just shamelessly reblogging

You and Logan were always glued at the hip, especially at parties. The fact that you both were currently hanging out at opposite ends of the room sent alarm bells off to anyone who knew both of you well.

A petty argument had broken out between the two of you earlier in the day and it clearly had not resolved itself, nor had either of you had talked it out, as the argument seemed to pick back up where it left off the second Logan approached you. Unfortunately, this continued in the middle of the living room. Surrounded by loads of people.

Tucker interrupts the conversation he, Garrett and Dean were having in the kitchen, nudging them both in the arms before signaling to where you two were standing. Both Logan’s and your body language was enough to tell that this wasn’t a pleasant conversation being had.

“You keep avoiding the question!”

“Okay, but you’re still not listening to me!”

“Can you just fucking address the elephant in the room?!”

His voice booms through the entire hockey house, feeling like a record scratch moment as the song playing on the sound system comically ends right as he started his sentence. The tone in his voice makes your eyebrows raise for a split second off instinct before furrowing. Your head moves slowly, lips pursed as you look behind you. Logan finds himself confused before you turn your head back to face him.

“Sorry, I don’t see one to address,” you retort, a mix of snark and sass in your voice. His eyes squint slightly at you, subtly shaking his head at you turning this into a game. 

“Should we say something…?” Tucker asks Garrett and Dean.

“Nope,” Garrett and Dean say in unison.

Logan steps closer to you, saying your name in a stern, now lowered voice, “You know what I meant.”

“No, I don’t think I do,” you challenge, further closing the space between you.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re being irrational!”

A heavy silence sinks in between both of you, waiting for the other person to say something. Your face loses the confident, snarky look you wore previously. Replacing it was an expression mixed of sadness and anger, feeling small, figuratively and literally.

“You know what, forget it,” he says, brushing past you and upstairs, presumably to his bedroom. You sigh, your gaze moving to the kitchen, watching Garrett, Dean and Tucker staring right at you before they split up, looking away, pretending like they, along with everyone else, didn’t witness that entire interaction.

Your face grows hot, blushing from the embarrassment of the situation, eyes glued to you as you stand there, jaw clenching. With the anger now taking over, you follow him up the stairs, repeatedly calling his name and telling him to stop. You both eventually arrive at his door, Logan storming in with you rapidly on his tail, entering his room, you shutting the door on your way in. He stops suddenly, you do the same, before he runs his hands through his hair, sighing and turning around to face you.

“Do you know how frustrating it is to be trying to resolve what this argument was even about and you act as if I meant a real fucking elephant?” he asks.

Fighting every urge to not smile at him was a lost cause, the smile finding your face way too quickly. You cover your mouth to attempt to hide the smile, failing miserably as light giggles leave your mouth. Logan’s face softens, slowly joining you in laughter. Suddenly, the argument had no value in either of your lives anymore.

"I thought it was kinda funny," you mumble, testing the waters with him.

As your laughter fades, you hold your arms out, a solemn look appearing on your face, tears lightly welling in your eyes. Logan walks towards you, his arms wrapping around the top of your shoulders while you wrap your arms around his waist.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Krypto certainly didn't behave like this. For a moment, she even wondered if this was the same Krypto who would chew a pillow at all hours of the day and shake it constantly so that the feathers inside would fly everywhere in the apartment or on her ship.

But regardless of how strange it was, she was happy. After all, it just meant that Krypto loved her girlfriend as much as she did. And that shouldn't be a problem. At least, she thought so.

¯¯¯¯¯¯*¯¯¯¯¯¯

The evening lights of Metropolis, although dim, filled your apartment with enough light.

You loved evenings like this. It was one of those times when no evil threatened the peace of the city that would require the intervention of heroes. Furthermore, it was peaceful, so you could quietly enjoy every moment of the pleasant evening.

Especially now that Kara was there.

The smell of dinner was in the air, even though you had both finished eating half an hour ago.

You were just wiping the last plate over the sink, which was just waiting to be put in the dishwasher with the other already cleaned plates after a thorough wiping.

Kara was sitting not far from you, more precisely at the table. Her eyes followed your figure, watching every small movement of your hands.

A strange feeling always filled her at such moments.

The whole atmosphere was so intimate, almost domestic. It was almost funny to think that a few years ago she would never have imagined herself in such a moment, but now she was the one sitting there, watching your every move with an almost adoring gaze.

A smile tugged at her lips at the thought. It wasn’t too big, maybe not even noticeable if you didn’t lean closer, but it didn’t matter. Because it was exactly the kind of smile that comes to your lips in the midst of the most tender and loving thoughts.

Although she loved looking at you, her thoughts still wandered for a moment.

She stood up from her seat, then in an instant she was behind you, her arms tightly but still gently wrapped around your waist.

You were surprised for a moment, then a smile appeared on your lips, and you turned your head a little to the side so you could see her face better.

“You’re done, right?” Kara's voice came out, sounding really soft after the few moments of silence. The grip of her arms tightened a little as she tried to pull you closer to her.

You could hear the need in her voice. She hid it well, but it was clear to you now. It was a solid, small way of letting you know she wanted your attention. Although Kara wasn't the kind of person who didn't say what she thought, in such intimate moments she sometimes tended to show a much softer side of herself, hiding her feelings or thoughts behind much gentler words and requests. And you loved that you could see this side of her too.

"This was the last plate. I'll run the sink and I'm yours." you finally answered and your gaze turned back to the plate from which you had wiped the last food stain.

Kara just hummed in response, but she didn't let go of your grip.

Her hair, which was still slightly uncombed, fell lightly over your shoulders, which gave off a slight ticklish feeling.

Her eyes watched your hands for a moment, then she pressed a small kiss to your neck. It was softer than her usual kisses on your neck, but there was still that kind of desire in them that just wanted you to be as close as possible to each other.

"I was thinking we could watch a movie before we go to bed." You said, placing the last plate next to the ones you had cleaned earlier.

"Mhm." Kara hummed, and you couldn't tell if she heard what you said at all, which wasn't likely, after all, she had super hearing, or if she just didn't care too much because she seemed more interested in hugging you and pressing small kisses here and there on your neck.

"Kara..." you breathed out softly, and she just hummed again. "Did you listen to what I said?"

"Something about movies." she said lightly, as if it was the most obvious thing to say, but she seemed more interested in showering more kisses on your neck.

You sighed softly, though it was more of a loving sigh.

You turned in her embrace, wrapping your arms around her neck. You felt her hands tighten slightly around your waist in response.

You saw that slightly smug grin that you knew so well begin to appear on her face. It was the kind of grin that said you were where she wanted you to be and had achieved what she wanted.

"Stop being so smug about yourself." you said playfully, and the grin on her face only grew bigger.

"I don't know what you're talking about." she teased as her hands slid under your clothes and lightly stroked the smooth surface of your skin.

You were about to speak again when you heard a really loud and determined bark.

You both looked to where the bark was coming from, only to see Krypto wagging his tail really enthusiastically and his gaze following your form.

"Come on, buddy." Kara growled softly at the for dog interrupting the moment.

Unlike her, you didn't seem that annoyed as you removed your arms from around her neck, much to Kara's chagrin, and moved closer to Krypto, who seemed even more excited.

"What is it, Krypto?" you asked the dog, who just barked again, seemingly unable to decide whether to start running around the house again or simply fly away.

For a moment, you saw his gaze fall to the leftover dinner on the counter.

Now you understood.

Kara sighed. "No, Krypto. You can't eat it. I already told you."

Krypto just barked in displeasure in response, but he didn't look like he really cared. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, looking at you almost questioningly.

"Let him eat it, Kara. It really isn't much." you said, then you took the plate from the counter and placed it on the floor for the dog, who immediately started eating.

Kara just looked at the dog boredly, then grabbed your hand and led you to the bedroom.

Well, at least while Krypto ate, you could be alone.

A sigh left your mouth, and after a moment, you lay down on the bed. Your thoughts wandered over various movie ideas, but it was interrupted when you felt a weight weigh on you and a pair of beautiful blue eyes look into yours.

That smug smile appeared on Kara’s face again as she scanned every inch of your face. It seemed her thoughts weren’t filled with the flood of movie choices.

“I guess you’re not thinking about movies.” you noted with a small grin, and Kara chuckled, then leaned closer.

“I thought of something much better than a movie.” she said, almost whispering in your ear, then leaning back against your neck.

Your breath hitched again when you felt her lips begin to press kisses to your neck again. These, however, were much firmer and less soft than the previous ones, but still just enough sensuality to emphasize the not-so-hidden meaning behind her words.

Kara's lips began to search for the more sensitive spots on your neck and when she successfully found them, she pressed a firmer kiss that took your breath away again.

"Kara..." you breathed out and you felt that smug grin on your neck.

She loved it when you made sounds like that. She knew you enjoyed it and it made her want to continue.

Her lips moved slightly up and aimed for the area under your chin. At first they were just soft kisses, but as she moved further, they became firmer.

Your hands rose to her face and you pulled her up a little and kissed her. Kara's grin was still palpable, but as the kiss continued, she tried to get even closer.

Just as you pulled away and Kara was about to lean in for another kiss, the mattress next to you sank and a loud bark filled the space.

Krypto moved excitedly on the bed, and in a moment he was near your face, licking it happily.

The transition was quick, but laughter left your lips as Krypto’s fur lightly tickled your cheek and his tongue licked the side of your face.

“Krypto, stop!” you half-shouted, but the laughter interrupted your voice, only encouraging the dog to continue to pile you in his love.

Kara groaned in frustration.

Krypto managed to interrupt you a second time. At this point, she seriously wondered if it was intentional or just great timing.

“Come on, buddy, not again.” she growled and tried to push him off of you, but it was clearly proving harder than it looked.

Hearing the frustration in Kara’s voice, you tried to pull yourself together and tried to push the affectionate dog away, which ultimately proved successful, as Krypto backed away, though only enough for you to sit up normally, and his tail was still wagging, indicating that he still had plenty of energy left.

“Krypto, get off the bed.” Kara spoke again, which she intended as a command, although it came across more as a whine and a plea.

Krypto looked at her for a moment, his tail stopping wagging, but continuing almost immediately, then a whimper left his throat and he lowered his head into your lap.

Your hand automatically went to his head and you slowly stroked it, which only made him lean more towards you.

Kara’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Rude, she thought to herself as she watched you so effortlessly shower him with love.

"He can stay for a while." you suggested, though it sounded more like a question, and your gaze met Kara's.

Kara knew you wouldn’t send Krypto away now, and she knew she wouldn’t say no to you, no matter how much she wanted to continue what you both were doing before being so rudely interrupted.

She let out a resigned sigh and lay down on the other side of the bed, trying to get as close to you as possible, which was difficult, after all, Krypto’s body formed a slight barrier between the two of you.

Kara’s eyes glanced at the dog again, as if telling him to move away, but he was adamant. He seemed to be enjoying himself too much in your lap and had no intention of moving.

Kara let out another sigh, then grabbed the remote control that was on the bedside table.

"Okay, let's watch a movie then." she said a little frustrated, but she couldn't really get too angry when it looked so beautiful, the way Krypto was almost in your lap and basking in your love.

By the time the movie was over, you and Krypto were both asleep. The only thing that had changed was that you were lying on your side and Krypto was snuggling up to your chest, breathing softly.

Kara could only watch the situation idly. Normally, you should be snuggling up to her side or chest right now.

She sighed many times by then, but finally she settled herself on the bed too. Her gaze scanned your sleeping face, which seemed so peaceful. She glanced at Krypto for a moment, who was so strange to see so calm. As if he was a completely different dog.

Despite this, she still closed her eyes and finally fell asleep.

¯¯¯¯¯¯*¯¯¯¯¯¯

The next morning, when Kara woke up, she was a little surprised to see that Krypto was still snuggled up to you, but he was already awake. Despite that, it didn’t look like he was going to pull away from you anytime soon.

Kara narrowed her eyes.

“Krypto, let me there finally.” she whispered to him, and the dog only moved, but made no attempt to pull away.

Kara was competitive, and so was Krypto.

Although Kara really wanted to pull Krypto away now, she didn’t want to wake you up, and she suspected the dog didn’t want to either.

“Come on, buddy, please.” she begged him this time, which seemed slightly more effective than her earlier attempt to appear firm.

Krypto whined in response, but not loud enough to wake you up.

Kara thought. Krypto didn’t want to pull away, but she wanted to cuddle with you. If she wanted to make any progress, she had to compromise with the dog.

"Okay, if you let me there, you can have the leftover from the dinner for a week. Sound good?"

Krypto's ears pricked up, and Kara knew she had finally won. And although it took a few moments for him to actually pull away, he finally did.

Krypto didn't get off the bed, only moved to the end of the bed and instead curled up at your feet. His gaze fell on Kara this time, waiting for her to move closer to you.

Kara didn't hesitate.

In an instant, she was next to you, her arms wrapped around your waist and holding you tightly. The movement didn't wake you up, but you snuggled closer and pressed your face into the crook of her neck.

A smile appeared on Kara's face, then she pressed a small kiss to the top of your head.

Her gaze fell back to Krypto for a moment, who was still looking at the two of you from your feet.

"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.

"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged. 

Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.

"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.

"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"

Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."

Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction. 

You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own. 

Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother. 

But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.

You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."

You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.

Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.

"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back. 

You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him. 

"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?" 

"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.

"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.

You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay. 

His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.

"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."

Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope. 

His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."

"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.

"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."

You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this. 

Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.

You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.

There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never. 

You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word. 

Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you. 

He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.

Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs. 

He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite. 

Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.

"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open. 

You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest. 

He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"

You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.

Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now. 

When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle. 

You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.

"You're nice to me," you whispered. 

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.

"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.

"You're fine." 

It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door. 

You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys. 

"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.

"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them." 

Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket." 

You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?" 

Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."

"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word. 

Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.

It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you. 

You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful. 

He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.

When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."

It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face. 

"I know," you whispered, ashamed.

"You shouldn't be alone." 

You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did. 

Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.

He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."

You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.

But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.

He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.

You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.

You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.

"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.

Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk." 

"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question. 

Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.

"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.

You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff." 

Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.

You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.

"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.

"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.

You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."

You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.

Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.

"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.

"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "

You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.

You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.

You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here." 

It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too. 

Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.

Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips. 

"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.

Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.

"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.

"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.

"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.

You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.

"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice. 

You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.

Pope couldn't be sure what his youngest brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.

There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around. 

None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.

Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking. 

Like me. 

That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.

Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.

When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.

"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."

You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."

You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising. 

"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.

When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.

"What about you?"

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"

You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?" 

Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.

Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did. 

"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before. 

He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you. 

"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before. 

You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone. 

Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.

You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.

Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. 

Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry. 

He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.

When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?" 

Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you. 

"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter. 

When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"

Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary. 

He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.

" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?" 

You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.

Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.

He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around. 

You didn't turn around on purpose. 

"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.

"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets. 

He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"

Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.

And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.

"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.

You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.

His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip. 

Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.

He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move. 

Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.

Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.

"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."

He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.

"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.

"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to." 

It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.

You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached. 

He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.

"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.

"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me." 

Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.

It’s late, well past midnight; the windows to your house all shut, the porch light glowing it’s familiar warm orange.

The garage door rumbles open, the mechanics squealing, in desperate need of the oil Sammy was constantly telling himself he would get to. The gravel driveway crunches beneath the tires as the car pulls in, brakes squealing as Sammy puts into park. He shuts off the engine, leaning back into his seat. Worn out. Exhausted.

It had been a long day, an even longer night. The adrenaline still lingered in Sammy’s racing heart, the memories which kept tauntingly replaying in his mind. Gruesome images that not even the goriest of horror movies would allow, all plastered on the back of his eyelids every time he blinked. Sammy sighs, loosening his tie and leaning his forehead on the cool leather of the steering wheel, just staring at his lap. He couldn’t close his eyes.

Not yet.

Not without seeing it, the bullets which had flown past his head, the bodies splayed out- gang members and fellow officers alike. Blood splattering pavement and the smell of burning flesh stinging his nose. A night of too many close calls. Too many what ifs.

Sammy is tired. So tired.

He blinks at the muffled sound of the a lock turning, the garage's door to the house opening. Sammy doesn’t look up for a moment, taking a breath as he braces himself. When he does, he almost wishes he hadn't, a low curse leaving his mouth instinctively.

If only he could disappear into the car leather, fall asleep in the back and try to forget the night he’d just experienced. Not have to feel the worry etched into his chest, the desperate fear he felt on the field.

The need to get home.

You’re standing in the glow of the ajar door, your arms crossed, brows furrowed deeply. Sammy knows you’re pissed.

He can see it in the deep crease above your nose, in the way you look eerily calm for a woman whose husband is coming home from work close to one in the morning.

Sammy lets out a long breath, opening the car door and slamming it shut, silencing the dinging key alarm that yells when he does.

You don’t move from your spot. Just watch him as he rounds the car, stopping on the far side of the hood, his hands opening and closing at his sides. He swallows thickly, the silence of the garage almost suffocating. It’s another moment before Sammy realizes he’s going to have to take the initiative. You’re not going to speak first. He lets out a puff of air, leaning against the car hood, the warmth of the engine bleeding through the fabric of his trousers.

“I’m sorry for being late. Again.”

You don’t say anything, just shift your weight from one foot to the other. Sammy continues.

“Listen, I know I said I wouldn’t be late again, but Nate and I got caught up in- in this thing. There was another case and it bled into ours… we lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

Your frown twitches. And you still don’t say anything. Sammy’s eyes dart across your body, one of his big academy shirts hanging off your frame, the edge of your pajama shorts peaking out the bottom. Sammy huffs, crossing his arms.

“Will you say something?”

That gets you. You straighten your back, arms still firmly crossed. Your voice is carefully neutral when you do speak, without lilt or emotion.

“You don’t call. You don’t text-”

"I know-"

"Sammy, I sat in the dining room for three hours waiting to hear from you. I called you ten times.” Sammy knows. He remembers the buzzing in his pocket that had kept going off… until he’d chucked his phone into the back of Nate’s car. He swallows.

“I didn’t exactly have time for a conversation out in the field.” Your eyes narrow impossibly lower.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t have time to call your wife and let her know you’re gonna be late. To let her know your okay-”

“No,” Sammy interjects, chuckling darkly. “No it’s- I told you I don’t want you worrying about me. I can’t pick up every time you think something’s wrong-”

“Oh that’s so easy for you to say Mr. Detective,” you hiss. “You have the benefit of knowing your wife is safe. At home. All I get to know is my husband is out running around the streets of LA with God knows who-”

“Don’t say it like that. The work I do is important. You know it’s important.”

“I know that!” Your voice finally breaks, rising higher. Your polished fingers tighten against your arms and Sammy can see the gooseflesh breaking out along the skin there.

“Of course I know that. But this,” you gesture between the two of you, “This is important too. Knowing I still have a husband who’s coming home to me is important.”

Sammy sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“I told you I’m sorry. Just like last time I was late-”

“It’s not about that, Sammy,” you hide your face in your hands, running them over your eyes. “I don’t care that you're home late.”

“Then what is this about?” his voice raises. He moves a fraction closer, his arms still crossed tightly around his thick middle. You let your hands away from your face and the tension Sammy was carrying loosens slightly. The frustration and residual anger from the case tonight giving way to something more tender.

Sammy takes a good look at you, not the quick glances and angry furrowed looks he’d been giving. He takes in the red rimming your eyes, the way your hands tremble slightly against your chest. He sees the way you look at him, like you were seeing a ghost.

“Hey,” Sammy moves even closer. Your breath catches, your next words cracking.

“I thought-” you croak.

“What?” Sammy reaches out, thick fingers digging into the soft fat of your hip as he pulls you closer.

“I saw the news broadcast. About the case. About the shooting. And the cops… oh Sammy,” the tears you’d been holding back burst, a sob leaving you as you bury your face into his chest. Sammy lets you embrace him as he stares at the spot you’d just been standing with wide eys, his hand automatically moving to run over your hair.

“They didn’t say who… I tried calling and when you didn’t answer I thought something had happened.”

Sammy’s heart breaks as he realizes what you had thought.

“No. no no, I’m okay. Nate and I are okay.”

“Well how was I supposed to know?” You cry, pulling away to look up at him. “You weren’t answering-”

“I know, I know. I couldn’t- there was so much going on. And I saw that you were calling but it was all just…” he trails off, eyes darting around as he remembers the chaos. The bad memories. He shakes his head, brushing away a strand of hair from your face like it could rid him of the bad memories. “I’m sorry.”

Sammy leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin, murmuring the words over and over as he kisses you. You lean into him further, your hands grasping the collar of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, hips flush together.

“I should have called,” he says as you begin to pull his suit jacket off, cheeks puffing as he tries to catch his breath. “I shouldn’t have let you sit with that for so long. Should have thought-”

“Sammy,” you look up at him, eyes big and dark in spite of the bright light of the garage. You thread his tie through your fingers, the tears in your lashes disappearing as you blink. “Sammy… come to bed.”

Your voice is a hoarse whisper, his tie dropping to the floor as you tug his hips closer. Sammy nods as you repeat the request.

“Come to bed.”

“Okay,” he kisses your lips again, squeezing your hips.

“Come back to me.”

“I’ll always come back to you honey.”

You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.

He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.

You: Are you coming in early today?

JA ❤️: Always.

You quickly typed out another message.

You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible

The reply came almost instantly.

JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.

You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.

JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.

You: are you psychic?

JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.

Your smile widened as his reply came through.

You: thank u 🩷

JA ❤️: 👍

“What are you smiling at?”

You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.

“What?”

“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”

“Nothing.”

Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.

Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”

“What?”

“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.

“That?” Whitaker supplied.

“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.

“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”

Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”

You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”

Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”

Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."

You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.

“Never give your triggers away Santos.”

“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.

You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.

You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.

“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.

“You all good?”

“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”

“Not for a little while.”

“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”

“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”

You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”

Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”

You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”

“Apparently so.”

You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.

Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.

“Hey.”

You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.

“What?” You asked warily.

Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”

“The what?”

Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.

“Absolute smoke show.”

Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”

Your brows knitted together.

“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.

“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.

You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.

At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.

And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.

“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.

You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.

Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.

Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.

“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”

By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.

“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”

Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.

“Well I’ll be.”

That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.

“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”

Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.

“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”

“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”

“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.

He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.

"Someone has to."

Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.

“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.

"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.

“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.

“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.

Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"

Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.

"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"

"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"

"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."

McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.

"No." McKay shook her head.

"Yes."

“You don’t seriously think….” Whitaker trailed off.

“Oh I do” Santos nodded. “I really do.”

Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”

You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.

“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”

You snorted. “Please.”

“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”

You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”

He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."

He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”

You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”

“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."

"No."

"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”

"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.

“Wait let me guess.”

Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.

His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”

He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”

From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”

Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.

Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.

For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.

Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”

Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.

“I’m right."

You didn't answer.

"I am."

“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”

“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”

“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”

Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."

"He also has excellent aim."

"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."

And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.

"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.

“You’re happy?”

You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.

“I am.”

“He good to you?"

You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”

For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.

You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”

“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.

"So the usual then?"

“The usual.”

He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”

“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."

Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”

“Sloan.”

The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.

Mark's grin returned instantly.

“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.

"A lot less hair since I last saw you."

Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”

Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.

Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.

“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”

“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”

“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”

Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.

“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”

Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”

McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”

“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.

Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”

The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."

Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.

“You two know eachother?”

“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.

“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.

Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”

You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.

“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“

“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."

Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."

“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”

Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.

You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.

He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.

"Ex?"

You sighed. "...Ex."

Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”

Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.

You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.

“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.

Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.

You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.

When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.

“Don’t you dare say a word.”

She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”

You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.

For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.

By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.

“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”

You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.

“The old lady with the chest pain?”

“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.

You frowned. "That sucks."

“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.

“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."

Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”

Your eyes narrowed.

"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.

"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."

"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.

"I hate all of you."

Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"

Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.

You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.

You waited a couple minutes before moving.

The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.

A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that’s your ex.”

“That’s my ex.”

He nodded. "You left out a few details."

"Such as?"

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.

“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"

Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."

Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”

“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”

“You’re not.” You insisted.

Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”

“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.

Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.

"Jack."

"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”

You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.

“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.

“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”

You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”

Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.

“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”

His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”

“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”

The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”

“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”

His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”

Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.

“Well, lucky for him it worked.”

The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.

He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.

“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”

You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”

“Yes.” He answered plainly.

You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”

Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”

You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”

Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”

Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.

“Did you eat?”

You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”

Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”

“I will.”

“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”

Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”

“Of course.”

You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”

His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.

You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”

You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.

“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”

Jack raised a brow.

“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”

“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.

“I know I am.”

“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.

You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.

Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.

You were never shocked by the knock on your door, no matter how late or how randomly placed in the middle of a boring week.

The sun would be set, dishes washed and put away in their respective places, and your feet still lingering near the doorway as you waited for the inevitable sound of knuckles against wood.

It had been a few days since the last time you heard it so you knew it was becoming overdue, skin slightly prickling as you waited and waited in your front hallway far too patiently. You felt a bit foolish for standing there for so long, in a slight trance whenever you thought about who was coming.

Thirty minutes of you hovering passed before you were sighing and retreating to your room.

Your feet froze in place when the noise echoed from behind you, making your chest tighten and a surge of adrenaline hit you so hard you felt a bit dizzy when you hurriedly spun back around and made your way to the entry again.

Sammy looked melancholy when you pulled the door open, hand raised in a fist like he was about to knock again. His shoulders deflated when he saw you and you figured it must be in relief considering the way he was surging forward and pulling you in.

You sighed when he tucked his forehead down against your shoulder, instinctively wrapping your arms around him. You rubbed up and down his back softly, your other forearm securely pressed to his side reassuringly as you both swayed from the force of the embrace.

It took awhile for him to let you go, you had to coax him back just enough for you to be able to walk.

He followed you fully into the living room with a distant look on his face, sitting down on the cushion and getting a panicked expression when you made a move to walk away.

“Relax.” You say as softly as you can, pressing your hands against his shoulders to keep him sitting. “Just going to get some water for you.”

He didn’t look too pleased by it but he let out a breath and settled back against the cushions long enough for you to go to the fridge and fill him up a glass.

It was pointless considering he ignored it once you came back, barely getting his fingers around it before he was setting it down on the coffee table in favor of wrapping his hands around your middle and bringing you down to sit in his lap sideways.

You sighed but leaned against his chest and let him tuck against your neck again, breathing you in deeply and holding you so tight you felt a little dizzy.

“Bad day?” You kept your voice quiet but it was enough for him to hear you and pick up his head, eyes full of hurt that was reflecting off the dim lighting in the room.

“Couldn’t have been worse.” He answered honestly and you gave him an empathetic look, running your hand over his jaw and feeling the way he rest against it and shuts his eyes. “I needed to see you.”

“Did you even go home?” Your eyebrows furrow and he looks at you again, the guilt on his face making the answer obvious. “Sammy we talked about that. She goes crazy if you don’t at least stop by.”

You never would shy away from talking about Tammi because there was no point. She was the main thing you thought about when you were with him, his wedding ring currently pressing against your waist and the knowledge of his wife hanging over your head like a weight.

You admittedly had very little empathy for the woman.

You’d gone to high school with both of them but you’d known Sammy a few years before. You were always drawn to him, even before you could even really understand what that meant.

You just wanted to be around him, a young and sweet boy with an adult like patience that you didn’t get to see at home. He was always extra kind to you when you came to school tired or bruised, sharing his lunches and then pressing soft kisses to the side of your mouth once you got a bit older.

He’d been stricken with Tammi the moment he had seen her as you entered high school, fixated on her loud voice and extreme personality.

There was no other option than to watch him fall in love with her and then watch him lose that lightness he always carried trying to keep her happy.

What started as soft complaints on the phone after a shift turned into meeting up on his breaks to have lunch and absorb all his worries silently. Then he started to come over late into the night, something Tammi had forbid a few years ago.

She had tried to pretend to be civil with you when you were teenagers although grimacing at your kindness whenever you greeted her or made an attempt to bond. It was clear she didn’t like that Sammy had a girl best friend and she drew the line firmly once you were all adults.

There was no longer a need to try and seem friendly because Sammy was wrapped around her finger both metaphorically and legally in the form of the metal band she rarely wore.

He had called you a few years back to tell you that he couldn’t be around you anymore unless it was a group setting, absolutely no alcohol could ever be involved and he was definitely not allowed at your house.

It had sent you in a bit of a spiral, wondering if Tammi was just being as insane as she always was or if she had somehow seen deep down into the hidden part of you that had loved Sammy since you were practically children. And if Tammi knew, did that mean he did too?

“I dealt with her all day on the phone.” He was complaining softly and bringing your attention back to the present, still sneaking around and crossing boundaries just enough to make your head spin.

You never talked about it but his big hands would run over your waist, pulling you far too close to be friendly and taking deep breaths of your hair and skin like he was addicted to it.

Sometimes you caught him looking at your lips when you spoke, eyes a little distracted and then embarrassed when you’d clear your throat to try and get his attention.

You tried not to think about how Tammi would react to you being in his lap right now, holding his jaw and leaning down to kiss his cheek softly in comfort as he complained about her for the hundredth time.

“What’s she upset about now?” You know you’re playing into it, feeding the flame that never seems to burn hot enough to actually make him recoil.

He’ll talk about it endlessly and you can tell he really wants to leave her but he always goes back home at the end of the night with his tail between his legs.

“I mentioned your birthday.” He sighed and then gave you a look when he saw the automatic frown. You’d had plans with him for your birthday, beyond excited when he invited you out to dinner but you figured you should have known it was too good to be true. “She didn’t want to come but then she found out she wasn’t even invited and she lost her mind.”

“I don’t want to go at all if she has to be there.” You say immediately and you feel a little guilty for being so selfish with his time but you decide you deserve it considering the way she acts around you.

Admittedly you also just want him all to yourself and you know he won’t give you the same amount of attention if she’s around because it’ll without a doubt piss her off.

“I know sweetheart.” He breathes out and you hate the tone of his voice, the premature disappointment like he knows there’s no solution to the problem already.

And the petnames always break you, another old habit he had abandoned years ago that seems to be making an appearance more and more often lately.

“It’s fine.” You run a hand through his hair and he blinks tiredly up at you. You don’t want to add to his ever growing stress even if your throat feels tight at the let down. “I’ll see if Alex can come instead.”

You felt Sammy tense underneath you and his hands tighten around your middle. You stopped rubbing his hair in favor of sighing and resting harder against his chest, knowing exactly what was on his mind.

Sammy had always been the same way, patient and gentle to a fault. The only thing that really seemed to set him off was sharing you with other people.

He could tolerate your girl friends, he’d easily encourage you to go out and have fun and listen to your recaps the next morning while he drove to work. Guys, however, were a completely different battle.

You remember one of your first ever fights, only starting after you told him and your other friends that you finally had your first boyfriend. It had taken you until your junior year of high school to be over Sammy enough to move on, accepting by then that him and Tammi were more solid than you realized initially.

He’d been quiet the rest of the day and then pulled you to the side before you could walk home, lightly pressing you back against a tree and slightly interrogating you about the boy you were seeing.

It felt like a fresh memory, the butterflies in your stomach when you saw how serious he was and how wanted you felt as he told you that you deserved better. Sammy was jealous, there was no point in denying it and you knew you weren’t being delusional just because you had feelings for him.

He spent the next fifteen years getting the same expression whenever you talked about a guy or brought one to group cookouts, his glare fixated on a hand around your waist or the way you’d softly kiss the guy in thanks when he brought you a drink.

You knew Sammy found the same comfort in you that you got from him but that was the first real time you considered that Sammy might feel something more for you too.

Alex had started at your office a few years ago and just like always, Sammy had gotten that serious expression as soon as you started mentioning him casually. One of your mutuals friends had joked over drinks a month or two ago that you should make a move and Sammy immediately excused himself to stomp his way up to the bar.

Now his big hands were softly kneading into your side like you were a stress ball, staring past you to instead burn holes into your coffee table.

“Don’t do that.” You attempt to scold him but it comes out overly fond, a soft teasing whisper that makes him slightly scoff in amusement.

“I’ll figure it out.” He says a bit sternly and you give him a long disbelieving look. “I mean it. Don’t go out with him.”

“That’s not fair Sammy.” You try to be more serious so he can really understand but you can almost see the way your words fall on deaf ears.

He’s turning his head so he can press soft kisses on your skin, one laid against your cheek and then moving further until his lips are against the side of your mouth. It’s torture for you but you’re a willing participant, letting your eyes close and your body relax so he has no reason to stop.

And he doesn’t, peppering you in affection like he’s trying to erase the memory of Alex himself.

You feel his hands rubbing from your sides to your back, sliding under the hem of your tank top to rest on your shoulder blades like it’s a completely normal way for two friends to be touching.

You’d never deny Sammy anything but especially when it involved him fawning over you like this. You almost wanted to push it further, talk more about Alex and really exaggerate the nature of your relationship just to see how much it took for Sammy to decide he needed to lay a real claim on you.

He wasn’t yours so by default you couldn’t be his, that ring pressing against your hot skin an endless reminder of your situation.

“I know and I’m sorry.” His voice was soft and quiet like he truly meant it and part of you thought that he might.

You didn’t think his selfishness came with any malicious intent but it was still there, still pulling him towards your door after a fight with his wife and making him touch you in that confusing intimate way.

You didn’t go out to dinner with Alex for your birthday, you couldn’t stomach the thought even if Sammy hadn’t been so upset by it.

Instead you ended up sitting across from Tammi, trying to ignore her glare as you did your best to make small talk. You’d invited a few other friends so it felt less like third wheeling but you still had to make a point to not look at Sammy for too long.

She had a perfect view of your face from this angle and you knew exactly what she would see. The way your eyes softened when they met his and the obvious longing in your gaze when it was directed at her husband.

Sammy was staring holes in the side of your face anyways, maybe thinking he was being more subtle about it than he actually was. His ankle was crossing yours under the table every few minutes and you had to routinely send him a small glare to get him to stop.

You took the opportunity for a smoke break as dinner transitioned to drinks, placing your order and making your way outside before anybody could object. You figured you were leaving them to awkward small talk, your other friends barely knowing Sammy and unable to tolerate his wife, but you needed to breathe.

It wasn’t really possible considering the door was pushing open almost as soon as it shut behind you.

You sighed softly when you saw Sammy coming out into the small dark alley but you didn’t object when his hands were sliding over your sides, back and forth for a few seconds before resting on your lower back and pulling you closer.

“You’re not having a good time.” He said softly, not a question but a statement.

“How could I?” Your eyebrows furrow in frustration as your palms wrap around his biceps. “Your wife is glaring at me everytime I speak at my own birthday dinner and you’re trying to play footsie under the table.”

He frowns and you feel bad for how harsh you’re being, especially when he’s brushing your hair behind your ear and softly kissing your jaw a few times. He knows exactly how to unravel you, lower those walls and keep you melting against him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is slightly muffled against your skin so he picks his head up and his nose brushes yours. “I just wanted to see you and she wouldn’t let me go without her.”

“It’s fine, she’s actually not being that terrible.” You sigh and it’s the truth. Tammi hadn’t said much of anything which was almost scarier than her making snappy or inappropriate comments. You felt like she was observing you closely, noting your every micro expression. “You’ve got to stop looking at me like that though.”

You didn’t need to clarify because you both knew what you were talking about, the same look he was giving now as his head tilted slowly in amusement.

More than longing, something deeper and heavier. You would have thought you imagined it a few years ago but you knew better now and you were more than aware of the fact Sammy wanted you in some capacity.

“Can’t help it. You look so beautiful tonight.” His voice had dropped and he leaned back down to kiss your skin again, this time a lot closer to your mouth than before.

You sighed and leaned further against him, trying to ignore the heated sensation in your stomach when he lightly guided you backwards so you were against the wall. His hands stayed on your lower back for the most part but he occasionally moved them to rub against your waist and hips, leaving you a little dizzy as he kissed down your neck.

“Sammy.” Your voice was breathy and he hummed against your skin in question. “This is so unfair.”

Normally that was enough to pull him out of it, sober him to the fact that you were getting hurt by his actions. He either didn’t register your complaint or maybe didn’t care, thinking he could make it up to you if he kept going.

You couldn’t deny him this, not when his big hand was rubbing up your back and his mouth was moving softly across your neck towards yours.

You were holding onto him tightly and trying to keep the breathy noises to a minimum, getting harder when he was shuffling even closer and fully pressing you against the brick behind you.

It was brief when his mouth finally pressed against yours, only a fleeting second before he was moving past it to kiss the other side of your face.

He tensed suddenly like he had only just now realized what he was doing so you prepared for the coldness that would hit you when he backed away. Instead, there was suddenly a lot more warmth as he pecked your lips again softly.

He pulled back for a few seconds, chest slightly heaving as he looked down at you in question. You thought he was an idiot for that because you’d never dream of objecting to this, even if it was so risky and stupid to be doing something so damning right outside the building his wife was inside.

“Unfair.” He mumbled, repeating your words as he kissed you lightly again. “Unfair is you wearing this outfit when I can’t touch you.”

His hands tightened against the fabric like he was emphasizing and this time you were less surprised when he kissed you. It lasted a little longer than a brief peck, just enough time for you to move your mouth against his before he was pulling back again.

“You can touch me.” You insisted softly, wondering if you told him what he wanted to hear he’d maybe keep kissing you. “You can always touch me.”

It worked, enough for him to really press against you and let you kiss him back. You’d gone nearly two decades without kissing eachother despite the tension floating over your heads and it was obvious in how filthy it got so quickly.

You were both eager and desperate, gripping anywhere you could reach and refusing to come up for air as you kissed him deeper and deeper.

You made no objections to his tongue smoothing into your mouth, tangling it with your own and savoring the sound he made at the taste of you. You’d never crossed this line despite the little things you did potentially being worse, the intimacy of the way you moved around each other almost comparable to the heat you felt now.

Sammy was insatiable now that you’ve broken the illusion that you were able to be just friends, tugging you closer and closer and licking into your mouth like he was starving.

It took a long few minutes for either of you to pull back and even then, he was still surging forward to kiss you softly like he was afraid to let it end. You understood the fear, stomach twisting at the thought of him gaining some clarity and regretting what you did.

Sammy was a good man despite how it may seem in his desperation and he wasn’t the type to cheat on his wife, no matter how cruel and detached she was.

“We fucked up.” You breathed it out in anticipation, assuming if you got to it before he could then the upcoming rejection would land better on your already damaged heart.

“What?” His eyebrows furrowing surprised you, fully expecting him to agree with you and let you chalk it up as a stupid mistake you could forget. Instead he was shifting closer again so you weren’t able to look away from him even if you wanted to. “No we didn’t. It was my fuck up all those years ago when I married Tammi.”

You had to get some space from him then or you wouldn’t be able to breathe, softly pushing at his chest and being beyond thankful that he easily moved backwards and let you shift away from the brick wall.

“That is so shitty of you to say.” You wanted it to come out more frustrated so he would really let it process but you just sounded tired.

He looked like he wanted to object, maybe apologizing judging by the way his face softened with guilt. Luckily the door was opening then, one of your closest friends stepping out into the alley and giving you a scolding look when she saw the way his fingertips were grazing your waist and the swollenness of your lips.

“You should come in.” She said it softly but you knew she’d be scolding you once you left the restaurant, subject to your Sammy fueled rants for years now. “I’ve got your drink ordered.”

You gave her a thankful smile that didn’t reach your eyes and she turned her stare towards Sammy, hardening as she scanned over his guilty stance, a hand rubbing over his mouth.

“And your wife is looking for you.”

You both tensed up at the obvious call out and you followed quickly behind her when she went back inside so you didn’t have to deal with his reaction to that targeted comment.

It was instinct to avoid Sammy after that even though it tore your heart out of your chest. You figured you might as well get it over with because he clearly had no plans to leave Tammi any time soon and you weren’t going to magically get over him after you spent the majority of your life following him around like a helpless fawn.

His calls went unanswered on your own phone and some others, your friends reaching out to let you know he’d been getting ahold of them too so he could ask where you’ve been.

You ignored the knocks on your door, putting a pillow over your ears and trying to keep your crying quiet enough that he wouldn’t be able to hear you.

There was the obvious defect in your plan, the fact that Sammy knew you better than anybody possibly could.

He stayed away for a few days and you thought it had worked, he’d finally given up and manage to read your silent message that you couldn’t do this with him anymore.

Instead he was sitting on your porch when you got home from work two weeks later.

You were coming home late, you’d stopped at your nearest library and then the liquor store to give you two distractions to get through the night with, so you figured he must have been sitting for a while.

You let out a sigh at the end of your walkway and he was shooting up off the cement, eyes full of that annoyingly sweet hope and hesitation as he stepped aside to let you pass him by.

He was standing behind you as you unlocked the door and you spent the time it took to get your key in the doorknob trying to build up the courage to tell him to go fuck himself, but all you could manage was to lightly hold the door open for him behind you.

You could hear it shutting and locking as you set your bag down in the kitchen, the obvious sound of the glass bottle clicking against the counter making him raise an eyebrow.

“You’re avoiding me.” He spoke softly as you kicked off your shoes, lingering near your doorway and watching your every move as you followed your usual routine after getting home and made yourself comfortable like he wasn’t even there.

“Wow amazing conclusion. Congratulations detective Bryant, you figured it out.” You felt slightly bad for how cold your voice was, so out of character for you that you knew it must be throwing him off.

He proved that when he was moving closer and lightly touching your hips to get you to stop wandering around, your breath hitching as you looked up at him and the pure desperation on his face.

“Please don’t do that, let’s talk about this. I get enough of the passive aggressive shit from-“ He cut himself off with a deep sigh, lips pursing so he didn’t say it even though you typically didn’t avoid the topic.

“From your wife.” You finished it for him, eyes cold as you glared at him. “You can say it Sammy.”

“I just don’t understand. It’s never been an issue before.”

You pushed him away from you at that but he was persistent, following you as you walked closer to the couch and grabbing you again. You felt his fingers digging slightly into your hips as he tugged you backwards against him, your back hitting the softness of his stomach as he crowded your space.

His chin hooked over your shoulder, large fingers splayed across your belly button to keep you in place against him.

You naturally settled backwards, sucking in a deep breath as his familiar scent instinctively calmed your nerves. You were suddenly very aware of how hard the two weeks without him were, the longest you’d gone in a long time being apart from each other.

“You’re an idiot if you think it wasn’t an issue for me.” You’re whispering now, afraid if you speak too long he’s going to be able to pick up on the undeniably heartbreak in your voice.

“Let me fix this.” You can feel him moving his mouth closer and you mentally brace for the impact, still feeling unprepared for how good it feels to have him softly kissing up your neck as he starts to rub your stomach and waistband. “I hate when you’re mad at me. It’s eating me up.”

You let him continue for a few seconds before you’re spinning around, seeing the disappointment and light panic on his face before he realizes you just want to face him, his entire body relaxes as he holds your lower back.

Your hands go to his cheeks, pressing on the soft skin and feeling the light stubble he’d built up in your absence.

“There really isn’t a way you can fix it Sammy.” You say honestly and his face falls, lips parting like he wants to object. “Other than the obvious.”

There’s no need for him to say it, you can tell by the look in his eyes when you add that on that he can’t give you the answer that you want. It feels so far out of the realm of possibility that you don’t even feel disappointment, much less resistance when he’s ignoring your suggestion completely in favor of leaning in to kiss you.

It’s different than the kiss you shared at your birthday dinner, lacking the heat and desperation as you soaked up the small amount of time you had before you got caught.

Now it’s slow and deep, much more like the first kiss you’d always imagined with him.

His hands are so gentle as he rubs up your sides, keeping you tight against him as your mouths move together like you’ve done this a thousand times. You can’t help but mentally compare this kiss to the way you’ve seen him be with Tammi, feeling a bit smug at how obvious the difference is.

There’s no awkwardness between you, no stiff and routine hard press of lips like you’re checking it off a to do list.

He’s clearly wanting, craving almost as he pulls you impossibly closer and tilts his head to make sure the kiss doesn’t stop or lose its rhythm.

You’ve missed him so much and you’re such a fool in love that you don’t even think about stopping him and asking him for real answers.

Instead you’re softly licking into his mouth like the needy teenage version of you that used to fantasy about this, soaking up the soft hum he lets out at the feeling before he’s matching the action. You’re playing with the hairs on the back of his neck as your tongues tangle together and you go with him easily as he backs you up towards the couch.

It takes landing in his lap for you to sober back up, pulling back from the kiss just enough to catch your breath.

His eyebrows pull together when he sees the hesitation on your face so you hide in his neck so he can’t keep looking at you, wanting to spare his feelings even though you can quite literally feel your heart suffocating in your chest.

He’s warm underneath you and smells so overly familiar that you could cry, staying with your chin resting on his shoulder and closing your eyes for a brief moment so you can pretend you’re in a different timeline with him.

Maybe you’re still fifteen and laying in his bed together, holding hands on rides home from the beach when your moms aren’t looking. Or you’re twenty four and it’s the first time him and Tammi break up, his sullen frame taking up space on your couch until you quietly pad out there and insist he come to bed with you instead.

You think about being in your fifties, a reality where he never met Tammi and instead spent the rest of his life with you. It felt like the world you were supposed to be living in, just you and him like it always used to be until the love eventually built up into something real, something that came with growing grey hairs together and building a family.

He seems to know what you’re thinking, possibly going down the same list of all the missed chances. His hand runs through your hair on repeat like he’s trying to soothe you and you don’t understand why until you realize that you’re crying.

You try to go back to avoiding Sammy after that but it’s impossible.

You can’t bring yourself to stay away from him and each late night conversation ends up the same now that you’ve crossed that line, your mouth pressed against his and his hands all over you.

He’s nearly insatiable even though you can tell that he still feels terribly guilty over the entire thing. It’s like he’s just as powerless as you are, unable to keep your distance for each other despite how awful you’re both being.

Currently he’s with you in your kitchen, two months after your birthday and two months of sneaking away to get to have him for a brief moment. He’s completely lost in the taste of you, mouths moving together slowly with his hands under your shirt and tracing patterns on your spine.

His fingers feel calloused but you remember when they were smooth and youthful, remember loving him before the lines on his face appeared or the light ash colored strands of hair you occasionally saw when he was under the sun.

You were growing old with Sammy despite it not being in the way you wanted.

You’re kissing him back because of course you are, holding tight to his biceps and letting yourself get swept up in the way he feels pressed against you. It’s deep and almost filthy if it wasn’t for how romantic it all seems, the lights in the kitchen dim and some slow jazzy song playing from your radio in the living room.

“You have to know by now.” He’s whispering as he kisses down your neck and you sigh at the feeling, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side to give him full access. “Tell me you know how I feel about you.”

“Sammy.” You’re meant to sound like you’re warning him, not wanting to hear him talk about feelings in these circumstances, but it comes across breathy and wanting.

Clearly he thinks so too because he lets out a low groan, letting his hands leave your shirt until he’s got them pressed against your back pockets. He tugs you closer and you gasp softly at the sudden feeling of him touching you like that, immediately soothed by the way he’s still kissing your skin carefully.

He’s not leaving any marks even though you’re not the one who needs to worry about that.

“You’ve got to go.” You say back and he lets out a frustrated breath even though he clearly knows you’re right judging by the way he stops kissing your neck in favor of resting his forehead against your shoulder.

You’ve been half distracted by his phone vibrating on the counter behind you for the last thirty minutes, no question in your mind about who is relentlessly trying to reach him.

“Did you not go home today after work?” You ask him softly, touching his jaw until he’s picking his head back up to look at you. “You know you have to stop doing that.”

“I can’t take it.” He says back and your shoulders deflate with light frustration. “It’s endless arguing with her.”

“You know I get what she’s like but I’d be pretty pissed too if my husband wasn’t coming home on top of your already long hours.” You’re trying your best to talk some sense into him but it’s easy to he distracted when he’s back to touching you.

He’s rubbing up and down your back, dipping under your shirt again and smiling softly when you shudder at the feeling of his skin on yours. You smack at his forearm when you catch sight of the near smirk and he does his best to school it although the efforts don’t do much.

“It would be different if it was you.” He says quietly and you tense up before he can elaborate, already knowing exactly what he’s trying to say. “If you were my wife.”

“But I’m not your wife.” You snap as soon as the word leaves his mouth and he lets out a frustrated breath.

He’s kissing you again like he thinks that will make you forget the truth of your situation and it nearly does, kissing him back eagerly because you’re never sure when it’s going to be the last time you get to.

You’re interrupted by the phone buzzing again and you pull back to lean against his chest, hiding your face in his neck and trying to ignore how good it feels when he rubs your sides in comfort.

“Go home Sammy.” You whisper and you look up in time to see his face fall, eyebrows furrowing in hurt when you lightly push against his chest to get him to back away from you.

You use the small space between your bodies to leave the kitchen, his footsteps following you into the living room. You let him pull you back, hands on your hips and then your stomach when your backs against his chest.

He kisses the back of your neck and then the side of your head, soft and parting before he’s letting out a deep breath and backing away from you.

You lean against the front window as you watch his headlights pull out of your driveway, blinking a few times before he turns to fully leave your street and head back to his house, back to reality.

The thought plagues you when you get into bed by yourself, daydreaming of the version of your life where he wouldn’t have to leave each night. You let yourself think about having your own ring on your finger, his things on the empty bed side table and his hands on you as you fall asleep.

You know it’s not healthy and, quite frankly, you know it makes you a terrible person.

Your friends tell just as much when you finally break down and tell them everything, crying about the night he kissed you and confessing that you’d spent almost every night with him pressed against you and making promises he can’t keep.

“He’s an asshole.” Cathy is stern with her tone, stirring her coffee in pointless circles and fixing her glare on you and your upset face. “I can’t believe you’re putting up with him still.”

“I think it’s sweet.” Victoria is quicker to be sympathetic although pouting in your direction. “He clearly loves you and just doesn’t know what to do about it.”

The topic of love makes your stomach turn a little and you try not to think about it after you leave your brunch, ignoring his calls for a few hours even though you’re well aware it will end with him knocking on your door.

There’s no surprise when it happens but you try to hold your ground with him, turning your head to the side when he tries to greet you with a kiss. His lips press against your cheek instead and then downturn into a frown.

“Are you mad at me?” He asks softly as you walk to your bedroom, sitting down on the foot of the bed and blinking at him when he stops in your doorway.

“No Sammy.” You breathe out even though you’re not sure that’s true, not really able to put a label on how you feel about him right now. The love that sits heavy on your chest muddies everything else around it. “I’m just tired.”

He’s coming closer and then going down to his knees in front of you, hands on your thighs as he stares up at you almost pleadingly. It’s such a vulnerable position that it makes you a little sick and you grab at his arm to try and tug him back to his feet.

He takes your hand and holds it instead so you can’t pull at him, kissing your knuckles briefly.

“I want to fix this.” He whispers and you feel teary almost immediately. “I can’t lose you because I’m being selfish. I’ll do whatever you want me to do but I can’t leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave.” You say back, voice small and defeated. You wish the statement wasn’t as true as it feels, the thought of not having him at all being so much worse than the twisted relationship you’re stuck in. “But I want that all the time, I want you to just be here. I want to have a home with you Sammy.”

“I love you.” He says it quietly and he’s said it before, in passing or casually when he hangs up the phone, but it lands a lot different now.

Realistically, you’re not at all surprised by the confession. You know Sammy, regardless if you can have him the way you want or not, you know him better than anybody and you knew he wouldn’t be doing something like this if it wasn’t because of something genuine like the same love you have for him.

The kind of love that makes you awful and selfish, devoted in a twisted way and blind to the consequences if it means you can have a few more hours together.

He’s standing up finally but only to gently push you backwards until you’re laying on the bed, climbing over you so he can kiss you softly as you melt against the comforter.

“I love you so much. It should have been you.” He’s murmuring the confessions between kisses that are getting deeper and deeper with each minute that passes. “I’m so sorry that it wasn’t you.”

“I love you Sammy.” You say back and it shocks you how easily it rolls off the tongue, the weight of it feeling a little lighter in your chest now that it’s out there.

He’s kissing you more feverishly after you say it, tongue pressing against yours as you make a soft pleased sound.

He’s holding himself up above you but you wish he wouldn’t, wish he would just press the full extent of his weight down on you until all you could feel was the softness of his stomach and his chest rising and falling. You want to feel his heartbeat racing like yours is and what it’s like to be completely his for a moment.

Sammy’s kisses are feverish and he finally does press against you, pulling your leg to the side so he can slot between them and lower himself down right where you need him.

You’re softly breathing, a bit shy when he starts to take off your clothes and then fully flushed when he’s kissing your chest and whispering how beautiful you are. You’d spent a lot of years imagining what being touched by Sammy would feel like but you hadn’t even came close to the euphoria, the undeniable thought that you were finally complete after being so empty.

He made love to you the first time, it was slow and gentle and nearly bringing you to tears when he told you how beautiful you were and how much he’d wanted this.

You felt good with him, like something had settled in your chest after rattling around for a long time. Everytime he said that he loved you seemed like it was the first, sending a warm rush through your blood that made you shiver.

It was more desperate in the weeks after, kisses turning rough and almost angry when he’d come over smelling like Tammi’s perfume or leave early because she wouldn’t stop calling him.

You felt like it became an outlet between you but you didn’t necessarily mind, a large part of you having fantasized about this version of him too. You liked when he got rougher with you, hands moving you around to his liking and fucking you harder whenever you purposefully brought up his wife to try and get under his skin.

Sammy and you didn’t fight with each other, you would get into tense conversations because you were both hurt, but you’d never fight. This was the closest thing you had to it, bruises on your hips and his back so scratched up he had to avoid taking off his shirt the next week when he went to the beach with Tammi.

He was good to you, always double checking after if it was something you enjoyed. He made you swear over and over again that you actually liked it and weren’t just doing it because he did, only stopping when you got embarrassed and had to bluntly admit that you were really into it.

You were into him, obsessively and all things about him. Tammi had gotten on him to eat more healthy and it nearly made you sick, the thought of him changing in any way outside of his own wants making you dizzy.

And you didn’t feel insecure about how much he loved you back because despite the obvious issue, you knew that he truly did.

His hands were never off you, rubbing your thigh while you watched a movie or kneading your stomach while he kissed the back of your neck at the kitchen counter. He liked to run you warm baths, sitting in the room with you while you soaked just so he could hear about your day at work.

You sometimes wondered how much of this he was doing for Tammi. A part of you accepted that it was probably just as much as he did for you because that was just the type of man he was, but you selfishly let yourself enjoy being spoiled by his affection.

You didn’t go a day without flowers even if he wasn’t able to come and see you, he sent coffee to your work before you even got there, and he’d travel across town on his lunch break just to come and eat with you.

There wasn’t a night that you didn’t cry in bed and wish things were different. You’d stopped talking to your friends about because you were getting paranoid about the possible judgement in their eyes, unable to explain what it felt like to love somebody so much that you’d disregard your character for them.

But you did love Sammy that much.

So much so, that when he was coming over on Christmas Eve with an arm-full of gifts for you, you didn’t hesitate to pull him inside and kiss him until he lost the chill in his cheeks.

He disregarded the boxes in the entryway, lifting you up and bringing you to your bedroom before you could even greet him properly.

“Stay the night.” You breathed against his mouth and he tensed up a little ontop of you, brushing your hair out of your face so he could get a perfect view of your eyes and expression. “Wake up with me on Christmas morning. I’ll make us breakfast and we can open our presents by the tree together.”

You both knew what you were describing, a clear cookie cutter image of a husband and wife in your heads as you spoke.

He was hesitating, looking like he was unable to deny you despite how difficult the circumstances were. You weren’t just asking him to stay with you for the holiday, you were giving him a clear choice between the two of you.

Tammi wouldn’t be able to forgive him not coming home on the night before Christmas and you’d never forgive him for leaving. You were sure of that now, even though you felt so happy just to look at his conflicted face that you weren’t sure where you’d put all that love if he did leave.

You were happy to even be an option to choose from and that understanding almost made you crawl out from under him just to get some space.

Maybe he saw the pain in your eyes at the idea or maybe he came to the conclusion all in his own, but either way, he was leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your lips before letting one linger on your temple.

“Mrs. Abbot?” The pharmacist waves their hand in front of your face. “Are you feeling alright?”

You're staring down at your phone right now. At the bounty your company just set out on your burner. 

For a man named Andrew Cody. 

Better known by his call sign “Pope”. 

Who looks exactly like your husband Jack…

“Hmm?” You glance up from your phone, remembering for a moment where you are. “Oh, right. Sorry, just got a business text. A little distracted.” 

A clever excuse, like always, given your formal attire and the fact that you do actually work for a Fortune 500 company. You look like any corporate executive would if they were in line for a prescription at a pharmacy. Definitely not like an assassin for hire staring at a kill order…

“Do you need me to explain the medication to you before I sign off on it?” They show you the bottle of sleeping pills you always take on the nights Jack isn't home. 

Because it's always hard for you to sleep when he's not there next to you… 

“No, I'm alright.” You tell them and they nod, handing you the medication once they've signed off on it. 

You take it out of the paper bag when you get to your car and stuff the pill bottle into your glove box. 

You can't possibly take those now.

Not when you have no idea who your husband is…

So, you call your handler. “Who is this guy?”

“Competition.” The robotic voice on the other end answers. 

“Last known?” 

“Oceanside, CA.” 

You and Jack are a long way from there. On the complete opposite coast…

“Time frame?” 

“ASAP.” So, that's why it was sent to you…

You have the highest record of kills done in the shortest amount of time. Always so efficient. You knew it would bite you in the ass one day… 

“I'm retired, though.” 

“You're the only one capable of doing this within the desired time frame.” 

“Why?” You know they're not going to answer but you ask anyway, clarifying, “what's the rush?” 

“We have intel he is planning to kill one of our own.”

You wonder who it can be. 

Because you would've never guessed that it would be you.

Pope stares down, much like you had earlier, in disbelief at the photo on his screen. 

That's you, his wife, on his burner beneath the bounty just sent to him. 

But that isn't the name you gave him. 

Call sign “Pearl”. 

Because you excel under pressure. 

A top assassin. Clean kills. Perfect record. 

Just like Pope… 

“Jack?” Robby tries to glance over Pope's shoulder but he shoves his phone in his locker and shuts it before Robby can see anything. “Alright, keep your secrets.”

“My wife just sent something I shouldn't open at work.” Pope lies through his teeth but Robby always believes it. 

Since Pope talks about you all the time at work. He loves you, after all. 

He loves being a doctor, too. 

He hates being an assassin. He had quit when the two of you got married. 

So, why is he getting sent a bounty now? 

“She's a high priority target.” Pope's handler tells him when he calls after his night shift. Call sign “Smurf”. “We need her dealt with, so we need our best.” 

“Why the urgency?” Pope wants to know. 

Smurf replies, “we have intel she's after one of our own.”

He wonders who it could be. 

Because he'll never guess that you, his pretty wife waiting for him at home, are supposed to be going after him. 

You've been sitting at the dining table, nursing a glass of wine, since you got home from the pharmacy. 

You haven't eaten. 

You couldn't sleep. 

You can't even stomach the wine that's sitting untouched on the table. 

You keep thinking about your husband Jack. 

But you know that's not his real name. 

Andrew is his real name. Though, everyone in the world of hitmen calls him Pope. 

The ever elusive Pope. An elite assassin who has been out of commission for years now. 

Around the same time the two of you got married…the same time you retired too…

You blink back more tears because you're trying to convince yourself that the foolish thoughts in your head can't possibly be true. 

That maybe he quit killing people because he's actually in love with you. 

Like you're in love with him. 

Fuck. You know that can't be true. 

Pope is known to be heartless. Ruthless. A born killer. The best of the best at torturing his targets for information.

Nothing like the man you married, Jack Abbot.

Decorated veteran. Emergency medicine doctor. Caring, kind, loving husband of yours… 

How much of that was real? 

And how much of it was a cover?

Does he know…who you are? 

There's no way. And if he did, what's the goal of playing the long game? 

If he wanted you dead, why would he go through all the extra hoops of taking you out on dates? Marrying you? Making love to you? 

Because he loves you. Your mind tries to feed you delusions.

You are delusional…because you can't find it in you to kill him. 

Even though you have to, before it gets reassigned and someone else does. 

And they won't be so merciful…

“Honey?” You hear your husband's voice call out to you. 

Is it really morning already?

“What's wrong?” Pope sees the untouched wine glass and your puffy eyes. 

So, you make something up quickly. “The pharmacy didn't have any pills left in stock to fill my prescription. Couldn't sleep without them.”

Couldn't sleep without him. You hate that you love sleeping next to Jack—Pope. 

His name is Pope. Jack doesn't exist. 

The man you love was just a cover…

For what? You might never find out. 

“Come on, let's go to bed. I'll go get your pills for you after a nap.” He puts his hand out for you to take. 

And you take it without hesitation. Force of habit. 

Pope doesn't notice anything off about you, which is good. He is used to you not sleeping well without your pills. You get bad nightmares if you sleep unmedicated. 

That's why you like sleeping next to him. You never get nightmares for some reason. Probably because his warmth comforts you. 

The thought of feeling his skin cold because you had to kill him makes you want to throw up… 

You actually do throw up, right into the toilet in the bathroom. Pope gently holds back your hair, helping you with a light shoulder rub. 

“Are you alright, honey?” Now Pope is worried. 

Because the two of you were trying for a baby. And if you're pregnant right now…with his child…how is he possibly supposed to kill you? 

“No, I'm not alright.” You wipe the tears that are dripping down your face uncontrollably. “I'm scared.” 

“About what?” He kneels down next to you. “Talk to me.” 

You look him in the eyes, in those beautiful hazel eyes you fell in love with, and you want to tell him the truth. 

That you're supposed to kill him. 

Before he kills you. 

But instead, you tell him, “that you won't want to kiss me now, after I just threw up.” 

The concern on Pope's face washes away, replaced by a chuckle. “I'd kiss you no matter what.” 

“Yeah?” You look at his lips. “Are you sure?” 

He leans in to prove it, kissing you. And you kiss him back. 

You do more than just that. You pull him against you, wanting his body flush with yours. 

“Let's get ready for bed first.” He smiles at your eagerness. “Then I'll help you fall asleep like always.” 

Your skin heats up from his words and he nuzzles your nose while holding back an amused chuckle, liking how flustered you look.

It's hard for him to believe his adorable wife is an assassin. One of the best in the business too. 

And yet here you are, your hand holding onto his so nervously as he walks the two of you to bed after you both washed up and brushed your teeth. 

Who is the real you? 

The one who is looking up at him all bashful the moment he climbs on top of you in bed? 

Or the stone cold killer Pearl that he has heard echoes about slashing her way through target after target without a shred of fear? 

Does it matter right now when you pull him down to kiss you, lacing your fingers in his soft curls and grinding your hips up against his? 

“Someone's being impatient.” Pope nips at your bottom lip, drawing out a whimper from your lips. 

“Please, sir.” You beg of him because you need to feel your husband's body against yours right now. “Please touch me.” 

“How do you want me to touch you?” His hands slide under your shirt, lifting it up over your chest so he can see your lovely breasts. 

“Make me cum, sir.” You want to remember this feeling, in case you never get to experience it again. 

“Lift your arms up.” Pope instructs and you listen, letting him tug your shirt up over your head. 

But he doesn't pull it off. He instead ties your wrists to the headboard, securing them in place there. 

“What's your safe word, honey?” 

“Your name.” 

“That's right. Do you remember why?” He asks as he kisses down the length of your body starting from the arms he just bound. 

You swallow back gulps of air before his lips hover over yours and you breathe, “because I only get to call you “sir” in bed.” 

“Good girl.” He leans down, sealing his lips around yours, trapping the moan that wants to escape when you feel his hand slipping between your legs. “Do you still want me to make you cum?”

“Yes, sir.” You tug at your restraints when you feel his fingers graze your clit. So lightly, so purposefully weak to get you wriggling for more. “Please.” 

“My wife is so needy tonight. I love it.” He really does love you so much. 

That's why in bed, he doesn't want you calling out some fake name he made up. When you call Pope “sir”, he knows you're talking to him and not the fictional persona of Jack Abbot he created to be free from the world of assassination. 

It's hard for him to think that you've been hiding the same secret as he has been all this time. 

Is that why you told him you like being called “honey”? So you could enjoy his attention without the constant reminder of your fake identity? 

What would you do if he called out your real name right now? 

You're restrained. You wouldn't be able to do anything to him. Though, if you are Pearl, then he's sure you could get out of the loose knot he made with your shirt. 

Why does that thought make his cock twitch? The sight of you showing him how skilled you truly are at your work. You have to be skilled to hide this well. 

It would be betraying your trust, though, to use this vulnerable moment of yours for more than just sex and pleasure. 

You trust Pope, maybe not fully but definitely in bed. You've given this part to him. He knows that well. 

You wouldn't show this side of you to just anyone, the side so desperate to cum on his fingers that your hips are grinding against his hand now that he's stripped you completely naked.

Would you be this eager if you knew that he's supposed to kill you? 

Maybe you wouldn't care. 

You just want to cum. 

His spoiled wife, who he takes great care of. 

“Beg for it, honey.” He pins you down to the bed by your lower belly, stopping you from squirming so much. 

“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead with him and nearly cum when he spits so harshly on your clit. 

“Be specific.” Pope wants to see what you ask for today. 

“Please make me cum on your fingers, sir.” You feel so empty inside. 

Your heart aches and you want to have him inside of you any way you can.

“Are you going to be a good girl and cum hard for me?” He asks as he slips a finger inside of you for just a second before popping it back out, pulling a whine from your lips. 

“Yes, sir.” You definitely will. 

“Let's see it.” Pope dips two fingers inside of you then and curls them, grinding them right up against that spot that has your body trembling all over. He keeps thrusting them right there, reveling in how tight you're squeezing his fingers as he fucks you with them. 

He knows you're about to cum because you're looking at him with those pleading eyes of yours. You don't want him to stop. 

He always stops though. Because he likes seeing you on the edge of an orgasm, panting, reeling from getting so close before his fingers slow completely. 

“Please, sir.” You don't know how much more you can beg for him to make you cum. 

Pope likes torturing you. It's what he's good at. Always has been and he takes a lot of pleasure from it. From seeing you so helpless and in need of his assistance.

“Tell me you love me.” He doesn't know why that's what he asks in this moment. Usually he asks you to tell him something filthy, to leak out a dark desire of yours he'd be happy to fulfill. 

But right now, all he wants to hear is your beautiful voice telling him, “I love you.” 

“I love you too, honey.” He says, then drives his fingers back inside of you without warning. 

You cum instantly, the sheer force of his sudden movements causing you to squirt uncontrollably. You're gasping for air and crying out because he won't slow down. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers until you're squirting like a fountain for him, drenching the sheets with your orgasms.

“Oh god, sir, I can't—” You dig your nails into the fabric of the shirt binding your wrists when Pope leans down to seal his lips on your aching clit. “Wait, stop, I'm going to cum again if you—”

You cum so hard that your eyes roll back and you can't seem to pull enough air into your lungs with every heavy breath. Pope slides his fingers out of you, licking them clean while he stares down at the sight of you so thoroughly dazed. 

He strips off his clothes then, and that's when you ask him, “will you please untie me, sir?” 

And he's tempted to tell you to do it yourself. 

You can, of course, but in this scene, you've relinquished control to him. You've let him restrain you, so you aren't going to undo them yourself unless you absolutely have to. 

Should he give you a reason to? 

Should he wrap his hands around your neck and squeeze just to see if you're afraid of him enough to show your true self?

His body moves before he can think his actions through. 

Pope sinks his cock into you, filling you up completely before his hands wrap around your neck. Your eyes widen when you feel him tighten his grip around your neck. 

Tighter than he's ever choked you before.

Pounding into you with his cock rougher than he ever has before too. 

“Say my name.” He keeps squeezing more and more, ramming his cock into you harder and harder, trying to scare you. “Do it.” 

The wires are crossed in your head. You don't know what to think or what to do. 

So much pleasure is flooding your system but there's a backnote of genuine fear. 

That maybe Pope is trying to kill you. 

Would he? 

Should you let him? 

If you did, then you wouldn't have to kill him. 

Then your last memory could be him fucking you like this. 

That's not a bad way to go. 

Especially not when you're cumming your brains out on his cock, feeling so lightheaded from the lack of air, your mind spinning from cumming so much over and over again. 

“Say it!” He shouts at you, shaking you by your neck. “Make me stop. Don't let me…”

You lock eyes with him and it's only when you see the tears building in corners of his eyes that you have to put a stop to this. 

Not for your sake, but for his. 

So, you slip out of the fabric tied around your wrists with ease then you reach up, cupping Pope's face before meeting his shocked gaze with your eyes as you call out his name, “Andrew.”

He blinks at you, the grip around your neck stilling completely, no longer actively squeezing. Tears drip down his face and you can feel them hitting your own face. Though, maybe some of those are your tears. 

“You were going to let me kill you.” He lets go of your neck entirely, holding himself up at either side of your head now. “Why?” 

“Because they want me to kill you.” You don't need to explain much else. “And I can't do that to you. I love you, Andrew. Even if you don't—”

“I love you too.” He says, followed by your real name. 

And despite all the orgasms you've had, nothing could compare to the pleasure of hearing your real name come out of his lips after being told that he loves you. 

“I wouldn't have killed you.” He swears to you. “I would've let you kill me if you had to.” 

“Till death do us part.” You pull him in for a kiss then, like you're making that vow again. 

Only this time, as your real self. 

“Death will have to wait.” His words are so warm on your lips that your heart skips a beat. “Because I finally get to hear my wife call out my name while I'm fucking her. I'm not dying today.” 

You chuckle, smacking him on the chest, “Andrew!”

He smiles back at you, nuzzling your nose so affectionately before kissing you. 

You meet his hips halfway as he starts to roll them against yours, fucking you nice and slow. Making love to you, like always. 

Making you laugh like always. “Are you really Pearl?”

“Are we seriously talking about this while you're fucking me?” You gasp when he buries his cock as deep as he can and then lays all of his weight on you, trapping you beneath him. “Andrew!” 

“Fuck, you sound so good screaming my name.” He gives you a kiss on the cheek and you glare at him when he pulls away. “Answer the question.” 

“Yes.” You answer then yelp when he thrusts his cock inside of you all of a sudden.

“Yes what?” He smirks at how annoyed you look. 

So there is a side of you he hasn't gotten to enjoy fully yet. The little brat hidden beneath the usual submissive. 

“We are not doing this!” You shove at him so he pins your arms down with his hands. “Stop it!” 

“You're good at pretending, honey.” Because if the stories are true, you definitely can get out of his grip right now.

Pope wants to see it. See you in action. 

You huff through gritted teeth. “I am not doing this with you, Pope.”

Oh, now you've pissed him off. 

Pope slips out of you completely and before you can stop him, he opens the secret compartment he built into his bedside table and pulls out his revolver. 

Then, he shoots you. 

You narrowly avoid it, your reflexes kicking in immediately so you can dodge it, rolling off the bed and to your feet in an instant. 

He laughs so hard that you want to punch his teeth out. “So you are as good as they say.”

“Fuck you, you just shot at me, you motherfucker!” You press your hand against the nearby wall, activating the biometric lock that opens up the hidden compartment you made and pull out your glock. 

Then, you shoot him. 

And Pope narrowly avoids it, before firing another shot at you that you dodge with ease so you fire back at him quickly.

Clipping his arm. 

You suddenly feel a weight sink in your stomach at the sight of the thin line of blood that darts across his bicep. But that uneasy feeling washes away when you hear Pope chuckle so happily.

“Nice shot, honey!” He tells you before he fires another round and you almost get clipped in the ear. “Hey, stand still. I need to even the score.”

“What are we doing right now?!” This has to be the strangest foreplay ever! 

“Having fun. And getting some practice in.” He says before shooting at you again, this time by your feet, hoping to nick your ankle but you're too slippery. “Looks like my wife doesn't need the exercise though. Good reflexes.”

“I will shoot your fucking cock off if you don't stop whatever the hell this is!” You shout at him before he aims another bullet at you. “Andrew!” 

“You wouldn't dare shoot my cock. You'd miss it if it was gone.” He smiles so mischievously at you that you are actually tempted to shoot him there. 

“I don't miss your leg.” You say then instantly regret it because you feel like that might've been too harsh, given the prosthetic he has.

Until Pope starts laughing again and goes, “that's why you won't take out the one hanging between my legs, right?” 

“Oh my god!” You groan at the horrid joke. “Who the fuck did I marry? Have you always been this irritating!”

“Pretty much.” He nods with a shrug. 

So you shoot his gun out of his hand. 

Pope is actually startled by that, his revolver dropping to the ground. 

Right before you pin him down to the ground in his distraction.

You point the gun to his head then tell him, “I always knew I'd be better than you.”

“Oh yeah?” Pope suddenly grabs you and pushes you down onto your back, then shoves his cock into you in a single smooth stroke. “I always knew you had it bad for my cock.” 

“I will fucking shoot you!” You point your gun at him as he rolls his hips, grinding the tip of his cock deep where you like it. “Stop it!”

“You'll have to shoot me if you want me to stop fucking you.” He digs his fingers into your hips for leverage before he starts pounding his cock into you at a pace that has your back arching and your orgasm building too quickly. “That's it honey, cum for me.” 

“Andrew, you can't—” You literally have a gun trained on him and he's fucking you right now?!

“I can't what? Fuck my wife? Watch me.” He slips his hand between your legs and rubs your clit while he finds the right angle to drill his cock into you until you're cumming all over him. 

You toss your gun aside, not wanting to accidentally shoot him, as your orgasm shoots through you in intense waves of pleasure that has you pulling him in for needy kisses. He smiles so beautifully against your lips as he kisses you back.

“Tell me you want my cum, honey.” He massages your lower belly with his palm while his fingers play with your clit and his cock pounds you into the ground. “Tell me you want to have my baby.” 

And it's like you snap right back into that submissive space in your head because you nod and tell him, “please, I want to have your baby. I want your cum, sir.” 

“Good girl.” He gives you the sweetest kiss on the forehead before saying your name and telling you, “I love you so much.” 

“I love you too, Andrew.” You pull him back for a kiss, pleasure surging through you as you cum again. 

That's enough for Pope to cum, when he feels you tightening up from your orgasm, milking his cock dry. You lay your forehead against his, breathing heavy as he fills you with so much of his release.

“What do you usually say after you've gotten my cum deep inside of you?” Pope nudges your nose, waiting for your response. 

“Thank you, sir.” You tell him, grinning when he grins back at you. “You are so lucky I love you.” 

“I am lucky, because you definitely would've been able to kill me before I could kill you.” Pope can tell your reflexes are much better than his. 

“We should get that cleaned up.” You point to the slight cut from the bullet. 

“I'll be fine.” He waves off your concern, since it's not even bleeding anymore. “In case you forgot, I am actually a doctor.” 

“How does an assassin have time for medical school?” You raise an eyebrow at that.

For you, it was easy to forge an impressive resume to land you an incredibly easy corporate executive job where all you do is answer emails all day. 

Pope actually went to medical school and served in the military. 

All under his fake identity, Jack Abbot. 

“How do you think I paid for medical school?” He laughs at his own joke and then laughs some more when he sees you glaring at him. “You are so cute, honey.” 

Before you can say something back in retaliation, Pope kisses you with so much affection that you melt in his arms. 

The two of you lay there on the ground, kissing until he's soft. Then, you both take a nice shower together, which really ends up with you riding him in his shower chair until the two of you cum again together, and then get redressed for bed after swapping out the sheets.

“There's bullet holes in our walls.” You gesture at all the work that will need to be redone. “How are we supposed to explain that to a contractor?”

“We have lots of fun in the bedroom?” Pope chuckles when he sees how annoyed you are with his antics. “What? It's true—”

The doorbell rings, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

Pope rolls over to his bedside table, grabbing his security tablet so he can check who's at the door. 

It's the police…

“A neighbor probably called when they heard the gunshots.” You hold back a groan. “What are we going to say?”

“Misfire?” Pope says with a shrug. “I'll just say my silly wife wanted me to show her how to shoot and you accidentally pulled the trigger.” 

“I can accidentally shoot off your balls. Don't test me.” You shove at him. “You go answer them. I'm staying here where it's cozy.”

Pope hands you the security tablet and then gets up to go to the door. He tells the officers the explanation but they want to step inside to look around, which Pope allows. 

Though, his eyes drift to the two cops that walk into the house once their backs are turned to him. He doesn't recognize either of them from the local police force and since he does SWAT work every now and then, he should have at least seen them once or twice. 

They wouldn't send newbies out to check on gunfire. 

And those guns they have holstered aren't police-issued…

Fuck. Pope can't tell if they've figured out that he knows yet. 

So, he slowly walks over to the bookshelf by the living room television, where he has a gun. 

But before he can fire a shot, a bullet flies through the air. 

And one of the cops drops dead. 

Then, Pope shoots the other one down before that one has a chance to react to you killing their partner. 

He walks over to meet you as you both stare down at the dead bodies. Then, you each take a body to check for a burner. 

“How'd you know they weren't real cops?” Pope finds the burner phone on his dead cop’s body, seeing the bounty for you and him on the screen with your current house address listed for last known.

You pull out your dead cop's burner along with some keys then say, “no cop car outside. But a very nice getaway vehicle.”

“Want to take a ride, honey?” Pope puts his hand out for you to give him the keys. “You got a go bag?” 

“Of course I have a fucking go bag.” You want to beat him up for even asking. You know he's just messing with you, though. “I have one made for the two of us too.” 

“Really?” Pope finds that oddly sweet. 

“In case my life ever caught up to yours.” You wanted to make sure that wherever you had to hide, he could come with. 

“What are our new identities then?” 

You go to unseal one of the floorboards in the living room and pull out the go bags. They're filled with untraceable cash and other necessities like weapons and new identities. 

You pull out Pope's new driver's license and hand it to him. He looks at it and goes, “seriously? You couldn't pick a better name than “Titus”?”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes at him, throwing the heavier go bag at him. “Go pack the car, Mr. Danforth.” 

“Maybe I should have you call me “mister” instead of “sir” from now on, Mrs. Danforth.” He says with a smirk on his face, swinging the bag over his shoulder with ease before putting his hand out for you to take. “Ready to run away together?” 

You let out a light chuckle then nod. “Yes, sir.”

“So we're keeping the “sir”. I'll allow it.” Pope leans over, giving you a loving kiss on the temple. 

The two of you start packing the car but then you remember the pills so you quickly go and grab them from your car. Pope furrows his brows at you. 

“You got them already? Why didn't you take them last night?”

“You know why.” You shove them in your go bag. 

“Tell me.” He makes you stop your fussing.

“Andrew, we have people after us, who wants us dead. Can we talk about this in the car?” He really has such poor timing sometimes!

“I promise I wouldn't have killed you. Even if they tried to make me, I wouldn't. I love you, truly.” He says your name too, just to confirm it, giving you the reassurance you didn't know you needed to hear. “Come here.” 

Pope pulls you into his arms, giving you a warm hug that you gladly accept. 

“Till death do us part.” He tells you before lifting your chin up to look at him. “And I promise you won't need those pills for a while. I'll make sure you sleep real good from now on.” 

You glare at him, knowing what he's insinuating and when he laughs, you giggle with him before leaning in for a kiss. 

“Now let's go make sure the world knows not to fuck with Mr. and Mrs. Danforth.” Pope says against your lips before giving you another loving kiss. 

You're certain they won't once they realize the two of you are a pair.

Because why would any assassin risk going head to head with you and Pope? 

It'll surely be a death sentence for them, and a lot of fun for you two. 

a/n: aw, this one turned out so much more fun than I originally planned! I will say that I hope this version of pope sort of makes sense as like a blend between him and jack, since technically he is jack too! I thought it would be fun to explore the idea that pope created the persona of jack abbot as a cover and then grew to love being jack! and now he's titus hehe ~

I decided to keep this one short and sweet. I was originally going to write the whole backstory of how they met, etc, but sometimes I like leaving things up to the imagination, I find that more fun and it allows for a little more wiggle room for any future installments! 

Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.  

That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience. 

You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it? 

Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming? 

83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her. 

You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created. 

You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.  

You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest. 

You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?” 

You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department. 

Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room. 

You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.  

And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. 

It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong. 

You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.  

But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station. 

“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.” 

You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine. 

“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that. 

The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out. 

His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.  

You couldn’t get out of there sooner. 

It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible. 

You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare. 

You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears. 

But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.

You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all. 

You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird. 

“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station. 

“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime. 

There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.  

“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head. 

“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.” 

He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused. 

“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through. 

Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night. 

You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out. 

He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket. 

“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact. 

There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over. 

“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving. 

He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.” 

Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.

You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.  

“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator. 

The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs. 

“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman. 

You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head. 

You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements. 

By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.

The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill. 

You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way. 

And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance. 

It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body. 

You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central. 

“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips. 

And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again. 

He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”  

“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him. 

He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”

You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack. 

“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.” 

Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried. 

You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you. 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale. 

He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in. 

“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you. 

You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there. 

Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had. 

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician. 

Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak. 

You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.

“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in. 

“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded. 

“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?” 

Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”   

Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times. 

It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could. 

It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.  

He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling. 

He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.

And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up. 

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.  

“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.

The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that. 

You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue. 

You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor. 

Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you. 

You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break. 

That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?” 

Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory. 

And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now. 

His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now. 

You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions. 

He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office. 

Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.  

It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock. 

“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy. 

The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?  

It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you. 

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing. 

You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.” 

He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.” 

Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.  

He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.” 

You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk. 

He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it. 

“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips. 

He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.” 

You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.    

“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?” 

You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.” 

He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology. 

Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway. 

It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam,  caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth. 

You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time. 

It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up. 

You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through. 

Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later? 

Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it. 

You: sounds great, see you later :) 

You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.

It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office. 

“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.” 

You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him. 

It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend. 

But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop. 

“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?” 

“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.” 

“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”

“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.

“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.” 

You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.  

“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly. 

He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”   

Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.” 

You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you. 

“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”  

You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.” 

Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.

“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”  

You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones. 

You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul. 

But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him. 

You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door. 

“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow. 

Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing. 

He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk. 

You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly. 

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away. 

You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.  

He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–

CLANG! 

The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.  

You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise. 

A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it. 

“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.  

He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.

“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back. 

You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.” 

He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out. 

“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.  

You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.

You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak. 

You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously. 

You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face. 

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought. 

“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously. 

“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.  

“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.” 

“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.” 

“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.” 

You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force. 

Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind. 

You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always. 

But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel. 

And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure. 

You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork. 

“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate. 

“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break. 

He looked skeptical, but didn’t push. 

“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient. 

You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you? 

Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will. 

He just doesn’t know how to let her down.

He probably feels guilty.

Her fawning over him is not cute.

You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say. 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.  

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” 

You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.” 

Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you. 

He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish. 

“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back? 

He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing. 

“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.” 

You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?” 

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words. 

“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?

“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color. 

“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.” 

You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to. 

“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again. 

“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked. 

“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,” 

“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively. 

He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday. 

“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek. 

You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in. 

His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.

He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss. 

He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was. 

You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate. 

When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach. 

He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” 

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him. 

He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw. 

You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you. 

“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?” 

“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.” 

A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job

The first time she sees you is when she crashes near Lois Lane’s backyard. There’s a pool outside — she can hear Jimmy Olsen’s laughter and smell the chlorine drifting through the warm Metropolis air. Stumbling, Kara makes her way to the pool area and the laughter and the overwhelming joy she always tried to feel again.

Clark is there, a kiss the cook apron on as he mans the grill. He looks at the movement, then looks back as he realizes who just stumbled into the yard. He blinks, “Kara? Hey!”

The blonde pauses as she takes in the scene around her. It’s only Lois and Jimmy here, both lounging in the pool and chatting away with a drink in one hand. That’s fine — she knows them well enough not to worry. However, there was something missing.

“Where’s my dog?”

That’s when she sees the fluffed, white ear of Krypto standing to attention in a lounge chair. Except, he’s not alone. He’s spread out, lying sideways as someone soothes him with small, gentle pets. His tail thumps against the chair at the sound of her voice but he makes no effort to move.

You blink as a shadow settles over you, fingers in Krypto’s curls as you look up. Kara scowls down at you, confusion trying to overtake the hangover that’s building. “Hi, you must be Clark’s cousin. Care-uh, right?”

“Kara,” she corrects your pronunciation. She looks to where you’re petting Krypto ; watching how he melts into you completely and contently. “That’s my dog.”

You pause your motions, sitting up in the lounge chair with a whine in protest from the dog. “Sorry. I can move.”

“Why is he sleeping?”

The question catches you off guard. Every time you see Krypto, he falls asleep in your lap. Sometimes he’ll even lay there as you feed him treats by hand, always composed relaxed as he does so.

Clark walks up to his cousin with a grin you know is tensed. “He always sleeps with [name] around.”

[Name]. You were familiar to her. Clark spoke of you all the time — that fond, proud smile on his face as if he was talking about a younger sibling. The same smile he uses for Kara.

The blonde nods slowly before whistling. Krypto lets out a groan before slowly standing to attention and stretching. He stares at you, mouth seemingly pulled into a grin as he pants. You pat his head with a little smile before he turns to Kara.

My dog, she thinks to herself with a frown, is never polite or tired. It’s witchcraft — otherworldly. Kara says nothing as she looks at you one more time before taking off, Krypto trailing behind her.

The next time you see the kryptonian is embarrassing, actually. You’d hidden away in Clark’s apartment, only there to seek comfort from the white fluffball you adored.

With a crash, Kara is stumbling towards you once more. She pauses — you were not her cousin and she was not prepared to see you.

You’re sat on the floor, arms curled around Krypto as the dog sits in your lap. His eyes flutter until his head falls, chin on your shoulder as you squeeze him closer. Kara’s shoe scuffs the floor and causes you to jump, startled.

“Oh,” you sniff, “hello again.”

You’re crying. Kara cringes as she watches you wipe tears away, facing away from her as you do so. Krypto has melted into you once more, sagging against you completely as he begins to snore.

You clear your throat, preparing to unwind your arms from her dog before she stops you. “It’s fine.” Kara pauses before walking over and settling next to you on the floor. She watches as her dog’s ear twitches, acknowledging her before he settles again. “It’s weird. He’s so calm around you.”

“Clark calls me when he’s being hyper,” you say with a smile. Your fingers are absentmindedly twirling Krypto’s curls as you speak — Kara notices. “Sometimes he’ll play until he’s tired and sometimes he just curls up with me and sleeps. Clark says that’s not normal for him.”

“My dog,” Kara begins. She looks over at the slumped thing, amazed at the serenity he leaks. “Is not a sleeper. He chases and bites and barks.” She looks over you again, “are you magic?”

You let out a snort, startled by her assumption. You sniffle again with a shake of your head, smile still in place as you look to her. “Not in any sense. I think he just likes me.”

Krypto, Kara thinks, rarely just likes anyone. He’s still a hyperactive puppy, so a treat or toy from a stranger will catch his attention. This, though — he never actively seeks anyone out the way he does you.

The room grows quiet as Krypto twitches in his sleep — you smile at the movement and Kara continues to watch you. You let in a big breath, “my dog passed away.”

Kara watches you closer — the way your shoulders shake and eyes shine — in preparation for more tears. You swallow, “my dog died. When I moved to Metropolis, Krypto was buzzing through the street and just landed right in front of me. He was so sweet and gentle and he tilts his head at me whenever I speak to him. So I bother Clark a lot to see him.”

You brush over his head again, causing the dog to groan and stretch as he gets comfortable. Kara watches silently as her dog — her super powered, chaos causing dog — folds into your lap like a tiny baby. “He’s nothing like mine was, but he lets me know he’s here for me in that way that dogs do.”

She understands now. You lost your world metaphorically the way Kara lost hers literally. The blonde looks away from you, “Krypto’s good at saving people like that.”

“He really is!” You grin. Your elbow bumps Kara’s lightly as you adjust and a surge of heat soars through her. “He also really likes egg and cheese bagels, but they have to be in sandwich form. He’s so particular about it.”

Kara laughs at that, imagining her bumbling cousin trying to make bagels just so her dog wouldn’t throw a tantrum. She watches Krypto again and pets him as he lays on you, getting closer to you than she meant to. His tail wags at her touch and she has to look away from the smile you send her.

The last time is an accident. Kara had come to Earth after battling an enemy she couldn’t be bothered to learn the name of. They weren’t important or hard to beat, really — she’d just overexerted and needed to heal.

Coincidently, she spots you walking down Metropolis’ street before she collapses.

You panic before calling Clark, shoes scuffing against the pavement as you stop in front of Kara. She’s breathing, but slightly battered as she remains unconscious. Clark arrives quickly, forehead wrinkled with worry as he watches you tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and out of her face.

“Vitamin D deficiency,” he says slowly. Like it’s a secret — like he doesn’t want anyone to know. “She just needs to rest.”

“My place is close,” you reply. “I don’t mind watching over her — I know you’ve got work.”

It’s warm. Soft and warm and nice as she comes to. Kara lets out a small groan as her eyelids flutter open. She faces a large window, sunlight pouring in as the blanket around her is tugged higher over her shoulders.

You pop into view, frown where your smile usually is as you set a drink down on the bedside table. The sun shines behind you, illuminating you like she’d just found the correct answer to a question she didn’t ask. You hesitate before reaching out, the back of your hand meeting her forehead gently. “Good. You do feel warmer now.”

“[Name].”

“Hey,” you smile as you sit on the corner of the bed. Kara rises slowly, arms trembling slightly as she does so. You grab the cup you’d set down, “drink slowly.”

It’s fizzy and sweet, curling through a strawberry themed straw. Kara hums, “what is this?”

“A Shirley Temple.” You place the cup back down, wiping the condensation on your pants. “Figured you needed something a little sugary.”

Kara pauses, looking to her lap and flexing her fingers. She feels energized — buzzed. She realizes she’d never felt this healed before. Never felt this relaxed and in tune with her own body.

“What did you do to me?”

You frown again as you look her over. Your phone is on your lap from where you’d been updating Clark, the lockscreen showing a picture of Krypto she’d never seen. “I had Clark bring you to my house after you passed out. Then I tucked you in and waited until you woke up.”

The blonde grunts, hand curling into her messy hair — her three day migraine was gone. She eyes you slowly. You almost roll your eyes, “did you expect me to do something else?”

Kara felt so refreshed. Like she could go back to sleep, curled up in your sheets as she relaxed in your home. Maybe this is how Krypto always felt when he was around you — maybe that’s why he was always so calm.

“No.” The kryptonian looks out of the window at the sun — her life source. She then looks at you, shoulders less tense than before. “Not from you I don’t.”

——♥︎——

was this mediocre be honest ): anyways lol im sad <3

"Oh! Let me feed you."

You shove a fry into Jack's mouth. He chews slowly, breathing low while the neon light above him catches all the silver of his hair and the lines of his face, besides his eyes and around his mouth.

"Is the kid trying to get herself thrown over my shoulder?"

You put a hand to your stomach and bear a shit-eating grin. "This is all it takes? Have another."

You shove another fry against his lips with your chest pressing into his bicep.

Fucking evil is what you are.

Jack decides, with how much you've drank...and with how little you're walking properly, that three bars is enough.

"I wanna bite your nose. Lemme bite your nose."

Jack wraps one arm around your waist and leads you outside, grip tight enough to remind your drunk, perfect, frustrating body that it has a place to lean on.

"Time to go. You're done hopping."

"Noooo. You're a bar hop hater."

You let him steer you outside anyway, mostly because his hand is big and warm at the small of your back. The night air hits your cheeks in a cool wave.

"Sorry, I'm trying to keep you from puking in my truck. I'd call that pretty loving. Of you. And my truck."

The sidewalk is slight from an hour-ago drizzle as the rest of Pittsburgh glows around you, which makes the brick wall outside the bar look so, so pretty.

This is where you live now. On this beautiful brick wall.

"You're shivering, Sleepy. I told you to bring a jacket."

Jack stands in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, and his scowl doesn't scare you. You'll turn it into a smile soon enough.

"I'm shivering with nightlife---ah! Wait. Come here. You're a genius, you just gave me the perfect idea."

The revelation blooms, watered by alcohol and soiled with the manipulation of Jack's words.

You lift both arms. "Pleaseeee."

The tone of your plea always works on him, and he steps closer, grumbling under his breath. Dr. Jack Audrey Abbot is a liar. A weak man when it comes to you making grabby hands at him.

You catch his wrists and tug. He lets you, and for some reason, those videos of big dogs being dressed up by babies come to mind.

"Arms. Around me. Now. Thank you."

Your voice goes high and airy with your thanks, as if you haven't just given Jack a command that you already expect him to follow, but you're not wrong to.

Jack wraps both arms around you, one settling on your upper back and the other around your waist. He pulls you in until your cheek squishes against his chest.

The Jack-formed bulk of him blocks the wind. Your sigh is only made up of bliss.

You nuzzle into him.

"So much better."

"Maybe next time you’ll listen to me. I buy you a bajillion jackets, and for what? Guess they make the coat rack look useful."

You don’t answer right away...because Jack's just mentioned jackets.

Suddenly, you're having the greatest thought anyone has ever had in the history of having a brain. Your eyes widen against his shirt as you gasp.

Jack stiffens. You pull back just enough to look up at him, face bright, maybe too much for his liking.

"You’re my JACKet."

And despite your gracious reveal of a genius pun, Jack only stares. Unblinking. Whatever, you're already laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world.

It is.

"My JACKet. Because your name is Jack, and you’re being a jacket. Oh my God. Jackie. Jackie, did you get it?"

Jack's eyes drop and once over you as you laugh so hard you nearly fall forward, except Jack’s arms hold you up. That only makes it funnier. Your actual human JACKet is keeping you from collapsing over your own joke.

Life is good. You've got the hottest, most mature jacket in the whole wide world, and he's looking at you like he wants to eat you.

"...I got it, baby."

"Because you’re Jack. And a jacket. JACKet." You slap his chest weakly. "I have to...I have to copyright that. Will you help me when we get home?"

Jack sighs as low as where his eyes find you, only before they find your face again. And okay, maybe you're a little too drunk to realize his mouth is twitching again.

"Sure, baby."

That, and you're now aware of how warm you are. Jack's a good jacket, but now your priority is not to lose weight in sweat. You wriggle.

"Okay. I’m not cold anymore. You can let go."

You wait for Jack to release, but with every second that goes by, he only pulls you in tighter.

How dare he not listen to you?

You squirm again, whining, pushing too weakly at his chest again. "Jackie. You're too warm now. Let go."

Jack shrugs.

"You made me your jacket. I’m committed to the role. Should’ve thought of that before branding me."

You whine again, and louder when he smacks your ass. He stops it from jiggling with a harsh grope.

"No whining. You’re the one who wanted arms. You get all loose and happy, start wobbling around the sidewalk, calling me outerwear. Yeah, I’m gonna hold on."

He brushes his mouth against your forehead. You don't think it's a kiss, but you're not sober enough to realize he's trying not to devour you right on the sidewalk.

Jack’s mouth brushes your hairline. Not quite a kiss. Worse. Softer. Like he’s trying not to devour the drunk sweetness out of the moment.

"Humor me, as you've been doing for the past ten minutes."

It's only the city that feels very far off from the brick wall from where he's decided to hold you hostage, his body his own wall against the wind, and his heartbeat against your ear.

You smile into his chest.

"Whatever you say, my jacket."

chase was now entirely back to full health, the hives long gone and her life completely back to its usual teenage rhythm.

she was currently fast asleep in her second bedroom across the city, completely safe. the crisis was long over and yet unfortunately the shift it had caused inside you hadn't settled a single inch since.

the terror of that night had receded from the house, but it remained firmly lodged under your ribs, a heavy, jagged stone that refused to dissolve.

daniel was saying something soft against your neck—something sweet, no doubt—his breathing shallow and patient as he tried to coax you into the rhythm of a moment you had actively initiated.

he was trying so hard.

he always tried.

his lips pressed against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his touch light and undemanding, offering a steady, gentle warmth that should have been comforting.

you had your eyes squeezed shut, your fingers gripping his shoulders, consciously forcing yourself to stay present.

be here, you commanded your brain, the words repeating like a desperate, frantic mantra behind your eyelids. be here with the man who actually belongs in your life now. look at him. appreciate him. choose him.

but your mind was an absolute traitor.

every time daniel's hands shifted over your hips, your skin instinctively remembered a completely different, slightly heavier grip.

your nerves didn't fire instead they misfired, translating the gentle pressure into an agonizing phantom sensation of calloused hands that used trace your skin.

when daniel kissed your jaw, your chest didn't tighten or ache instead it remained completely flat.

but you weren't in your bedroom. well not mentally at least.

smells that you only associated with hospitals rushed back into your nose. you kept seeing the terrifying, deep rumble of jack's chest.

the way his frame had effortlessly shielded you from the chaos of the hospital lobby, the sheeer, unyielding force of his voice telling you i've got her, i won't let anything happen to her.

you remembered how the absolute terror of losing your daughter had been met by the immovable, terrifyingly solid wall of jack's presence.

he had been a force of nature that night, holding you together with nothing but the sheer weight of his grip, and breathing life back into a room that felt like it was running out of oxygen.

now daniel shifted, his weight pressing down on you, his lips finding yours. it was a good kiss. it was supposed to be intimate, a needed reassurance after a frantic, terrifying month.

it was the kind of kiss that belonged in a stable, healthy relationship.

but you felt entirely hollowed out, like a detached spectator in your own bedroom, watching your own body go through the motions from somewhere near the ceiling.

you were reaching for a feeling that simply wasn't there, desperately trying to project jack's sharp, intense gravity onto daniel's quiet, undeserving kindness.

you tried to force the spark, but failed instantly.

you were lying beneath a good man, wishing he was a completely different one.

when it was over, daniel rolled to the side, pulling the sheet over both of you and drawing you into his side.

he kissed the top of your head, his arm heavy but lax across your waist.

within minutes, he fell asleep, his chest rising and falling peacefully against his shoulder, entirely unaware of the wreckage occurring inches away from him.

you stared up at the dark ceiling for hours, the guilt pooling heavy, toxic, and hot in your stomach.

it wasn't fair to daniel, who loved you with a quiet, uncomplicated devotion, and the absolute weight of it was driving you insane.

you didn't want to want jack.

you had spent months building a meticulous fortress to keep him out, brick by agonizing brick, reinforcing the walls with logic, memory of your old fights, and the desperate need for peace.

and a single thursday night with an allergy scare had leveled it entirely to the ground.

a few hours in jack's orbit, and the fortress was nothing but dust.

you were irritable and furious that your own heart refused to cooperate, angry that months of progress could be obliterated by the simple memory of a man's hand on your back.

so three days later, you broke up with daniel.

it happened in the living room on a quiet sunday afternoon.

it was quiet, gentle, and devastatingly polite—which somehow made you find the whole situation even more infuriating.

he didn't yell or even demand any answers.

he just looked at you with a sad, knowing understanding in his eyes that made you feel like a monster.

he packed his small duffel bag, kissed your cheek, and walked out.

there was no closure in it, only the profound, hollow ache of failing at something that should have been simple.

you were officially alone again, and you were completely pissed off about it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the subsequent three weeks were an exercise in absolute exhaustion. you usually found solace in the rigid structure of your job in academia.

you usually graded papers and delivered lectures in ways that kept you grounded. instead, you found yourself staring blankly at student essays, the words blurring into a meaningless haze as twenty-one days of isolation slowly began to wear on your sanity.

max held out a paper cup of tea. behind him priya slipped into your cramped campus office, quietly closing the door and dropping a bakery bag onto your desk.

"croissants," priya announced gently. "because we know you haven't eaten a real meal since sunday. how are you holding up?"

you leaned back in your desk chair, rubbing your temples. "i'm fine. just... adjusting. it's been nearly a month, and the house is still entirely too quiet."

"it's quiet because you did the right thing, even if it feels awful," priya said, sitting on the edge of your desk. "daniel is a wonderful guy, but if the spark isn't there, keeping him around would have been cruel. you spared him a lot of long-term heartache."

"i still feel like a terrible person," you admitted, your voice dropping, the residual guilt of the breakup heavy in your chest. "he didn't do anything wrong. he was steady. he was exactly what i thought i wanted. and the guilt with chase is just killing me. i swore to myself that i wouldn't be that parent—the one introducing random men into her life only for them to turn out to be temporary fixtures. she liked him. she deserved stability, and i just disrupted her world again."

"how did she actually take it?" max asked softly.

"that's the weirdest part. she seemed... completely fine with it, surprisingly," you muttered, shaking your head in confusion.

"when i told her daniel and i were parting ways, she just nodded, gave me a hug, and went back to her homework. no questions. i thought she would be devastated, but she barely blinked."

what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly see from inside your own blind spot—was that chase wasn't indifferent at all.

deep down, your teenage daughter was actively, desperately rooting for her parents to get back together.

she knew it was stupid to think so. she remembered the slamming doors from years ago, and she knew the statistics on divorced parents.

but chase was also the one who watched the two of you from the stairs and when you interacted behind closed doors when you thought she wasn't paying attention.

she knew that even when you and jack were being completely distant, cold, or fiercely closed off with each other, the room still practically hummed with electricity.

she saw the heavy, unsaid weight that hung in the air between her mother and her father every time they were in the same room.

daniel had been nice, but to chase, daniel had been a ghost in a house that still belonged to a storm.

"intensity isn't always a flaw," priya offered gently, reaching over to squeeze your hand, bringing you back to the present. "sometimes it just means the fire never actually went out. you spent a while trying to convince yourself that a quiet life was the same thing as a happy one. it's okay to admit that jack still holds the keys to the castle."

you couldn't answer.

the truth of priya's words felt like a physical weight in your chest, a truth you weren't ready to face, let alone voice aloud.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

to make matters more stressful, the house was about to get even quieter.

chase had been scheduled for an end-of-year school trip which was a three-day camping and hiking excursion.

you had been entirely reluctant to let her go. with the cashew allergy debacle still fresh in your mind, the thought of your daughter being hours away from the nearest hospital, surrounded by wilderness, made your stomach twist into violent knots.

you had nearly canceled her registration three times.

but you knew you couldn't keep her locked inside forever.

she was a growing teenager, yearning for independence, and jack had gently reminded you over a brief, strained phone call that "you can't wrap her in bubble wrap, as much as we both want to."

so, with a heavy heart and a backpack stuffed with four epipens, you had dropped her off at the school bus that morning.

the anxiety had settled into the empty house by midafternoon, wrapping around your throat until you were practically climbing the walls.

a sudden, sharp craving hit you out of nowhere—a desperate, phantom itch for a cigarette. you hadn't smoked in seven years.

back during the worst, most turbulent years of your marriage, you used to keep a secret pack hidden in the back of the pantry, slipping out into the dark of the back garden to smoke when jack wasn't looking, just to catch a single breath of artificial calm.

but jack had found out.

he hadn't yelled which you had kind of expected him to.

he had looked at you with this fiercely protective, agonizingly gentle worry, talking you out of it by quietly listing the health risks and gently pulling the lighter from your hand.

the memory made you scoff out loud in the empty kitchen, a wave of bitter irritation washing over you.

it was infuriating.

even your old, hidden vices were completely tangled up in him.

you couldn't even crave a bad habit without his memory standing there, blocking the doorway.

which made the events of the afternoon all the more confusing.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the thunder rumbled low in the distance, a dark purple wall of bruised clouds rolling over the horizon, but the air remained heavy with pre-storm humidity.

inside the house, the atmosphere felt just as pressurized, the walls closing in on you as the afternoon light prematurely died.

you were in the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing a dish that was already perfectly clean, just to have something to do with the restless, angry energy vibrating violently under your skin.

the sponge rasped against the porcelain, the water running scalding hot over your hands, but nothing could distract you.

suddenly, the roar of a small, sputtering engine flared to life in your front yard, cutting through the quiet house like a chainsaw.

you froze, the sponge dripping soapy water onto the linoleum.

your chest instantly tightening, you threw the dish towel onto the counter and marched to the front window, ripping the blinds back with a sharp snap.

there was jack.

the sight of him hit you like a physical blow to the sternum.

he was wearing a faded, grey t-shirt that clung to the broad span of his back, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders.

his greying curls were already damp with sweat, clinging to the nape of his neck as he pushed your old, temperamental lawnmower across the overgrown grass.

he moved with efficiency, his forearms flexing with every turn.

he wasn't supposed to be here.

chase was away.

it wasn't his weekend, he hadn't texted, and he certainly hadn't asked for permission.

he had simply showed up, an uninvited storm inside an already broken perimeter.

you yanked the front door open, stepping out onto the porch just as the first massive, heavy drops of rain began to slam violently into the dry dirt.

"jack!" you yelled over the deafening rumble of the engine, the wind picking up, whipping your hair across your face.

he didn't look up.

he just turned the mower around at the edge of the fence, his jaw set in a stubborn, rigid line that you knew all too well.

he kept his eyes locked on the path ahead, his frame leaning into the machine as if he could outrun the weather through sheer force of will.

"jack, stop!" you marched down the porch steps, the summer rain immediately soaking through your thin shirt, cold and sudden against your hot skin, plastering your hair to your forehead.

the storm was unleashing now, a wall of water descending on the neighborhood, but you didn't care.

you stopped right in front of the mower, crossing your arms and forcing him to either kill the engine or physically run you over.

jack clamped down on the safety lever, pulling the machine to a halt inches from your sneakers.

the motor sputtered and died with a heavy, mechanical shudder, leaving only the loud, rushing sound of the downpour beginning to unleash around you.

"what the hell are you doing?" you snapped, your voice sharp, laced with all the venom and irritation that had been building like a pressure cooker for weeks.

you were soaking wet, shivering despite the slight heat, and absolutely vibrating with a rage that had very little to do with the grass.

jack wiped a mix of sweat and rain from his eyes with the back of his forearm.

his gaze locked onto yours—dark and entirely unyielding.

"your grass was a foot high," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated beneath the sound of the rain. "the storm's gonna turn it into a swamp, and then it will take you a month to clear it with this piece of shit mower."

"i didn't ask you to do it!" you shouted back, the rain coming down harder now, bouncing violently off the hot metal of the mower between you, sending up small plumes of steam. "i don't need your help, jack. i don't want you here. leave the damn mower and just go home."

"i'm half-way done," he argued, his hands tightening on the rubber grip of the handle until his knuckles turned white, the veins in his forearms standing out in sharp relief. "go back inside before you freeze."

"it's eighty-five degrees out here, i'm not going to freeze. leave it now."

when he wouldn't listen frustration boiled over, hot and blinding.

you stepped around the machine, reaching down and grabbing his wet, solid wrist to physically pull him away from the handle.

the moment your fingers wrapped around his bare skin, the tension snapped. it was like touching a live wire.

jack exploded.

he yanked his arm back violently, dropping the mower handle entirely and grabbing your upper arms instead. his grip was firm, massive, but careful—never enough to hurt, but completely unmovable—as he pulled you a step closer, twisting his body to use his broad frame to physically shield your body from the driving, icy wind.

"i'm finishing the lawn." he still argued with you, his face inches from yours, his hot breath mixing with the cold rain that pooled in the hollows of his collarbones. "stop fighting me on every single thing i do."

"i am fighting you because you don't belong here." you screamed back, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth, your voice breaking against the sheets of water cascading around you.

jack stared at you, the rain streaming down the sharp, rugged angles of his face, catching on his eyelashes and dripping from his chin.

his eyes were burning with a raw, angry frustration that mirrored your own agony, a look that said he knew exactly how much of a lie that was.

for three agonizing seconds, neither of you moved, the heat radiating between your bodies thick enough to choke on despite the deluge.

then, the sky completely opened up in a blinding sheet of white water, a violent, deafening crack of lightning splitting the air directly overhead and rattling the windows of the house.

jack swore loudly under his breath, letting go of your arms only to catch your hand—his palm rough, scorching hot, and completely soaking wet—and yanked you toward the porch.

you didn't fight him this time. you couldn't.

you stumbled up the wooden steps, your wet sneakers slipping slightly before jack caught your waist, guiding you with an aggressive urgency. he kicked the front door open with the heel of his heavy boot, shoving you into the dry interior before slamming the heavy wood shut behind him, cutting off the roaring chaos of the storm in a single, definitive thud.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the sudden silence of the house was suffocating.

the only sound was the frantic, heavy breathing of two people trapped in a space entirely too small for the energy between them.

you stood in the entryway, water pooling rapidly around your sneakers onto the hardwood floor, your clothes sticking translucent and heavy against your skin.

jack was a foot away, his back against the door, breathing hard.

his wet t-shirt was completely molded to his chest and abdomen, showing every ridge, every scar, every line of a body you used to know better than your own.

"you're a lunatic," you breathed, shaking your head as you tried to wring out the hem of your shirt, your fingers trembling with a mix of chill and sheer, unadulterated aggravation. "you're tracking mud everywhere. why can't you just leave things alone? why do you have to force your way into everything?"

"because you wouldn't have done it." jack snapped, tossing his wet truck keys onto the entryway table with a loud, aggressive clack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet house. "you let everything pile up until you're drowning, and god forbid anyone tries to take a single thing off your plate."

"i was doing just fine. i've been doing fine without you playing the hero."

"yeah? is that why you broke up with the boyfriend?"

jack stepped directly into your space, the sudden movement cutting off your exit, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous frequency that made every single nerve ending in your body snap awake.

the sheer pheromonal weight of him pressed down on you. "because you're doing so great? i'm not blind, and i'm not stupid. lena told me you called the trauma desk asking about chase's follow-up paperwork three separate times when you could have just texted me. you're losing your mind, and you're taking it out on me."

"i am taking it out on you because you are the entire problem." you yelled, the dam inside you finally bursting, all the weeks of performance, all the hidden longing, all the sleepless nights turning into pure, unadulterated rage.

you stepped right up into his chest, your hands coming up to aggressively push against his shoulders. "you show up when whether i tell you to or not, you look at me like you still own me, you say things you shouldn't say—"

"i say things i mean." jack said, his hands coming up like lightning to catch your wrists mid-air.

he didn't push you away.

he pulled.

the collision was total.

your chest slammed hard against his, the raw heat radiating off his skin instantly cutting through the damp chill of your wet clothes.

the impact knocked the air straight out of your lungs, and before you could even draw a breath to argue, jack's mouth descended onto yours.

it wasn't a gentle kiss. it was a dam breaking after months of agonizing, suffocating pressure.

but as the initial shock faded, the desperation shifted into something devastatingly intimate.

his lips softened just enough to mold perfectly against yours, a familiar, agonizingly sweet fit that rushed through your memory like a flood.

this was the man who used to hold you in the quiet hours of the morning.

this was the mouth that had whispered promises in the dark before the world got too heavy and complicated for the two of you to carry.

the familiar scent of him swirled around you, pulling you back to a time when his touch was your anchor, not your undoing.

you let out a soft, broken sigh against his mouth, and jack groaned, taking the invitation.

his tongue slid past your teeth, deep, fluid, and fiercely possessive, yet carrying a profound, aching tenderness that made your knees instantly turn to water.

your hands, which had been meant to push him away, completely betrayed you.

they slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of his heart, before tangling deep into his wet curls to pull him down harder, destroying any semblance of regret or restraint.

jack's hands left your wrists, one wrapping securely around the back of your waist, his massive palm anchoring against your lower back to hoist you up against him, lifting you nearly off your feet.

his other hand cupped your jaw, his thumb digging into your cheekbone, holding you perfectly still for him as if he were trying to memorize the very shape of your soul through his fingertips.

he bit your lower lip before soothing the ache with his tongue, his kisses moving frantically from your mouth, dragging down the rigid line of your jaw, to the sensitive, pulsing skin right beneath your ear.

you arched into him, a soft, broken whimper escaping you as his heavy stubble scraped ruthlessly against your neck.

every single inch of your body was on fire.

this was what you had been starving for. this was the gravity you couldn't escape, the terrifyingly intense friction that made you feel alive in a way no one else ever could.

jack dragged his mouth back to yours, his kisses turning thicker, slower, and heavy with a desire that had been locked away, fermenting in the dark for over a year.

he pinned you ruthlessly against the hallway wall, the plaster cold against your back while he was nothing but pure, unadulterated heat.

his thigh forced its way between yours, anchoring your hips against the wall, tilting your pelvis up into his.

you could feel the rigid, hard line of him pressing directly against you through the damp fabric of your clothes, the sheer, overwhelming physical size of him completely consuming your senses.

your hands tore at the fabric of his wet shirt, gripping his shoulders, wanting skin, wanting the burning touch that used to be your everyday life.

you pulled your head back just an inch, both of you panting heavily, the air between you thick and scorching.

your lips were swollen, dark red, and wet, your chests heaving violently against one another in the dim light.

a massive, surging crest of adrenaline completely swallowed up any residual guilt.

your nerve endings were screaming, your brain short-circuiting under the sheer velocity of the moment.

you couldn't think about the past or the future; you just needed the friction to continue.

you needed to drown out the suffocating quiet of the last three weeks in the only safe harbor you had ever truly known.

"jack," you choked out, your hands gripping his soaking shoulders, your body moving on pure, unbridled impulse. "jack, just... come upstairs. let's just do this. let's get it out of our systems. please."

jack froze.

the sudden, rigid stillness in his posture was louder than the thunder crashing outside. it was a physical deceleration so violent it felt like a car crash.

his eyes, dark and heavy with a blatant, agonizing lust, stared down at yours. his chest was heaving, his muscles trembling under your fingers, and it was glaringly, terrifyingly obvious how badly he wanted to pick you up and carry you up those stairs. as he had so many times before even though you would tell him to think of the pressure he was putting on his leg.

he was practically vibrating with the urge to succumb.

but his hands slowly, agonizingly dropped from your waist.

his fingers uncurled from your hair, the wet strands falling back against your cheeks.

he took a heavy step back, then another, creating a cold, gaping void between your bodies in the narrow hallway.

the absence of his heat made you shiver instantly.

he looked down at you, his chest still rolling with heavy, jagged breaths, but the raw, unbridled heat in his eyes had instantly hardened into something sharp, fractured, and incredibly dark.

"get it out of our systems?" jack repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, ragged whisper that cut deeper than any shout he had leveled at you in the yard.

"jack, we're losing our minds—"

"no," he cut you off, his jaw tight, a sharp muscle leaping violently in his cheek.

he looked at you with an overwhelming amount of respect, a gaze that was heavy with a protective, fierce care that extended even to protecting you from yourself.

"you don't get to do that to me. and i'm sure as hell not doing that to you. i know it's been three weeks, but you still just walked away from a relationship. you're exhausted, you're stressed out of your mind, and you are hurting."

"that's not what i meant," you whispered, the sudden shift freezing the blood in your veins.

you reached out a trembling hand for him, desperate to pull the warmth back, but he stepped back again, completely out of your reach, his back hitting the front door.

"that's exactly what you meant," jack said, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing vulnerability that made your throat close up with tears.

he shook his head, his eyes glassy under the dim entryway light, staring at you with a profound, exhausting sadness. "if i go up those stairs with you tonight... if i touch you like that again, i'm all in. i don't know how to do it halfway with you. i never did. i would be yours completely, by tomorrow morning. i would be right back to where i was, completely at your mercy."

he took a sharp, shaky breath, his shoulders collapsing inward just a fraction as he looked at you, utterly defeated by his own honesty.

"and if we do it just to 'get it out of our systems,' tomorrow morning you're going to wake up, regret it, remember why we broke up, and build those walls right back up. i'd lose you all over again."

jack looked down at the floor, his voice dropping so low it was almost entirely swallowed by the sound of the rain punishing the house outside. "i barely survived losing you the first time. i can't afford to do it twice."

before you could say a single word, before you could even process the devastating, heavy weight of what he had just admitted, jack turned around.

he snatched his keys from the table, pulled the heavy front door open, and walked straight back out into the pouring rain, leaving you entirely alone, shivering in your quiet hallway.

If your paths cross again organically, then that would be another thing entirely.

You reach for your dress, and take a second to look around his room as you try and gather your bearings. It’s a lot cleaner than some of the frat rooms you’ve spent time in.

There are textbooks stacked on the desk instead of empty beer cans. A chemistry textbook sits open beneath a notebook full of cramped handwriting and highlighted diagrams. Another book - something biology-related - has so many sticky notes poking out of the pages it looks like it's growing feathers.

You hadn’t thought Jack was lying last night when he told you he was pre-med, but you certainly hadn’t thought he was serious about it. You figured he was probably some trust-fund kid who was going to get daddy to buy his way into medical school.

Jack apparently doesn’t fit into Cornell’s usual stereotypes.

He’s not a selfish prick the way most of the hockey team is. He’s also not a moron either - not by a long-shot. You know his music taste is pretty refined - on one date, after telling a guy that The Doors were your favourite band, he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.

Needless to say, there hadn’t been a second date.

And he’s funny. You’d laughed more last night than the entirety of summer. You think potentially more than your entire relationship with Seth.

God, you need to get a grip. You look around the room, almost praying to find something that’ll ruin the spark for you. Maybe a list of all the girls he’s slept with, or some Playboys under the bed. Some mouldy food perhaps?

Anything to get him off your mind.

You pull your dress over your head and glance around again.

The walls are covered in hockey.

Photos pinned to a corkboard. Team pictures from what looks like every stage of his life. A tiny kid missing his front teeth. A gangly teenager holding a trophy. A more recent photo where he's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of teammates, grinning like an idiot.

There's a shelf lined with medals and a couple of plaques.

Your gaze lingers on a more recent picture - a slightly younger Jack’s first year on the Cornell hockey team. It looks familiar, and suddenly you realise why, heart sinking. Your step-brother Michael stands right by his side, smiles wide as the team poses for the camera.

Fuck.

You’d thought that the hockey team would be safe from Michael’s claws given that he’s been at medical school for the past three years. The last thing you want is to have slept with one of his friends.

While technically a step-brother, your mom met his dad while she was still pregnant with you. With your biological father out of the picture, the Robinavitch family very quickly became your own. Michael’s father is the only father you’ve ever known.

In all ways but blood, he’s your brother.

He’s the entire reason you’d ended up at Cornell. You’ve always wanted to grow up to be like Michael. Even if he’s grown a stupid beard, and goes by Robby these days.

His single piece of advice to you when you’d started college was to run a mile from anybody on the college’s sports teams.

Basketball? Bad.

Football? The worst, if Robby is to be believed.

Hockey? Good guys, but not boyfriend material. Steer clear at all costs.

Maybe they were just teammates. You have lots of group photos with people you don’t even like, much less consider a friend.

Jack seems like the kind of guy who would be friendly to just about everyone. But it could have just felt that way because he was trying to get into your pants. He could have a playbook of flattery, and you’re simply the most recent sucker to fall for it.

You realise with a snort that you don’t know much about Jack at all.

Which, to be fair, was intentional.

The whole point had been not getting to know each other. He could be

No strings. No personal questions. No expectations.

For all you know, he's seeing someone back home. Or maybe he's the sort of guy who never stays single for long. Maybe there are half a dozen girls on campus who'd roll their eyes if they heard you were thinking this much about him.

You wouldn't know.

All you know is that his name is Jack.

He plays hockey.

He's pre-med.

He’s a fan of classic rock - particularly Led Zeppelin and the Eagles, but he’s also partial to some eighties punk.

You don't know if he has siblings, or if he's close with his parents.

You move toward the desk, spotting a framed picture tucked beside a lamp.

Jack stands with a woman who shares the exact same smile. Must be a mother, though she looks pretty young. Upon further inspection, his mom is in a lot of the photos. For someone who spent half of last night pretending he didn't care about anything except having a good time, Jack seems surprisingly sentimental.

Maybe because you'd spent all of last night mentally filing Jack under Fun-Mistake. Good-Lay-Who’s-Definitely-A-Bit-Of-A-Whore.

Not Son-Who-Keeps-Pictures-Of-His-Mom-On-His-Desk.

You force yourself to look away.

This is ridiculous. You have to get out of here. At the desk, a notepad sits beside a cup full of pens, and your eyes catch on it just for a second.

You could leave your number.

Not for a date. Just to say ‘hey, that was good sex and we should do it again sometime. I’m not clingy, nor am I looking for a boyfriend, but you’re hot and I have a pushy ex.’

As soon as your brain catches up with your thoughts, you realise how pathetic you sound.

You’ve spent your entire college career avoiding becoming a stereotype. You’re not a stuck-up teacher’s pet because you get good grades, you’re not a stoner because you’re in a rock band, and you’re certainly not a Puck Bunny because you want to fuck a hockey player.

You grab your boots, and try to get the hell out of there. The frat house is mostly empty this early. For that, you’re grateful. A couple of people linger in the kitchen, nursing coffees and hangovers, but thankfully, nobody pays much attention as you head for the front door.

You slip outside.

The morning air is cool against your skin. A welcome change from the heat of Jack’s bedroom.

You don’t have a class until lunchtime, but band practice starts in forty-five minutes, and you’d like the shower before braving the heat of the Cornell Music Building.

The campus is dead at this hour, just empty brick paths and ivy before the mid-morning rush. Your boots click on the concrete, locking into the tempo of the bassline you keep looping in your head. It’s a new composition, one that you’re pretty sure goes with Jesse’s latest favourite drum-fill.

You hadn’t really meant to join a band, but when Jesse Van Horn is your next-door neighbour in freshman year, it’s hard to avoid the music.

Half the floor hated him, because he had an acoustic drum-kit set up in his room, and had no qualms about practicing at seven in the morning before his classes.

You didn’t ever mind.

Alarm clocks didn’t do the trick for you, but Immigrant Song sure did. Eventually, Jesse’s roommate had packed it in, found somewhere else to live. Meanwhile, you and he were becoming closer every day. You’d pass records back and forth, and roll your eyes over student housing politics.

When your roommate started allowing her boyfriend to practically live with you both, it had been a natural decision. One box at a time, over a week, you moved into Jesse’s spare room.

Despite the rumours, it’s never been sexual - you’re both walking proof that men and women can, in fact, just be friends.

You started jamming together, before he’d finally proposed that a band could earn you some extra cash. Outside of tutoring, you didn’t have any other income, so money got tight fast.

The only issue was that you absolutely refused to sing in front of a crowd. It’s not that you couldn’t - you’ve always had quite a nice voice, especially for folk, but the idea of singing solo in front of crowds made you want to cry.

Besides, you’d argued, you needed a guitarist anyway. You’d just find someone who could sing and play.

Jesse had placed a couple of ads across campus, and you got a lot more interest than you were expecting. Your answer came in the form of Nick Bradley - a biology major who could shred like Slash.

He agreed to sing too, as long as you’d do harmonies and take lead occasionally.

Like Fleetwood Mac, except none of you were sleeping together.

Now, a year on, you’re pretty successful. Good enough to get booked for a lot of the parties around campus, and a Saturday night slot at the local bar.

You’re still living with Jesse this year, in an apartment just off-campus, while Nick lives two streets over with his girlfriend Princess.

Were it not for Seth, you’d be having the time of your life.

Your first college relationship, you’d met Seth at a party in your first month of being at Cornell. He was a freshman too, but a business major, and loved the sound of his own voice.

Of course, at the time, he was hot, and paying you considerable amounts of attention. You were hooked.

Your entire relationship was cyclical - you’d date for a few months, and then have a huge blowout fight, and break up. You’d both sleep with other people out of pettiness, before he’d come crawling back a month later.

Much to all your friends’ chagrin, you always took him back.

This is the longest you’ve ever been separated since you first met.

It had happened over summer - an incident in New York City which had resulted in you sobbing down the phone, and Robby driving three hours in the middle of the night to come to your rescue.

You’re determined the break is sticking this time.

The cold walk back to your apartment finally wakes you up. You drop your keys on the counter, shed yesterday's clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water cuts through the smell of Jack's cedarwood cologne and the leftover stuffiness of his bedroom.

Ten minutes later, you're out and dressed in fresh black jeans and a beat-up band tee. Cream. You tell yourself it’s a total coincidence, and not because it’s a Clapton band. Your hair is still wet, but with five minutes until your practice starts, Jesse is ushering you into his car without pause.

*****

You think about Jack at random intervals throughout the day over the next few weeks.

When you're walking to class.

When you see someone wearing a hockey sweatshirt.

When a cowboy hat appears in the background of a TikTok, embarrassingly.

But thinking isn't the same thing as doing. And you've managed not to do anything.

No Instagram searches. No asking around. No stalking fraternity pages. No investigating.

Which means you're doing great.

Objectively.

You haven’t seen him around campus, but you figure that’s to be expected, given he’s pre-med and on the hockey team. You wouldn’t wish either on your worst enemy, much less both. Thankfully, Seth has been a complete non-entity too.

Maybe you’ll be able to live your entire Junior year in peace.

You're walking back from class with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear while Robby complains about med school.

Again.

Apparently today's crisis is pathology.

Yesterday's crisis was anatomy.

Tomorrow's will probably be something equally horrifying - he’s no longer allowed to tell you any stories that involve burns, toe-nails, or eye stuff, but you're sure he'll find something else that makes you feel sick just hearing about it.

"I haven't slept in two days."

You snort. "That's healthy."

"I hate you."

You hadn’t realised that Robby going to med school would somehow be your problem too. When your parents are sick of him whinging, they send his calls your way.

"Do you know how many pathways there are for clotting?" He asks.

"No. Why would I know that? I’m pre-law."

"There are too many."

"Okay."

He groans. "I'm serious."

"Congratulations? I don't know what you want me to say to that, to be honest."

There’s a pause, and you can just imagine him rubbing his neck, regretting calling you entirely. "You don't care."

"I care deeply about many things. Clotting factors? Unfortunately not one of them. Why aren’t you moaning to Noelle?"

"She’s sick of it," He replies, sounding so miserable that you almost want to laugh.

“Just think about all the money you’ll be making.”

“Yeah, in like fifteen years.” Without taking a breath, Robby launches into another story about one of his professors, and you half-listen as you weave through campus.

Then he mentions hockey. "Honestly, sometimes I miss the team."

Your stomach does an immediate, traitorous flip. It’s been approximately two hours since you last thought about Jack, and the reminder is not a welcome one. It’s a battle to keep your voice neutral. "Yeah?"

"Not the practices,” He clarifies immediately.

"Obviously."

"Or the conditioning."

"Also obviously."

"But the guys."

You bite the inside of your cheek. You don’t care about Jack. You shouldn’t ask anything else. Change the subject, and…. "Do you still talk to any of them?"

You immediately regret it, but it’s too late.

Fortunately, Robby doesn't seem to notice the odd cadence in your tone.

"Some of them."

You hum. "Who?"

He pauses. “Most of us are scattered now, but I talk to some of the guys on the current team. You know, one of them's applying to med school right now.”

"So?"

Robby laughs. "So?"

"Yeah."

You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, wondering if you should just fake bad service and hang up.

"Lots of people apply to med school."

"Not while playing a college sport."

"Oh."

"He asked me to look over his application."

Your grip tightens on your phone. "That's nice."

"I know. I’m a nice guy." Robby sounds genuinely pleased. Which is odd. He's usually much stingier with compliments. "Actually, his application's pretty solid."

You stare straight ahead.

Heart beating a little faster. “Must be smart, then.”

“Everything okay?”

Curse Robby and his insane perception skills. “Uh, yeah - just thought I saw Seth.”

Immediately, Robby’s in dad mode. “Don’t go near him.”

“I’m not! Jesus, Mikey - what do you take me for?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

You want to be offended, but you’re mostly just glad the conversation isn’t on Jack anymore. “Screw you.”

“Love you too!”

*****

The bathroom tile is freezing against your forehead.You trace the grout lines with your eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the rhythmic, violent heaving in your stomach. It’s 4:00 AM, six weeks since term started, and you’re currently paying the price for the sketchy food truck tacos you ate after last night's gig.

Your throat burns, tasting like stomach acid and cheap tequila.

This cannot be the rockstar life everybody is so desperate for.

You groan, pulling yourself up onto your knees to lean over the toilet bowl again. Your body shakes, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck and back. Every muscle in your core is tightly knotted, exhausted from the last two hours of purging.

You reach up and flush, the loud roar of the water echoing painfully in the quiet apartment. Jesse’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met - there’s no way he’s waking up from a couple of retches.

You wake up on Friday morning convinced you're finally over the worst of it. The constant, violent nausea has faded into a dull, low-grade ache, and you manage to keep down half a bagel and some black coffee. Robby informs you that sometimes food poisoning takes it’s sweet time clearing up.

By Sunday, you can't lie to yourself anymore.

You’re still exhausted. The smell of the deli on the corner makes your stomach violently drop, and you spent twenty minutes this morning dizzy on the bathroom floor just from standing up too fast. It’s not a stomach bug.

You decide eventually that you can manage a trip to the grocery store for some crackers and ginger ale, in the hopes of filling your stomach a little.

Standing in the chip aisle, you glance over at the bakery counter. A woman is standing there, waiting for a loaf of bread. She’s wearing a soft knit sweater, and one of her hands rests naturally over a very obvious, rounded baby bump.

Your heart stops.

You can’t be.

You’re on the pill, and Jack used a condom. Statistically, there’s got to be no chance of that happening.

Panic floods your chest, hot and sharp.

You drop the crackers and sprint two aisles over to the pharmacy section. Your eyes scan the shelves frantically until you spot the boxes. You grab a digital two-pack, not even looking at the price, and tuck it flat against your stomach beneath your denim jacket.

You keep your head down, eyes darting left and right. The campus grocery store is a minefield; the last thing you need is a classmate, or Seth, or even Jack himself seeing you.

Running the three blocks back, the plastic bag crinkles loudly against your thigh. Your hands shake so badly that you drop your keys on the concrete before finally forcing the lock.

Jesse is on the couch, a laptop open on his knees and a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. He blinks up at you, surprised. "Hey, did you get the-"

"Bathroom," you choke out, barging straight past the couch. You don’t look at him, keeping the plastic bag bunched tight against your side.

"Whoa, okay. All yours," he mutters, turning back to his screen.

You throw yourself into the bathroom, slam the door, and click the lock. In the sudden quiet, your breathing sounds deafening. You rip the box open, tearing the cardboard with your fingernails until the two plastic sticks tumble onto the counter.

You’re on the pill. Jack used a condom.

You repeat it in your head like a mantra, trying to block out the terror pressing down on your chest. You read the instructions on the crumpled paper, the tiny text blurring. Wash hands. Remove cap. Hold the tip in the stream for five seconds.

You go through the motions on pure autopilot, your fingers icy cold.

When it's done, you lay the stick flat on the edge of the sink, turning the digital screen face-down against the white porcelain. You step back, gripping the edges of the counter until your knuckles turn white. On the side of the plastic casing, the tiny hourglass icon starts blinking, counting down the three longest minutes of your life.

You can’t be pregnant. You still have two more years of college, and then law school. How the hell would you do that with a baby?

Especially when the father is someone you don’t even know?

When you finally build the courage to turn the test over, you think you might cry.

“Shit,” You curse. “Shit, shit, shit!”

No amount of staring makes the line disappear, and you can feel tears start to prick at your periphery when a knock sounds at the door. “Everything okay? You’ve been gone forever.”

You swallow heavily. “Fine, Jess.” Looking back at the very positive test, and the words that flash on the screen.

Six Weeks Pregnant.