlah, tells her, smoothing her hair. "You ready to meet your baby?"

"Page OB, now!" Robby hollers. 

Emily nods. "C-Call my husband."

"He's on his way," Perlah says. "I need you to breathe."

Robby nods, helping you position the patient. "Hold her legs. That's it. On the next contraction, we need you to push."

What you don't expect is shoulder dystocia. The baby's head comes out first, but catches on the pubic bone. You panic for a fraction of a second, but Robby moves you out of the way and maneuvers the baby smoothly, expertly. She's out in two more pushes, and you clip the umbilical cord, relieved when the first tiny cry pierces the air. After the placenta is delivered and meds are pushed to stop the pre-eclampsia, you stabilize Emily in time for OB to take over. They move her and the baby upstairs in record time, and you stand there, reeling.

"On my first shift as a med student, I delivered a baby in the backseat of a car. I wasn't even supposed to be out front, but I got sick from a trauma. Degloving. Nasty stuff," Robby says. "I delivered a beautiful baby boy, and I knew I was in the right spot. True story. Kid's in college now, but I still get a Christmas card."

"Wow," you say. 

"Hold onto your wins from today. It'll help when you lose your first patient."

You barely have time to process the birth before the next patient needs your attention. Everything in the Pitt runs at a breakneck pace, and you can't afford to slow down. By the time seven o'clock rolls around, and the night shift is coming in, you're exhausted, but adrenaline is surging through your veins.

"We have a drowning victim coming in. Three-year-old, unsupervised in the bathtub," Dana informs you. 

Robby and Langdon are already wrapped up in a different trauma, a cop with a GSW to the chest, and you're the only resident near Central, desperately searching for an attending. 

Jack drops his backpack at the desk when the gurney rolls in. "Doctorpedia, you're with me," he orders, jogging to meet the paramedics. You run after him, horrified when you take in the sight of the little kid they're bagging. Or trying, rather.

The boy looks so small, his lips blue, his skin the grey pallor of someone already dead. His mother is hysterical, and Dana holds her back as you move him into Trauma Two. The look in her eyes says it all. 

This is honest-to-god pediatric trauma. Brutal and unflinching, hitting you like an ambush when you've just found your footing. You signed up for this, but for whatever reason, it hasn't felt real before now.

"What's his downtime?" Jack asks.

"Not sure, twenty minutes?" the paramedic guesses.

You know the stats, you know his downtime indicates brain damage. The likely outcome is not good. The prognosis is bleak. 

"Push epi," Jack orders. "I need you to check his pupils, check him out."

"Fixed and dilated," you report back, after a moment. "Oh, god."

"Take over compressions," Jack tells you. 

You're shocked at how much force is required to get the heart moving. You can feel his ribs, the crack as his chest gives from your compressions. "Shouldn't we shock him?"

Jack shakes his head. "Not yet. Gotta see if he'll give us a rhythm we can work with—"

"Come on, kiddo," you whisper. "Come on."

You can hear his mother screaming, a tortured sound that chills your blood. You do your best to tune it out, focusing on the rhythm of your hands, the pace required for CPR. Even through your gloves, you can feel how cold he is.

Like a cadaver. A dead body, DOA. 

But you keep trying. ERs are places built on medical marvels, on everyday people on their worst days, enduring brutal trauma and working miracles anyway. When death is a question, not a finality. 

For the next half hour, you do everything you can to bring him back. You push epi, you perform CPR until you're exhausted and sweating, and Jack guides you through the whole nine. You do everything you can, but you know it's a foregone conclusion.

That doesn't stop you from trying. 

"Okay," Jack says. "It's time to call it."

"We could push more epi," you protest.

He shakes his head. "He's been down too long. He's gone. It's time to call it."

"Ja—Dr. Abbot—"

He says your name, softly, his hand on your back between your shoulders. "Call it, Doc. It's time."

"Time of death," you whisper. Then you clear your throat, speaking louder. "Time of death: nineteen forty-two." 7:42 pm, a child dies, and you're the final hands that retreat from trying to save him.

You pull off your gloves, a ragged sound pushing from behind your teeth. Your breath is shaky. "We have to tell his mother."

"I can handle that," Jack says. "You take a breather, okay? Take a seat in the break room."

You don't remember the walk to the doctor's lounge, or sitting down on the sofa, or even registering how long you've been sitting there, staring at the wall and trying to forget the sound of his mother's wails. 

You witnessed life today and brought a child into the world. You saved a father with a difficult, rare diagnosis. You did great things.

And you watched a boy die.

Jack comes in slowly, almost hesitantly. "You're off, sweetheart. Go home."

"In a second," you whisper. You reach up to find your cheeks are damp. You're crying? When did you start crying? 

He sits down beside you on the couch, close, but not dangerously slow. Not in a way that breaches the boundary between attending and resident. Intern, actually. You're brand-new, and he's your boss, or close enough.

But you don't want Dr. Abbot. You want Jack. 

"Next kid you get, you'll save. You'll save thousands by the time you're done with residency. This is peds, and it's brutal, but it's the job. You were excellent. Couldn't have done a better job myself."

"But he's dead," you remind him, and a fresh tear slides down your cheek. 

"We couldn't have saved him. He was dead when he came in," Jack tells you. 

"So why did we try anyway?"

"To learn the procedure for a drowning victim," he answers. "I wanted to walk you through all the steps, show you how to run a code."

"You knew it was hopeless?"

"I did."

Your anger is white-hot, clawing up your chest. "Why would you do that?"

"To teach you. Because sometimes we do get them back."

"It's cruel, giving his mother hope."

"It's not," Jack corrects you. "That kind of loss is devastating, and we saved her for a few moments longer. And you learned something."

"I learned something," you spit the words. "You know what? Screw you. That was fucked up, and you know it."

"I know you're emotional, and I'll forgive this one, but at the end of the day, I am the attending, and you need to trust me as your teacher. You want to keep it professional? Act like it." 

You feel like an admonished child, and you don't know if it's because of the case or your history. Everything feels loaded and uncertain here, and you can barely breathe without being aware of him, every part of him, just inches from you. 

"Got it," you say bitterly. "Crystal fucking clear, Dr. Abbot."

A beat. Silence where you just sit and breathe, and he breathes with you, his hazel eyes heavy and piercing as he watches over you, making sure you won't break. 

"Take care of yourself. It doesn't get easier, but you get better at handling it," he tells you. 

You don't say anything else. Don't trust yourself to. So you walk away silently, replaying every minute of the code over and over again in your mind. 

Feeling zesty? Save the official crash course soundtrack on Spotify!

I am still writing my pilot spec script for a night shift spinoff of The Pitt. I will post it as soon as I'm done. Maybe we could get the writers on it, idk!

THANK YOU FOR BEING HERE!!! Whether you’re a tumblr or an ao3 reader, I see you, I love you, etc !! I’m gonna start posting more Crash Course content on TikTok [at] fxckingjo_ and Instagram [at] jofayewrites so follow me there ;)

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurf’s house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.

First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.

Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.

There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didn’t want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his end…if it ever did.

Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the family’s guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.

He remembered Smurf’s voice, years ago. “Pop him a few pills and he’ll follow your commands, baby.” She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.

Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.

Then, you happened.

And Andrew can’t make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.

Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that it’s vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesn’t need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.

He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.

(He wouldn’t be bothered if you took a bite of his.)

To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory.  And Andrew knows. He knows that’s why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.

It frightens him.

His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deran’s bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you can’t notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.

All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.

But now…now that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurf’s claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.

He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesn’t squeak… Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t reach for you.

No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.

──────────

You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.

Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.

You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadn’t given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.

That’s when you saw him.

Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.

“My brother Pope,” Craig said. “Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite.”

His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.

“H-Hi,” you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didn’t shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).

You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed,” you hated how small your voice sounded.

He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”

His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.

Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet “Stop being weird, bro!” while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.

It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.

“You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” he laughed and couldn’t stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.”

“Oh, um…I don’t think…”  you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.

Pope hadn’t looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.

Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.

“Um…Pope,” you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. “Can I ask you…”

“Andrew.” He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.

You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didn’t know what for.

When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.

You never finished your question.

Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldn’t remember what you had meant to ask.

Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.

──────────

The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.

It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-

(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)

The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.

He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.

(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)

He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldn’t be in. And there are the habits he can’t shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.

He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.

You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you haven’t drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.

Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.

But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.

(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)

“I bought you a new pair of gloves.”

Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (it’s so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).

 “Why?” He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.

You shrug, small. “I know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um… I know you like wearing them when you clean.”

“Why?” his voice repeats, breaking at the word.

Of course, you ignore his question, and he can’t help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).

“I got the good ones,” you add, beaming. “So the soap doesn’t mess up your hands.”

While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).

Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.

“’m fine.” He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.

You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.

(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what it’s like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)

“They are under the sink,” you say above the music and Andrew can’t do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.

You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesn’t matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you look…reluctant.

“I’ll…”

“Yeah.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“Thanks.” He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.

“Of course, Andrew.”

Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and that’s all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.

With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesn’t look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.

And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didn’t blink.

Andrew didn’t blink.

──────────

You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deran’s voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothers’ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.

You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.

The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“Fucking hell.” You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.

You hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the trees.

That’s when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.

“Not a fan of the shouting matches?” you asked, trying not to startle him.

He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. “No.”

“So…not keen on loud noises either?”

“No.”

For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed to…enjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).

You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.

That’s when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.

“They look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.”

He shrugged without looking at you. “They’re fine.”

Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (don’t think about that, don’t think about that).

“Andrew?”

The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, just…stopped.

The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.

“Do you think I could learn how to skateboard? I…” the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. “I mean…I wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You don’t have to, I just…” (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)

Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of ‘i really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.’

“Give me your phone.” he said, and you didn’t hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.

“There’s no password on your phone.”

“Yeah…I know.”

“It’s dangerous.” His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. “Anyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.”

You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.

“I haven’t thought about that.” You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like ‘I did.’

He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.

“Six digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.” He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Put one.”

This time you knew it was an order and you didn’t hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.

“Good.” He said after you saved the password. “Text me your work hours.”

“So, it’s a yes? Really?”

He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldn’t tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.

“Yes. And…”

His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.

“Deran agrees for Friday night. And you,” he tapped your forehead. “didn’t hear shit.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.”

Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.

“I can’t believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?”

 “Unfortunately…yes.”

You snorted before murmuring. “Thanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise I’ll only be like…average terrible.”

“You’ll be fine,” he shrugged. Then, quieter, “I’ll make sure.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didn’t, just nodded once, before muttering. “Go.”

“Okay, I’ll leave you to your board, Andrew.”

You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.

And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.

──────────

Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.

So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms and…cleaning.

First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew can’t remember and doesn’t try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” before heading out.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)

He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.

He rushes back to his room (he wouldn’t exactly call it ‘sprinting’. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).

He doesn’t bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep won’t come. It never does.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)

Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Julia’s voice, Cath’s smile, Baz’s forgiveness. Smurf’s words cutting straight through him.

He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.

(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)

He forces himself to think of something else.

Of you, earlier, laughing at Craig’s story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if there’s something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if you’ll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).

Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.

He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didn’t hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky “Not here, not her, not again. I won’t fail her”.  

He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.

(Breathe. One. Tw-)

A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.

Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers just…barge in.

He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.

Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.

But now…now you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.

“Hey.” You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.

He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.

“Something wrong?”

“I was supposed to sleep on the couch,” you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, “but signor El Craigo has decided that it’s now his new make out spot with Sam and I really don’t need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I don’t trust his conception of hygiene,”

That makes him huff.

“So…” you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesn’t make sense in his mind because you haven’t been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the ‘hallway accident’ you both had together, “Can I stay here tonight?”

You don’t say ‘with you’ nor ‘in your bed’, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.

You didn’t text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.

“Yes.” He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.

“You sure?”

He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.

You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, “You’re not sleeping, right?”.

“No. Not…not really.”

“Yeah, figured.”

You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.

“Don’t think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.”

The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.

He stares at the ceiling again.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)

The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily. “’m cold.”

“It’s fine.” He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didn’t just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.

After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.

Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.

Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobs…none of that ever made him feel this defenseless.

His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what it’s like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesn’t.

He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that you’re here and the miracle of it.)

Sleep doesn’t come, but for the first time in years, the night doesn’t feel empty. Because you’re here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.

So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.

──────────

You were so, so late.

You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.

(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)

You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)

You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didn’t need to think about him being good with kids. you didn’t need to picture him with kids, him gentle, him…stop. shut up.).

The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet just…moved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.

His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.

“You ran here?”

“Yes. And I’m sweating…a lot. Please don’t judge me.”

He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.

“You’re late.”

“I know,” you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. “but a guy ordered for his whole ‘cheaper by the dozen’ family like three minutes before we closed. I’m probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.”

A small huff escaped him. “You didn’t have to run.”

You shrugged, eyes to the ground. “Didn’t want you to think I bailed on you.”

You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.

“I wouldn’t. Now you ready?”

“Born ready.” You lied through your teeth.

“You look terrified.”

“I can do both, you know,” you shot back quickly. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, Whitman.”

“Y-You know Whitman?”

A pause.

“I mean…not that I don’t believe you or think you can’t read poetry or anything…that’s actually super hot, so good job!” you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. “It’s just that last week Craig asked me if ‘Pride and Peace’ was a good book to impress a girl, so…my bar was very low.”

Andrew stared at you for a moment. “Pride and Peace.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not…”

“I know, I know. But don’t worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. You’re welcome.”

And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldn’t help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).

He shook his head once. “C’mon Whitman. Let’s see what you got.”

You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts were…humiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.

“I look stupid!” you complained.

“You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”

“You’re doing good.”

“I almost died.”

“You didn’t.”

“Socially, I assure you I did.”

Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.

(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)

“Makes sense you’re friends with Craig,” he muttered. “Dramatic.”

You gasped, unable to contain your grin. “Excuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!”

He looked unimpressed and repeated “Dramatic.”

You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.

But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.

He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring “Don’t lean and bend your knees.”

(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)

But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting:

“I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry.”

“Me neither.” He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.

(Was that…a joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)

Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.

“Try again.”

You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.

“Oh my God, I’m doing it! Andrew, I’m really doing it!” you exclaimed happily.

“You are.”

You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.

So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.

You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know if…

His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, “You okay?”

You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.

It was not a silly crush, not your friend’s brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.

And judging by the way his hands hadn’t moved from your waist yet, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling a little too.

──────────

You are screaming and he is too late.

He is always too late.

Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesn’t even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs don’t cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.

You’re in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he can’t.

You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.

“You were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why weren’t you there?”

He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.

He doesn’t understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.

He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.

He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you won’t be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone he’s memorized over the years with his ghosts.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesn’t work.)

The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he can’t help but spiral into.

(What if…No.)

He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he can’t, he fucking can’t risk seeing you like that again, can’t hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, can’t add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.

Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.

The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.

You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.

He doesn’t know when you figured out he liked them.

He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.

(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. You’re not floating. You’re not gone.)

His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesn’t understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.

“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”

He nods automatically but knows that he can’t bullshit you.

“You don’t look okay.”

“I’m fine,” he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.

Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. “Nightmare?”

(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)

His jaw locks so hard it aches and he can’t force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you don’t push.

You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.

“Come here.” You mumble, looking at him, patient.

He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.

Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesn’t. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, it’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been.

Your fingers linger, uncertain, like you’re giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.

(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)

The memory hits so hard it hurts.

He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.

But you don’t comment, don’t tease and don’t pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasn’t permitted to be here.

He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that it’s not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesn’t deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.

You guide him down gently, so gently and he can’t win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.

(Your heartbeat. Steady. There. One. Two. Three. Four. It’s there. You’re alive.)

The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.

He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.

But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.

Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.

His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.

 “I’ve got you. You’re okay, Andrew, I promise. I’m here.”

The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)

“Shh…It’s going to be okay, Andrew.”

The storm in his head – the ghosts, the pool, your voice – slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.

And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.

“I’m not leaving Andrew.”

He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.

You promised.

──────────

“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”

Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didn’t know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.

Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a stranger’s kitchen, trying not to panic.

The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.

It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.

You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.

You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about “upstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,” and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.

Because you didn’t know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.

(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Don’t cry. It doesn’t help your situation at all.)

A guy you didn’t recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was ‘I wonder if he put something in that’ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.

The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.

You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.

“Craig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,” you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.

But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.

Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating ‘You’ll be fine,’ over and over to your brain.

(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didn’t know. Why were you like this? Why didn’t you just stay? Why didn’t you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)

You didn’t want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassed…your thumb was already pressing Andrew’s name.

(If you called him, he would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. You knew it.)

The phone only rang once before he picked up.

“Yes?”

That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Cody’s existence.

“Andrew,” you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. “I-I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. I just…”

“What happened.”

You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. “I’m at this party and…and Craig left. I mean…he is upstairs with Renn doing I don’t know what and he won’t answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and I’m trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I just…”

(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)

“I’m so scared.”

In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.

“Where are you?”

No ‘why’, no ‘what were you thinking’. Just that.

You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.

“I’ll be there in five.”

You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “It’s at least ten.”

“Five.”

The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.

You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.

It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didn’t even fully stop before the driver’s door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.

“You okay?”

You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.

“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.

You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.