jenna

“Girlfriend,” he said.

Your stomach flipped.

Then his mouth was on yours again.

For a second, everything else disappeared.

The dark apartment. The bookstore bag on the floor. The thin line of hallway light slipping in beneath the door. The quiet that settled around the two of you like the whole world had narrowed to this entryway, this wall, this man, this kiss.

Jack’s hand was still at your waist, warm and certain over the cotton of his shirt, and his mouth moved over yours like he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

Not frantic.

Not careless.

Worse.

Patient.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you and had no intention of rushing through any of it.

You made a small sound against his mouth and pulled at his jacket.

Jack let you for one second, then two. The fabric slipped down his shoulders, and you chased him with your mouth, already reaching for more because more was familiar. More was easier. More meant hands and heat and want, and want was something your body understood.

Want did not ask complicated questions. Want did not make your chest ache. Want did not look like Jack carrying your books to your door or asking you to be his girlfriend in the quiet hallway outside your apartment.

You pushed the jacket lower, trying to get it off his arms, trying to get closer, trying to turn the feeling into something you knew how to handle.

Jack caught your hands.

Not hard.

Not stopping you.

Just slowing you.

Your breath broke against his mouth.

You opened your eyes.

Jack was looking at you.

His face was close, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark enough to make your knees feel unreliable. His jacket was halfway down his arms. His mouth was still close enough that you could feel the warmth of it when he spoke.

“Slow down,” Jack said.

Your fingers flexed beneath his. “Jack.”

His thumbs moved once over the backs of your hands. “Slow down.”

You swallowed, your body still leaning toward his, still trying to finish what it had started. “I thought you wanted me.”

Something changed in his face.

Not hurt.

Not offended.

Softer than that.

“I do,” Jack said.

The words landed low in your stomach.

His hands held yours between you.

“That’s why I’m saying it,” he said.

Your breath caught.

The apartment felt too quiet around that.

You tried to smile, but it came out smaller than you meant it to. “That feels backwards.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I know.”

You tugged lightly at his hands. “Then come here.”

He did.

Enough to make your pulse jump.

Enough to press you more firmly against the wall near the entryway, his body warm and solid against yours, his hands still holding yours like he did not trust either of you to be smart if he let go too soon.

His mouth brushed yours once.

Barely a kiss.

Still enough to make your eyes flutter.

You tried to follow it.

Jack pulled back.

A frustrated sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.

His mouth curved again, but his eyes stayed serious. “There she is.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not sound pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not,” Jack said.

You exhaled shakily. “You are.”

“I’m trying to take my time,” Jack said.

Your pulse stumbled.

That was worse than smug.

That was so much worse than smug.

You looked away before your face could give you up entirely.

Jack noticed.

His fingers released one of your hands and found your chin instead.

Not hard.

Just enough pressure to guide your face back to his when your eyes tried to drop.

Your breath caught.

He tilted your face up until you were looking at him again.

“There,” he said softly.

Your chest ached.

Because he was not correcting you.

He was keeping you with him.

You tried to hide behind a breathless laugh. “You are very bossy for a brand-new boyfriend.”

Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw. “And you are very evasive for a brand-new girlfriend.”

Your mouth parted.

His eyes held yours.

Warm. Steady. Unfair.

You could have made a joke.

You could have said something about how fast he had learned the job. You could have teased him about the word girlfriend going to his head already.

Instead, you stood there with his fingers beneath your chin and his shirt on your body and the realization that this was different pressing against your ribs from the inside.

Different because he had asked, because you had said yes, because every kiss now had somewhere to land.

You swallowed. “I’m not trying to be.”

Jack’s expression softened.

“I know,” he said.

You hated how easily he said it.

You loved it more.

His hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, thumb resting just beneath your jaw, and he leaned in again.

This kiss was slower than the last.

Deeper.

His mouth fit over yours like he was trying to teach you the difference between being wanted and being kept.

Your fingers curled in his shirt.

Not the one you were wearing.

His.

Soft gray cotton under your hands, warm from his body. You pulled him closer, but this time you did not yank. Did not rush. Did not try to turn the kiss into somewhere to disappear.

Jack felt the difference.

His hand tightened at your waist. Approval. Encouragement.

You only knew that the sound he made against your mouth was low and rough and enough to send heat down your spine.

The jacket finally slid from his arms.

This time, he let it fall.

You heard it hit the floor somewhere near the bookstore bag.

Jack did not look away from you.

Neither did you. 

That felt impossible. That felt like the point.

His fingers moved to the first button of the shirt you were wearing.

His shirt.

Your breath caught before he touched the button.

Jack stopped.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Can I?”

Your throat tightened.

He had kissed you against the door. Pressed you against the wall. Heard the sounds you made when his mouth got rougher. And still, he asked.

You nodded.

Jack did not move. His thumb brushed once over the cotton at your waist. “Words.”

Your chest went warm and shaky at the same time.

“Yes,” you said.

His gaze stayed on yours. “Yes, what?”

You swallowed. “Yes, you can take it off.”

Only then did his fingers move.

One button. Then another. Slow enough that you felt each release like a pulse. Slow enough that you had time to notice the way his eyes did not stay on his hands. He looked at your face after each one, like he was checking for the answer again and again without making you repeat it.

Your breath changed.

His mouth touched yours.

Soft.

Then the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then back to your mouth again, like kissing you was not something to pass through on the way to the rest of it.

Like kissing you was the rest of it.

Your hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, around the back of his neck. His hair brushed your fingers, and he made another low sound when your nails grazed lightly at the nape.

You smiled against his mouth.

His jaw shifted.

“Trouble,” Jack said.

The word came out rougher this time.

Less warning.

More promise.

You leaned in to kiss him again, but his fingers found your chin before your mouth reached his.

Gentle and certain.

He tilted your face up.

You looked at him.

His eyes were darker now, his control thinner at the edges, but he was still there. Still present. Still refusing to let the want turn careless just because it would have been easier.

“You keep trying to rush me,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. “I’m not.”

His thumb moved once along your jaw. “You are.”

You wanted to deny it.

You almost did.

But his hand was on your face, and his body was close, and his shirt was open enough now that the lace beneath it was no longer only a hint. It was visible. Deliberate. Yours. For him.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe you were trying to rush.

Maybe rushing was the only way you knew how to survive wanting something this much.

Your fingers curled at the back of his neck. “I want you.”

Jack’s expression softened in a way that made the words feel too small.

“I know,” he said.

Your breath caught.

“I want you too,” Jack said.

His eyes held yours. “That’s not why I’m slowing down.”

The words hit too close.

Your throat tightened. “Then why?”

For a second, Jack did not answer. His fingers stayed beneath your chin. His other hand stayed at your waist. He looked at you like he could see every place you were trying to hide and had decided to be gentle with all of them.

“Because you’re trying to outrun it,” he said.

Your chest tightened. 

You tried to laugh, but it came out too thin. “Outrun sex?”

Jack did not smile.

“No,” he said.

The quiet around you changed. His thumb brushed your jaw.

“Outrun what it means,” he said.

For a second, you could not breathe.

Because there it was.

The thing you had been trying not to name.

The reason the slow kisses felt more dangerous than the desperate ones. The reason his hand on your face undid you more than his hand on your waist. The reason your chest felt too full every time he simply looked at you.

This meant something now.

No.

Worse.

It had meant something before.

You just had no way to pretend otherwise anymore.

Your eyes burned before you could stop them.

Jack saw it immediately.

His other hand came up to your face, holding you carefully between both palms.

“Hey,” Jack said, voice low.

You shook your head once, embarrassed by the sudden heat behind your eyes. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You shook your head again, trying to shrug it off, trying to make it smaller before it could become something you had to explain.

Jack did not let the moment go.

He did not push either.

His thumbs moved over your cheeks.

“I know you want me,” he said.

Your breath caught.

His eyes stayed steady on yours. “I know you want this.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt.

He tilted your face up a little more, tender enough to ache. “And I know it’s easier to rush through it than feel it.”

Your face crumpled before you could stop it.

Not fully.

Not enough to become tears you could not come back from.

But enough.

Enough that you felt the truth of it move through you like a bruise being pressed.

Because he was right.

He was right, and you hated that he was right, and you loved that he knew how to say it without making you feel small.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and the realization came so fast it almost hurt.

You were in love with him.

Not close to it.

Not drifting toward it.

There.

Already there.

So far into it that you could not see the edge of it anymore.

Jack’s face blurred for half a second, and you tried to look away.

His fingers stayed beneath your chin.

Not trapping.

Asking.

You let him bring you back.

“I know,” Jack said quietly.

You shook your head, small and helpless. “You don’t.”

His eyes softened.

“I know what it feels like when something gets too real all at once,” he said.

Your breath caught on something dangerously close to a sob.

Jack’s thumbs moved over your cheeks.

“That’s all. I know.”

His forehead touched yours.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The heat was still there.

Of course it was.

His body was close. His hands were on your face. His mouth was inches from yours. His shirt was open on your body, and the air touched the lace every time you breathed.

But the urgency had changed shape.

It was not smaller. It was deeper.

Jack brushed his mouth against yours once. “Do you want to stop?”

You shook your head immediately. “No.”

His eyes searched yours. “Slow down?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“Okay,” Jack said.

Then he kissed you again.

Soft.

Certain.

Like slowing down did not mean wanting you less.

Like tenderness was not the opposite of hunger.

Like this was what hunger became when it finally had somewhere safe to go.

Jack kissed you until your fingers loosened in his shirt, until your breathing slowed enough to match his, until the ache in your chest stopped feeling like something you had to survive and started feeling like something he was willing to hold with you.

His mouth left yours slowly.

Not because he was done.

Because he wanted to look at you.

You could feel it before you saw it, the weight of his attention moving over your face with a kind of quiet wonder that made you feel more exposed than the open buttons of his shirt ever could.

Your breath caught. “What?”

Jack did not answer right away. His thumb moved once over your cheek. Then his eyes lifted back to yours.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

The words landed softly. Too softly. Like he knew they might scare you if he said them too quickly.

Your throat tightened, and you looked away on instinct.

Jack’s fingers found your chin. Gentle. Patient. He tilted your face back to his.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

Your pulse stumbled. “Do what?”

“Make it smaller,” Jack said.

Your mouth parted. His eyes stayed steady on yours, dark and warm and unfairly careful.

“You’re beautiful,” he said again. “And you’re smart as hell.”

Your chest gave one painful little squeeze.

“So damn smart,” he said.

You blinked fast. “Jack.”

“And funny,” Jack said, like he had not heard the warning in your voice at all. “Even when you’re trying not to be.”

A shaky breath slipped out of you. His thumb brushed along your jaw.

“And stubborn,” he added.

Your laugh came out thin and wet around the edges. “That one sounded less romantic.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “It was honest.”

A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it, small and helpless, and Jack looked at you like that laugh had done something to him.

Like he wanted to keep it.

Your chest ached so hard you almost had to look away again, but his fingers were still beneath your chin, not holding you there so much as asking you to stay.

So you stayed.

Jack’s voice dropped. “I like your smart-ass comments.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes moved over your face with a tenderness that made you feel unsteady.

“I like that you don’t let me get away with anything,” he said. “I like that you look at a bookstore like it’s a place you could live. I like that you pretend not to care right before you care so much it gives you away.”

Your eyes burned again.

Not suddenly this time.

Slowly.

Like warmth rising.

Jack’s other hand settled at your waist, careful over the cotton of his shirt.

“I like the way you say my name when you’re annoyed with me,” he said.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt.

“And when you’re not,” he added, rougher.

Heat moved through you, slow and heavy. Not separate from the feeling.

Wrapped inside it.

You were falling apart.

Quietly.

Completely.

In the best, most terrifying way.

Because this was not Jack wanting your body.

Not only that.

This was Jack standing in your dark apartment, with your face in his hands, telling you he saw you.

And you loved him.

You loved him so much that it felt obvious now. Embarrassingly obvious.

Like every part of you had known before you did.

Jack’s gaze sharpened slightly. “There you are.”

Your breath shook. You tried to smile. “You’re making this very hard.”

His brows drew together faintly. “What?”

You swallowed, your hands still curled in the front of his shirt. “Not saying something stupid.”

Jack’s expression softened. He knew.

Maybe not the exact words. Maybe not the full shape of it.

But he knew enough.

His thumb moved over your cheek again.

“Then don’t say anything,” he said.

Your throat tightened.

His mouth brushed yours, barely.

“Just let me have you here,” Jack whispered.

Your eyes fluttered. His fingers tipped your chin up again before they could close all the way.

“With me,” he said.

You nodded once, small and unsteady. “I’m with you.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

Then his mouth found yours again.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

And this time, when the want rose through you, you did not try to run ahead of it.

You let it come with the feeling.

You let it come with the ache.

You let it come with the terrifying, beautiful truth of Jack looking at you like you were already something he wanted to keep.

His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, pushing the open shirt down another inch. His mouth followed the movement, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the side of your throat.

You tipped your head back against the wall.

Jack paused immediately. Not because he wanted to stop. Because he wanted your eyes again.

His fingers touched your chin.

You looked at him. His gaze dropped to the lace beneath his shirt, then lifted back to your face.

“So beautiful,” he said, softer this time.

Your chest cracked open.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His hand moved to the next button. He waited. You nodded. 

His eyes stayed on yours as he opened it.

Then the next.

And the next.

Until the shirt gave way beneath his hands, loose around your shoulders, white cotton and white lace and his careful, devastating attention.

Jack looked at you like he was in awe.

Not hungry.

Not only hungry.

Awe.

And somehow that was the thing that made your knees weaken.

“You’re looking at me like that again,” you said, voice barely there.

Jack’s thumb brushed the edge of the shirt off your shoulder.

“Good,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He leaned in and kissed the newly bare skin. Then looked up at you.

“I want you to know,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. “Know what?”

His mouth touched your shoulder again. Soft. Slow.

Then he lifted his head, his fingers still resting against the open edge of the shirt.

“That I see you,” he said.

Your chest tightened. His eyes held yours.

“Not just this,” Jack said, his thumb brushing the lace once, light enough to make your breath stumble. “Not just what you let me touch.”

Your throat went tight.

Jack’s hand came back to your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek with a tenderness that made your eyes burn again.

“You,” he said.

The word was simple. Devastating.

You tried to smile, but it shook before it landed. “You’re very intense for a man who bought himself smut tonight.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. There it was. The smallest flicker of amusement.

But his eyes stayed soft.

His thumb moved over your cheek. “I’m studying.”

Your laugh broke out quiet and unsteady, and Jack kissed it from your mouth before it could turn into another escape.

This kiss was deeper. Not faster. Just deeper.

The kind of kiss that made your body sink back against the wall instead of strain forward. The kind that made your fingers loosen at the front of his shirt, then curl again because you needed somewhere to put all the feeling.

Jack’s hand slid to your shoulder. The shirt slipped lower. Cool air touched your skin.

Then his mouth followed.

A kiss to your collarbone.

Another to the place where the lace began.

Then back up.

Your mouth. Your cheek. Your jaw.

Like he wanted all of you and refused to let any part become more important than the rest.

Your head tipped back.

This time, when his fingers found your chin, you were already looking for him.

Jack noticed. His expression shifted, soft and almost undone.

“There,” he said.

Your chest ached. You swallowed around it. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Jack said.

His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip. “You’re doing good.”

The praise went through you slowly. Warm, heavy, and impossible to hide from.

Your eyes fluttered.

Jack’s fingers held your chin, gentle but sure.

“Stay,” he said softly.

You opened your eyes again.

His gaze was waiting for you. Not demanding. Waiting.

Your breath shook. “I’m here.”

Jack’s mouth softened.

“I know,” he said.

Then he kissed you again, and the shirt slipped from one shoulder.

Then the other.

It caught at your elbows for a second, white cotton hanging loose around you, and Jack paused like the sight had knocked something out of him.

You almost made a joke.

Almost.

But his eyes moved over you with so much care that the words disappeared before you could reach for them.

Your voice came out smaller. “What?”

Jack shook his head once, barely. His hand settled at your waist, thumb brushing the line where lace met skin.

“Beautiful,” he said.

You closed your eyes. Not to hide this time. Just because feeling it took everything.

Jack kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth.

“Too much?” he asked.

You shook your head. 

His mouth brushed yours. “Tell me.”

Your hands tightened at his sides. “It’s not too much.”

Jack waited.

You opened your eyes.

“It’s a lot,” you admitted.

His expression softened. “I know.”

“But not too much,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Okay,” he said.

That was all. No pushing. No making you explain it until the feeling lost its shape.

Just okay.

Like he believed you. Like he trusted you to know the difference between overwhelmed and afraid. Like he knew tenderness could make you shake and still be wanted.

Your chest opened around that.

Jack’s hands moved to the loose shirt caught at your elbows.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Can I?”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

He slid the cotton down your arms slowly, his fingers brushing your skin the whole way.

The shirt fell from your wrists and landed softly on the floor between you.

For a second, neither of you moved.

You stood there in white lace and jeans, your skin warm from his mouth, your heart too open to hide. Jack looked at you like he was still learning how much wanting could hurt when it meant something.

You reached for him because standing there being seen was suddenly too much and not enough at the same time. Your fingers found the hem of his gray shirt. Jack’s breath changed.

You looked up at him. “Can I?”

His eyes darkened. Then he nodded. “Yes.”

You tugged his shirt upward.

Jack lifted his arms, letting you pull it over his head.

You dropped it somewhere beside the button-down, but neither of you looked down.

You were too busy looking at him. Bare chest. Steady breathing. The familiar strength of him, suddenly softer in the dark of your apartment.

Your boyfriend.

The thought hit again, less sharp this time. Still terrifying.

Still warm.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours like he could feel it move through you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

His mouth curved faintly. “Clear.”

A breathless laugh slipped out of you. “Yes, Jack. I’m okay.”

“Good,” he said.

You stepped closer before he could be the only one doing it carefully.

Your hands settled against his chest.

His skin was warm beneath your palms. Real. Here.

Yours to touch because he had chosen to be.

Jack’s hand came to your back, broad and steady, and you felt the smallest shift in him when your fingers moved over his ribs.

Not impatience. Want. The controlled kind. The kind that made his breathing deepen and his eyes stay on yours anyway.

You swallowed. “Bedroom?”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

Heat moved through his face. Not surprise. Not hesitation.

Want.

Full and quiet and no less intense for being controlled.

“Yeah,” Jack said.

Your stomach flipped.

He took your hand and walked with you toward the bedroom.

The apartment seemed quieter as you moved through it.

Not empty.

Waiting.

Every familiar thing looked a little different with Jack in it like this, shirtless and holding your hand, your books by the door, his white button-down draped over a chair like proof that the night had already become something you could not fold neatly away.

Your bedroom door was open.

You stopped just inside it. Not because you changed your mind. Because the bed was there, and suddenly the next part became real in a way that made your pulse trip. Jack stopped with you. He did not pull. Did not crowd. His fingers stayed around yours, warm and patient. You looked at the bed. Then at him.

Jack’s eyes searched your face. “Still okay?”

Your throat tightened. There it was again. The care. The choice. The unbearable sweetness of him making room for you to answer honestly.

You squeezed his hand. “Still okay.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Good.”

You looked down at where your hand fit in his, then back up at him. “You’re going to keep asking?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

Your chest warmed.

You tried to make your smile teasing. “Very thorough.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You like thorough.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s eyes darkened at the sound. There it was. The heat. Still there.

Waiting underneath everything soft.

Your pulse jumped.

“I do,” you said.

Jack stepped closer.

Slowly.

Close enough that your hand flattened against his chest again. Close enough that you could feel his breath when he looked down at you. His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your face up.

“Then let me be thorough,” he said.

Your stomach dipped. You nodded once.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Words.”

A shaky breath left you.

“Yes,” you said. “Be thorough.”

His mouth came down on yours. Slow. Deep. Thorough enough to make you understand exactly what you had asked for.

Jack kissed you as he walked you backward, one hand at your waist, the other warm at the side of your neck. He did not rush you toward the bed. He did not crowd you until you stumbled. He moved with you, step by step, kissing you like every inch of the room mattered because he was taking you through it.

The backs of your legs met the mattress. You stopped. Jack stopped with you. His mouth left yours slowly, his forehead hovering close enough that you could still feel his breath. Your hands were on his chest. His hands were on you. Neither of you moved for half a second.

Then Jack’s fingers found your chin again. Gentle. Certain. He tilted your face up. You looked at him before he had to ask. Something softened in his eyes.

“There,” he said.

Your chest ached. You tried to smile. “I’m learning.”

Jack’s thumb brushed along your jaw. “Good.”

Then he kissed you again, softer this time, and his hands moved to the button of your jeans. He stopped there. Waiting. Your pulse jumped.

A shaky breath left you. “Yes, Jack. Take them off.”

His jaw shifted. Not because he was unsure. Because hearing it did something to him. You saw it. The way his breathing changed. The way his eyes darkened. The way his fingers flexed once at your waistband before he made himself slow down again.

Jack opened the button. Then the zipper. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet bedroom. You swallowed. His mouth touched yours once, brief and steady, before he lowered himself enough to ease the denim over your hips. He took his time. His hands followed the movement, warm over your sides, your hips, your thighs, like he was not simply undressing you but learning how to hold every place you let him reach.

You stepped out when he guided the jeans down. Jack’s hand wrapped around your ankle for balance, steadying you while you lifted one foot, then the other. It should have been practical.

It was not.

Not with him kneeling in front of you. Not with the way his eyes lifted and stopped. Completely stopped.

You knew the exact second he saw it.

The white lace beneath his shirt matched the white lace beneath your jeans. 

Jack went very still. Your breath caught. His gaze moved over you slowly, from the bralette he had already uncovered to the matching lace at your hips, then back to your face. His jaw shifted.

“You planned this,” Jack said.

Your pulse stumbled, but somehow your mouth still worked. “I planned the shirt.”

His eyes held yours. Dark. Warm. Not fooled for a second.

“Trouble,” he said.

“The rest was good styling,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that the heat of him came back against your skin. Close enough that your hands lifted to his chest on instinct. His fingers traced the lace at your hip. Barely. Just one slow touch.

“Good styling,” he said, voice rougher.

You tried to smile. It did not quite land. Not with the way he was looking at you. Like the sight of you had undone something careful in him. Like he was losing it and choosing not to rush anyway. That was somehow worse. That was so much worse.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His eyes came back to yours.

“There you are,” he said softly.

Your chest tightened. His hands slid to your waist, then up your sides, careful over bare skin and lace. He kissed you as he touched you, mouth slow over yours, palms warm and deliberate, thumbs brushing beneath the band of your bralette without going farther.

Not yet.

He was taking his time. He wanted you to feel that.

You did. God, you did.

His mouth moved to your jaw, then your throat, then back to your lips before you could tip your head too far back and disappear into it. Every time the feeling got too big, Jack brought you back until there was nowhere to hide except in him.

His fingers brushed the strap at your shoulder. He paused. Your breath caught.

Jack’s voice was low against your mouth. “Can I?”

You nodded, then remembered.

“Yes,” you said. “You can.”

His lips curved against yours, not quite a smile. Approval. Affection. Want. All of it.

He slid one strap down your arm. Then the other. His mouth followed the path, kissing the skin he uncovered, slow enough that your hands tightened at his shoulders. By the time his fingers reached the clasp, your breathing was uneven. Jack’s was not much better.

He looked at you again. You held his gaze. This time, you did not make him ask.

“Yes,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened. He unclasped the bralette and eased it from your body. No rush. No sudden reveal. Just his hands, gentle and steady, setting the lace aside before he came back to you. For one breath, Jack only looked. Not in a way that made you feel inspected. In a way that made you feel witnessed. His face softened around the want.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Your throat tightened. You almost looked away. His fingers touched your chin before you could. Gentle. Patient. You let him keep you there.

“You’re beautiful,” Jack said again.

A shaky breath left you. Then his mouth lowered to your chest. Your eyes closed. This time, he let them. Because you were not hiding. You were feeling it.

Jack kissed you like that mattered. Like all of it mattered. Your collarbone. The center of your chest. The curve of your breast. The place just beneath it that made your breath catch when his mouth found it.

He learned you slowly. 

With his lips. With his hands. With the soft drag of his thumb over places that made your knees weaken, and your fingers thread into his hair.

You said his name once, maybe twice. You were not sure. Jack seemed to hear it either way. He always did. His mouth came back to yours, and you kissed him with everything you did not know how to say yet.

The love was still there.

Huge. Terrifying. Obvious now.

It moved through every touch, every breath, every place his skin met yours.

You were in love with him.

You were in love with him, and he was kissing you like he could feel the shape of it even if you had not given him the words.

His hands moved to your hips. Again, he waited. Again, you answered before he could ask.

“Yes,” you said, breathless.

Jack’s forehead touched yours for half a second. Then his fingers slipped beneath the lace at your hips. He eased it down slowly, kneeling as he did, his mouth brushing your stomach, your hip, the top of your thigh.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

Jack looked up.

The sight of him there almost took your breath away. His hands were steady on your thighs. His eyes were on yours. Not rushed. Not careless.

Yours.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His brow lifted faintly.

A breathless laugh slipped out of you. “Yes, Jack. I’m okay.”

His mouth curved. “Good.” 

Then he kissed the inside of your knee. Your breath caught. He stood before it could become too much too quickly, and his hands came back to your waist, guiding you onto the bed.

You sat first.

Then shifted back when he followed. Jack moved over you slowly, one leg on the mattress, then the other, his body covering yours without pinning you down. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

Your breath changed. His did too. He noticed yours. You noticed his.

For a second, you just looked at each other. You in nothing. Jack shirtless above you, jeans still on, control held together by what looked like pure will. His hand came to your face. His thumb brushed your cheek.

“Still with me?” he asked.

Your chest squeezed. You nodded. “I’m with you.”

Jack’s eyes softened.

Then he kissed you. Slow at first. Then deeper. His body settled closer, his forearm braced beside your head, his other hand moving from your cheek to your waist, your hip, your thigh. He touched you like he was trying to make every place feel chosen. Your hands moved over his shoulders, down his back, learning the heat of him in the dark.

Jack’s mouth left yours for your jaw. Your neck. The slope of your shoulder. Then your mouth again. Always your mouth again. Like he could not stay away from kissing you for too long. Like kissing you was the thing keeping him present too. His hand slid up your thigh. Slow. Careful. Your breath hitched.

Jack stilled immediately. His forehead touched yours. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

His fingers moved another inch. Your hips shifted before you could stop them. Jack’s mouth curved against yours. You felt it.

You opened your eyes. “Do not look smug.”

His gaze lifted to yours. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

His fingers brushed higher. Your words broke. Jack’s expression changed. Less amusement. More focus. More awe.

“There,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened at the word.

His fingers touched you slowly. So slowly it almost hurt. Your head tipped back against the pillow. Jack’s mouth followed, kissing the line of your throat as his hand moved between your thighs. Gentle at first. Then firmer when your body answered.

He watched every reaction. Every inhale. Every tremble. Every place you softened or tensed, every place you needed more or needed him to wait.

His mouth came back to yours when his fingers moved with more purpose. You gasped into the kiss. Jack swallowed the sound like it was something he wanted to keep. His hand worked slowly, deliberately, the heel of his palm pressing just enough to make your fingers dig into his shoulders.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Jack’s fingers paused beneath your chin. Not stopping his other hand. Just bringing you back. You opened your eyes. He was right there. Above you. Around you. Everywhere.

“Stay with me,” Jack said.

Your breath shook. “I’m trying.”

His thumb moved along your jaw. “You’re doing good.”

The praise went through you like heat. 

Your body tightened around nothing, and Jack felt it. His eyes darkened.

He kissed you again, deep and slow, and his fingers slipped inside you.

Your breath broke.

Jack stilled for half a second, forehead against yours, letting you adjust, letting the moment settle instead of taking it from you too quickly. Then he moved. Slow. Careful.

Perfect.

Your hands slid into his hair. His mouth moved against yours, then down your jaw, then to your neck, kissing you through every slow stroke of his fingers. It was unbearable. It was perfect. It was too much and not enough and exactly what you had asked for. Thorough. Jack learned you like he had meant that word. Like it was a promise. His thumb found the place that made your hips lift from the mattress.

You moaned before you could stop it.

Jack’s mouth came back to yours immediately.

“There,” he said against your lips.

You shook your head, overwhelmed by the tenderness of it, by the heat, by the way he kept looking at you like he wanted to remember this version of you forever. Your eyes burned again. Jack saw. His hand slowed, but did not stop.

His face softened. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. 

His fingers stayed gentle, steady, giving you enough to keep you close without pushing you over too fast.

“Words,” he said.

Your chest ached.

“No,” you whispered. “Not too much.”

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

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Jack,” you breathed.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

You believed him. That was the thing that undid you. Not just his hand. Not just his mouth. Not just the slow, perfect rhythm of his fingers inside you.

It was the fact that you believed him.

That he had you. That he wanted you. That he knew what this meant and stayed anyway.

Your body tightened.

Jack felt it immediately. His mouth moved to yours, soft and deep.

“That’s it,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

You came with your eyes open.

Barely.

Because Jack’s fingers were beneath your chin again, because his forehead was close to yours, because his eyes were on you, steady and warm and completely gone for you.

The pleasure moved through you slowly at first. Then all at once. Your breath caught. Your body arched beneath him. Jack kissed you through it, mouth gentle and sure, his hand still moving, softer now, helping you through every trembling second.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders.

His name broke out of you, unsteady and wrecked.

Jack’s expression softened like the sound had done something to him. He slowed when you needed him to. Stopped when your hand found his wrist.

Then he kissed your palm. Your wrist. The inside of your forearm. Like even coming down deserved tenderness. Your chest rose and fell beneath him. Your whole body felt loose.

Open. 

Too seen.

Jack shifted his hand away slowly, careful not to startle you, and settled beside you on his elbow. Not far. Never far. His clean hand came to your face. His thumb brushed your cheek. You blinked up at him, dazed and too full to make a joke.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “There you are.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cry.

You wanted to tell him.

The words pressed hard behind your ribs. Instead, you reached for him. Jack came willingly, lowering himself back over you just enough for your arms to close around his shoulders.

You kissed him. Slow. Messy. Tender. Still shaking.

Jack kissed you back like he knew exactly what you were not saying yet. Like he was willing to wait. Like he was not going anywhere.

Your arms tightened around his shoulders.

For a moment, you only held him there, chest to chest, skin to skin, his weight careful above you and his mouth soft against yours.

You could feel him everywhere.

The heat of his body. The restraint in his breathing. The want he kept pulling back from the edge because he was trying so hard to give you something slower than urgency.

Something better.

Your hand moved down his back.

Jack’s breath caught when your fingers reached the waistband of his jeans. He went still.

Your mouth brushed his once. “Jack.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah?”

You swallowed. The words felt too big and too simple at the same time.

“I want you,” you said.

His expression shifted. Heat first. Then something softer.

“You have me,” Jack said.

Your chest clenched. You shook your head, your fingers curling lightly at his waistband. “No.”

His eyes stayed on yours. You took a breath.

“All of you,” you whispered.

Jack’s jaw shifted. For a second, he did not move. He only looked at you, like the words had gone through him slowly, like they had found every careful place he had been holding himself together and pulled.

“You sure?” he asked.

Your throat tightened at the roughness in his voice.

“Yes,” you said. “I want all of you.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, the look in them made your stomach drop.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that. Okay. Like he was answering you. Like he was promising you. Like he was giving himself permission.

He kissed you once, deep and slow, then pulled back.

The space he left above you felt immediate. Cold. Unfair. Your hands slipped from his body as he moved to the edge of the bed.

You watched him stand.

There was no teasing left in you now. No smart comment waiting on your tongue. Only Jack in the low light of your bedroom, bare-chested and breathing unevenly, his eyes still on you as his hands went to the button of his jeans.

Your breath stopped. He noticed. His mouth curved faintly, but there was no smugness in it. Only heat. Only want. He opened the button. Lowered the zipper. Pushed the denim down his hips. Your fingers curled into the sheets. Jack’s eyes darkened at the movement, but he did not look away. He stepped out of his jeans, then his underwear, and your breath left you all at once.

He was already hard.

Already ready.

And somehow that was the thing that made you ache. Not because you had not known he wanted you. You knew. You could feel it in every kiss, every pause, every careful breath he had taken above you. But seeing what his control had been holding back, seeing how badly he wanted you and how gently he had touched you anyway, did something to you. Something low. Something deep. Something dangerously close to love and lust becoming the same feeling in your body.

Jack’s voice came rough through the quiet. “Trouble.”

Your eyes lifted back to his face. You had not even realized they had dropped. His expression was warm and wrecked at once.

“You’re looking,” Jack said.

Your lips parted. Then you found enough of yourself to answer.

“You’re naked in my bedroom,” you said. “I feel like looking is allowed.”

His mouth curved. There she is. He did not say it. He did not have to. You felt it in the way he looked at you. Then his gaze moved over your body, stretched out on the bed, still flushed, still bare, still open from what he had just done to you.

The air changed.

Your breath caught. Jack moved back to you. Slowly. Not because he did not want to hurry. Because slow was how he was keeping you both inside it. The mattress dipped beneath his knee. Then the other. Jack came over you carefully, one hand braced beside your head, his body settling into the space between your thighs.

Your breath changed.

His did too.

You felt the hard length of him against you, and your hips shifted before you could stop them. Jack’s eyes shut for one brief second. When he opened them, they were darker. Focused. Yours.

“Careful,” he said, voice rough.

Your hands slid up his arms.

His mouth brushed yours, and this time there was a tremor in it. Not hesitation. Control. Thin and fraying. His hand moved between your bodies. You felt him take himself in his hand. Your breath caught hard enough that his mouth paused against yours. Jack lifted his head just enough to see your face. His other hand stayed braced near your head, forearm warm beside your cheek, making the space around you feel smaller, safer, entirely his.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders.

He guided himself against you slowly. Once. Then again. Your eyes fluttered. Jack’s fingers touched your chin. Gentle. Immediate. You opened your eyes. He was looking down at you like he could barely breathe and still needed you there with him more than he needed anything else.

“Stay with me,” Jack said.

Your chest ached. “I’m here,” you whispered.

His hand left himself and slid to your thigh. Warm. Broad. Certain. He hitched your leg higher around his hip, opening you to him, bringing you closer, and the shift made both of you inhale at the same time. Your body pulled tight with anticipation. Jack’s eyes did not leave yours.

“Still okay like this?” he asked.

Your throat tightened. You knew what he meant. No barrier. No distance. No pretending this was anything other than trust.

“Yes,” you said. “Like this.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. His fingers tightened gently on your thigh. “You tell me if you need me to stop.”

“I will,” you said.

His gaze held yours. “Promise me.”

Your chest ached at the softness under the command.

“I promise,” you whispered.

Jack’s expression softened for half a second. Then he kissed you. Soft. Deep. Right as he began to push inside.

Your breath broke against his mouth.

Jack stopped immediately. Barely inside you. Shaking with the effort of it. His forehead touched yours.

“Okay?” he asked.

You nodded, but his hand flexed at your thigh. You knew. Words. Your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I’m okay.”

Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again.

He moved another inch.

Slow.

So slow your body did not know whether to tense or melt. You did both. Jack felt it. His thumb moved over your thigh, soothing and steady.

“That’s it,” he said, voice low. “I’ve got you.”

Your eyes burned again. Not from pain. Not even from the stretch, though that was there too, deep and full and overwhelming in its own right.

It was him.

The way he watched your face. The way he stopped every time your breath changed. The way he made entering you feel less like taking and more like being allowed closer.

Your hand slid to the side of his neck.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His eyes held yours.

“I know,” he said.

You shook your head once, overwhelmed by the way he kept knowing. His mouth touched yours.

“I know,” he said again.

Then he moved deeper. Your back arched. Your leg tightened around his hip. Jack’s breathing broke. For the first time all night, his control visibly slipped. Just for a second. A rough sound left him, low in his chest, and his head dipped toward your shoulder. The sound did something devastating to you. Your hands moved into his hair.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Then his head lifted. His eyes found yours. Wrecked. Tender. Wanting.

Yours.

Your chest cracked open.

“There you are,” you said softly.

Something in his face changed. A flicker of surprise. Then heat. Then something so close to love that it stole the air from the room. Jack kissed you hard enough to make you gasp, and in the same breath, he sank fully into you.

You clung to him.

He stilled there. All the way inside. Forehead against yours. Breathing uneven. Hand tight on your thigh. For a moment, neither of you moved. You could feel him everywhere. The weight of him. The heat. The fullness. The impossible intimacy of having him this close and still not feeling close enough.

Your eyes stayed on his. You did not look away. Jack’s mouth brushed yours once. Then again.

“Okay?” he asked.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Yes,” you whispered.

His thumb moved over your thigh. “Still want all of me?”

Your breath caught.

The words went straight through you. Not teasing. Not smug. A question. A reminder.

A promise.

You lifted your hips slightly beneath him. Jack’s jaw tightened.

“Yes,” you said. “All of you.”

His eyes darkened. Then he moved. Slowly at first. A careful retreat. A steady return. Your breath caught on the first stroke. Jack watched it happen. His mouth found yours before the sound could become something you tried to swallow.

He kissed you through the next one.

And the next. Each movement deeper than the last. Still slow. Still controlled. Still so full of feeling that it almost hurt to hold all of it in your body. You had thought wanting him fast would be easier. You had been wrong. Slow was devastating. It made you feel every inch. Every breath. Every place his body met yours.

It made it impossible to pretend this was only sex. 

Jack’s hand stayed on your thigh, holding you open for him, his thumb moving in small circles against your skin. His other forearm stayed braced beside your head, keeping him close enough that his mouth could return to yours whenever your breathing changed.

He kissed you constantly. Your lips. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Your cheek when your eyes burned again. Your throat when your head tipped back. Then your mouth again. Always your mouth again.

Like he needed to come back to you there.

Like kissing you was how he kept saying what neither of you had managed to say out loud. Your body softened around him. Jack felt it. His eyes lifted to yours.

“There,” he murmured.

The word broke something open in you. You pulled him down and kissed him before you could cry. Jack let you. He let the kiss go messy. Let your hands pull at his hair. Let your leg tighten around his hip. Let you take a little more because now you were not running from it.

You were asking.

And he gave it to you.  Still slow. Still deep. Still watching you like the sight of you taking him apart was taking him apart too.

Jack’s control did not snap all at once.

It thinned.

That was worse.

You felt it in the way his breathing roughened against your mouth. In the way his hand tightened on your thigh. In the way the careful drag of his body into yours became heavier, deeper, still measured but no longer untouched by need. He was trying to stay slow. You could feel him trying.

That did something to you too.

Your hands slid down his back, fingers pressing into warm skin, and Jack’s hips faltered for half a second. His forehead dropped to yours. A rough breath left him against your mouth. You held onto him tighter.

Jack’s eyes opened, and the look in them stole what little air you had left. Wrecked. Tender.

Trying.

Your leg tightened around his hip. Jack’s breath broke.

“There,” you whispered.

His eyes changed. You had not meant to say it. Not like that. Not his word. But it slipped out of you anyway, soft and ruined, and Jack looked at you like it had gone straight through him. For one second, he stopped moving. Completely. His chest rose against yours. His hand flexed at your thigh.

“What did you say?” Jack asked.

Your face went hot. Not with embarrassment. With something bigger. Something tender and terrifying and impossible to shove back into your chest now that it had found a way out.

You swallowed.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. Soft. Unyielding.

His thumb moved once over your thigh. Your breath caught. He was not teasing you. Not this time.

He wanted you with him.

All the way.

You stared up at him, your body still full of him, your heart too full of everything else, and the truth pressed so hard against your ribs that it hurt.

You whispered, “There you are.”

Jack’s expression changed. Slowly. Like the words had found some place in him he had not guarded carefully enough. His mouth parted. For once, he had nothing ready. No steady answer. No quiet correction. No careful command. Just Jack above you, inside you, looking at you like you had reached for him somewhere deeper than skin. Your chest cracked wide open.

“I wanted you to look at me too,” you whispered.

Jack’s eyes softened.

His hand left your thigh and came to your face.

“You have me,” he said.

The same words from before. Different now. Lower. Truer. Your eyes burned.

“I know,” you whispered.

Jack kissed you. Not hard. Not rushed. So careful it almost undid you worse than anything else. His hips moved again, one slow stroke that made both of you inhale against each other’s mouths.

Your fingers tightened at his shoulders. The feeling built differently this time. Not sudden. Not sharp. A slow gathering pressure that started low in your body and climbed until it filled your chest too.

Jack felt the change. His mouth moved to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your throat. His hand returned to your thigh, hitching your leg higher, and the new angle made your breath break.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His hips stilled immediately. His eyes found yours. “Too much?”

You shook your head fast. “No.”

His gaze searched your face.

Your hands slid into his hair. “Don’t stop.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. That hit him. You saw it. The little fracture in his control. The way his eyes went darker. The way his body pressed deeper before he caught himself.

His mouth brushed yours. “Tell me what you need.”

You could have said faster. You could have said harder.

You almost did.

Then Jack moved again, slow and deep and devastatingly present, and the word that came out of you was not either of those.

“You,” you breathed.

Jack’s face softened so suddenly it hurt. Your throat tightened.

“You,” you said again. “I need you.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

His voice came out rough. “You have me.”

Your fingers curled in his hair. “I know.”

The next stroke made your eyes close.

Jack’s fingers found your chin. Gentle. Immediate.

You opened them again.

He was right there. Still watching. Still holding himself over you like he would rather break than look away from you now.

“That’s it,” Jack said.

Your breath came out broken. His hand moved between your bodies, thumb finding you again while he stayed buried deep inside you. Your whole body jolted.

Jack kissed the sound from your mouth. Slow. Deep. Relentless. You clung to him, overwhelmed by the fullness, by the pressure, by his mouth and his hand.

Your hips lifted into his touch.

Jack groaned.

The sound was low and wrecked, and this time he did not hide it against your shoulder. He let you hear it. 

Your eyes flew open.

His were already on you.

The sight of him like that, losing pieces of himself and still trying to take care of you, made the feeling in your chest spill over before you could stop it.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Jack went still.

Everything stopped. His hips. His hand. His breath. For one terrible second, you thought you had broken something.

Then Jack’s face changed. Not shock. Not fear. Something worse.

Wonder.

His hand came up to your cheek, and his thumb brushed beneath your eye before you realized a tear had slipped free.

“What?” Jack asked, barely above a breath.

Your throat tightened. You could have taken it back. You could have hidden behind the fact that he was still inside you, that this was exactly the kind of thing people could pretend was said because the moment was too much.

But Jack was looking at you.

And you were so tired of running. Your fingers loosened in his hair and slid to the side of his face.

“I love you,” you said again.

Jack’s eyes closed. Just for a second. Like he needed somewhere to put it. When he opened them, they were wet and dark and so soft that your chest hurt.

“Trouble,” he said.

Your chest shook. His thumb moved over your cheek.

“I love you too,” Jack said.

The words moved through you slowly.

Then all at once.

Your face crumpled, and Jack kissed you before you could turn away from it.

He kissed you like he had been waiting to say it and terrified he would scare you if he did.

He kissed you like the words had somewhere to go now. 

Into your mouth.

Into your skin.

Into the space between your bodies, where he was still so close that every breath made you feel him.

You whispered his name against his lips. Jack’s forehead touched yours.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time.

Your chest shook. His mouth brushed yours. Again. Again. Like he needed to keep saying it in every way he could.

Then his hips moved.

Slowly. Carefully. Like he was asking all over again.

Your breath caught. Your body answered before your words could.

Jack felt it. His eyes darkened.

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nodded, your hands sliding down his back. “Yes.”

His gaze held yours.

You swallowed. “I love you.”

Jack’s control broke a little more.

You felt it in the next stroke. Deeper. Not rough. Never careless. But less restrained. Less careful around the truth because there was no point pretending it was not there anymore.

Your leg tightened around his hip.

Jack’s hand pressed into the mattress beside your head, his other hand firm on your thigh, holding you open as he moved into you again.

And again.

Still watching you. Still kissing you whenever your breath broke. Still murmuring your name like it mattered to him.

Pleasure rose fast this time. Too fast. Your fingers dug into his shoulder.

“Jack,” you gasped.

“I know,” he said.

His mouth found yours. “I’ve got you.”

You shook beneath him, the words echoing through you.

I love you too.

I love you too.

I love you too.

It was too much.

It was perfect.

His thumb found you again, and your whole body tightened. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“There,” he said, voice wrecked. “Come on, sweetheart.”

The endearment pushed you over. 

Your orgasm moved through you hard and slow, taking the breath from your lungs and the last of your control with it. Your back arched. Your leg tightened around his hip.

Jack kissed you through it, swallowing the broken sound of his name as you came around him. His rhythm faltered. His forehead dropped to yours.

You felt the restraint leave him in pieces.

A rough breath. A deeper stroke. His hand tightening on your thigh, then loosening, like he remembered himself even at the edge. 

You touched his face.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His eyes opened. You held him there.

“Stay with me,” you said.

The words did to him what his had done to you. You saw it. The break in his face. The surrender. His mouth found yours, and he came with a low, shaken sound against your lips, his body pressing deep into yours as he let go.

You held him through it.

Both arms around his shoulders.

One hand in his hair. The other at the back of his neck. Jack shook once above you, his breath rough and uneven, his forehead pressed to yours like he did not want even an inch of space.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

There was only breath. Heat. Skin. The fading tremor in your body. The weight of him careful over you even now.

Then Jack shifted, just enough to keep from crushing you, but you tightened your arms before he could move too far. His head lifted. Your eyes met his.

Your voice came out small. “Not yet.”

Jack’s expression softened. He lowered himself again, careful and warm, and tucked his face into the side of your neck.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Your eyes closed.

His mouth brushed your skin. “I’m here.”

The words settled somewhere deep. Deeper than the heat. Deeper than the ache still fading through your body. You held onto him, one hand still buried in his hair, the other resting against the back of his neck, and for a long time, Jack let you.

He stayed exactly where you asked him to stay. Warm. Heavy. Careful. His breathing slowly evened out against your throat. Yours followed because his did. Because apparently your body had learned him that quickly.

Jack shifted after a while, just enough to look at you.

His face was softer than you had ever seen it. Not guarded. Not careful in that controlled way he wore around other people. Just Jack. Your Jack. The thought made your eyes burn again.

Jack saw it immediately.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Hey.”

You shook your head once. “I’m okay.”

His mouth softened. This time, he believed you.

“Yeah?” Jack asked.

You nodded, your fingers sliding along the side of his neck. “Yeah.”

He kissed you once. Slow. Tender. Almost unbearably sweet. Then he moved carefully, easing himself away from you with a low breath, and your body missed him immediately.

The intimacy of it should have embarrassed you.

It did not.

Not with the way Jack stayed close, one hand still on your hip, his eyes on your face like he was making sure the leaving did not feel like leaving.

“I’ll be right back,” Jack said.

Your fingers tightened on him before you could stop them. He stilled. Your face warmed, but you did not let go. Not this time.

Jack’s gaze softened.

“Okay,” Jack whispered.

His thumb moved once over your hip. You looked at him. At the man who had carried your books, asked you to be his girlfriend, and looked at you like wanting you and loving you were not separate things anymore. Your chest ached.

Jack’s expression changed. Something tender passed over his face, quick and devastating. Then he leaned down and kissed your forehead. Your eyes closed. His mouth brushed your temple.

A breath left you.

Jack kissed your cheek. “I love you.”

Your fingers loosened around his wrist. He pulled away only after you let him. The room felt too quiet without his weight above you, but he was gone for less than a minute. Bathroom water ran. A drawer opened softly. Then Jack came back with a warm washcloth in one hand and the kind of quiet focus that made your heart hurt all over again.

“Still okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded. “Still okay.”

He sat beside you on the mattress and cleaned you up gently, one hand resting on your thigh, the other careful between your legs. Not clinical. Not detached. Tender.

Almost reverent.

Your face warmed anyway. Jack noticed, because Jack noticed everything.

His eyes lifted to yours. “What?”

You swallowed. “Nothing.”

His mouth curved faintly, but the amusement stayed soft.

This time, you let it stay small.

A little bit of you. A little bit of him. Enough to make the room feel survivable again.

Jack tossed the washcloth into your hamper, then eased into bed beside you and pulled the covers over both of you.

You turned into him immediately. No pretending. No careful distance. No waiting to see if he would reach first. You tucked yourself against his chest, and Jack’s arm came around you like it belonged there.

Like you belonged there.

His hand settled between your shoulder blades. Warm. Steady. Yours.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You listened to his heartbeat under your cheek. Slower now. Strong. Real. Your fingers traced a small, absent line over his chest.

Jack’s hand moved once over your back. “You thinking again?”

Your lips curved against his skin. “Maybe.”

His voice was low above you. “About?”

You tilted your face up. He was already looking down at you. Your heart gave one soft, helpless twist.

“You,” you said.

Jack’s eyes warmed. The corner of his mouth lifted, barely.

“Good,” he said.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s all you have?”

His hand slid up your back, fingers brushing the nape of your neck.

“For now,” Jack said.

The old words landed differently this time. Not guarded. Not unfinished. A promise with room to grow. You smiled, small and tired and so full it almost hurt. Then your eyes dropped to the place where your hand rested over his heart.

“Jack?” you whispered.

His fingers paused at the back of your neck. “Yeah?”

Your throat tightened. You did not need to ask. You knew. But some small, bruised part of you still wanted to hear it.

“Stay?”

Jack’s arm tightened around you. Immediate. Certain. Like there had never been another answer.

“I’m staying,” he said.

Your eyes closed. The words sank through you slowly. Past fear. Past doubt. Past every morning that had ever felt uncertain. You pressed your face into his chest and breathed him in. Jack kissed the top of your head.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

Your body went soft against his. “I love you too,” you whispered.

His hand moved over your back again. Slow. Steady. There.

For once, you did not try to make it smaller. You did not call it casual. You did not reach for a joke fast enough to outrun the tenderness. You let him hold you. You let yourself be held.

And when the room went quiet around you, when Jack’s breathing evened beneath your cheek and his hand stayed warm on your back, morning did not feel like something waiting to take him from you.

It felt like something you would wake up inside together.

The early afternoon sun beats down on the backyard as you stand a few steps from the pavilion, one hand shielding your eyes while you squint up at the string lights.

Jack, balanced on top of a chair, glances over at you. "Higher?"

You nod. " A little."

He raises the strand another inch.

You tilt your head, taking another step as you study it. "That's perfect."

He climbs down, brushing his hands together as he steps beside you.

The pavilion stands in the corner of the yard, a couple of tables stashed under it along with some chairs. White tablecloths flutter gently in the breeze, little jars of wildflowers scattered across the tables between empty serving platters waiting to be filled.

Jack had spent most of yesterday putting it all together, with the help of Robby, refusing to sit down for more than a few minutes at a time until everything looked just right.

"One more thing to cross off the list," he says.

You sigh. "Only twenty thousand more to go."

"Hey," he murmurs. His fingers find your chin, gently turning your head toward him. "Breathe. We've got this."

You take a slow breath as you look into his calm eyes. His thumb brushes along your jaw before he releases his grip.

"We need to get the drinks outside—they're ready in coolers inside the garage—but I'm gonna wait to bring them out. Otherwise, they'll get warm." His hand finds yours. "We'll fire the grill after the guests have arrived. Everything needed for that is either by the grill or in the fridge." He glances around the yard as his thumb brushes your knuckles absentmindedly. "What else do we need to do, honey?"

You take another breath, collecting your thoughts. His fingers squeeze yours gently. "Uh… The welcome drinks still need to be made. More chairs. Oh, and the snacks need to be plated and brought outside." Your gaze sweeps over the yard before finally dropping to yourself. "I also need to get ready."

Jack nods. "I've got the chairs and snacks—" He waves away your concern. "Robby'll be here any minute to help me."

Your brows pinch together. A flutter of nerves runs through you.

He steps closer, his expression softening. "You go get the drinks and yourself ready, okay? No stressing. This is supposed to be a fun day."

"Yeah… You're right."

"I usually am." He smirks and pinches your side gently. Your startled yelp dissolves into laughter before he catches your lips with his. His kiss is warm and eager, and you happily let him drag you closer.

"Ahem." Olivia's voice cuts through the moment from the open patio doors.

You freeze in Jack's arms but still allow him to steal one more kiss. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch her standing in the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips.

"When I agreed to come by and help," she says, "I didn't realise that meant you two making out and me doing all the work."

"We are working," you reply.

"Mm." She doesn't look convinced.

You slip out of Jack's arms and turn towards her, gesturing to the pavilion. "Look."

"Very pretty," she concedes, "But I've been watching from the window. No one did any work the last ten minutes."

"Creep," you mutter.

"Please," she waves you off. "Somebody had to make sure you two actually got something done."

You stick your tongue out at her.

She rolls her eyes but can't hide the smile that tugs at her lips. "Come help me before I start looking through your closet for my sweater. I know you have it."

"It's my sweater," you shout as she disappears inside again. You turn back to Jack. "I'd better go."

He grins. "I didn't know your thieving streak went that far back."

"I didn't steal her sweater."

He shrugs as he steps closer. "Well. You keep stealing my hoodies, so the evidence—"

"It's not the same," you argue but still step into his arms again.

His face nears yours again. "Is that so?"

"Mm," you hum. You press a quick kiss to his lips, then spin out of his grip before he manages to hold on. You point at him from a few feet away. "Snacks. Chairs."

"Yes, ma'am." He gives you a mock salute.

You grin, shaking your head as you slip away to the kitchen.

The kitchen counters are a mess by the time you walk in. Half a dozen bottles clutter the island alongside empty bowls, bunches of mints, straws and more glasses than you remember owning.

Olivia is standing in the middle of the chaos, wooden spoon in hand as she stirs a huge bowl of punch.

She looks up when she hears you come in. "Finally."

"I didn't take that long," you say.

She sends you a look.

You nudge her shoulder as you pass her to wash your hands. "Cut me some slack. It's a special day."

"I'll cut you some slack after we finish these drinks." She shoves a lemon into your hand, the second after you've dried your hands, then points to the mountain of citrus fruits lining the counter. "You'd better start cutting if we wanna be done before the guests arrive."

Your eyes widen, lips turning downwards. "Damn."

"Yeah," she laughs. "You were the one who wanted to decorate the drinks."

"I regret that now," you murmur.

A comfortable silence settles between you as you work through the pile of fruit. Olivia begins pouring the punch into glasses, carefully finishing each one with slices of citrus and fresh berries.

Having Olivia here since yesterday has been your saving grace. She's so in tune with you that she knows exactly when to tease you and when to go easy. She's kept track of everything your frazzled mind has forgotten, stepping in to organise Robby and Jack whenever they needed direction. You honestly don't know what you'd have done without her.

"So," she says after a moment as she begins cutting strawberries. "How are you holding up?"

You shrug, reaching over to grab a watermelon. "I think I'm okay."

"Yeah?" She looks over at you.

You nod. You're nervous, yes—but underneath it all, you're excited. "I just want everyone to have a good time."

"Oh, trust me. They will," she assures you. "I honestly can't wait to see their faces."

You grin at her before turning your attention back to the cutting board. You cut the watermelon into bite-sized pieces, placing them in a bowl that Olivia brings you.

She leans against the counter next to you. "You know, I'm really happy for you. I know I've said it before, but—"

You blink, caught off guard by the emotion in her voice.

"I've seen you in relationships before, and yes, you were happy," she says, "but this is different. You're different."

"I am?"

"Yeah. It's a good different," she says, popping a strawberry into her mouth.

"Phew," you say, laughing.

She pushes her foot against your leg. "You know what I mean. I'm just—I'm happy for you."

You send her a soft smile. You do know what she means.

Because it is different.

You still work ridiculous hours. There are days when you barely see Jack because day shift needs help, and all you get of each other is a few minutes during handoff. Some mornings are nothing more than sleepy kisses over coffee before you crash. Some evenings are takeout on the couch because neither of you has the energy to cook.

It's so different from what you shared with previous boyfriends. It's also so much better.

It's not just the easy days. It's knowing when he needs his wheelchair and getting it without him having to ask. It's him reminding you that you've earned your job—that you're good at it—on the nights you can't believe it yourself. It's showing up for each other when there's nothing glamorous about it all.

You wouldn't change a thing about it.

"I'm happy, too," you admit quietly.

Olivia smiles as she steals a bit of watermelon. "Good. You deserve to be."

The room falls quiet for a moment as she helps you scoop all the fruit into different bowls.

"I was also," she says as she sets a bowl down, "wondering if the two of you have talked about…" She looks at you, wiggling her eyebrows. "You know."

You narrow your eyes at her. "We're barely married."

She scoffs, glancing down at the stone that glints off your finger. "I don't know anyone who's getting married twice."

You make a face at her.

"Besides, with the two of you, you never know."

"Oh, so that's how it is, huh?" You point a spoon at her. "What about you and Robby, then? How was the drive from the airport yesterday? Did you talk?"

She glares at you before lifting both hands in surrender. "Okay. Truce. You fight dirty."

"That's what I thought," you say, grinning smugly. You clap your hands as you look over the counter of finished drinks. "All done."

Olivia nods. "Just missing you, now."

You glance at your strawberry-patterned pyjamas. "I don't know—I feel like this screams 'Summer Barbeque' attire."

She huffs and grabs your arm to pull you with her. "You and Jack need to work on your jokes. He's been making the same ones all morning. We get it. It's not just a barbecue."

Through the open bedroom window, a muffled burst of laughter drifts in from outside. You don't say anything, but you notice the way Olivia's mouth pulls into a tiny smile at the sound of Robby.

She stands beside the chair she'd ordered you into, a makeup brush tucked between her fingers and an open eyeshadow palette balanced in her hand. She's already worked her magic on your hair, rearranging loose strands until every piece sits exactly where she wants it.

She sweeps a shimmer across your eyelids, tilting your head gently with her fingertips whenever she needs a better angle. It feels strangely familiar.

For a moment, you're back in college—sitting on her dorm room floor while she helped you get ready for parties. It's the same teasing, the same steady hands, the same feeling that she's got your back no matter what.

Twenty minutes later, she twists the lid back onto your lipstick. "Done," she says.

"Can I look?"

"Not yet." She steps over to her bag and returns with a pair of small blue pearl earrings. "Your something blue."

"Oh." You hadn't expected that. Warmth spreads through your chest as she helps you put them in. You catch her hand. "Thank you."

She just nods at you, then takes a step back. For several seconds, she just looks at you.

"Liv?"

Her smile wavers, and she blinks rapidly. "You look stunning." Her voice comes out softer than usual.

You swallow around the sudden tightness that has climbed up from your chest. Before either of you can get too emotional, she reaches for the dress hanging in the closet.

"C'mon. Let's get you into that dress before you make me cry."

You laugh softly as you step out of your pyjamas and into the dress. It's a white, flowy dress that you found a couple of weeks ago. It's simple enough that nobody would think twice about seeing you wear it to a summer barbecue, yet beautiful enough that it feels perfect for today. Olivia's fingers work quickly, tying the delicate bows on top of each shoulder before smoothing the fabric across your back.

When you look into her eyes, they're glistening. She blinks and smooths a wrinkle that isn't there.

"Hey, don't. You'll make me cry," you say.

"Don't you dare," she warns you. "I just spent ages doing your makeup."

"Well, you stop then," you argue, but your voice comes out hoarser than intended.

Olivia clears her throat and nods toward the mirror. "Go look."

You walk over to the full-length mirror. For a second, you just… stare. The woman looking back at you looks completely at peace. No pretending. No forcing a smile. She's just… happy.

Beside you, Olivia leans against the dresser.

"I…" You laugh softly, smoothing your hands down the fabric. "I actually look nice. Thank you."

She snorts. "Nice? You're drop-dead gorgeous."

You huff but don't disagree, turning to wrap your arms around her. She hugs you back just as tightly.

She lets you go after a moment. "Right. I should probably make myself look presentable." She nudges you toward the door. "Go make sure everything's ready outside."

"You sure?"

She nods. "I'll be out in a minute."

You step into the living room, heels clacking against the hardwood floor. The patio doors stand halfway open, carrying in bursts of conversation from outside as well as the scraping of chairs.

Just as you're about to head outside, the door slides fully open.

Jack steps into the house, a clean dish towel in one hand. He's changed into the navy polo you'd once casually mentioned brought out his hazel eyes.

He looks so handsome.

He takes one step, then looks up. Then he stops.

Completely.

The towel slips from his fingers onto the floor.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. His eyes travel over you slowly, lingering as though he's trying to memorise every detail.

Your smile turns shy. "Hi."

He doesn't answer. His throat works around a swallow. For a moment, he just looks at you.

"Jack?"

He blinks once, dragging a hand across his jaw. "…Hi."

You laugh softly. "Are you okay?"

He lets out a shaky breath, finally meeting your eyes. "I don't…" He shakes his head, sneaking another glance across your body. "I don't think I've ever seen anything as beautiful as you."

Heat blooms across your cheeks at the awe written so plainly across his face.

"You.." He laughs quietly to himself, still looking completely overwhelmed. "Sweetheart…" He shifts his weight uncertainly.

You close the distance. As your arms wrap over his shoulders, his hands find your waist automatically. "You really are trouble."

You grin. The nickname has followed you through almost every version of yourselves—colleagues, friends, something complicated in between, and now this.

Now love.

You lift a hand, brushing your thumb gently beneath one of his eyes. "Are you crying?"

He catches your hand, but instead of pulling it away, he presses it closer to his face. For a moment, you can see him considering a lie, but then a tear slips free and lands on your skin.

He closes his eyes. "…Maybe."

"Oh, honey." You laugh.

He laughs, too, and the sound is lighter than it usually is. He cups your face carefully, looking you deeply in the eye. "I can't believe you're mine."

You tilt your cheek into his hand, nuzzling closer. "Well, you'd better believe it soon, because I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." He kisses you softly. "I wouldn't be able to take it if you were."

Your lips part to answer, but Robby's voice booms through the open doors before you can.

"Abbot! Where should I put the chairs?"

Jack closes his eyes briefly. "…Give me ten seconds," he shouts back.

"You've already had ten!"

You giggle.

Jack sighs dramatically, but the smile gives him away. He presses one lingering kiss to your lips before he steps back. "I should probably go make sure he doesn't leave them all in one pile."

When he reaches the doors, he glances back, still grinning. Still looking at you with that expression that makes you feel like he can't quite believe you're standing there.

By the time you step back outside with the final tray of welcome drinks, the backyard is buzzing. Music drifts softly from the speakers, mixing with the chatter of half a dozen conversations. Coolers are already open, bottles clinking as people help themselves. The snack bowls are half empty, and the fruit platters already have generous gaps in them.

It's rare for healthcare workers to have time to eat without being interrupted, and judging by the speed the food is disappearing, everyone's making up for lost time.

"Oh, wow." Parker sidles up beside you, looking you up and down with an appreciative grin. "You clean up pretty well."

You laugh as you do a spin for her.

"Honestly," Trinity cuts in, reaching for a piece of watermelon. "Abbot better watch out. If he ever fumbles this, you let me know."

"Girl, get in line," Parker says, throwing her a sideways look.

You shake your head, laughing at them. You hand them both a drink.

Parker smiles. "What? I can't remember the last time I saw you out of scrubs. I'm allowed to appreciate it."

You hum, shrugging lightly. "Not that many chances to get all dressed up."

"I invited you out last week?" Trinity says.

"Okay," you concede. "Not that many days where I'm off and can get dressed up. Better?"

She scrunches her nose, but nods. Her gaze then drops to your hand where your engagement ring glints in the afternoon sunlight. She blinks. "Damn. Abbot's loaded."

You roll your eyes, but before you can answer her, Shen appears with a drink in hand. "I'm letting you know as a courtesy that I expect this to be a yearly tradition."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He shrugs, taking a sip. "Yeah. Good food. Good company, and nobody's calling me about a patient. Only thing missing is—"

"Coffee," Parker finishes with a groan.

"That's not what I was gonna say," he says, turning to her with an affronted look.

"Uh huh."

You smile as you watch them get into their usual bickering.

Before you can linger, someone catches your arm, and the next twenty minutes disappear in a blur.

A hug from a nurse you worked with in your surgical rotation. A quick conversation with one of your old pediatric attendings. A resident from the ICU stopping you just long enough to compliment your dress before getting distracted by someone calling their name.

The backyard feels impossibly full. Nurses, residents, attendings, people from departments you only crossed paths with during rotations—somehow they're all here now, laughing together like they've known each other for ages.

Most importantly, your people are spread all over the garden. Mel sits nearby with Frank, Dennis, Perlah and Princess, all waiting their turn to hold Donnie's baby. Dana stands near the grill with Robby, Jack and Lena. Lily catches you as she passes by with her boyfriend, squeezing your arm with a smile, before heading to the corner where the other nurses sit and chat.

Jack's friends from SWAT start arriving not long after. Introductions are fleeting but still warm, and Jack's face lights up as more of his teammates arrive.

Someone compliments the decorations. Someone else asks where you found the flowers. Two of Jack's teammates stop you to properly introduce themselves, explaining that they've heard so much about you. They also try to convince you to get Jack back on tasks, which he hasn't done since that day. You tell them politely that it's up to Jack, secretly grateful that he hasn't been back.

Somewhere between the drinks and the laughter and people filling the backyard, you realise how much bigger your life has become. From being the disappointment at home, the daughter that never could be enough, to being and working with people who think you're enough as you are.

For a moment, you just take it all in.

You catch Jack's eye as your gaze sweeps over the yard. He tilts his head, asking a silent question, and you nod. You walk steadily through the crowd toward him as he mutters something into Robby's ear.

Just as you step up onto the patio, Jack clinks his bottle, the clear ringing note carrying across the space. Conversations slowly begin to fade, heads turning to you. Jack's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close.

He clears his throat, his fingers tightening around your side for the briefest moment before relaxing again. "Thanks for coming, everyone. We know getting this many healthcare workers together on the same day is basically impossible. So…thank you for making it happen."

He takes a slightly deeper breath than usual as he glances around the yard. "Now, I know we called this our end-of-summer barbeque—"

You feel your heartbeat start to pick up. Jack's thumb strokes absentmindedly along your side, grounding you like he knows exactly what your nerves are doing.

"—but there was another reason we wanted everyone here."

Confused looks pass through the crowd.

"We've all heard the complaints," you say. "So…" You take a slow breath, a twinkle beginning to shine in your eye. "We figured we'd do something about it."

You can see Shen's frown deepening.

"We thought…maybe you'd all like to come to our wedding?"

For a moment, nobody reacts. Samira stares at you. Parker looks from you to Jack, then over at Dana, who's already smiling, clearly trying to figure out if everyone else knew something she didn't.

Trinity is the first to find her voice. "You're kidding."

And then it starts to click. The dress. The decorations. The way you and Jack had been acting about this 'party'. The realisation moves through the yard like a wave—then chaos erupts. It's a loud jumble of disbelief, laughter and cursing.

Shen is still trying to process what just happened. You catch Parker shaking her head at you, grinning wider than you've ever seen. Off to the side, Olivia is already recording the moment with a wide smile.

Robby steps forward beside the two of you after people begin to quiet down. He grins. "Shall we get to it?"

He gestures for people to move closer, and waits until everyone has settled, then he turns to look at you and Jack.

"So, I was one of the people complaining I didn't get to be there for the first wedding. I guess my nagging paid off because you asked me to officiate this one."

You smile.

Robby's smile softens. "I'm really glad you asked. But frankly, I would have been offended if you didn't—I've aged at least ten years because of you two."

"Okay." You hold up your hands as Robby laughs.

"It was worth it." He turns back to the crowd. "Because you two were always meant for each other."

"I've known Jack for a long time." He glances at him. "When I first met him, I honestly wasn't convinced anyone would ever be able to put up with him."

Jack glares at him.

Robby continues, nonetheless. "He works too much. Forgets to eat if no one reminds him. Also keeps insisting he doesn't need help when he very obviously does. Like earlier when he tried to carry seven ch—" Robby's voice catches as Jack puffs his shoulder.

Dana laughs loudly.

"Never mind." Robby's gaze shifts to you. "And then you came along." The teasing leaves his voice. "I've never seen him happier."

You glance at Jack. He's already looking at you.

"I've also never seen him so thoroughly outmatched."

Jack laughs.

"You keep him honest. You remind him to slow down. And somehow…" He smiles at you both. "…your craziness matches. You make each other better."

He turns back to you. "You were a pain in my ass when you were a resident. Headstrong. Unafraid. Always getting into trouble." He lifts a finger when your mouth opens to argue. "So damn argumentative. But you were also one of my best residents. So smart and brave. Always able to see things from a different perspective. We were lucky to have you."

You swallow.

"Now, Jack's the lucky one."

"Damn right," Jack murmurs.

Robby takes a slow breath. "So. Speaking as someone who's had a front-row seat to every stupid thing these two have done…" He looks from Jack to you. "I can't think of two people better suited for each other."

He lets the silence linger for a moment before clapping his hands together. "Right. I am, apparently, supposed to say something official." He reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. "We're here today to join two people in matrimony—well, for the second time. We're here because marriage isn't just one day. It isn't just paperwork. It isn't even the vows you're about to hear."

He looks up. "It's every ordinary day that comes afterwards. It's the early mornings, the late nights, the takeaway dinners because you're too tired to cook. It's choosing each other over and over again. On the easy days, and especially on the hard days. Today isn't about starting your marriage. It's about celebrating it."

He folds the paper in half and slips it back into his pocket. "Now, I think that was enough from me." He looks between the two of you. "I believe you have something you'd like to say."

You nod and feel every gaze settle on you. Jack smiles, his eyes warm with reassurance.

You unfold your paper. "When we met…" You start, already laughing softly as you admit, "I tried really hard to find a reason not to like you."

Laughter sounds across the yard.

"But you just kept being nice and being ridiculously good at your job. And..." You glance at Jack as a grin spreads across your face. "Well...being really fucking hot."

Jack laughs.

"You've always been the person I looked for first. The person I wanted to tell things to. The person I wanted beside me after a difficult shift."

Your eyes don't leave his.

 "I used to think love was supposed to be the big moments. The ones people write stories about." You shake your head gently. "I was wrong. It's coffee waiting for me when I wake up after a night shift. It's the way you always know when I need a hug before I ask for one."

A smile tugs at your lips.

"It's you pretending not to notice when I steal your hoodies. It's arguing over what to order for dinner, knowing we'll end up sharing anyway. It's coming home and knowing you're there. It's laughing until we can't breathe because one of us said something stupid. It's every ordinary day somehow becoming extraordinary because you're in it."

You crinkle the paper between your fingers. "When everyone talks about soulmates..." You swallow. "I don't think they're talking about someone who completes you. I think they're talking about someone who makes you feel yourself completely."

You bite your lip. "That's what you've given me. Somewhere I never have to be anyone but myself. Somewhere that feels like home."

Jack's jaw tightens, blinking a bit more rapidly than usual.

"I know our story hasn't been... conventional." A few guests smile knowingly, assuming you're talking about the elopement they'd all heard about. Only Robby and Olivia nod with a truly knowing smile.

"But if I had the chance to do it all again...I'd do it. No hesitation."

You hear someone sniffle behind you. It sounds suspiciously much like Lena.

"I promise..." You reach for Jack's hand. "…to keep choosing you. When life is easy and when it isn't. I'll remind you to eat lunch."

Robby chuckles.

"I promise to tell you when you're being stubborn."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "When am I ever—"

You squeeze his hand, sending him a look, and he drops it. You laugh softly before continuing.

"I promise to celebrate every victory with you and help carry every burden. I promise to keep laughing with you. To keep dancing with you in the kitchen. To keep making this house our home."

"And lastly..." You smile through the tears gathering in your eyes. "I promise I'll never stop feeling lucky that somehow...after everything..." Your voice catches. "...I get to call you my husband. "

Jack lets out a shaky laugh, squeezing your hand tightly. Tears drip down his face, but he makes no effort to hide it.

"How am I meant to go after that?" he jokes, wiping his face.

He reaches into his jacket and slowly unfolds his own piece of paper. "Well..." He chuckles softly. "I should probably start by admitting I liked you straight away."

Everyone laughs as he takes a moment to gather himself.

"When people ask how we met, I usually give them the short version." He glances at you. "The real version is a lot messier and involves a surprising amount of paperwork."

You huff a quiet laugh.

"I don't think either of us expected any of this. I definitely didn't expect to fall in love." His voice softens. "But then you kept showing up. Every shift. Every conversation. Every bad day."

He shrugs lightly. "And somewhere along the way... you became the person I wanted beside me for all of it."

He folds the paper and slips it back inside his pocket, then reaches out and grabs your hands. "I like to pretend I have everything under control. I push away the things I don't want to think about. You've seen me at my worst… and yet, you stayed."

The words hit you harder than you expect.

"You love me despite it. Because of it." His voice catches. "And I don't think you realise what a gift that has been."

Now, it's your turn to cry.

"I've never met anyone who gives so much of themselves to other people. You worry about everyone. You carry everyone. You'll stay an hour after your shift ends because someone needs help. You'll pretend you're not exhausted because you don't want anyone else to worry."

He gives your hands a gentle squeeze. "I wish you could see yourself the way everyone else does." He pauses. "The way I do."

A tear drops down. Jack reaches up automatically, brushing it away with his thumb.

"You make every place feel like home." He smiles. "I don't care where we live. This house. A tiny apartment. Somewhere halfway across the country. As long as you're there... I'm home."

Robby sniffles, trying to be discreet but failing.

Jack smiles without looking away from you. "I promise..." He takes a steadying breath. "...to keep choosing us. Even when life gets busy. Especially when life gets busy. I promise to never stop flirting with you."

"Yeah, no kidding," Parker mutters.

Jack ignores her. "I promise to keep making coffee for you every day, because you still don't know how to use the machine."

You laugh.

He grins back. "I promise to hold your hand every chance I get. I promise to dance with you in the kitchen...Even though I can't dance."

"You really can't," you whisper.

"I promise to remind you that you don't have to carry the world on your own. You've got me now, too." His eyes search yours. "And I promise..." His voice breaks, and he laughs at himself. "...I promise I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you've made me."

You can barely see him through your tears.

Silence settles over the yard once more. No one speaks. No one moves. Looking around, you can't find a single dry eye.

Jack leans forward just enough for only you to hear. "I love you."

You smile. "I love you, too."

Robby quietly clears his throat, wiping discreetly at one eye. "I think..." He glances toward Olivia. "...it's time for the rings."

Olivia steps forward from where she'd been standing beside Bridget, carrying a small velvet box in both hands. She stops in front of the two of you with a warm smile. "I've been told these are important."

She opens the box. Nestled inside are two simple wedding bands. Nothing extravagant. Just the two rings you'd chosen together months ago, now engraved with two dates. Your fingers brush over the tiny inscription before you lift one from the box.

The date of the convention. And today.

Jack takes the second from her.

Olivia closes the empty box before looking between the two of you. "I love you both." The words are quiet enough that only the three of you really hear them.

You step forward and hug her. "Thank you."

She kisses your cheek, squeezes your hand once, and quietly rejoins the others. You barely hear Robby through the rush in your ears.

All you take in is the feeling as Jack reaches for your left hand. The gold catches the late afternoon sunlight as he holds it just above your fingertips.

He looks up, waiting, as though silently asking one last time.

You answer with a smile and a nod. Always. He slides the ring onto your finger smoothly.

You slide the ring onto his finger with slightly shaky hands. Jack's fingers fold into yours. He looks elated, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins at you,

You're married again.

The words "You may now kiss the bride" barely leave Robby's mouth before Jack surges forward.

For the next twenty minutes, you're fairly certain neither you nor Jack actually touch the ground. Applause, whistles and laughter erupt across the yard after the kiss. People talking over one another as they surge toward the two of you.

Dana reaches you first. She's crying before she even wraps her arms around you. "Oh, sweetheart."

You laugh into the hug. "I know."

"You sneaky little thing."

"We've been planning it for weeks."

She sighs. "I should've noticed."

"You really should have. You're losing your touch. "

"It won't happen again." She pulls back just enough to cup your face. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

"And your vows—" She stops, pressing her lips together as her eyes fill all over again. "You've built such a beautiful life."

"Oh no," you laugh. "Don't. You'll make me cry again."

"I'm trying."

You hug her again, feeling her laugh through the tears.

Parker is next. She shakes Jack's hand firmly before immediately pulling him into a hug anyway. "I'm happy for you."

"Thanks."

She steps back, looking between the two of you. "You've done well."

Jack glances at you, unable to hide his smile. "I know."

She rolls her eyes, but it quickly softens into a grin. "The dress should've tipped me off."

You beam at her.

Shen steps up beside Parker. "I knew."

Parker raises an eyebrow. "You absolutely did not."

"I suspected it."

"Yeah, yeah." You laugh. "You can't take credit for this one, too."

After that, the congratulations blur together. Trinity nearly squeezes the air out of your lungs. Lily's eyes are already shining before she even reaches you, mumbling heartfelt congratulations. Perlah and Princess both admit they're impressed you managed to keep such a huge secret.

You just shrug. If only they knew.

Beside you, Jack is surrounded by his SWAT teammates. They clap him on the shoulders, pull him into hugs, and give him enough grief that his laugh carries all the way across the yard.

The conversations begin blending together after that. Someone starts arguing over who cried first. Trinity insists it was Robby. Robby loudly denies it, but video evidence is quickly produced, and he ends up conceding.

At some point, Dennis ends up standing on a chair, trying to organise everyone into something resembling a group photo while at least three people completely ignore him.

You don't move straight away. Instead, you watch.

Dana is already fussing over the food despite repeatedly being told to sit down. Parker has somehow accumulated a drink and three different appetisers. Lena is laughing so hard she has to wipe at her eyes while Vivi quietly shakes her head beside her. Across the yard, Jack catches your eye and smiles, then turns back to the grill.

Olivia quietly slips beside you while Dennis is still unsuccessfully trying to direct traffic. She doesn't say anything at first. She simply loops her arm through yours. You lean your head briefly against hers.

You laugh. "I don't think this is how weddings normally go."

Olivia follows your gaze. "No." She pauses. "I think yours is better."

Ten minutes later, as you're scanning the coolers to make sure there's still enough drinks, your hip gets nudged softly. Jack stands beside you with a plate in his hand.

"Eat."

You narrow your eyes. "Is that an order?"

"It's a request." He pushes the plate into your hands. "You've had approximately one strawberry and half a glass of spritz all afternoon."

"You've been monitoring my food intake?"

He shrugs. "I'm married to you."

"So?"

"So I know exactly how easy it is for you to forget."

You smile despite yourself. "Well, what about you?"

He lifts the plate he'd been hiding behind his back. His brow lifts. "Gotcha."

You scrunch your nose at him.

His smile softens. He turns your hand over, his thumb brushing slowly across your wedding band. For a long moment he simply looks at it. "This feels different."

It does.

"Everyone was here." You hadn't realised how much it would mean to share this part of your story with them. You lean over and kiss him. "I love you."

"I love you." His forehead rests against yours for a second. The hiss of the grill interrupts you.

"You should probably save dinner."

Jack sighs. He starts walking backwards. "I'll be back." He disappears into the crowd, greeting someone who immediately claps him on the shoulder. Still, he glances back one more time to send you a smile.

Jack has just finished rescuing a couple of burger patties from Robby's questionable supervision when the two of them find themselves alone by the grill. Well…as alone as either of them can be with fifty or so people scattered around the yard.

He puts the final patties on and closes the lid of the grill, resting the spatula on the plate next to it. "Almost done."

Your laughter carries across the yard, and Jack turns toward it without thinking. He finds you standing with Olivia, both of you laughing loudly. He smiles at the sight.

Robby crosses his arms next to him and follows his gaze. "They're something else when they're together."

"Tell me about it." Jack nods. Most of last night had been spent screaming in excitement about the following day, catching up on the latest gossip, and, of course, teasing Jack.

He loves it when Olivia is in town.

Tearing his eyes away from you, he flips the lid to turn the patties. "I don't think today's really sunk in yet."

"No?"

He turns back to look at you. "I never imagined…" He shakes his head, pulling Robby into a hug. "Thanks, man. For everything."

Robby nods, clapping his back twice. "Of course."

Jack clears his throat and moves to flip the final patties onto a plate. He closes the valve, waits for the lines to clear and then turns off the knobs. When he turns back, he finds that Robby is still looking across the yard.

You're laughing at something Parker says as you steal a sip of Olivia's drink. A second later, you splutter dramatically, and Olivia doubles over laughing at your expression.

The corner of Robby's mouth lifts before he seems to realise he's smiling.

Folding his arms across his chest, Jack nudges Robby's shoulder lightly with his own. "Careful."

"What?" Robby asks, still watching.

"She'll catch you staring."

Robby tears his gaze away a little too quickly. "I'm not staring." He reaches for the tongs, unaware that Jack has already turned off the grill.

Jack just raises an eyebrow. "If you say so."

It takes all of five seconds before Robby's eyes drift back again. The tongs hang between his fingers, forgotten again.

Jack chuckles.

Robby huffs. "You're no better."

"She's my wife," Jack says, unable to hide his grin. He slides the burger buns onto a platter before glancing sideways at Robby. "What are you two?"

Robby's jaw twitches. "Shut up."

The evening slips by almost without you noticing. As the sun sinks lower, the warm string lights begin to glow around the garden, casting everything in a softer light.

One conversation melts into the next as music drifts through the yard. The last of the burgers has disappeared, and most of the dessert has already been devoured.

You duck into the kitchen in search of more ice.

"So this is where you're hiding."

You look over your shoulder, finding Robby leaned against the doorframe. He's got an empty stack of bowls in his hands.

"Jack put you on clean-up duty?" You sit down to rummage through the fridge.

"Volunteered." He shrugs, stepping toward the kitchen.

"Who are you and what have you done with Michael Robinavitch?" you gasp.

"Ha. Ha." He sets the bowls down.

You laugh, pulling open another drawer. "I think we're officially out."

"Good."

You glance back at him. "Good?"

He nods. "Means people are having a good time."

You guess he's right. You close the fridge, standing up to lean against the counter. Neither of you moves to go back outside just yet.

From here you can still hear the party through the open patio doors—bursts of laughter, the clink of glasses, and soft music.

Robby leans against the island opposite you. His brown eyes trail over your face. "You belong here."

You blink. "What?"

"With us." He gestures toward the yard where most of the Pitt is having fun. "You're family."

Your throat tightens. This is everything you'd wanted for years without quite believing you'd ever have it. Before you can find the words, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

Robby stiffens for only a heartbeat before hugging you just as tightly. He's never been particularly comfortable with emotions, but he's always shown how much he cares in quieter ways—in the hours he gives his patients, the way he looks after his staff, the loyalty he shows the people he loves.

When you step away, he clears his throat and moves for the patio door. Without looking back, he says quietly, a smile in his voice, "See you at work on Monday."

There are orange streaks in the sky when Jack finds you standing by yourself. People aren't gathered in one big group anymore. Instead, they're scattered wherever there's room—chairs pulled together, people leaning against tables, conversations stretching lazily into the evening. Some have left for work, others heading home to get some sleep before their day shifts. It's everything you hoped for.

Santos is halfway through a story that has Princess and Perlah laughing loudly. Mel sits next to Dennis, whispering follow-up questions that he tries to answer. Shen and Parker sit off to the side watching it all with an amused smile.

A little further away, you spot Olivia sitting with one of Jack's SWAT friends. She's laughing at something he says, while Robby pretends hard not to look in their direction. He keeps failing.

"What's so funny?" Jack asks. He holds out a glass of water for you.

You accept it gratefully, and nod your head to the right.

He follows your gaze. "Ah."

"Yeah."

"That's not the first time he's been staring at her."

"Oh?"

He nods. "He thinks he's being subtle."

You look back toward Robby. "He really isn't."

Jack laughs. He turns to face you fully as the song drifting through the speakers changes into something slower.

The last of the sunlight catches in his hazel eyes, making the green seem brighter than usual. He holds out his hand. "Dance with me."

"Here?"

"Why not?"

"There's no dance floor," you say, but step closer to him anyway.

He glances down at the grass beneath his feet. "Looks good enough to me."

You laugh, letting him take your drink and set it aside. He draws you closer until one hand settles naturally at your waist. The other stays wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. It isn't really dancing. Just the two of you swaying beneath the lights, more interested in being close than keeping time.

"Was it everything you wanted?" you ask.

"Even better," he says.

You look at him. His thumb traces slow circles against your back while the two of you sway.

"I love you." You've lost count of how many times you've said that tonight.

He presses his forehead against yours. "I love you, too, sweetheart."

Neither of you notice when another couple joins you. Then a second, and a third. At some point, Olivia stands, walking over to Robby and offering him her hand. He looks surprised for half a second, hesitant for another, but then smiles and takes it.

Little pockets of slow dancing appear all over the yard.

"I love this," you say. Your hands settle at the back of his neck, your fingers disappearing into the soft grey curls there.

"The dancing?"

"The people." You look around. "All of them."

Jack lifts his head to look around, then he quietly kisses the top of your head and continues swaying with you.

At last, when all the dessert is gone and most of the coolers have been emptied, guests gradually trickle out until only you, Jack, Robby, and Olivia remain.

You're collecting trays into neat piles while Jack stacks chairs nearby. To your left, Olivia stuffs paper plates into a rubbish bag as Robby makes his way around the garden, gathering empty bottles.

She catches your eye, and you raise an eyebrow, nodding subtly towards Robby. She shakes her head, eyes narrowing immediately.

You fight back a smile.

Looking around, there's still so much to be done. Cushions scattered across the lawn, empty glasses on every flat surface and enough washing up to keep you busy until morning. However, instead of tackling it now, you turn to Jack.

"Let's save this for tomorrow."

His eyes hone in on the mischievous twinkle in your eye, and he catches on quickly when he spots Olivia's glare. A slow smile appears on his face. "Yes. That sounds like a plan."

He turns toward Robby. "Couch's yours." He grins. "I hope it doesn't take out your back like it did last time."

Bait set. Now, it was up to Olivia to take it.

You laugh quietly, tugging him toward the door before either of you burns from the heat of their glares. You're almost at the threshold when he pulls you back.

"Wait. I've got one wedding tradition I'd quite like to keep." Without another word, he bends, slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, and lifts you clean off the ground.

You yelp, immediately laughing as your arms wrap around his neck. "Jack!"

"What?"

"I can walk."

His lips turn up at the corners. "Despite everything, so can I."

Jack ducks through the patio doors without so much as a stumble, and continues until he's inside the bedroom. Once inside, he lowers you carefully onto your feet.

He looks at you, his eyes soft. "Hi, wife."

You smile so widely your cheeks ache. "Hi, husband."

He steps closer. You're not sure who moves first, but your lips meet in a gentle kiss. You tug him with you toward the bed, your fingers reaching under his shirt to pull it up. He obeys without hesitation, lifting his arms to help.

"I need to take off my leg, honey." He reminds you when you try to push him down on the bed.

You kiss his cheek. "Let me."

He sits on the edge of the bed. You roll up his trouser leg before carefully unfastening his prosthetic. Pressing a kiss to the skin just above the scar, you set it beside the bedside table. He makes quick work of his pants, tossing them somewhere across the room.

Then he pulls you up. You climb onto his lap, your thighs settling on either side of his.

"God, this dress…" he murmurs as he begins sliding the straps down. He kisses your shoulder softly, trailing down to your collarbone. His fingers brush against heated skin, goosebumps fluttering in their path.

He presses another soft kiss to the skin just above your boob before the fabric slowly falls down, revealing your chest to him. With one hand, he guides the other side to join the pooling fabric at your waist.

You push your chest toward him, and he takes the hint without teasing. His mouth closes around one nipple, tongue swirling before he sucks lightly.

"Feels so…" you moan, holding onto his shoulders.

"Yeah?" he hums, lifting his head to look at you. Your lips find his neck, trailing kisses up and down, before nibbling lightly at his earlobe.

He pulls back. "I'm losing my mind, sweetheart. No more teasing. Are you ready or do I need to—"

You grab his fingers and pull them under your dress. He groans when he feels how soaked you are. "Christ. Where's your underwear?"

You gesture at the ground. "Took it off when you weren't looking." You grind down on his cock, and his hips lift at the sensation. "I'm ready."

"You sure?" He looks into your eyes. "I don't mind."

Tired of his talking, you reach down to free his cock. His head falls back down onto the mattress when you glide it against your folds. Then you sink down.

The dress pools around your thighs, hiding the spot where he disappears into you, but the slick that sounds around the room is unmistakable.

Jack's eyes grow darker. "Jesus. How'd I get so lucky?"

You grin.

"I mean it," he says, his hands tightening their grip on your waist. He punctuates the following words with separate thrusts. "Luckiest. Man. Alive."

A hand reaches up to cup your boob while the other trails down under the dress. His thumb finds your clit easily, putting just the correct amount of pressure on it that gets you gasping.

It doesn't take long to send you over the edge. Jack tries to stay steady through it, but the tightening grip around his cock proves too hard to resist. He comes with a long groan, thrusting himself deep into you.

You collapse against his chest. Both of you take a moment to regain normal breathing, his hands brushing soft patterns across your back.

"I'll go get you a washcloth," he murmurs into your hair.

"Just one more minute." You nestle closer, burrowing into his heat.

"One." He relents, pressing a soft and content kiss into your hair.

The first thing you notice when you wake is the smell of coffee. Its rich scent entangling with the clean scent of the duvet sheets. You don't open your eyes, but stay there, wrapped in warmth as memories of last night wash over you.

Lights. Drinks. Jack. Vows. The ring.

You twirl it around your finger, smiling into your pillow. You got married to Jack.

Again.

But this time it was even better than last time. This time you both meant to. This time he chose you.

Married on purpose sounds a lot better than accidentally.

You hear the quiet scrape of the bedroom door being pushed open. The familiar shuffle of Jack's slightly uneven gait. The thump as something gets set down on the bedside table and the clunk of something placed on the floor.

Then the mattress dips beside you. A warm hand brushes your hair away from your face before a soft kiss meets your forehead.

"Morning, wife."

You finally open your eyes. "Morning, husband."

Jack grins at you. Sleep has left his soft grey curls sticking up in every direction.

You grin back. "You made breakfast."

"I did," he says. He settles fully down beside you. "How are you feeling?"

"A little hungover…" You glance around the room. Sunlight spills through the half-open curtains. Your dress hangs over the chair, Jack's trousers lie abandoned in the corner, and the empty ring box still rests on the dresser. "But very happy."

His hand brushes your shoulder. "Good."

You sit up, taking the cup he holds out for you. "You?"

He looks down at his coffee, then at you. "I couldn't be better."

"Yeah?"

He nods and reaches for your hand. His thumb traces slowly over your wedding band. "I meant what I said last night."

"About making me coffee every day?"

He laughs softly. "That too. But also about being lucky."

"Well. I guess we're both pretty lucky." You hold your cup up. "To us."

He clinks his cup against yours. "To us."

"And to forever." You clink your cup against his again. "Oh, and to—"

He pinches your chin with his free hand. "How about we workshop it before we try again?"

Protective!Abbot who has a sixth sense for when you’re feeling uncomfortable. He will be by your side in seconds, hand on the small of your back. A little reassurance for you.

Protective!Abbot who has your location ping to his phone. Not in a controlling way but he needs to know where you are at all times in case something happens to you. He’d lose his mind if anything bad happened to you.

Protective!Abbot who dotes on you when you’re sick.

Protective!Abbot who when you’re out together will hold your hand, and be as close to you at all times in case anything happens.

Protective!Abbot who if anyone tries anything with you will scare them off, and then hold you close reassuring you that you’ll be ok. Kissing your forehead, hugging you. And whispering in your ear telling you that you’re safe.

Protective!Abbot who has taught you basic self defense moves just in case.

Protective!Abbot who will call or text whenever he gets a moment on shift just to check you’re doing ok.

You changed your earrings twice.

Then your necklace. Then your shoes. Then you stood in front of the mirror with two lip products in your hand, staring at your own reflection like it had personally betrayed you.

Your phone was propped against a candle on your dresser, Liv’s face filling the screen with the grave seriousness of a woman supervising a hostage negotiation.

“Lipstick or gloss?” you asked.

Liv stared at you.

You held both tubes higher. “This is a real question.”

Liv blinked slowly. “Honey.”

You looked down at the lipstick. “Do not honey me.”

“Honey,” Liv said again, softer and much worse.

You pointed the gloss at the screen. “I am under a lot of pressure.”

Liv’s brows lifted. “You have had sex with this man three times.”

You froze.

Liv held up one finger. “You have seen him naked.”

“Liv,” you said.

Liv held up a second finger. “He has seen you naked.”

“Oh my god,” you said.

Liv held up a third finger. “You slept in the same bed.”

You turned back to the mirror. “That is different.”

Liv leaned closer to the camera. “You can survive dinner.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Because unfortunately, she had a point.

A terrible point. A humiliating point. But a point.

You looked back at your reflection, at the black fitted top and the brown satin skirt you had put on after rejecting half your closet. The skirt moved softly when you shifted your weight, catching the light in a way that made the whole thing feel romantic without being obvious about it.

Not club-night hot. Not emergency-pizza comfortable.

Date-night.

That was the problem.

“This is different,” you said, quieter now.

Liv’s face softened immediately. You hated when she did that. You preferred when she was unbearable. Unbearable Liv was easier to survive than emotionally perceptive Liv.

“I know,” Liv said.

You swallowed and looked down at the lip gloss in your hand. “The other times were… not planned.”

“No,” Liv said.

“The club was the club,” you said.

Liv nodded. “Right.”

“The truck was insane,” you said.

Liv’s mouth twitched. “Definitely insane.”

“And last night was…” You stopped, because you did not know how to explain last night without making your chest hurt.

Liv waited.

You looked toward the bed, now made too neatly because you had needed something to do with your hands after Jack called.

“Soft,” you said.

Liv’s expression changed.

“Yeah,” Liv said. “It was.”

You looked back at the mirror. “But this is dinner.”

Liv nodded again. “It is.”

“He made a reservation,” you said.

“He did,” Liv said.

“He thought about it,” you said.

Liv smiled a little. “He did.”

Your throat tightened. “That feels dangerous.”

Liv’s voice stayed gentle. “Because it matters.”

You hated that too.

You looked down at the lipstick again. “This is why I asked about lip products. Lip products are safer.”

Liv’s mouth curved. “Gloss.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Gloss,” Liv said. “Soft. Pretty. Kissable without looking like you planned to be kissable.”

You stared at her. “That is a terrifyingly specific answer.”

“I am very good at my job,” Liv said.

“You do not have a job here,” you said.

“I have several,” Liv said. “Best friend. Crisis manager. Emergency stylist. Emotional support slut.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Liv brightened. “There she is.”

You shook your head and uncapped the gloss. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Liv said.

You applied the gloss carefully, then pressed your lips together and looked at yourself again.

Black top. Brown satin skirt. Simple necklace. Small earrings. Shoes that made the outfit feel intentional but not like you were trying to audition for the role of Woman Who Has Never Had Sex in a Truck.

You looked like someone going on a date.

A real one.

Your stomach flipped.

Liv watched you through the phone. “That’s it.”

You smoothed your hands down the skirt. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Liv said.

“It’s not too much?” you asked.

“No,” Liv said.

“It’s not too formal?” you asked.

“No,” Liv said.

“It doesn’t look like I spent all afternoon trying to look like I did not spend all afternoon trying?” you asked.

Liv tilted her head. “It looks like you care.”

Your hands stilled.

Liv’s voice softened. “That is not a bad thing.”

You looked at yourself for a long second.

You did care.

That was the terrifying part.

You cared that Jack had chosen the restaurant. You cared that he was picking you up. You cared that he had said seven and you knew, with embarrassing certainty, that he would be there at seven.

You cared that he had called.

You cared that he had meant it.

Liv cleared her throat. “Also, for the record, he is going to lose his mind.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Jack does not lose his mind.”

“Not outwardly,” Liv said.

You turned slightly, watching the skirt move. “That is not helping.”

“It was not supposed to help,” Liv said. “It was supposed to give you confidence.”

You looked back at the screen. “By reminding me that Jack Abbot might internally lose his mind?”

“Yes,” Liv said. “Exactly.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a notification before you could respond.

6:58.

Your heart dropped.

Liv saw your face change. “Is he there?”

“Not yet,” you said, already looking toward the bedroom door.

Liv smiled. “He will be.”

You hated how much you believed that.

At exactly seven, there was a knock at your door.

Your entire body went still.

Liv’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

You grabbed your phone. “Do not make a face.”

“I’m making several faces,” Liv said.

You carried the phone into the living room.

“Love you,” you said quickly.

Liv’s muffled voice came through the phone. “Love you. Do not panic. You have seen his penis. Dinner is nothing.”

“Goodbye, Liv,” you said.

You ended the call before she could say anything worse.

For one second, you stood there with your hand hovering near the doorknob.

Then you opened the door.

Jack stood on the other side.

Dark jeans. Button-down. Jacket.

His curls were sitting in a way that looked unfairly soft and deliberate even though you suspected he had done very little to deserve it. Grey at his temples, curls a little looser near his forehead, making him look less severe than he usually did and somehow more dangerous because of it.

He looked good.

Really good.

Clean-shaven enough to notice. Not clean-shaven enough to be safe.

And he smelled incredible.

Something warm and clean and faintly sharp, like soap and aftershave and Jack, close enough that your brain briefly abandoned language and became a series of useless exclamation points.

He looked composed.

Of course he did.

Then his eyes moved over you.

Once.

Slowly enough to be noticeable. Carefully enough to feel dangerous.

His gaze came back to your face, and for one second, he said nothing.

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the door. “Hi.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Hi.”

That was all.

One word.

But his voice had dropped just enough to make your pulse kick.

You tried to smile like you were normal. “You’re on time.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I said seven.”

“You did,” you said.

His eyes moved over your face again, softer this time.

You looked down at yourself before you could stop it. “Is this okay?”

Jack’s eyes moved over you once more. Then his gaze came back to your face.

“Okay?” Jack asked.

The word came out low, almost disbelieving, like he had taken personal offense to it.

Your fingers tightened around your bag.

Jack stepped a little closer.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Your chest went warm.

You looked down for half a second, smiling before you could stop yourself. “Thank you.”

Jack watched the smile happen like it mattered.

Then his mouth barely curved. “Ready?”

You reached for your bag from the entry table. “Yeah.”

Jack stepped back to give you room.

You locked the door with hands that were only slightly less steady than you wanted them to be.

When you turned, Jack was still looking at you.

Not like he was checking. Not like he was waiting. Like he was giving himself one more second to look before the night started.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s hand settled lightly at the small of your back as you stepped away from the door. He guided you toward the stairs, steady and warm beside you, and you realized with a terrifying little jolt that he was not trying to make the night smaller.

Neither were you.

You followed him down to the truck.

The evening breeze was cooler than you expected, enough to make the satin of your skirt brush softly against your legs as you crossed the lot beside him. Jack stayed close, not crowding you, just near enough that you could feel the warmth of him whenever your arms almost touched.

He unlocked the truck with a click, then reached for the passenger door before you could.

Jack pulled it open and stepped back.

You moved to climb in, then made the mistake of glancing past the front seat.

At the back.

Your brain, unhelpful and completely without shame, supplied several vivid memories at once.

His hands.

Your knees.

His voice against your mouth.

Tell me you’re mine.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.

Unfortunately, your mouth curved before you could stop it.

Jack noticed.

His voice dropped. “Trouble.”

Your stomach dipped as you looked at him. “What?”

Jack’s eyes flicked briefly toward the back seat, then came back to yours.

His mouth barely moved. “We are going to dinner.”

Heat rushed up your neck.

“I know that,” you said.

Jack held your gaze for one more second.

Then he nodded toward the passenger seat. “Good. Get in the truck.”

Your brows lifted. “Bossy.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You like it.”

Then he closed the door before you could answer.

You sat there in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, trying very hard not to smile.

You failed at that too.

Jack rounded the front of the truck and got in.

You stared straight ahead like the windshield required your full attention.

Jack started the engine.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.

Then his hand moved to the gearshift. “Seatbelt.”

You looked over at him. “I was getting there.”

His mouth barely moved. “Were you?”

You pulled the seatbelt across your chest. “Yes.”

Jack waited until it clicked before he put the truck in reverse.

Of course he did.

Then he turned. One hand stayed on the wheel. The other braced against the back of your seat. His body shifted toward you, shoulder close, forearm right there, the clean scent of him filling the small space between you as he looked over his shoulder to back out of the parking spot.

It was normal. It was a completely normal thing people did while driving.

Unfortunately, your brain did not care.

You stared at his arm for half a second too long. Then you stared at his jaw. Then you stared very hard out the windshield.

“Well,” you said.

Jack backed out smoothly. “Well?”

You kept your eyes forward. “That was deeply unfair.”

His gaze flicked to you as he shifted into drive. “What was?”

You looked at him. “Do not play innocent.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’m driving.”

“No,” you said. “You are obviously trying to seduce me.”

His brows lifted slightly. Then he looked back at the road, far too calm for a man being accused of vehicular seduction.

“By backing out of a parking space?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “That’s a new one.”

You crossed your arms, which did absolutely nothing to make you look less affected. “You knew what you were doing.”

“I was checking for traffic,” Jack said.

“You were using your forearm,” you said.

Jack glanced at you.

You realized what you had said.

Your eyes closed for half a second. “I hate myself.”

His quiet huff of laughter filled the cab.

It was small. Almost nothing, but it still made your stomach flip.

Jack’s hand returned fully to the wheel. “We are still going to dinner.”

You looked out the window, smiling despite yourself. “I know that.”

“Good,” Jack said.

The corner of his mouth stayed faintly curved. “Try to survive the drive.”

You looked back at him. “I make no promises.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the road, but his voice warmed. “Didn’t think so.”

The quiet that settled after that was not awkward.

It was worse.

It was comfortable.

You looked out the passenger window, watching the evening move past in soft streaks of streetlight and headlights, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that Jack was taking you to dinner.

A real dinner. A planned dinner. With a reservation and dessert and his hand steady on the wheel beside you.

Jack glanced at you once, then back at the road. “You’re quiet.”

You looked over at him. “I can be quiet.”

His mouth barely moved. “That has not been my experience.”

Your mouth fell open.

Jack kept his eyes on the road.

You stared at him for a second, offended despite the fact that he was completely right.

Then you reached over and smacked his arm lightly with the back of your hand. “Rude.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Accurate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You never seemed to have a problem with my mouth before.”

Jack’s fingers tightened once on the wheel.

The smallest crack in all that composure.

Your stomach dipped.

Jack glanced at you, slow and brief, before returning his eyes to the road.

“Trouble,” he said.

Your skin warmed.

The truck suddenly felt much smaller.

Jack’s voice stayed calm. “We are going to dinner.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “I know that.”

“Good,” Jack said.

The quiet returned after that, softer this time.

You kept your hands folded in your lap and tried not to look at him too much. The streetlights moved over his face in brief warm flashes, catching on the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the curls at his temple that were still doing something deeply unfair.

You were quiet again.

This time, Jack did not comment on it.

His right hand left the gearshift and settled palm-up on the center console between you.

No announcement, no demand. Just there. Offered.

Your chest tightened.

For a second, you looked at his hand like it was more dangerous than anything that had happened in the back seat.

Maybe it was.

Jack kept his eyes on the road. “You don’t have to.”

Your throat went tight.

Of course he gave you a way out.

You looked down at his hand again, at the broad palm, the long fingers, the knuckles you had felt against your skin, the same hand that had held your waist in your kitchen and opened your door like dinner was something he intended to do properly.

Then you slid your hand into his.

Jack’s fingers closed around yours.

Not tight. Just steady.

His shoulders loosened by a fraction.

So small you almost missed it.

Almost.

Your chest ached with it.

You looked back out the window before your face could give you away completely.

“I want to,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once over the back of your hand.

“Good,” he said.

The rest of the drive was quiet after that.

Not empty.

Quiet.

His hand stayed around yours all the way to the restaurant.

A few minutes later, Jack turned onto a quieter street lined with warm storefronts and narrow sidewalks.

The restaurant sat near the corner, tucked between a bookstore and a small wine bar, its windows glowing amber against the early evening. There were a few tables visible inside, low lights, dark wood, soft movement. Nothing loud. Nothing flashy.

Exactly what he had said.

Small and warm. Not too formal.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

Jack pulled into a space along the curb and cut the engine.

For a second, neither of you moved.

His hand was still wrapped around yours. You looked down at it. So did he. Jack’s thumb moved once over the back of your hand before he let go.

The loss of his hand should not have felt like anything.

It did.

Jack opened his door. “Stay there.”

You looked up. “What?”

His mouth barely moved. “Stay there.”

You narrowed your eyes as Jack stepped out of the truck.

You watched him shut his door and round the front of the truck, and despite yourself, your stomach did the stupid thing again.

Jack opened the passenger door and held out his hand. You looked at it for half a second longer than necessary.

Then you took it.

His fingers closed around yours as you stepped down from the truck, the satin of your skirt brushing your legs as your feet hit the sidewalk. Jack’s other hand hovered near your waist, not touching, just there in case you needed him.

You hated how much you noticed that.

You hated how much you liked it.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack’s eyes moved briefly over your face. “You’re welcome.”

He did not let go of your hand right away.

Neither did you.

The restaurant door was only a few feet away, but the sidewalk suddenly felt like its own kind of threshold.

You looked at the warm light spilling through the windows. “This is nice.”

Jack glanced at the restaurant. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His shoulders loosened by a fraction. There it was again. That tiny, almost invisible bit of relief. Like he had been waiting to see if he had gotten it right.

Your chest ached.

You squeezed his hand once before you could overthink it.

Jack looked down at your joined hands, then back at you.

You looked away quickly. “Don’t make it a thing.”

His mouth barely curved. “Wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” you said.

“I was,” Jack said.

You smiled despite yourself.

He opened the restaurant door for you, his hand settling lightly at your back as you stepped inside.

Warm air moved over your skin.

The restaurant smelled like garlic, butter, wine, and something sweet you could not place yet. Conversation hummed low around you, soft enough that you could hear the clink of silverware, the quiet laugh from a table near the window, the faint sound of music somewhere behind the bar.

It was not silent. It was not crowded.

It was exactly right.

The kind of place where you could sit across from someone and actually talk.

The kind of place Jack would pick if he had spent too much time thinking about how not to make dinner feel like a performance.

Your throat tightened.

A host looked up from the stand with a polite smile. “Good evening. Reservation?”

Jack stepped beside you. “Abbot.”

Something inside you went very still.

Not because of the name.

Because of how simple it sounded.

A reservation. His name. You beside him.

The host checked the screen. “Two for seven-thirty?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

The host picked up two menus. “Right this way.”

Jack’s hand touched the small of your back again, steady and light, and you followed the host through the restaurant.

You could feel him behind you.

The host led you to a small table near the side wall, close enough to the window to catch the glow from outside but tucked away from the louder tables near the bar.

Private without being hidden.

You looked at the table, then at Jack.

The host set the menus down. “Your server will be right with you.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

The host walked away as Jack pulled out your chair.

You stared at him for half a second.

His brows lifted slightly. “What?”

You sat down before you could smile too obviously.

Jack pushed your chair in and stepped around the table, sitting across from you with his eyes warm in the low light.

For a second, you just looked at him.

The candlelight caught on the edge of his face, softening the sharpness there. His curls looked darker in the low light, still unfairly good, still falling near his temple like they had conspired against you personally.

You looked down at the table before you could stare too long.

“I like Date Jack,” you said.

Jack went still. Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else would have noticed.

But you did.

His hand paused near his water glass, and his eyes lifted to yours.

“Date Jack?” he asked.

You felt your face warm, but you refused to take it back. “Yes.”

His mouth barely moved. “Didn’t know he had a title.”

“He does now,” you said.

Jack watched you across the table.

For half a second, he looked like he might say something dry. Something easy. Something that would let the moment move past without either of you having to look at it too closely.

Then he did not.

Instead, color touched high on his cheekbones.

Your lips parted.

“Oh my god,” you said softly.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

You leaned forward a little, delighted before you could stop yourself. “Are you blushing?”

“No,” Jack said.

“You are,” you said.

“I’m not,” Jack said.

“You absolutely are,” you said.

Jack reached for his water glass with far too much dignity. “You’re seeing things.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “Date Jack blushes.”

Jack took a sip of water.

His voice stayed level when he set the glass down. “Date Jack can still leave.”

You laughed, soft and helpless. Jack’s mouth curved despite himself.

You rested your chin lightly in your hand, still smiling at him across the candlelit table. “You won’t.”

His eyes held yours.

“No,” Jack said quietly. “I won’t.”

The words landed softly between you.

Steady enough to make your chest ache.

You opened your mouth, but before you could figure out what to do with any of that, a server appeared beside the table with a polite smile and two glasses of water.

“Hi, folks,” she said. “How are we doing tonight?”

You blinked up at her like you had briefly forgotten restaurants involved other people.

“Good,” you said quickly.

Jack’s eyes flicked to you. Your face warmed.

The server looked politely between you and Jack. “Can I get you started with anything to drink?”

Jack looked at you first. “What do you want?”

That should not have done anything to you.

It did.

Maybe it was the question itself. Maybe it was the way he asked it, simple and patient, like there was no hurry and no wrong answer.

You looked down at the drink list in front of you, even though you had not processed a single word on it. “Um.”

Jack waited.

The server waited.

You stared at the menu harder, as if intimidation might make the letters arrange themselves into meaning.

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Take your time.”

You looked up at him. He was not teasing you.

That was somehow worse.

You swallowed and looked back at the drink list. “I think I’ll do the house red.”

The server nodded. “Great choice.”

Jack looked at the server. “Same for me.”

Your eyes lifted to him. “You didn’t even look.”

Jack’s gaze came back to yours. “I looked earlier.”

The server smiled like she knew exactly what kind of date this was, which was deeply unfair of her.

“I’ll be right back with those,” she said.

She walked away, leaving you alone with him again.

You stared at Jack across the table. “You looked earlier?”

His fingers rested beside his water glass. “Yes.”

“At the wine list?” you asked.

“At the menu,” Jack said.

Your stomach dipped.

Of course he had looked at the menu before he called. Before he made the reservation. Before he picked you up exactly on time and opened your door and sat across from you looking like this was something he intended to do correctly.

You leaned back slightly in your chair. “You really did research this place.”

Jack’s expression did not change much, but something in his eyes shifted. “I said I thought about it.”

“You did,” you said.

Jack looked at you. You looked down at your napkin, smoothing one corner with your thumb. The quiet changed. Not badly. Just deeper.

Jack’s voice lowered. “I wanted to get it right.”

Your throat tightened as you looked up at him.

Jack held your gaze, steady and still, but there was something careful in him now. Something exposed enough that you knew better than to make a joke.

So you did not.

“You did,” you repeated softly.

Jack went very still.

You pressed your thumb once against the folded napkin. “Get it right, I mean.”

His jaw shifted. For half a second, he looked like he did not know what to do with that.

Then he nodded once. “Good.”

You smiled, small and nervous. “That’s all you’ve got?”

His mouth barely curved. “For now.”

Your smile grew despite yourself.

The server returned with the wine, setting a glass in front of each of you. “Here we go.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

“Thank you,” you said.

The server glanced between you. “Are we ready for food, or would you like a few more minutes?”

You looked down at the menu, which you had still barely read.

Jack noticed.

“A few more minutes,” Jack said.

“Absolutely,” the server said, nodding before she stepped away again.

You looked over the top of your menu. “You saved me.”

Jack picked up his own menu. “You were staring at appetizers like they were a threat.”

“They might be,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “I’ll protect you.”

Your stomach flipped.

You pointed the menu at him. “Do not be charming while I’m trying to choose pasta.”

“Wasn’t trying,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what makes it annoying.”

His eyes warmed over the top of his menu.

For a few minutes, the two of you actually looked at the food.

Mostly.

You read the same entree description three times and absorbed none of it, because Jack kept glancing at you.

Not constantly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But enough.

Enough that every time your eyes flicked up, his were already somewhere near you. Your mouth. Your hands. The little necklace at your throat. Your face.

Not like he was undressing you.

That would have been easier.

This was worse.

He looked at you like he liked you sitting there. Like he liked the candlelight on your face. Like he liked that you were nervous and trying not to be. Like he liked being the reason.

You dropped your eyes to the menu again. “You have to stop.”

Jack’s voice was calm. “Stop what?”

You looked up at him. “Looking at me.”

His gaze stayed on yours. “No.”

Your lips parted.

“I did not expect the answer to be no,” you said.

“You should have,” Jack said.

Your face warmed. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve heard,” Jack said.

You tried to look back at your menu. You failed.

He was still watching you.

You lowered the menu slightly. “You know this is somehow more intimidating than you seeing me naked, right?”

Jack stilled.

The words had left your mouth before you could catch them.

Your eyes widened. “I cannot believe I just said that in a restaurant.”

Jack leaned back a fraction, his gaze locked on yours now. “Say that again.”

“No,” you said immediately.

His eyes warmed. “Trouble.”

You picked up your wine glass, mostly to have something to do with your hands. “Absolutely not.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You said it.”

“I regret it,” you replied.

“No, you don’t,” Jack said.

You took a sip of wine and looked away. “I regret the location.”

His quiet huff of laughter warmed the space between you. Then he softened.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Why?”

You looked back at him. “Why what?”

“Why is it more intimidating?” Jack asked.

The question was direct. Gentle, but direct.

You set your wine glass down carefully. Because he was looking at you like that again. Because there was no rush. Because there was no excuse.

Because in the truck, wanting him had been easy. In your apartment, letting him stay had felt soft enough to hide inside. But this was dinner. A reservation. A table. A candle. Him across from you with his hands visible and his attention steady and nowhere else to put the truth.

You looked down at your menu. Then you looked back at him.

“Because this feels more on purpose,” you said.

Jack did not move.

You swallowed. “The other stuff was… heat. Or impulse. Or exhaustion. Or all of it. This is different.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

You forced yourself not to look away. “You planned this.”

Jack’s jaw flexed once.

“Yes,” he said.

The single word settled over you.

You nodded, because you already knew that. You just needed to hear it again.

The server returned before either of you could say anything else.

“Ready?” the server asked.

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you.

For some reason, that made you smile.

“Yeah,” you said, picking up your menu. “I think we are.”

Jack ordered like a man who had made peace with the menu ten minutes before he ever walked into the building.

The server took both menus and smiled. “I’ll get that started for you.”

“Thank you,” you said at the same time Jack did.

The server stepped away, leaving the two of you alone again.

No menus this time. No convenient barrier. Just the candle, the wine, and Jack sitting across from you with his sleeves pushed up slightly at his wrists like he had done it specifically to ruin your life.

You picked up your glass. “You ordered very confidently.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I knew what I wanted.”

Your eyes lifted to his.

Jack held your gaze for one steady second.

Then his expression shifted just enough that you knew he had heard it too.

Jack took a careful sip of wine. “I meant the food.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Liar.”

His mouth curved. “Maybe.”

You set your glass down, smiling despite yourself. “That is very Date Jack of you.”

His eyes warmed. “Still using that?”

“Absolutely,” you said. “Date Jack researches menus.”

“Date Jack likes knowing what he’s walking into,” Jack said.

The words were simple. Too simple, maybe. Because something about them reached across the table and pressed gently against the part of you that was still trying to pretend this was only dinner.

You looked down at the candle. “That makes sense.”

Jack watched you for a second. “Does it?”

You nodded. “You’re controlled.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Controlled?”

“Prepared,” you said.

“That sounds better,” Jack said.

You smiled. “It does.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, one hand resting near his wine glass. “You make that sound like an accusation.”

“It’s not,” you said.

His eyes stayed on yours.

You shrugged, suddenly aware of the softness in your own voice. “I think I like it.”

Jack went quiet. Just attentive.

You looked down before the moment could get too exposed. “Do not make me regret saying something nice.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Jack said.

You smiled gently. “You were looking at me like you might.”

His mouth barely curved. “I was looking at you because you said something nice.”

You pointed at him. “Dangerous habit.”

“I’ll survive,” Jack said.

You smiled into your wine glass. “Confident.”

“Usually,” he said.

The answer made you look up.

Jack did not take it back. He just watched you, calm and steady, like he had decided honesty was allowed at this table.

Your chest went warm again.

You reached for your water mostly to give your hands something safer to do. “So, this is what you’re like on dates.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “What am I like?”

“You know,” you said. “Prepared. Chair-pulling. Door-opening. Menu-researching. Quiet restaurant. Reservation under your name.”

His mouth moved like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds damning.”

“It’s very suspicious,” you said.

Jack raised a brow. “Suspicious?”

You leaned forward slightly. “Like you know what you’re doing.”

Jack held your gaze. For a second, you expected the dry answer. Something easy. Something smug.

Instead, his voice stayed quiet. “Maybe I’m trying to impress you.”

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass.

“You are,” you said.

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Trying?”

You looked at him across the candlelit table. “Impressing me.”

He went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you noticed.

Then color touched high on his cheekbones again.

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Date Jack is very dangerous.”

“You say that like you don’t enjoy dangerous,” Jack said.

You pressed your lips together.

The silence between you shifted again. Not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either. Something in between. Something alive.

Jack’s voice softened. “What about you?”

You looked up. “What about me?”

“What are you like on dates?” Jack asked.

Your first instinct was to make a joke. Obviously. Your mouth even started to shape one. Then you looked at him sitting there across from you, quiet and patient and maddeningly focused, and the joke slipped away before you could use it.

“I don’t know,” you said.

Jack’s expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.

You traced your thumb along the stem of your wine glass. “I mean, I’ve been on dates. Obviously. But…”

You stopped.

Jack waited. That was the problem with him. He waited like he actually wanted the answer.

You let out a small breath. “I don’t think I’ve been on one that felt like this.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

Your face warmed. “Which is a terrible thing to say, because now I sound like I’m making this into a bigger deal than it is.”

Jack’s voice was quiet. “I don’t think you are.”

You blinked. “You don’t?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “No.”

The word settled between you.

Simple, steady, terrifying.

You looked down at the candle because looking at him suddenly felt like too much. “Okay.”

Jack was quiet for a second.

Then his voice dropped slightly. “I think maybe it is bigger.”

Your breath caught. Not a lot. Just enough.

Enough for you to know he had heard it.

Jack did not look away.

He did not soften the words with a joke, or take them back, or turn them into something easier to hold. He just sat there across from you, calm and careful and too honest, letting the truth exist on the table between the candle and the wine glasses.

You swallowed. “That is a very annoying thing to say.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Why?”

“Because now I have to believe you might mean it,” you said.

Jack’s expression shifted. Barely. But you saw it. Something in his eyes went warmer. Deeper.

“I do,” he said.

Your chest tightened. You looked down at your hands in your lap, suddenly very interested in the edge of your own thumbnail.

Jack’s voice softened. “Hey.”

You looked up.

He held your gaze across the table.

No smirk. No teasing. No easy way out. Just him.

“I mean it,” Jack said.

There was nowhere to put that. Nowhere safe, anyway. So you just nodded once, small and careful, and tried not to let him see how much it landed.

Jack saw anyway. But he did not call you on it. He just reached for his wine glass and gave you a second to breathe.

You liked him a little bit more for that.

Which was inconvenient.

Terrible, actually.

You picked up your own glass and took a sip, hoping the wine might do something useful, like turn you into a person with emotional composure.

It did not.

Jack’s mouth curved faintly over the rim of his glass.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not look smug.”

“I’m not smug,” Jack said.

You sighed. “You look smug.”

“I’m giving you a second,” Jack said.

Your face warmed as you looked down at your glass. “Date Jack is very hard to argue with.”

Jack set his wine down. “Good.”

Before you could answer, the server appeared beside the table with two plates, and you were grateful for the interruption in a way that was only slightly embarrassing.

“Here we go,” she said, setting Jack’s plate down first, then yours. “Can I get either of you anything else right now?”

Jack looked at you before answering. “You good?”

You nodded, still recovering from the fact that he asked you first like it was automatic. “I’m good.”

Jack glanced back at the server. “We’re set. Thank you.”

“Of course,” the server said, already stepping away. “Enjoy.”

For a minute, food saved you.

It gave your hands something to do. It gave you somewhere to look when the eye contact got too warm, too sharp, too much. It turned the table from a staging ground for emotional damage into an actual dinner, which was convenient because you had been starting to suspect you might not survive Jack Abbot looking at you under candlelight.

Jack picked up his fork with the kind of calm competence that somehow extended to eating dinner, which was deeply unfair, and you took your first bite mostly to avoid saying something you would regret in public.

Unfortunately, the food was excellent.

You closed your eyes for half a second before you could stop yourself.

Jack noticed. His mouth curved faintly. “Good?”

You opened your eyes and pointed your fork at him. “Do not look pleased with yourself.”

“I picked the restaurant,” Jack said.

“You researched the restaurant,” you said.

His gaze stayed warm over the rim of his wine glass. “Still picked it.”

You tried to look annoyed, but the pasta was too good and he looked too quietly satisfied with himself, so all you managed was a reluctant smile. “Fine. You picked well.”

Jack set his glass down. “High praise.”

“It is,” you said. “I’m very difficult to impress.”

His eyes held yours for one second too long. “I noticed.”

Your stomach dipped. You looked back down at your plate before your face could do anything incriminating. “You are having way too much fun with this.”

“With dinner?” Jack asked.

“With being this pleased with yourself,” you said.

His mouth barely moved. “You named him.”

“I am starting to regret giving him that much power,” you replied.

Jack cut into his food, still looking far too composed for a man who had been blushing ten minutes ago. “Too late now.”

You hated how easily the rhythm found itself after that.

Or maybe you did not hate it at all.

Maybe that was the problem.

The first few minutes passed in a way that felt almost ordinary, except nothing about it really was. You talked about the restaurant, and the bookstore down the street, and the fact that you were physically incapable of entering a bookstore for one specific item and leaving with only that item.

Jack looked skeptical when you told him, so you explained the birthday card incident in detail.

“I went in for one card,” you said, lifting your glass. “One. A single birthday card. I left with four novels, a cookbook, and no card.”

Jack paused with his fork halfway to his plate. “How did you forget the card?”

You shrugged. “I got distracted.”

“By four novels and a cookbook?” Jack asked, a single brow raised.

“The cookbook was on sale,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved. “That explains everything.”

You pointed your fork at him. “Do not judge me. You researched a dinner menu like you were preparing for a tactical operation.”

“I like to be prepared,” Jack said.

“You like control,” you said.

His gaze lifted to yours, and for one brief second, the air changed. Not enough to derail the conversation. Enough that your skin warmed.

Then his mouth barely moved. “Also true.”

You looked down at your plate, fighting a smile. “I walked into that.”

“You did,” Jack said.

His quiet amusement made something in your chest loosen.

It was not that the tension disappeared. It was still there under everything, low and warm and waiting. But it stopped feeling like a trap. It started feeling like a current you could sit with, something that moved between you without demanding you name it every time it touched.

So you told him about your worst first date.

You had not meant to tell the whole story, but Jack listened in that still, focused way of his, and somehow even the stupidest details felt worth saying. By the time you got to the part where the man had spent forty-five minutes explaining cryptocurrency and then asked if you “believed in ambition,” Jack’s expression had gone so flat you nearly laughed before you finished.

Jack set his fork down. “Did you leave?”

“I said I had an early morning,” you said.

His brow lifted. “At seven-thirty at night?”

You shrugged. “He did not deserve my best lie.”

Jack laughed then. Not loudly, and not for long. The sound warmed the table, and God, you liked making him laugh. You liked it too much. You liked the way it made his face shift, the way the dry edges softened for half a second before he caught himself again.

“What about you?” you asked, mostly because you needed to stop staring at his mouth.

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What about me?”

“Worst date,” you said. “Come on. Date Jack has to have a few bad reviews.”

“Date Jack did not have a title yet,” Jack said.

“He had a prototype,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “Fine. Prototype Jack.”

You smiled around another bite of food. “Already promising.”

Jack leaned back a little in his chair, one hand resting near his wine glass. “Restaurant lost the reservation. Wait was two hours. She said it was fine.”

You stared at him. “It was not fine.”

“No,” Jack said. “It was not.”

“What did you do?” you asked.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “I found another restaurant.”

“Of course you did,” you said.

Jack picked up his glass. “It was fine.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine?”

“Fine,” Jack said.

You pointed your fork at him. “That means terrible.”

His gaze warmed. “It means fine.”

“You are very hard to get details out of,” you said.

“I’ve been told,” Jack said.

The conversation kept moving after that, easy enough that you forgot to be nervous for small stretches of time. He asked questions like he actually wanted the answers, not just because dates required trading biographical information over a shared meal. He wanted to know why you liked your comfort movie. He wanted to know whether frozen pizza was always your emergency food or if that had been a special occasion. He wanted to know how you and Liv became friends, and when you told him, he listened with a faint look of amusement that suggested he was beginning to understand exactly how much trouble Liv had been before Robby ever entered the picture.

“You know she’s going to ask for a full report,” Jack said.

You took a sip of wine. “Liv has probably already drafted the questions.”

“Robby will pretend he doesn’t care,” Jack said.

“Does he?” you asked.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “He cares.”

You smiled. “He’s terrible at pretending not to.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “So are you.”

You looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Jack said.

You sat back, offended despite the fact that he was not wrong. “I am excellent at pretending not to care.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “That has not been my experience.”

Your face warmed before you could stop it.

He did not smirk.

That somehow made it worse.

You looked down at your plate and tried to recover by taking another bite of food, which worked for approximately four seconds.

Eventually, after the plates were no longer quite so full and the wine had softened the edges of the night without blurring any of it, you sat back slightly and studied him across the candlelight.

“So,” you said.

Jack looked up. “So?”

You tilted your head. “Date Jack has existed before.”

The shift was subtle.

If you had not been watching him so closely, you might have missed it. His expression did not close, exactly. He did not withdraw or go cold. He only went quieter, the warmth in his eyes settling into something more careful.

He set his fork down and reached for his wine glass. “Not for a while.”

The answer landed softly.

You looked down at your plate, then back at him, understanding just enough to know there was more beneath it. A door, maybe. Not wide open. Not slammed shut either. Just there.

You touched the stem of your glass, careful with your voice. “Because of work?”

Jack looked at you.

His mouth moved, but the smile did not quite reach the rest of his face.

“A lot of things,” Jack said.

You nodded once. Just once. You did not ask what things. You did not reach across the table and try to pull the answer out of him. You did not make him turn a simple sentence into a confession just because you could feel the shape of something painful behind it.

You only let it be true.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Jack watched you for a second.

Long enough that you wondered if he had expected you to push.

You did not.

His thumb moved once against the base of his wine glass, and then he looked down at the table.

“My wife died,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened.

Not with shock, exactly. More like the air had changed shape around you, like the sentence had taken all the warmth and sound in the restaurant and pulled it into one quiet point between you.

“Oh,” you said softly.

It was not enough. Nothing would have been enough.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze.

No flinch. No demand. No attempt to make your face into something useful. You did not know what expression would have been right for a thing like that, so you did not try to perform one. You only felt it, the immediate ache of sadness for him, for the way he said it like he had learned how to make the sentence small enough to survive saying, for the years that had to sit behind those three words.

For the version of him who had loved someone, lost her, and still somehow ended up here across from you, trying to impress you with a reservation and a dessert menu.

“I’m so sorry,” you said.

Jack nodded once. Small. Controlled. But not dismissive.

“Thank you,” he said.

The silence sat there for a moment, and you let it. The restaurant kept moving around you. People talked. Silverware touched plates. Someone laughed quietly near the window. But at your table, everything slowed.

You looked down at your hands, then back at him. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I know.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He was quiet for another second, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and even.

“That’s why I might,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened.

Jack looked down at his glass, thumb still resting near the base. “Not tonight. Not all of it.”

“No,” you said softly. “Of course.”

His eyes lifted again, and there was something exposed in the steadiness of him now, something careful but deliberate, like he had decided that if this night was going to matter, then he was not going to lie by omission just to keep it easy.

“But I haven’t wanted to date in a long time,” Jack said.

Your breath caught.

He did not look away.

“Not like this,” he said.

The words were quiet. Careful. More devastating because he did not dress them up.

You swallowed. “Like this?”

Jack held your gaze across the candlelight.

“On purpose,” he said.

Your chest ached.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the man who had opened your door and researched the menu and offered his hand in the truck without asking for anything back. The man who had shown up exactly on time and looked at you like dinner was not a formality.

Like it was a choice.

Like you were.

“You wanted this to be on purpose,” you said.

Jack nodded once. “Yes.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of your napkin.

There were a dozen jokes you could have made. A dozen ways to make the moment easier, to take the pressure off both of you, to fold the truth into something playful enough that it did not have to sit so heavily in your chest. You did not use any of them.

“I’m glad,” you said.

Jack went still.

You looked down before you could lose your nerve, then forced yourself to look back at him. “That you wanted it.”

His eyes softened. Just a little. Enough.

“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “Me too.”

The rest of dinner moved more gently after that.

Not lighter, exactly.

Jack’s words stayed with you. They sat somewhere beneath your ribs, quiet and careful, too important to be shaken off by another sip of wine or a change of subject.

But the night kept going.

The server cleared your plates. Jack asked if you wanted dessert, and when you gave him a look, his mouth barely moved like he already knew the answer.

“You researched dessert too,” you said.

Jack picked up the dessert menu. “I looked.”

“That means yes,” you said.

His eyes warmed over the top of the menu. “It means I looked.”

You leaned back in your chair. “Date Jack is very thorough.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “Date Jack wanted to get it right.”

You looked down at the menu before your face could give away too much. “He did.”

Jack went quiet for a second, and when you looked up, he was watching you with that steady softness that made dinner feel more dangerous than the back seat of his truck had ever managed.

The two of you split dessert. Jack let you take the first bite, then watched your face when you did.

You lowered the spoon. “You have to stop doing that.”

Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “Doing what?”

“Watching me react to things you picked,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly. “No.”

You pointed the spoon at him. “You are enjoying this.”

Jack leaned back a fraction. “Yes.”

The honesty caught you off guard, which was ridiculous considering the night you were having.

You looked down at the dessert and tried not to smile. “At least you admit it.”

Jack’s voice stayed warm. “Sometimes.”

By the time the check came, the restaurant had settled into a quieter rhythm around you. The candle between you had burned lower, the tables near the bar had thinned, and the wine had softened the night without blurring any of it.

When the server set the check down, you reached for your bag.

Jack’s hand moved first.

You looked at him. “Jack.”

His brows lifted slightly. “What?”

You sat back. “I can pay for my dinner.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “That was not agreement.”

“No,” Jack said, sliding his card into the folder. “It wasn’t.”

You stared at him across the table. “So Date Jack pays?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “For the date he asked you on.”

The answer was too simple to fight.

You hated that. You also liked it. A lot.

You looked down at the table before your face could betray you. “That is very hard to argue with.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “That was the idea.”

You looked up again. “You’re annoying.”

His eyes warmed. “I’ve heard.”

The drive back to your apartment was quieter than the drive there. Not uncomfortable. Not nervous, exactly.

Just full.

Jack’s hand found yours again over the center console before you made it out of the parking space, and this time, you did not hesitate before sliding your fingers through his.

You did not talk much. You did not need to.

The city moved past in streaks of light and dark glass, the radio low enough that you could barely make out the song beneath the hum of the road. Jack’s thumb moved once over the back of your hand at a stoplight, and you stared out the windshield like that small touch had not made your chest ache.

It had.

By the time he pulled into your lot, you were painfully aware of every place his hand touched yours.

Jack parked and cut the engine.

For a second, neither of you moved. His fingers were still wrapped around yours. You looked down at them, then up at him.

Jack was already looking at you.

Of course he was.

Your breath caught in a way you hoped he did not notice.

Jack’s voice was quiet when he said, “I’ll walk you up.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack let go of your hand only to get out of the truck, and then he was at your door before you could open it yourself. You would have made a comment about it, but he offered you his hand as you stepped down, and the words got caught somewhere useless in your throat.

The walk to your apartment felt longer than it was. Maybe because he stayed close. Maybe because neither of you filled the quiet. Maybe because dinner had made everything feel more real, and now your door was getting closer with every step.

By the time you reached it, your pulse had settled somewhere high in your throat.

You unlocked the door, then turned back to him with your hand still on the knob.

Jack stood just close enough that you could smell him again. Soap. Aftershave. That warm, clean thing that made your brain briefly forget why doors existed.

“Well,” you said.

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Well.”

You looked at him for half a second and immediately regretted it.

He looked too good in the hallway light. Too steady. Too quiet. His curls were a little more undone than they had been when he picked you up, like the night had gotten its hands in them just enough to make him look less composed.

Or maybe you were the one less composed.

Probably both.

You tightened your fingers around the doorknob. “I had a really good time.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “So did I.”

You tried for a smile. “Date Jack did well.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good to know.”

You tilted your head. “He can be a little smug.”

Jack took one slow step closer. “Only when encouraged.”

Your back brushed the door. “You require very little encouragement.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your eyes.

Jack’s voice lowered. “Trouble.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hand lifted, slow enough that you could have moved away if you wanted to.

You did not.

His fingers settled gently along your jaw.

Jack kept his eyes on yours. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

Your chest went warm.

Not because he had not kissed you before.

He had.

God, he had.

But there was something about him asking here, at your door, after dinner, after walking you up, that made your knees feel much less reliable than they had any right to be.

You nodded.

Jack’s thumb moved once near your cheek. “Use words.”

Heat rushed through you.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

His mouth touched yours.

Soft at first.

Careful.

A real goodnight kiss.

The kind that should have stayed sweet, should have ended with a smile and a quiet promise to call, should have belonged to someone less aware of exactly how his hands felt on your body.

But then you kissed him back.

And Jack’s hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck.

And the sound he made was low enough, quiet enough, that you felt it more than heard it.

Your fingers found the front of his jacket.

You meant to hold on. That was all.

Then you pulled him closer.

Jack stepped into you, one hand bracing against the door beside your head, the other settling at your waist. His mouth changed against yours, heat slipping under the softness, control thinning just enough to make your stomach drop.

You parted your lips for him.

Jack took the invitation with a slow, devastating thoroughness that made your hand tighten in his jacket.

Your back pressed fully against the door.

His body was close, warm, solid, and the memory of the truck hit you so fast you nearly made a sound against his mouth.

Jack felt it.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead hovering near yours.

Jack said your name like a warning. “Trouble.”

Your eyes opened slowly. “Yeah?”

Jack’s thumb moved against your waist, like he was reminding himself where his hand was. “I need to stop.”

Your stomach dropped for an entirely different reason. “Oh.”

His eyes sharpened immediately. “Not because I want to.”

You blinked up at him. “Okay.”

Jack looked at you for a second, jaw tight, like he was fighting with the sentence before he trusted himself to say it.

Then his voice came out low. “In the truck.”

Your breath caught. His gaze stayed on yours.

Jack’s hand flexed once at your waist. “When I wanted you to say you were mine.”

He stopped.

The hallway went very quiet.

Your fingers were still curled in his jacket. You did not let go.

Jack looked away for half a second, not like he was avoiding you, but like he needed somewhere else to put the weight of what he was trying to say. Then he looked back.

“I didn’t only mean then,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened.

He swallowed once. Not nervous, exactly. But close enough to make your heart ache.

Jack’s voice stayed low when he continued. “I didn’t mean because we were in the back of my truck, or because things got hot, or because I wanted to hear you say it in the moment.”

You could barely breathe.

Jack held your gaze. “I meant it after.”

Your throat went tight. His hand stayed steady at your waist.

Jack’s voice softened, but the words did not lose any weight. “I meant it this morning. I meant it at dinner. I meant it when I opened your door and when you took my hand in the car.”

You could not move. You could barely breathe.

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “I don’t need you to answer that tonight.”

Your fingers tightened in his jacket.

Jack glanced down at your hand, then back to your face. “I’m not asking you to make a promise at your door because I kissed you until neither of us could think.”

Your laugh came out breathless and too close to breaking. “That is very considerate of you.”

His mouth barely curved, but his eyes were serious. “I’m trying.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. At the man who had stopped even though he wanted you. The man who had taken you to dinner because he wanted to do it on purpose. The man who had told you the truth without making you drag it out of him. The man who was standing at your door, holding himself back, because he wanted more than the easiest version of you saying yes.

Your chest ached so badly it almost scared you.

Your voice was soft when you said, “I know.”

Jack held your gaze.

You swallowed. “And I know you’re not asking me to promise something tonight.”

Jack shook his head once. “No.”

You loosened your grip on his jacket only to smooth your fingers over the fabric, small and careful. “But I liked saying it.”

His expression shifted. Barely. But you felt it through the space between you.

You forced yourself to keep looking at him. “In the truck.”

Jack went still.

You drew in a careful breath. “And I liked being with you tonight.”

His eyes softened, the kind of soft that did not make him look less intense. Just more honest.

You added quietly, “Like this.”

Jack’s voice was rougher when he asked, “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

For a second, he did not say anything.

Then his hand moved from your waist to your cheek, and he kissed you again.

Once. Slow. Deep enough to make your toes curl, but controlled enough that you knew he was keeping the promise he had made to himself.

When he pulled back, his mouth stayed close to yours.

Jack’s voice was low. “I’m going to go.”

You exhaled softly. “I know.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “If I come inside, I’m not going to want to leave.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried for a smile and almost managed it. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “It is.”

You held his gaze. “You’re still going?”

Jack nodded once. “Yes.”

You hated how much you respected that. You hated how much it made you want him more.

You breathed out. “Okay.”

Jack kissed your forehead. The tenderness of it nearly took you out at the knees.

Then he stepped back.

Not far.

Just enough.

You turned the knob and opened your door, then paused in the doorway, looking back at him. Jack stood in the hall with his hands at his sides, like putting them on you again would be a mistake he was trying very hard not to make.

You smiled softly. “Goodnight, Date Jack.”

His eyes warmed.

Jack’s voice softened. “Goodnight, Trouble.”

You stepped inside.

For one second, you kept the door open between you.

Neither of you moved.

Then Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Lock the door.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Bossy.”

Jack held your gaze. “You like it.”

Unfortunately, you did.

You closed the door before your face could tell him that any louder.

Then you locked it.

On the other side, Jack waited until he heard the deadbolt.

Of course he did.

You stood there with your back against the door, hand still on the lock, heart beating too hard in your chest.

He had left.

But it did not feel like distance.

It felt like he was trying to make room for more than the easy part.

Andie was too quiet. That was the first sign.

Not sick quiet. Not yet.

Not the kind of quiet that made you immediately reach for a thermometer or check her cheeks with the back of your hand. Just quiet enough that you noticed it in the spaces where her voice usually lived.

Usually, breakfast involved commentary. Toast was judged.

The yellow cup was either acceptable or deeply offensive.

Baby Duck was fed imaginary food. Soft duck was told to sit.

Andrew was given instructions with the confidence of a tiny foreman overseeing a building site.

But that morning, Andie sat in her highchair with one hand resting on Baby Duck's head and the other pushing a piece of banana around her tray.

She was still in her pyjamas. Still wild-haired from sleep.

Still two in that newly official way that made you ache whenever you thought about her beach crown and the candles saved on the kitchen counter.

The house still held little pieces of her birthday, even though days had passed.

A stray sticker on the side of the toy basket.

Sand that had somehow survived the vacuum.

A birthday card from Craig on the fridge.

A photo Deran had printed and stuck under a magnet, even though Andrew had complained about the angle. In it, Andie was on the beach with yellow icing on her chin, crown crooked, one hand on Andrew's face. Andrew looked half-wrecked and happier than he knew what to do with.

You had stopped counting exactly how many days ago the beach had been.

Enough for the sand to become annoying instead of sentimental.

Not enough for the softness to leave.

Andrew stood at the counter making coffee, his back to you, but you knew he had noticed Andie too.

He always noticed.

"Banana?" you asked gently.

Andie pushed the piece again.

"No."

That was not unusual. No was practically punctuation now.

But she did not say it with force.

She did not fling the banana.

She did not offer it to Baby Duck and then accuse Baby Duck of making a mess.

She just pushed it away and leaned back. Andrew turned.

His mug was in one hand.

His eyes went to Andie's tray, then her face.

"You want toast?"

"No."

He looked at you. You looked at him.

Toast being rejected was, unfortunately, normal.

Toast being rejected without outrage was not.

You moved closer and brushed a curl from Andie's forehead.

"Hey, baby. You tired?"

Andie leaned her face into your wrist.

That was the second sign.

Your daughter was affectionate, yes.

But she was also busy. She did not usually pause her morning to rest against your hand unless something in her little body had made being upright feel like work.

Andrew set his mug down without taking a sip.

"Warm?"

You touched her forehead again.

"Maybe a little."

Andie blinked slowly.

"Baby tired."

You looked at Baby Duck.

"Baby Duck is tired?"

Andie nodded.

"Baby tired."

Andrew came around the counter and crouched beside the highchair.

His voice softened.

"Is Andie tired too?"

Andie looked at him.

For a second, her little mouth trembled.

Then she held out both arms.

"Dada."

Andrew had her out of the highchair instantly.

Not fast enough to startle her.

Fast enough that you saw the worry move through him before he had time to hide it.

She dropped against his chest, cheek to his shoulder, Baby Duck trapped between them.

Andrew's hand spread across her back.

"She's warm."

"I know."

"She ate yesterday?"

"She ate plenty yesterday."

"She drank?"

"Yes."

"I'll get the thermometer."

"I'll get it," you said, already turning.

He did not argue because Andie had curled both hands into his shirt and closed her eyes.

You found the thermometer in the medicine basket in the hall cupboard, tucked beside plasters, saline spray, and the tiny nail clippers Andrew still treated like a dangerous instrument.

By the time you came back, Andrew had moved to the sofa. Andie was in his lap, legs tucked under her, forehead pressed to his collarbone.

She looked smaller when she was sick. Not newborn-small.

Not even close. But younger. Softer.

Like two had slipped off her for a moment and left behind the baby she had been when Andrew was not yet home to hold her through mornings like this.

You sat beside them.

"Andie, sweetheart, can we check?"

"No."

Andrew kissed her hair.

"Just under your arm."

"No."

"It's quick," you promised.

"No quick."

Andrew looked at you.

Despite everything, your mouth twitched.

"She has a fair point."

He did not smile. Not yet.

You tucked the thermometer under her arm while Andrew held her gently in place. She whined, not loudly, just a small miserable sound that made Andrew's jaw tighten.

"I know," he murmured. "I know, baby girl."

The thermometer beeped. You checked it.

"Low fever."

Andrew's eyes lifted to yours.

"How low?"

You told him.

He absorbed it. Categorised it. Filed it away where he kept every detail about Andie's safety.

"Okay," he said.

You touched his knee.

"Okay."

Andie sniffled.

"No."

Andrew looked down at her.

"No?"

"No sick."

Oh. Your chest cracked. You smoothed her hair.

"No sick," you repeated softly, because sometimes comfort mattered more than accuracy.

Andrew's thumb moved slowly over her back.

"Maybe just a little sick."

Andie thought about that.

Then pressed Baby Duck against his chest.

"Baby sick."

Andrew looked down at the doll. Then at you.

The corner of your mouth trembled.

"Baby Duck is sick too?"

Andie nodded solemnly.

"Baby sick."

Andrew took this with the seriousness it deserved.

"Okay," he said. "We'll take care of Baby Duck too."

Andie's eyes filled.

"Dada fix?"

Andrew went very still.

Then he bent and pressed his mouth to her warm forehead.

"Yeah," he said, voice quiet. "Dada fix."

For a while, it seemed manageable. A low fever.

A clingy toddler.

A quiet morning shifted into soft survival mode.

Andrew made a nest on the living room floor using the beach towels because they were big and already clean from the last wash. You added a blanket over the top and another pillow because Andie insisted Baby Duck needed one.

Soft duck was placed on watch.

Baby Duck was tucked under a tea towel.

Andie lay in the middle of it all in clean pyjamas, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, her birthday crown from the beach sitting on the coffee table because she had asked for it and then immediately said, "No crown."

Two was complicated.

Andrew sat on the floor beside her, one knee bent, his hand resting near her feet.

You brought water in the yellow cup.

Andie turned her face away.

"No."

"Tiny sip," you said.

"No sip."

Andrew reached for Baby Duck.

"Should Baby Duck try first?"

Andie opened one suspicious eye.

Andrew lifted the cup toward the doll's stitched mouth.

"Tiny sip."

You pressed your lips together. He lowered the cup.

"Baby Duck did good."

Andie stared at the doll. Then at the cup.

Then whispered, "Andie sip."

You handed the cup to Andrew before you got emotional over hydration.

He held it steady while she took one tiny sip. One.

Barely anything.

But both of you reacted like she had crossed a finish line.

"Good girl," you said.

Andrew's shoulders lowered by half an inch.

"Good sip."

Andie sank back onto the pillow.

"Baby good."

"Baby did good too."

She closed her eyes.

For twenty minutes, the three of you existed in a strange, suspended quiet.

Children's television played low in the background, some bright little show about animals that usually made Andie shout answers at the screen. Today she only watched with heavy eyes, one hand curled around the edge of Andrew's sleeve.

You sat near her head, stroking her hair back whenever it stuck damply to her forehead.

Andrew checked the thermometer twice.

You pretended not to notice the second time.

He pretended not to notice you noticing.

After a while, Andie stirred and pushed Baby Duck toward you.

"Baby hot."

You accepted the doll.

"Baby Duck is hot?"

Andie nodded.

"Too hot."

Andrew reached for the thermometer. You caught his wrist.

"For the doll?"

His expression was completely serious for one beat too long.

Then he blinked.

"I was—"

"You were about to take Baby Duck's temperature."

Andie looked at him.

"Baby temp."

Andrew stared at you. You smiled.

His mouth twitched despite himself.

"Fine," he said, taking the doll. "Under the wing."

You laughed quietly.

Andie watched, solemn and feverish, as Andrew tucked the thermometer under Baby Duck's floppy arm and waited three seconds before declaring, "Baby Duck is stable."

You closed your eyes. Stable. Only Andrew.

Andie seemed comforted.

"Baby better?"

"Getting better," Andrew said.

She nodded once. Then leaned toward you.

"Mama hold."

You lifted her carefully from the nest and settled her against your chest.

She was too warm. Too limp.

Her whole weight folded into you like she trusted your body to do the holding for both of you.

Andrew watched, one hand hovering like he wanted to help but did not know what help looked like when the only thing she wanted was you.

"She's okay," you told him softly.

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"You can breathe."

He did. Once. Slowly. Then Andie gagged.

You barely had time to say his name before Andrew moved.

The real sickness arrived with no dignity. It never did.

One moment you were holding your warm, miserable birthday girl.

The next, Andrew was on his knees in front of you with a towel in his hands, saying, "I've got it," in that calm voice that meant he was running on pure alarm and muscle memory.

Andie cried afterward. Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just confused, broken little sobs that made you want to pull your own heart out and hand it to her.

"Mama," she whimpered.

"I'm here. I've got you."

"Baby sick."

"Baby Duck is okay," Andrew said immediately, even though Baby Duck had absolutely taken damage.

Andie looked around with wet eyes.

"Baby?"

Andrew picked up the doll using two fingers and the careful bravery of a man who had seen things.

"Baby Duck needs a spa."

You looked at him.

"A spa?"

He glanced at you.

"Too soon?"

You were exhausted and worried and holding a sick toddler against your chest, and still, somehow, you loved him so much it made you dizzy.

"No," you said. "Perfect."

Andie sniffled.

"Baby spa?"

Andrew nodded.

"Baby Duck gets cleaned and wrapped in a towel."

Andie's chin wobbled.

"Gentle."

"Very gentle."

You shifted Andie against you.

"We should get her upstairs."

Andrew was already standing.

"I'll run the bath."

"Not too warm."

"I know."

"I know you know."

He paused long enough to look at you. You softened.

"I'm panicking too."

His face changed. Then he nodded.

"Okay."

Upstairs, the bathroom became a careful operation.

Andrew ran a lukewarm bath.

You undressed Andie while she clung to your sleeve and cried every time Baby Duck left her sight.

Soft duck sat safely on the closed toilet lid, far from the danger zone.

Baby Duck underwent emergency spa treatment in the sink.

Andrew washed the doll with the seriousness of a surgeon, then wrapped her in a hand towel and placed her where Andie could see.

"Baby clean," he announced.

Andie hiccupped.

"Baby sad."

"Baby's tired."

"Andie tired."

"I know, sweetheart," you murmured, lowering her carefully into the bath.

She cried at first.

Then settled when Andrew crouched beside the tub and let her hold two of his fingers in her wet hand.

"Dada stay."

"I'm staying."

"No go."

"I'm not going."

"You promise?"

Andrew's throat moved.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I promise."

You looked at him over her bowed head.

He did not look away from Andie.

The promise sat in the steamy bathroom between the three of you.

He meant now. He meant the bath. He meant this moment.

And because he was Andrew, because there were still places in him where absence had left bruises, he meant more than that too.

Andie sniffed and rested her cheek against your wrist as you washed her hair.

"Good girl," you whispered.

"No."

"No?"

"No good."

Andrew's face softened.

"You're sick. Not bad."

Andie looked at him.

"Sick?"

"Yeah."

"Not bad?"

"Not bad."

She thought about that. Then pointed at Baby Duck.

"Baby not bad."

"Baby Duck's not bad either."

You blinked hard.

It was ridiculous, nearly crying over a feverish toddler deciding sickness was not a moral failing.

But then again, parenthood was mostly being ambushed by things that sounded small until they were not.

The bath helped. A little.

By the time you wrapped Andie in a towel, her crying had faded into exhausted sniffles. Andrew changed her little bed while you dressed her in clean pyjamas. He stripped the sheet, wiped the safety rail, and started laundry with grim efficiency.

When you carried Andie back into her room, the bed was clean.

The blanket was fresh. The pillow had been turned over.

Soft duck sat near the wall.

Baby Duck, damp but acceptable, had been granted a new towel blanket.

Andie looked at the bed.

"No bed."

You and Andrew looked at each other. Of course.

Her little bed, usually beloved because she could climb into it herself, had become suspicious. Betraying furniture. A place where sickness had happened.

You sat on the floor beside it.

"Not in bed yet. Just cuddle."

Andie immediately folded into your lap.

Andrew sat on the other side, back against the wall, one knee up, looking too big for the nursery and somehow exactly where he belonged.

Andie's eyes moved to him.

"Dada stay?"

"I'm staying."

"Mama stay?"

"I'm staying."

"Baby stay?"

You tucked Baby Duck beside her.

"Baby stays."

"Duck stay?"

Andrew placed soft duck at her other side.

"Duck stays."

Andie's breathing hitched once. Then she closed her eyes.

For a long while, all you did was sit there.

You rubbed her back.

Andrew watched the rise and fall of her little shoulders.

Every few minutes, he looked at you, checking without asking.

Every few minutes, you gave him the smallest nod.

Still okay. Still here. Still breathing.

Eventually, Andie slept. Not deeply. Not peacefully.

But enough.

Andrew's hand found yours across the edge of the toddler bed.

"She scared me," he whispered.

"I know."

"She came into our room last night by herself, and I thought..."

He stopped. You knew.

You remembered that first silent appearance beside the bed. Andie standing there in the dark with both ducks and glassy eyes. The way Andrew had shot upright like the house was under threat.

"She knew where to come," you said.

He looked at Andie.

"She got out of bed and came to us."

"Yes."

"She knew we'd be there."

You squeezed his hand.

"Of course she did."

His face folded in quietly. Not broken.

Just touched somewhere deep.

"She knew," he said.

You nodded.

"And we were."

By lunch, you were running on laundry, half a piece of dry toast, and the kind of adrenaline that tasted metallic.

Andie's fever hovered, then dipped, then hovered again.

She kept down small sips of water.

Then an electrolyte drink Craig had left on the porch after texting instead of ringing the bell, because unlike Deran, Craig could follow instructions.

Deran texted you at 12:04.

DOES THE QUEEN REQUIRE ANYTHING

You looked down at Andie, who was lying on the floor nest in the living room with Baby Duck under one arm and soft duck pressed to her cheek.

"She's been promoted to queen," you told Andrew.

Andrew was sitting beside Andie's feet, folding a towel slowly because he seemed incapable of not doing something.

"She already was."

You typed back: No bell. Maybe crackers. More wipes.

Deran replied:

NO BELL. UNDERSTOOD. I AM A PROFESSIONAL.

Three minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Andie startled and began crying. Andrew froze.

Then very slowly, his head turned toward the front door.

"Oh," you said.

Deran was dead. Andrew stood.

You caught his wrist before he could get far.

"Don't murder him on her sick day."

He looked at you.

"No promises."

He opened the door.

Deran's voice came through, instantly regretful.

"I forgot."

Andrew said nothing.

"I forgot with my finger."

Still nothing. Craig's voice cut in.

"I told him not to touch it."

"I panicked."

"You panicked at a doorbell?"

"I was holding crackers and responsibility."

Andrew said, very calmly, "Do not ring the bell again."

"Yep."

"Ever."

"Seems harsh, but fair."

You smiled despite yourself from the living room floor.

Craig stepped into the doorway just enough to set bags inside.

"How is she?"

"Low fever," Andrew said. "Keeping sips down."

"Good."

"Not eating."

"She will when she's ready."

Andrew hated that answer. You could tell.

Not because Craig was wrong. Because it meant waiting.

Andrew was terrible at waiting when someone he loved was hurting.

Deran peered around Craig's shoulder.

"Can I see her?"

"No," Andrew said.

Deran nodded.

"Fair. Germs. Also your face."

Andie sniffled from the living room.

"Dewan?"

Deran softened immediately.

"Hi, tiny menace. Feel better."

Andie lifted her head weakly.

"Dewan bad."

Craig laughed.

Andrew's face eased for the first time in hours.

Deran placed a hand on his heart.

"She lives."

Craig pushed him back by the shoulder.

"We're going."

"Tell Baby Duck I said stay strong."

Andrew began closing the door.

"Goodbye."

Deran called through the narrowing gap, "House sick!"

The door shut.

Andrew leaned his forehead against it for one second.

You watched him. Then Andie whispered, "House sick."

He turned. His mouth softened.

"Yeah, baby girl. House sick."

You went down in the afternoon. Not dramatically.

Not at first. It started as a heaviness behind your eyes.

Then a roll in your stomach while you were rinsing Andie's cup.

Then a cold sweat at the back of your neck.

You gripped the edge of the sink. No. Absolutely not.

Andrew was in the living room, sitting beside Andie and reading the same page of the moon book for the fifth time because she kept asking for "moon again" and then not listening.

You swallowed hard. The kitchen tilted.

"Oh no," you whispered.

Andrew looked up immediately.

"What?"

You pressed a hand to your mouth. His face changed.

"Baby?"

"Don't call me that right now."

He was on his feet instantly. You moved fast.

Not gracefully. Not with dignity.

There was no dignity in stomach flu.

You barely made it to the downstairs bathroom.

Andrew followed, then stopped in the hallway when Andie made a small sound from the living room.

"Mama?"

You heard the split happen. You could practically feel it.

His body angled toward you. His head turned toward her.

You, sick on the bathroom floor.

Andie, still feverish and scared.

Andrew, trying to be in two places at once.

"I'm okay," you called weakly.

"You are not."

"I am adult okay."

"That is not a thing."

"It is today."

Andie called again, smaller.

"Mama?"

Andrew's jaw tightened.

You leaned your head back against the wall and looked up at him.

"Go to her."

"I can bring her—"

"No. She does not need front-row seats to this."

His mouth tightened.

"Call me."

"I will."

"Actually call me."

"I will actually call you."

He still hesitated.

"Andrew."

He looked wrecked. You softened your voice.

"She needs you."

That did it. He went.

You heard him lift Andie, his voice going low and steady.

"Mama's okay. She's sick too."

"No."

"I know."

"Mama sick?"

"Yeah."

"Baby sick?"

"Baby Duck's getting better."

A pause. Then Andie said, "Mama better."

"She will be."

You closed your eyes. You wanted to be. Desperately.

For the next hour, Andrew looked after both of you with the kind of focus that would have been impressive if it had not also been worrying.

He settled Andie on the sofa with her ducks and an episode of something quiet.

He brought you water. He brought a cool cloth.

He found the old bowl you had mentally labelled the sick bowl and then hated that your household apparently had one.

He sat on the bathroom floor with you after Andie dozed off again.

"You don't have to sit here," you said, voice thin.

"Yes, I do."

"You'll get sick."

His mouth twitched without humour.

"Little late for that."

"Andrew."

He reached over and brushed damp hair away from your face.

The touch was gentle. Too gentle. It made your eyes burn.

"You looked after her all morning," he said. "Let me look after you."

Your throat tightened.

"I don't want to be looked after like this."

"I know."

"It's gross."

"I know."

"I am deeply unattractive right now."

His thumb moved along your temple.

"No."

You looked at him.

"Do not lie to me during stomach flu."

His mouth softened.

"You're sick. Not unattractive."

"That is not romantic."

"It's accurate."

You laughed weakly.

Then groaned because laughing was a terrible idea.

Andrew's hand moved to your back.

"Easy."

You rested your forehead against your knees.

"I hate this."

"I know."

"Andie?"

"Asleep."

"Fever?"

"Down a little."

"Water?"

"She had some."

"Baby Duck?"

"Stable."

You looked up. He said it so seriously.

You almost laughed again, then remembered your body had rules now.

"Good."

Andrew leaned back against the bathroom cabinet and stayed there.

Not hovering. Not making you feel watched. Just present.

Every few minutes he offered water.

Every few minutes you refused.

Every few minutes he tried again. Eventually, you drank.

He looked so relieved you wanted to cry.

Later, when you were strong enough to move, he helped you to the sofa. Andie had migrated to the floor nest again, asleep in a curl of blanket and ducks.

Andrew tucked a blanket around you. You caught his hand.

"You okay?"

He looked down at you.

"Me?"

"You look pale."

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"I'm busy."

"That is not a medical condition."

"It is in this house."

You wanted to argue. But your eyes were already closing.

Andrew squeezed your hand.

"Sleep."

"Andie—"

"I've got her."

"Laundry—"

"I've got it."

"Craig—"

"I'll text him."

"Deran—"

"I'll ignore him."

Your mouth curved faintly.

"Good."

The last thing you felt before you drifted was Andrew's mouth brushing your forehead.

Not checking for fever. Not only that. A kiss.

"I've got you," he murmured.

And for once, you let yourself believe it without making a list of what still needed doing.

Andrew lasted until evening.

It would have been admirable if it had not been so stupid.

He fought the stomach flu like he could out-discipline a virus.

He wiped surfaces. He changed towels. He updated Craig.

He ignored Deran's increasingly dramatic texts.

He carried Andie when she woke sad.

He helped you sit up to sip water.

He tucked Baby Duck back under Andie's arm seven times.

He made toast nobody ate.

All while getting paler and quieter by the hour.

You noticed from your position on the sofa, where you were wrapped in a blanket and feeling like your bones had been replaced with wet paper.

"Andrew."

He was at the kitchen counter, reading the back of an electrolyte packet like it had personally wronged him.

"What?"

"Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"You are grey."

"I'm tired."

"You are grey and sweaty."

He looked offended.

"That's specific."

"Andie," you said weakly.

Andie was lying in the floor nest with Baby Duck on her stomach. Her fever had eased, and she had started to regain just enough energy to be opinionated.

She lifted her head.

"Dada sit."

Andrew looked at her. Betrayal passed over his face.

You smiled faintly.

"She has spoken."

He lasted another nine minutes.

Then he sat down on the floor beside the sofa.

Not gracefully.

More like gravity had finally won an argument.

You turned your head toward him.

"Hi."

He closed his eyes.

"Don't."

"You okay?"

"No."

It should not have been funny.

Nothing about the day was funny.

But the immediate honesty after hours of grim denial broke something in you, and you started laughing.

The laugh hurt your stomach. That made you groan.

Andrew opened one eye.

"Serves you right."

"You admitted it."

"I'm evolving."

"Into what?"

"A corpse."

Andie pushed herself upright.

"Dada sick?"

Andrew looked at her. His face softened despite the misery.

"Yeah, baby girl. Dada's sick."

Andie looked genuinely devastated.

Then she reached for Baby Duck and placed the doll on Andrew's chest.

"Baby help."

Andrew stared at the doll. Then at you. Your eyes filled.

You were too sick for this. Far too sick.

He covered Baby Duck with one hand.

"Thank you."

Andie nodded, satisfied.

Then, with enormous effort, she pushed herself onto her knees and patted his shoulder.

"Dada better."

Andrew closed his eyes. His hand covered hers.

"Trying."

"Mama help."

You blinked.

"I'm helping?"

Andie nodded.

"Mama help Dada."

Andrew's eyes opened. You slowly pushed yourself upright.

Your body objected. Strongly. You ignored it.

Andie looked at you with serious, fever-soft authority.

"Mama water."

"Oh," you whispered. "You want me to get Dada water?"

"Yes."

Andrew tried to sit up.

"No, you don't—"

You pointed at him.

"Do not argue with the nurse."

He blinked.

"The nurse is two."

"And very strict."

Andie nodded.

"Strict."

You had no idea where she had got that word. Probably Craig.

You stood slowly, using the sofa for balance, and made your way to the kitchen. You poured water into the nearest clean cup. Or clean enough. Standards had collapsed.

When you came back, Andie was sitting beside Andrew, Baby Duck still on his chest, soft duck now tucked beside his hip.

She had covered his knee with her little blanket.

Only his knee. The rest of him was apparently on his own.

You handed him the water.

"Tiny sip," you said.

His mouth twitched. Andie leaned closer.

"Tiny sip."

Andrew took the cup.

"Yes, ma'am."

He drank.

Andie watched like she had personally restored him to health.

"Good Dada."

Your heart went soft. Andrew swallowed.

"Thanks, baby girl."

She patted his cheek.

"No sick."

"I'm working on it."

"No sick," she repeated, firmer.

You sat carefully on the floor beside them.

"See? She fixed it."

Andrew leaned his head back against the sofa.

"She's very qualified."

"She's been sick all day."

"Experience."

Andie crawled clumsily into the space between you and Andrew, then changed her mind halfway and sat on your lap instead, leaning against your chest.

She reached one hand toward Andrew. He took it.

The three of you stayed like that.

You sitting on the floor with Andie against you.

Andrew beside the sofa, pale and wiped out, Baby Duck on his chest, soft duck at his hip, water cup in hand.

It was miserable. It was gross.

It was somehow one of the most tender things you had ever seen.

Craig texted. Need anything? You looked at Andrew.

He shook his head. You typed:

He's down now. Andie is supervising. Craig replied:

Good. He needed supervising.

Deran replied from his own phone seconds later:

TINY NURSE

You smiled. Andie poked the phone.

"Cwaig?"

"Craig says Dada needs supervising."

Andie nodded.

"Dada sick."

Andrew said, "Everyone knows."

"Dewan bad."

"Still true."

You laughed softly. Less pain this time.

That felt like progress. Night came slowly. Not peacefully.

Not cleanly. But slower.

Andie was better enough to insist that Andrew needed Baby Duck, then cry because Baby Duck was hers, then solve the problem by placing Baby Duck halfway on Andrew's chest and halfway under her own arm.

Fair shares.

You helped her carry a blanket from the floor nest to the sofa, where Andrew had finally been forced to lie down. She insisted on tucking him in.

Mostly his left leg. Then his stomach.

Then his face, which you corrected before he suffocated under toddler care.

"No face blanket," you said.

Andie frowned.

"Dada cold."

"Dada needs air."

Andrew's voice came muffled from the sofa.

"Dada agrees."

Andie patted his hair.

"Dada better soon."

His eyes softened.

"Yeah."

You sat on the edge of the sofa near his hip, one hand resting on Andie's back as she leaned against him.

Your own stomach still rolled faintly. You were exhausted.

Weak. Sore. But Andie was upright.

Andrew was finally lying down. The fever had eased.

The worst of the day felt like it might be behind you, even if the house looked like a medical supply cupboard had exploded.

Andie turned her face into your side.

"Mama better?"

"Getting there."

"Dada better?"

"Getting there too," Andrew murmured.

"Baby better?"

You glanced at Baby Duck, whose towel wrap had slipped over one eye.

"Baby Duck is recovering nicely."

"House better?"

You looked around the living room. Blankets everywhere.

Towels in piles. Cups on the table.

A half-eaten piece of toast on a plate nobody had the strength to move.

Electrolyte drinks lined up near the sink.

Laundry waiting like a threat.

"House needs a minute," you said.

Andrew made a low sound that might have been a laugh.

Andie nodded, accepting this.

"House sick."

"Yes."

She patted Andrew's chest.

"Dada fix."

Andrew closed his eyes. Not because he was annoyed.

Because even sick, even miserable, those words still got to him.

"Tomorrow," he whispered.

"No," Andie said.

His eyes opened. You smiled.

"No?"

Andie patted his chest again.

"Dada rest."

Oh. Andrew went still. Your throat tightened.

"She's right," you whispered.

Andie nodded.

"Dada rest. Mama rest."

"What about Andie?"

She considered this.

"Andie rest."

"Good plan."

She climbed awkwardly from your lap into the narrow space beside Andrew on the sofa. You hovered immediately, one hand behind her back, but she settled carefully against his side, Baby Duck squashed between them.

Andrew wrapped one arm around her. Not tight. Just enough.

You tucked the blanket over both of them, below the face because everyone had learned.

Andie sighed.

"House rest."

Andrew's eyes met yours over her head.

There was sickness there. Exhaustion. A sheen of fever.

But there was also something soft and grateful and undone.

"She came to us," he murmured.

You knew he was thinking of the night before.

The little bed. The silent toddler beside your mattress.

Baby Duck dangling from one hand.

"She did."

"Now she's telling us to rest."

"She's two. Very advanced."

His mouth curved. Andie mumbled, "Two."

You stroked her hair.

"Yes, baby. Two."

Her eyes closed.

Andrew's hand found yours where it rested on the blanket.

His fingers were warm. Too warm, but not alarmingly now.

Just sick-warm. Human. There.

"You should sleep too," he said.

"I will."

"You're sitting like you're about to get up."

"I was going to check the laundry."

His eyes opened fully.

"No."

"It'll smell."

"Let it."

"You hate letting it."

"I hate moving more."

That made you smile.

"Growth."

"Virus."

"Still."

Andie made a sleepy sound. Both of you went quiet.

After a minute, you moved from the edge of the sofa to the floor beside them, leaning your shoulder against the cushions. Not comfortable, exactly. But close.

Andrew looked down at you.

"You don't have to sit there."

"I know."

"Come up here."

"There's no room."

He shifted slightly. Andie objected in her sleep.

All three of you froze. She settled. You pointed at him.

"No moving."

He sighed.

You rested your cheek against the sofa cushion near his hand.

"I'm fine here."

"You're not."

"I'm adult okay."

"Bad category."

"Only one I've got."

His fingers touched your hair. Slow. Tired. Careful.

For a while, that was the whole world. The dim living room.

The sick house. The toddler asleep against Andrew's side.

Baby Duck wedged between them like a tiny nurse.

Soft duck somewhere near his knee. Your hand in Andrew's.

The three of you ruined and together.

Eventually, your phone buzzed again. You ignored it.

Andrew's mouth moved faintly.

"Craig?"

"Probably."

"Deran?"

"Probably worse."

You reached for the phone. Craig: Last check. Still alive?

Deran: If nobody answers I'm assuming zombies

You typed slowly: Alive. House resting. Deran replied:

TINY NURSE WIN

Craig: Good. Sleep. We'll check tomorrow.

You put the phone face down. Andrew's eyes were half-closed.

"What did they say?"

"Sleep."

"Bossy."

"They learned from Andie."

His mouth curved. Andie shifted closer into him.

"Dada," she mumbled.

"I'm here."

"Mama?"

"I'm here too."

"Baby?"

Andrew touched the doll.

"Baby's here."

"House?"

You smiled, exhausted down to the bone.

"House is here."

Andie sighed.

"House better."

Andrew looked at you. Then down at her. Then back at you.

His fingers closed around yours.

"House better," he whispered.

It was not completely true. Not yet.

There were towels to wash. Bowls to clean.

A fever to monitor. A husband to keep horizontal.

A body of your own that still felt too weak, too unsettled, too slow to recover.

But in the low light, with Andie finally resting and Andrew finally letting himself be looked after, it felt true enough to hold.

The house was sick. The house was resting.

The house was getting better.

And for the moment, that was enough.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Jack woke to the smell of coffee.

For a second, he did not move.

The room was unfamiliar in the softest possible way. Pale morning light slipped through the curtains, catching on the stack of books on your nightstand, the sweatshirt thrown over the chair, the glass of water you had left beside the bed before crawling under the covers with him.

Your side of the bed was empty.

Still warm, but empty.

Jack blinked at the ceiling, disoriented in a way he did not like and rested in a way he did not trust.

He had slept.

Actually slept.

Not the kind of sleep he stole in pieces between shifts, half-aware of every sound and shadow. Not the kind that broke apart every time a car passed outside or the heat clicked on or his own body remembered something his mind had tried to leave alone.

He had slept.

In your bed.

With his arm around you and your hand resting over his chest.

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose and turned his head toward the bedroom door.

From somewhere down the hall, something clinked softly. A cabinet, maybe. Then the quiet scrape of a pan against the stove.

His brows drew together.

You were cooking.

Jack sat up carefully, the sheet falling to his waist. His prosthetic was exactly where he had left it, within reach beside the bed. His clothes were still folded over the chair because apparently, even half-asleep in your apartment after a night that had gotten wildly out of hand, some habits did not leave him alone.

He reached for his prosthetic, then paused.

The apartment was quiet except for the small sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

Coffee.

A pan.

Your bare feet against the floor.

Jack’s chest tightened before he could stop it.

He was not used to waking up inside someone else’s morning.

He was not used to wanting to stay there.

You were standing at the stove in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, your hair still messy from sleep, one hip leaned against the counter while you watched a pancake bubble in the pan.

Jack stopped in the kitchen doorway.

For one quiet second, he let himself look.

The lamp in the living room was off now. Morning had found your apartment and made it softer, warmer, more real. The bookshelves, the blankets, the plates from last night already rinsed and stacked beside the sink. The baking sheet was clean too, propped carefully in the drying rack, because apparently you had gotten up and decided to become functional before him.

That bothered him.

Not because you had cleaned.

Because he had slept through it.

You glanced over your shoulder and froze with the spatula in your hand.

“Oh,” you said.

Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. “Morning.”

Your eyes moved over him before you could stop them.

Undershirt. Boxer briefs. Prosthetic on. Hair slightly mussed from your pillow. Face softer with sleep in a way that made your stomach do something embarrassing before nine in the morning.

You looked back at the pan. “Morning.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You’re cooking.”

“I am,” you said.

His eyes dropped to the pancake in the pan. “Looks serious.”

You pointed the spatula at him. “Do not come into my kitchen and act surprised that I can make pancakes.”

Jack stepped closer. “Didn’t say I was surprised.”

“Your face implied it,” you said.

“My face gets accused of a lot in this apartment,” Jack said.

“For good reason,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly.

You slid the spatula beneath the pancake, flipped it cleanly, and tried very hard not to look proud of yourself.

Jack noticed anyway.

“That was good,” he said.

You looked over at him. “The flip?”

“The flip,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” Jack said, and there was something so straightforward in his voice that you believed him before you meant to. “I’m impressed.”

Your face warmed.

“That is worse,” you said.

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “How?”

You sighed. “Because now I have to be humble.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack said.

You turned back to the stove. “Good, because I wasn’t going to.”

Jack huffed softly, almost a laugh, and the sound slipped into the quiet kitchen like it belonged there.

You reached for the mug beside the coffee pot. “Coffee?”

Jack’s gaze moved to the pot. “You made coffee.”

“I did,” you said. “How do you take it?”

“Black,” Jack said.

You paused, then gave him a look over your shoulder. “Of course.”

His mouth barely moved. “Of course?”

You nodded. “You look like a man who drinks coffee like it’s a responsibility.”

“It is a responsibility,” Jack said.

You poured the coffee and held it out to him. “That is such a concerning answer.”

His fingers brushed yours when he took the mug.

“Thank you,” Jack said.

It was simple. Quiet. Too sincere for something as small as coffee.

Your chest tightened anyway.

“You’re welcome,” you said.

He looked down into the mug, then back at you. “How long have you been up?”

You turned back to the stove too quickly. “Not that long.”

Jack’s eyes moved to the rinsed plates by the sink, the clean baking sheet in the drying rack, the stack of pancakes already waiting on a plate beside the stove.

“Try again,” he said.

You flipped another pancake. “Maybe forty minutes.”

Jack was quiet.

Too quiet.

You looked over at him.

His expression had shifted, not much, but enough. The amusement was still there at the edges, but something else sat under it now.

“You didn’t wake me,” he said.

You swallowed.

“You were sleeping,” you said.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“I slept,” he said.

The words were simple, but they landed heavily in your small kitchen.

Your hand tightened around the spatula. “Yeah.”

“I don’t usually,” Jack said.

You looked at him over your shoulder, the morning light soft across his face, the mug warm in his hand.

“I figured,” you said.

Jack did not look away.

You turned back to the stove, because holding his gaze suddenly felt like holding something fragile with both hands. “So I let you.”

For a second, the only sound was the quiet hiss of the pancake in the pan.

Then Jack said, “Thank you.”

Your throat went tight, so of course you reached for the plate beside you and pretended pancakes required your full emotional focus.

“You can thank me by admitting these look good,” you said.

Jack looked at the stack on the plate.

“They look good,” he said.

You glanced at him, suspicious. “That was very easy.”

His mouth softened. “They do.”

That was unfair.

You turned back to the stove before your face could do something humiliating. “Good. Because breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Jack took a sip of coffee and leaned back against your counter like he had done it a hundred times, like your kitchen had made room for him overnight and he had simply accepted the invitation.

“That so?” he asked.

You slid the finished pancake onto the plate. “Yes. You’re a doctor. You should know that.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I do know that.”

“Then stop looking amused by my commitment to your nutritional wellbeing,” you said.

His eyes stayed on you over the rim of his coffee mug. “Is that what this is?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Obviously.”

Jack set the mug down.

The small sound of ceramic against the counter made your stomach dip before he even moved.

He stepped closer, slow enough that you had plenty of time to pretend you did not notice.

You noticed anyway.

You noticed the warmth of him at your back, the clean scent of your soap still clinging faintly to his skin, the quiet weight of his attention settling over you in the morning light.

Your hand tightened around the spatula.

“Jack,” you said.

His hand touched your waist. “What?”

You swallowed. “I’m making pancakes.”

“I see that,” Jack said.

His mouth brushed the side of your neck, barely there.

Your eyes closed for half a second.

The pancake hissed softly in the pan.

“You’re distracting me,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “I know.”

Your breath caught.

You forced your eyes open and looked down at the pan. “This is how breakfast gets ruined.”

Jack’s mouth moved along the side of your throat, slow and warm and unfairly gentle. “Looks done.”

You looked down.

The pancake was, infuriatingly, perfect.

You slid it onto the plate with more force than necessary. “You are very annoying.”

Jack’s mouth curved against your skin. “I’ve heard.”

You turned in the small space between him and the counter, spatula still in one hand, your back pressing lightly against the edge. Jack did not crowd you. Not really. He just stood close enough that the entire kitchen seemed to understand something you were still trying very hard not to say out loud.

His hand stayed at your waist.

You lifted the spatula slightly between you. “Fine.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Fine?”

“You can kiss me once,” you said.

His mouth barely moved.

“Once,” Jack repeated.

You nodded, trying very hard to look unaffected. “Once. And then pancakes.”

Jack looked at you for a second.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Just once?” he asked.

Your stomach dipped.

“Yes,” you said. “Just once.”

Jack’s thumb moved slowly at your waist. “Okay.”

That was the only warning you got.

He leaned in and kissed you.

Softly, at first.

So softly it almost made you feel ridiculous for bracing yourself.

His mouth brushed yours once, warm and careful, coffee on his breath and sleep still in the roughness of his jaw. Your hand tightened around the spatula, and Jack noticed because, of course, he did.

His other hand came to the counter beside you, not trapping you, not really, but giving the kiss somewhere to deepen when he tilted his head and kissed you again.

Still gentle.

Still devastating.

Your knees went a little weak.

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist like he felt it happen.

You made a small sound against his mouth before you could stop yourself, and the kiss changed. Not harder exactly. Deeper. Slower. Like he had all the time in the world to ruin you and no interest in rushing through any of it.

The spatula lowered uselessly to your side.

Jack’s mouth moved over yours with careful pressure, warm and unhurried, his thumb pressing once into your waist as if to remind you he had you.

And he did.

That was the problem.

He had you in your kitchen, in your sleep shorts, with pancakes cooling on a plate beside you and morning light slipping across the counter, and somehow that felt more dangerous than the back seat of his truck.

When he finally pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for half a second too long.

Jack’s forehead hovered close to yours.

You opened your eyes.

His were already on you.

Your voice came out embarrassingly thin. “That was more than once.”

Jack’s mouth barely curved. “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“One kiss,” he said.

You stared at him, still trying to remember how knees worked. “That was a criminal interpretation of one kiss.”

His thumb moved once at your waist. “You didn’t specify duration.”

Your mouth fell open.

Jack looked far too pleased with himself.

“You’re impossible,” you said.

“You’re still holding the spatula,” Jack said.

You looked down.

You were, in fact, still holding the spatula.

You lifted it between you. “This is the only thing keeping breakfast together.”

Jack glanced at the plate beside you. “Pancakes are getting cold.”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed, soft and helpless, because of course he would kiss you like that and then remind you about pancakes.

Jack’s expression warmed.

You pointed toward the tiny table. “Sit down before you become a hazard.”

He picked up his mug, still looking at you. “Too late.”

Your stomach dipped.

You turned back to the stove, smiling despite yourself. “Extremely too late.”

Breakfast was unfairly domestic.

That was the only word for it.

You sat at your tiny kitchen table with your knees tucked beneath you, watching Jack Abbot eat pancakes in your apartment like it was a normal thing. Like men who had fucked you in the back seat of their truck and slept in your bed always sat in your kitchen the next morning with coffee in one hand and syrup on the side of their plate.

Jack took another bite, and you tried not to stare.

He noticed anyway.

“What?” he asked.

You lifted your brows. “Nothing.”

Jack looked down at his plate, then back at you. “They’re good.”

Your chest did something stupid.

You reached for your coffee. “I know.”

His mouth barely moved. “No humility?”

“I told you I wasn’t doing that,” you said.

Jack huffed softly, and there it was again, that almost-laugh that made your kitchen feel warmer than it already was.

He took another bite.

You watched him for half a second too long before you looked away.

“Stop looking surprised,” you said.

Jack swallowed another bite of pancake and reached for his coffee. “I’m not surprised.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You have a face.”

His mouth barely moved against the rim of the mug. “I’ve heard.”

You pointed your fork at him. “You’re making it.”

His eyes stayed on yours, softer now. “I like seeing you like this.”

Your fingers tightened around your mug.

You looked down quickly. “Making pancakes?”

“At home,” Jack said.

The words landed quietly.

You did not know what to do with them, so you took a sip of coffee and burned your tongue a little.

His mouth curved faintly. “Careful.”

You set the mug down and pointed at him. “Do not be charming before I have finished my coffee.”

Jack leaned back in the chair. “Wasn’t trying.”

“That’s the problem,” you said.

His eyes warmed.

Neither of you said anything for a moment. The morning moved around you, soft and ordinary, and somehow that made it feel more dangerous than anything that had happened the night before.

Jack’s phone buzzed on the table.

The sound cut through the quiet hard enough that both of you looked down.

Jack glanced at the screen, and something in his face shifted.

Not alarm.

Obligation.

You took another sip of coffee, trying not to feel the small drop in your stomach. “Everything okay?”

Jack set his fork down. “Yeah.”

You watched him look at the screen again. “That was not a convincing yeah.”

His mouth barely moved. “I have a meeting at the VA.”

“Oh,” you said.

The word came out smaller than you meant it to.

Jack’s eyes came back to yours immediately. “Not yet.”

You lifted your brows. “No?”

“Later this morning,” Jack said. “But I need to go home and change first.”

You nodded because that was normal. Adults had meetings. Adults went home to shower and change. Adults did not attach emotional significance to a man finishing pancakes and then leaving because he had an actual life outside of the soft little kitchen he had accidentally slept his way into.

You were very bad at being an adult before you finished your coffee.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack watched you for a second too long. “That wasn’t a dismissal.”

You looked up. “What?”

“The meeting,” Jack said. “That wasn’t me trying to leave.”

Your chest tightened.

You forced a small smile. “I know.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he could hear the part of that answer that had been automatic.

You sighed and set your mug down. “I do know. I just—”

You stopped.

Jack waited.

You looked toward the kitchen window, where morning light was catching on the edge of the sink. “It’s weird.”

“What is?” Jack asked.

You looked back at him. “Having you here.”

His expression softened by half a degree.

You swallowed. “And then having you leave.”

Jack went still.

The words sat between you, too honest for breakfast, too soft to take back.

You reached for your fork like pancakes could rescue you from emotional exposure. “Which is ridiculous, because you have a meeting and I have dishes and probably a life somewhere around here.”

Jack did not smile.

He looked at you across the tiny table, tired and warm and serious enough that your heart did something stupid.

“I’m not disappearing,” he said.

Your hand stilled around the fork.

You looked up. “I didn’t say you were.”

“No,” Jack said. “But you thought it.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked down at your coffee. “That is incredibly rude of you to notice.”

His mouth barely moved. “I notice things.”

“You should consider stopping,” you said.

“No,” Jack said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

His gaze stayed steady on yours. “I’ll call you.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

You nodded once. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” Jack said.

Your chest warmed.

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

This time, you almost did.

By the time he stood near your front door, fully dressed again, coffee finished, his hair slightly less wrecked from your pillow, your apartment felt different around him.