Hola!

It took you a wild minute, but hey, game recognises game. He was always looking for someone too. Just... not you. You followed his line of sight; you were curious as to who made his face light up that way. Curiosity killed the cat, desecrated it, buried it, and got rid of the evidence.

It was deeply inconvenient that the one guy you ended up genuinely liking in all your time at Briar just so happened to be in love with your best friend. As was your luck.

Logan, on the other hand, really looked forward to seeing Hannah.

The night after he walked you home, he'd had a revelation. He didn't want Hannah. He just wanted to be in love. And he wanted it to be with you, specifically. So, he had begged Hannah, who knew you better than anyone in the world, to tell him everything about you.

"And why exactly would I do that?" she asked, as she cleared his table at Malone's.

"Well, I may or may not be interested in asking her out," he confirmed. Hannah froze for a second before taking a seat opposite him in the booth.

"Listen to me, Logan. Before you have my blessing—"

"I wasn't asking for—"

"Before," she cut him off, "you have my blessing, know this. You will not hurt her. You will not make her cry; you will not ever be the reason she feels betrayed, and you certainly cannot treat her like she's just anybody. She's the prize. Understood?"

Logan was genuinely scared. "Yes, ma'am."

"What do you want to know?"

And so, he spent the following days brainstorming ways to ask you out and running them by Hannah to see if you'd say okay. They had settled on simple, subtle ways. "Drop hints. Let her know you like her," Hannah had said. So he did.

He was magically at the library at the same time you were, offered to carry your books, tried making small talk, and whatnot. You had nipped that right in the bud.

"Listen, I'm sorry, but I got this, like, really daunting assignment to work on, so if you don't mind..."

"What? Yeah, no— of course, yeah. Go. Study. Education is... yeah."

So that failed spectacularly.

Next, it was getting you your coffee order. As a surprise. Yay! Here's your exact coffee order! See how much I notice? Love me.

Unfortunately, the only person that attempt surprised was Logan.

He had stopped you on your way to class with a rushed Hey! Wait up! It sounded very breathless, like he had sprinted through campus to get there. Which he had.

"What's this?"

"I got you coffee." He paused to catch his breath. "From that place you like."

"Oh," you trailed off, and you looked at him with what he convinced himself could not be pity.

"What's wrong? Did I get it wrong? Wh—"

"No, nothing, I just— I had coffee like five minutes ago. I didn't have time to go there before class, so I just got it from the cafeteria," you explained. Logan just stared in disbelief.

"Oh."

Well, shit.

"Yeah," you laughed nervously. "It's fine, I'll just... have some more, I guess," you tried.

"What—no, no, you don't have to," he laughed, "I'll have it instead. It's fine. I love..." he trailed off, pausing to read the order written on the cup, trying and failing at hiding the mild grimace that formed, "... vanilla."

You just nodded solemnly and watched him as he took a sip. It was clearly not to his taste; he was struggling, and he gave you a very unconvincing thumbs-up as he swallowed what he believed could not possibly contain any amount of coffee at all.

"You okay, Logan?"

"Uh-huh!" he assured, but his voice was way too high-pitched to sound plausible.

The third time had to be the charm. Logan was very close to just going up to you and saying Listen. I really like you. You're killing me here. Dinner? Hannah had to convince him for twenty minutes to try being normal one last time before giving up.

It was a relatively simple plan. There was going to be a party. You were going to be there. All he had to do was talk to you and treat you like a human being. Genius plan, right? Wrong.

It was like the entire universe was conspiring against Logan. Every time he would try to strike up a conversation with you, it would die down in a matter of seconds because someone wanted either one of you for something. And when you both were finally free, and it felt like the conversation was getting somewhere, a puck bunny that Logan had met at a party ages ago would get the brilliant idea of getting reacquainted with him. After about three instances of this happening, Logan excused himself from you and pulled her aside.

"Kylie," he laughed, but there was no humour in it. "Listen. You're an amazing person—"

"You think so?" she asked, hand to heart and teary-eyed, clearly drunk out of her mind, poor thing.

"Uh-huh!" he indulged, already losing patience, "And any guy would be so lucky to have you."

"Yeah, he would," she laughed, pulling him closer by the collar. He caught her by the wrist, pulled her away and stepped back.

"Yeah, see? That's the thing. I am not that guy."

"What do you mean?" she asked, tears already welling in her eyes. He sighed, head dropping.

"I like someone, Kylie. I really like this girl, and I don't wanna screw it up, okay?"

Gears were finally turning in her head. She gasped, her eyes lighting up. "Is that who you were talking to?"

"Yes," he laughed. "That was her, yeah."

"She's pretty."

"Yeah, she is. And she's really smart too. She does this thing when—"

Logan spent the next 15 minutes talking about you. By the time he was done (he wasn't nearly done; he just noticed that it had been quiet for a while), Kylie had dozed off, leaning on the wall. Not wanting to leave her there, he ushered her into the nearest room and left her on the bed. By the time he came back to the party, you were gone. You probably thought he ditched you for Kylie.

Well, shit.

It wasn't that you didn't notice that Logan was trying something with you. It's just— It felt wrong at this point. What, Hannah was in a relationship now, so he was going for you instead? Is that what this was? And Kylie now? Were you that boring that he had to ditch you mid-conversation?

Sure, you loved that he was making an effort, and it was killing you on the inside to not reciprocate, but if his heart was not in the right place, then what even was the point? You deserved to be wanted because you were you. Not as someone's rebound, not as an afterthought. And you were going to wait until his intentions towards you were crystal clear.

Logan was getting nowhere with you, and it wasn't for lack of trying. He spent the following week trying to arrange as many "chance encounters" as possible to try and talk to you. But, no matter what he did, and no matter how obvious he made it, you seemed to show zero interest in him. It was pissing him off. Hell, it was pissing Garrett off, who had to listen to him complain about this every day, all day long.

"I'm telling you, G, it's like she hates me."

"She's not the only one," he deadpans.

"Dude, I'm serious," he said, his voice sincere.

Garrett almost felt bad for him, except he didn't, thanks to the fact that Logan had barged into his room unannounced; Hannah and Garrett were very, very naked and hiding under the covers.

"So am I. Get the fuck out of my room, Logan," Garrett threatened, throwing a pillow at Logan's figure, which rapidly sprinted out of his room.

"Jesus. Anyways, where were we, Wellsy?" Garrett smirked, hand already snaking up Hannah's waist.

"She does like him back, you know?"Hannah announced.

"Oh, come on!"

So, yeah. Logan's love life was in shambles; Garrett was getting cockblocked, and you were moping around thinking the guy you were basically in love with liked your best friend instead. A normal situation that everybody faces. Sure.

Logan was going to try one last time, and he wasn't going to take Hannah's advice. No more hints or subtlety, because he clearly sucked at those. No, he was going in the grand romantic-gesture direction because that always works out perfectly. They had a game coming up, and he knew exactly what to do.

It was game day, finally. The score was tied, third period, and Briar's crowd was already hoarse from screaming. You were wedged between Hannah and a very enthusiastic stranger in a Briar jersey, clutching your coffee you'd stopped drinking twenty minutes ago because your hands wouldn't stay still long enough.

"He's going to give himself whiplash trying to find you in this crowd," Hannah said, not looking up from her phone, where she was very obviously texting Allie updates about you and Logan.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're doing the thing where you pretend you're not looking for him while you are actively looking for him."

You did not dignify that with a response, mostly because it was true.

And then you saw him. Logan, skating backward near the boards, scanning the stands like a man on a mission. His eyes caught yours, and something in his whole body seemed to relax and panic at the same time, which should not have been possible, and yet.

He pointed. At you. In front of literally everyone. Oh god.

"Oh no," you said.

"Oh, this is going to be good," Hannah said, already filming.

"THIS ONE'S FOR YOU!" he bellowed, loud enough that three separate sections turned to look at you, and you wanted the bleachers to open up and swallow you whole.

Then he took the puck, because of course the puck was already coming to him, because the universe apparently wanted to humiliate him on the biggest possible stage— and he shot.

Into his own net.

The horn blared. For the other team.

There was a full second of stunned silence before the away side erupted, and Coach Jensen looked like he was one heart attack away from an ambulance. Tucker looked like he had seen a ghost. Dean had both hands over his face, shoulders absolutely shaking in laughter. Garrett skated up to Logan and just stared at him, the way you'd stare at a raccoon that had wandered onto the ice.

"Logan," you heard him say, loud enough to carry, "what the fuck."

You put your face in your hands. Hannah was cackling beside you, still filming, tears actually forming. Jules, who was covering the entire game, had to sit down to compose themself.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," you mumbled into your palms.

"He scored for the wrong team for you," Hannah wheezed. "He scored—" she stopped, laughter getting the best of her as she folded over, holding on to you for support.

On the ice, Logan was refusing to make eye contact with anyone, skating back to position like if he moved fast enough, no one could see him. Coach Jensen was yelling something from the bench that involved a lot of pointing and the phrase "are you KIDDING me," along with some very elucidating profanities.

Briar won anyway, thankfully; Garrett's overtime goal saving Logan from further embarrassment, but the locker room, you'd heard, was not kind to him afterwards.

The party after the game felt like a perfectly curated hazing ritual designed to torment Logan alone specifically. You found him by the kitchen, nursing a beer like it had personally wronged him, still getting razzed by literally every guy who walked past.

"Own-goal Logan!" someone shouted from across the room. Logan didn't even flinch; he just closed his eyes like he was praying for the floor to open. Any time now, floor.

You walked up, arms crossed, doing your best to look unimpressed and failing.

"Dude. What the hell."

He turned, and the relief on his face at seeing you, actually seeing you, not a heckler, was almost enough to make you forget you were supposed to be teasing him right now.

"In my defense—"

"This ought to be good."

"—I got excited," he said, like that explained anything. "You were right there, and I panicked, and my brain just went 'shoot', and it did not specify which net. Which, when I say it out loud, I realise makes me sound pathetic."

"It wasn't pathetic, Logan."

"You think so?"

"Okay, maybe like 10% pathetic," you confessed, which pulled a small laugh out of him, "but trust me, for the right person, it would've been endearing and adorable," you assured him.

"What about you?" he asked, sounding eager.

"What about me?"

"Was it any of that to you?"

Wow, that was incredibly forward. You hadn't expected him to put you on the spot like that. What were you supposed to say now? The truth? Yes, Logan, despite the fact that it blew up in your face, I thought it was very sweet. God, no. You can't tell him that.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Logan."

"I—" he stopped himself, hand dragging down his face like he could physically wipe the word back in. He laughed, but there was no humour in it, just something a little desperate. "You gotta give me something to work with here. Come on. I just bared my soul out to you, in front of the entire world. Give me something."

"Logan," you said, and you meant for it to come out steady, but it came out tight instead, "whatever you think is going on between you and I, you are incredibly mistaken."

You turned and walked off toward the porch before he could see whatever your face was doing. He followed you. Of course he did.

"Look. Can we talk?"

You sighed, arms wrapping around yourself against the cold, and leaned against the railing. "Go on."

"If you are genuinely not interested in me," he said, and he sounded like he'd rehearsed this part, like it was the only part he'd let himself prepare, "I promise I will stop bothering you. I'll take the hint, I'll back off, whatever you need. But you gotta help me out here, because I feel like I'm losing it a little." He dragged a hand through his hair. "You're giving me all these signals, and I feel like I'm hallucinating them, because one second you're looking at me when you think I don't know. You're at every single one of my games— don't think I haven't noticed. Hannah drags you to maybe half of them, and you still show up to the rest on your own, even when she's not there. You laugh at literally none of my jokes except when you think no one's watching, and then you're full-on wheezing. And then the second I make some kind of move, suddenly I'm the dick here. I'm the guy who overstepped." He spread his hands, helpless. "All I want to know is— am I reading this wrong?"

You closed your eyes for a second. The cold felt like the only honest thing out here. You sighed. Might as well.

"You're not reading it wrong," you said finally. "I... notice you. Okay? I do." You looked at him. "But you gotta give me some credit here. I tried really hard not to."

"Wow." He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, except it landed more like a flinch. "What is so awful about me?"

"That's not— I didn't mean it like that." You pressed the heel of your hand against your eye, frustrated at yourself now, at how badly this was coming out. "It's just — I can't just be another notch in your belt, Logan. I can't be your rebound."

His whole face changed. "Whoa. What rebound?"

"Come on, Logan. I'm not stupid. I know you like Hannah. And it's not your fault, she's very—"

"Yeah—no— I'm gonna stop you right there. What?"

"You know... you like Hannah?" you asked, sounding unsure based on his reaction.

"I assure you, that is not true."

"Dude, come on." You threw your hands up, some of the frustration finally spilling out. "Every single room you're in, you're looking for her. You see her, and suddenly it's Christmas! You just talk to her the whole time, and you get this light in your eye, and you look all adorable and—" you stopped, hearing yourself a second too late, "—god, I wish I'd stopped talking about a minute ago."

He sighed, dragging both hands down his face this time. "Okay. At the risk of sounding pathetic, here goes." He looked at you like he was bracing for impact. "I was looking for her because she was helping me ask you out." You stood there in shock. You were having trouble processing that information.

"We were talking about you. I was nervous, and I wanted to get it right, and— well, in retrospect that backfired splendidly," he gestured vaguely toward the direction of the house, like the hecklers and "own-goal Logan" were still hovering somewhere over his shoulder, "but the idea was, she'd tell me stuff about you— things you liked, whatever— and I'd come up with genius ways to ask you out." He spread his arms, mock-triumphant. "Clearly it worked, because we're on my front porch arguing. So— yay. Go Logan, I guess."

Your brain finally caught up with your mouth. "I—Uh, Wow. Okay." You blinked. "So— just to double-check— I am not a rebound?"

"Baby." He said it like it physically pained him that you'd thought otherwise, closing the distance between you. "Not even close."

"Oh, thank god," you breathed, and then you didn't give yourself time to think about it— you grabbed his jacket and pulled him in.

He made a small, surprised sound against your mouth before he caught up, one hand coming up to your jaw like he still couldn't quite believe this was real and needed to check. He walked you back a step until your shoulders met the porch post, one hand braced against the wood beside your head, the other still cradling your jaw, tilting it just slightly to get the angle he wanted.

You felt him exhale against your mouth right before the kiss deepened, unhurried but certain, and you fisted your other hand in the front of his shirt just to have something to hold onto, because your knees had developed some very inconvenient opinions about standing on their own. His tongue slid over yours as he found an angle that worked, pulling a sound from you that did things to him.

Somewhere behind you, a wolf whistle cut through the night, loud and delighted. You broke apart to find Kylie leaning out the porch door, drink in hand, absolutely beaming.

"Yeahhh, go Logan!!" she hollered, pumping a fist. "She likes you back!!"

Logan dropped his forehead against yours, laughing, equal parts mortified and thrilled. "Does nothing happen around here in private?"

"Apparently not," you said, grinning, "own-goal Logan."

"We are never speaking of that again."

"Oh, absolutely, we are. For the rest of your life."

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

After dating Logan for nearly a year, you liked to think you knew almost everything about him. You knew what made him laugh, his favorite hockey players, movies he enjoyed and video games he played. You also knew about his upbringing that shaped him into the most emotionally aware and caring boyfriend you’d ever had. But there was one thing you knew about Logan that you wanted to change.

Throwing him a surprise birthday!

He mentioned it on the off hand when you were telling him about your own 18th surprise party where your friends pretended to forget your birthday before walking into a party later that night. It was one of the most memorable events where you felt so loved. And you wanted that for Logan. Remind him that he was loved.

So the planning started. You had exactly two weeks to pull off the best surprise party of them all. You enlisted his teammates, Hannah, Allie and Jules. 

—

“Hey pretty,” Logan murmured, startling you as his arms wrapped around your waist as you were working by the kitchen counter. 

You were spending the night since you were away last weekend for a club retreat and Logan was being more clingier than usual.

While normally you’d relax into his hold, this time your laptop screen has the group chat pulled up and other websites. Instead you froze in his hold, quickly swiping desktops before he could catch a glimpse.

You felt guilty when Logan gave you a weird look but the expression didn’t last when you turned to pressed a kiss to the corner of his lip. He smelled fresh as his hair was still damp from the shower, which is why you wanted to sneak in some extra planning time.

“Whatcha working on?”  he mumbled, head now buried in the crook of your neck. You giggled feeling his stubble against your soft skin.

“Just a group project for class,” you said, interlacing your hand with his fingers splayed across your waist. You stayed in his embrace for a second feeling his breath tickle the back of your neck.

Him seemed satisfied with your answer, pulling away slightly to spin you around in his arms so you’d face him. God you loved him so much. Every smile he gave you was just another reminder that your party planning skills had to be on top of it.

“Thought you were done with midterms,” Logan hummed.

“Yeah my marketing class is just OD,” you shrugged.

“You have Donovan right? I can give you my slides from last semester if you need help.”

Your heart clenched at his thoughtfulness. That presentation wasn’t actually until the end of the month but the fact Logan still offered you support made you love him even more.

“Thanks,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

“Anything for you, gorgeous,” he hummed, “Lemme cook dinner since you’re working.”

“It’s fine Logan,” you said, “I can help.”

“Nah I got it beautiful,” he assured, pressing a quick kiss to your head.

God you loved this man. Which is why this party needed to be perfect.

—

Things got worse as the date crept forward. Logan was a clingy boyfriend which normally you wouldn’t complain about until you realized you had no way of secretly communicating with anyone if he was in the room. He was always in arms distance, not in a possessive way but more in a sense he couldn’t stand the thought of there being a single inch of space between you if you were in the same room.

You were sitting on the counter in the garage while he was changing the oil of his car. Normally you would spend the time ogling him and talking about your day but today you were distracted. In between sneaking glances of him shirtless you were firing texts to Garrett, Dean, and Tucker about food details and to see if a certain birthday gift was possible. They were annoyingly slow at responding.

“You’re awfully quiet, pretty,” Logan said, turning his attention from the car to you.

Your brows were furrowed as you were trying to make sense of Dean’s cryptic texts and your legs seining back and forth impatiently. You were distracted by the amount of recipes Tucker sent and the lack of engagement from Garrett that you hadn’t realized Logan had wiped his hands and made his way over to you.

“Baby,” he hummed, leaning into your space.

“Hmm,” you replied before glancing up from your phone and seeing he was inches away from you.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hey,” you smiled, lowering your phone.

“You’ve been looking at the phone more than me this whole time. And I’m literally half naked,” he pouted, moving a hand to grip your waist.

You chuckled at his complaint but put your phone down next to you to wrap your arms around his neck drawing him closer. Your noses brushed as you looked into those beautiful brown eyes you adored.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

Then you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips as an apology. Logan instantly reacted, deepening the kiss like a starved man. His grip tightened around your waist while one hand reached up to cup your jaw. Your own hands tangled into his soft hair as you let out a soft moan when his tongue met yours. Your bodies were now flushed against each other as you felt his hot bare skin against your clothed body. Logan began to press kisses down your neck while your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist to pull him closer.

Just as Logan began to grind into you, gripping your thighs your phone began to ring. 

Fuck it was probably Garrett getting back to you about that favor.

You broke away to check your screen to confirm your suspicions but Logan kept kissing your neck, not wanting to stop.

“Do you seriously have to take that?” Logan said into your skin.

Garrett wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.

You pulled away, placing a hand on his chest to allow yourself some space to hop off the counter.

“Sorry it’s my group calling about the project,” you said, quickly rushing outside to take the call. You made sure to give him a quick kiss before leaving.

Logan let out a defeated sigh watching you go. A feeling of unease began to brew in his stomach as he blinked his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating Garrett’s caller ID on your phone.

You wouldn’t lie to him, right?

—

Logan’s birthday was a week away and you had somewhat finalized your plans. 

Everyone agreed that it would be best for you two to have a dinner date and then to bring him back to the hockey house. The group was going to set everything up as you were out. You had also been practicing your baking skills for the past week which meant you had accidentally set of your fire alarm twice. But you were confident now that the final product would be great.

The only problem was that Logan had a birthday tradition of bringing all his friends to his childhood diner somewhere in Hastings. You had joined him last year as his new girlfriend and he was so happy to be surrounded by you and all his teammates. Which is why it was horrible breaking the news that it would only be you two this year.

“I’m sorry babe,” you hummed, rubbing his arm.

“Yeah it just sucks. I’m not the biggest fan of birthdays but I thought they’d at least remember to save the date,” Logan sighed, frowning down at you.

In reality, Garrett wasn’t visiting Hannah’s parents and Tucker and Dean weren’t going to this once in a lifetime concert. They were staying back to decorate the house. 

You told yourself the look on his face during the surprise would be worth it but in the moment you wished you could tell him the truth. He’d been on edge all week with practices.

“Hey we’re going to have a fun night though,” you offered, wrapping your arms around his middle to pull him closer.

“Yeah,” he said, but his eyes still looked sad.

You rested your head against his chest as his arms stroked your side in the comforting embrace. You could tell he was frustrated with the situation but didn’t want to talk about it.

You knew Logan had trouble expressing his emotions which was a bit of a road bump in the beginning of your relationship. You learned that you needed to be patient with him or else he’d isolate himself. Although since you’ve been together Logan has been great at communicating. Almost too good as you listen to all his wild tangents and stories that led him to his emotional conclusion.

Your phone kept buzzing in your back pocket which was starting to cut through the comforting moment that Logan released you.

“I’ll let you get that,” he said hurt laced in his voice, before walking toward the stairs.

“It’s nothing,” you assured, feeling like you were adding salt to the wound.

You knew you’ve been distracted by your phone these past weeks that Logan started to catch on. Although you tried to assure him it wasn’t anything it seemed he wasn’t buying it. Hence him closing himself off.

“I’m gonna go shower,” he said and then disappeared up the stairs.

You let out a defeated sigh but you could try to make it up to him with cuddles. Checking your phone you instantly smiled seeing Garrett was able to seal the last surprise in your plan.

You just hoped Logan won’t get even sadder that he wouldn’t want to celebrate his birthday.

—

The day finally arrived and you were a frazzled mess. You sent out all your final texts as Logan was still in the shower getting ready for dinner. 

Logan’s Super Surprise Party

You

We’re about to leave! DON’T go in yet until I say so

Garrett

Yes Captain

Tucker

All the food is ready!

Hannah

I’m so excited!!!

Allie

Finalized the playlist with Justin and Dean this morning

You

Thank you guys!!! I really hope he likes it

Jules

Oh he will. Mostly because you planned it and he likes anything you do.

You rolled your eyes at Jules' playful text and tucked your phone into your shoulder bag. You had slept over the night before since all his roommates were allegedly out of town but in reality they were all just staying at their respective girlfriend’s places to keep up the act.

“Don’t you look pretty?” Logan drawled, walking in with just a towel around his waist.

You were putting the last touches to your lip combo to match the cute denim skirt and white blouse you were wearing. 

“Hey birthday boy,” you smiled.

Logan wasted no time planting a kiss on your lips which ruined your entire three step lip combo process. When he pulled away there were remnants of gloss staining his own lips.

“Logannnn,” you whined, rubbing your thumb over his lips to wipe off the make up. He kissed your thumb while you glared at him.

“You ruined my lip combo,” you sighed, immediately releasing him to fix your liner.

Logan just chuckled, “Worth it,” before throwing on some jeans and a plain black top.

You were jealous that he looked effortlessly good in everything while you spent an hour looking through the duffel bag of clothes for the perfect outfit.

“Ready to go gorgeous?” he hummed, grabbing his keys.

You gave a nod and happily bounced into his embrace. He stuck a hand in the back pocket of your jean skirt, leading you to the car unaware all his friends were waiting down the block.

—

Once you got to the diner, both you and Logan slid into the booth where you had your first date. He was grinning so hard you wouldn’t think he was moping yesterday about all his friends leaving.

“What are the odds?” he smiled.

You just shrugged. You had called the place earlier to save the booth. He didn’t need to know that.

“Whatcha gonna get?” you asked, scanning the menu.

“The usual. Double patty cheeseburger and fries,” he said, “And an extra side of fries so you don’t steal any of mine.”

You gave him a playful glare as you scanned the options. You’d probably do a tuna melt.

You two ordered quickly and began to discuss nothing and everything. Logan talked about his transformer’s themed 6th birthday while you laughed looking at images of a tiny Logan. When the food did come you were grateful for that extra side of fries as Logan gave you a look every time you reached for the basket.

Everything was perfect until your phone began to ring. You had put it on do not disturb but they must’ve bypassed it.

You subtly checked to see the caller ID which was Garrett. Logan looked at you with a certain look that made your heart ache.

“I need to use the bathroom,” you said, getting up.

“Yeah sure,” he mumbled.

In the bathroom you scrolled to see the flood of texts from people asking for party details and when Logan was coming.

“Garrett I’m at dinner,” you hissed.

“I know but we’re having trouble finding the cake.”

“What do you mean—Oh shit it’s in my dorm,” you sighed.

“Is Grace already on her way?” Garrett asked.

“Let me text her,” you said, firing off some messages.

Thankfully Grace was just about to leave before you caught her. She confirmed she could bring the cake which made you take a breath of relief.

“Grace is on her way with the cake,” you confirmed.

“Great, just text when you leave. Or I guess Grace has your location,” Garrett said.

“Yeah, sounds good,” you said before hanging up.

When you got back to the booth Logan was scrolling on his phone looking a bit defeated. You caught the waitress’ attention as his back was turned to you, paying the bill secretly knowing Logan would never let you pick up a check even if it was his birthday. 

Your waitress smiled at you, taking your card allowing you to return to your boyfriend. You slide in the spot next to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before stealing a fry off his plate.

“Did you miss me handsome?” you teased watching Logan’s expression change as he took in your sight.

“I always miss you,” he hummed, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you said, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Logan didn’t get a chance to answer as the waitress came back with your card. 

“You’re all set,” she smiled.

Logan gave you an alarmed look watching you quickly write in a generous tip which you had to force yourself not to smile too hard. 

“You didn’t have to pay,” he murmured, arms pulling you closer to brush his lips against your ear.

“It’s your birthday,” you said sheepishly, “Lemme spoil you at least once.”

“How did I get so lucky?” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

"I'm the lucky one," you teased back which made Logan pepper your forehead with kisses to prove his point.

–

The car ride was peaceful for the most part. One of Logan’s hands was intertwined with yours as he drove through the dimly lit streets. You were buzzing with excitement as you pulled onto Hawk street. Your phone dinged which you let go of his hand to answer that you would be there in a minute.

Logan frowned at the loss of contact. He let out a sigh and began to let out everything he was feeling,

“Are we good?”

Your heart sank. You looked over to him with a shocked look on your face but Logan just looked defeated.

“Are you cheating on me?” he whispered.

“What!” you exclaimed, “Absolutely not!”

“Well you’re always on your phone,” he sighed, shutting off the car as you pulled into the driveway.

“Logan, look at me,” you said, tilting his chin to look at you.

He looked so sad that it made your heart also break. You just needed to get him inside and all would be well.

“We’re perfect,” you said, pressing a quick kiss, “Let’s get inside and I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

He let out a defeated sigh but still opened up the door. You also got out and grabbed his hand as you made your way to the porch. You subtly angled your body so Logan would be in front when you entered. As he fumbled with his keys you secretly began recording for the memories.

As soon as Logan managed to open the door the house lights flicked on to reveal the crowd of people in his living room.

“Surprise!” everyone exclaimed leaving Logan’s jaw on the floor.

You eagerly pushed for him to go inside as his friends engulfed him in hugs and praises. 

“Happy birthday old man,” Jules said, embracing their brother.

“You should see your face,” Dean grinned, giving him a nudge, “We totally had you fooled.”

“Yeah, what kind of friends would we be ditching your birthday for a concert?” Tucker chided.

“Happy birthday man,” Garrett smiled, bringing his best friend into a hug.

“Thanks guys,” Logan said, still trying to process it all, "How'd you guys do all this?

“Well you have a pretty awesome girlfriend,” Hannah said, nodding to where you were shyly standing behind him.

Logan turned to wrap an arm around your waist to pull you as close as possible. He gave you a squeeze as his eyes began to fill with tears with how happy he was.

“Happy birthday Logan,” you smiled, pecking his lips.

“You did this all for me?” he asked, looking around to the decorated room filled with all the people he loved.

“Of course,” you said, “You deserve good things. And that’s not even it.”

His brows popped up as Garrett pulled out his phone to reveal a video. After weeks of begging and intense networking, you and Garrett managed to get a personal birthday video from Logan’s current favorite player on the Bruins.

“Happy birthday John Logan,” David Pastrnak said with the Bruins’ rink in the background, “Heard you’re a beast on the ice so hopefully one day we can skate together. You got some good friends, make sure to celebrate tonight.”

“What the fuck,” Logan said, turning to you and Garrett.

You both gave him a non-chalant shrug as he squeezed you tighter. He pressed a kiss to your hair as you giggled seeing him so happy.

Later, you snuck away letting Logan talk to his teammates to go light the cake. Grace was helping you with the candles and gathering everyone to the kitchen. Dean turned off the light as you all sang a loud ‘Happy Birthday’ to Logan who was smiling widely in the middle. 

He blew out the candles with no problem making everyone cheer in response. You could barely set the cake down before Logan had his hands all over you. 

“You bake this yourself?” Logan hummed, noticing the slightly uneven frosting letters.

“Don’t judge me,” you frowned.

“I’m not. I’m just falling in love with you even more,” he hummed, accepting the knife to begin cutting the cake.

He took a bite and grinned, "Tastes amazing gorgeous."

Soon the party started to die down. You and Logan were chatting with Garrett and Hannah until the couple excused themselves for suspicious reasons that had you making sure to sprint past Garrett’s door later.

“You have fun?” you hummed, turning to face Logan.

“Of course baby. Thank you,” he smiled.

“This was a much better surprise than what you were thinking in the car huh?” you teased, playfully poking his ribs.

“Much better,” Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

“It’s ok,” you hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I think I would’ve reacted way worse if it was the other way around.”

“I’m such an idiot for even thinking those thoughts. I mean you threw a fucking surprise party for me. You’re perfect,” he said, “I love you.”

“I love you too John Logan,” you smiled, “Happy birthday.”

You both leaned in for the kiss as everything else faded away. When he pulled away he whispered against your lips

“I’m just saying man, how fitting that Graham is hooking up with Delaney’s sloppy seconds.” A guys says, his St. Anthony’s shirt sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Di Laurentis and Logan sure did score with their puck bunnies too.” The other laughs. You listen in on the conversation as you and Allie wait for your drinks. Hannah is currently tucked into Garrett’s side across the bar, neither one of them drinking tonight. Logan and Dean are playing a heated game of pool, not aware of the two St. Anthony’s players that have somehow made themselves welcome in a Briar University bar.

“I’m just saying I’d love to have five minutes alone with one of them, bet they’d forget all about their little boyfriends.” The first guy says, laughing at his own statement. You turn, sneering your nose up at him. You let out a short laugh.

“Oh, please.” You look him up and down. “You don’t look like you could find the clit if it was waving a flashlight at you.” A few people nearby choke on their drinks. The guy looks at you, face red. He’s probably had way too much to drink.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, bitch?” He says, getting in your face. Beside you Allie pales. Little do you know Dean and Logan have stopped their game of pool and are standing by for backup. You don’t so much as flinch.

“You heard me.” You say. A humorless smile tugs at your lips as you fold your arms across your chest.

“Besides, it’s a little pretentious to walk onto our campus and assume you’d ever have a chance with one of us in the first place.” You say glaring up at him.

His jaw tightens.

“Yeah?” He laughs, taking a step closer. “Well, our boy Delaney got your captain’s girl way back in high school.” He shrugs. “You puck bunnies are all the same. Easy little sluts.”

Rage clouds your train of thought and your arm moves on instinct tossing the contents of your cup into the guys face.

“You crazy fucking bitch!” He yells. His next move takes the entire bar off guard. He drops his shoulder slamming you into the bar, hard, deliberate, and most definitely hockey-style. You’re a little stunned, around you the bar erupts in outrage.

“What the fuck!” Allie screeches. Logan is already busting through the crowd trying to get to you. Dean pulls Allie behind him. You regain your balance, hurting like a mother fucker. But that sure as hell isn’t going to stop you. As the guy is rattling something off to his friend you shove him.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Logan chants, grabbing you as the guys arm raises no doubt aiming for you.

“Control your bitch man!” The guy’s friend yells. Dean and Logan share a look. You’re practically vibrating with rage. The guy who shoved you sticks his finger in your face.

“You’ve got a real fuckin’ attitude problem.” He turns to Logan. “She always run that damn mouth?” He asks, eyeing you, a disgusting grin on his face.

“If you were mine, I’d keep that pretty little mouth busy.” He says looking to Logan for his reaction. You feel him tense, his body practically shaking with rage.

“Not worth it man, we’ll kick his ass on the ice tomorrow.” Garrett calls. Hannah is tucked behind him like a baby animal hiding behind their mom. You don’t blame her after everything she’s been through. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, getting him to disengage from the guy.

“Yeah that’s right 22! Walk away!” The guy calls. Logan pauses, his jaw set. He closes his eyes for a second and you can tell he’s debating turning back around, you grab his arm.

“Let’s just go, baby.” You mutter. You feel bad for causing a scene but no way were you going to let some guy talk about your best friends like that.

Loading up in Garrett’s Jeep everyone is a little too quiet for your liking. You know the guys are trying to let Logan simmer down. You sit in the back seat between Dean and Logan, Allie perched on Deans lap. Hannah rides shotgun next to Garrett.

“Are you okay?” Logan asks, turning slightly to look at you. You nod, you’re sure your back is bruised but he doesn’t need to know about that right now.

“I’m fine, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to start anything.” You say, your apology intended for the whole car.

“What did that guy say to you? I’ve never seen you that mad?” Garrett, asks. You bite your lip, before recounting the conversation. Your friends are quiet for a moment.

“Okay, I totally would have thrown my drink in his face too.” Allie says, breaking the silence.

“You could have gotten hurt.” Logan says beside you.

“I’m okay.” You sigh.

“You got checked into a bar.” Logan states. You sigh.

“I know.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get it.”

You roll your eyes. Though you doubt he can see it in the darkness of the back of the Jeep. “Logan..” You trail off.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“My back.” You mumble. The entire Jeep goes quiet. Logan angles himself toward you as best as he can in the tightly packed Jeep.

“Your back?” Logan asks.

“It just feels sore.” You say. The Jeep pulls into the drive of the hockey house and as the lights come on Logan’s eyes are scanning your body in concern. Everyone files out of the Jeep and heads for the house.

“Come here.” Logan says, gesturing for you to get out of the Jeep.

“Logan, I’m fi-“ you say but he cuts you off.

“Humor me.” He says as you climb out of the Jeep. He gently guides you into the living room of the house.

He reaches for the hem of your sweatshirt. His brown eyes looking into yours.

“Can I?” He asks, warm fingers gripping your shirt. You nod. He carefully lifts the fabric just enough to expose your lower back. His entire body goes still.

“Fuck…” he mutters.

“What?” You ask, trying to get a glimpse of your back.

Dean walks into the living room, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand.

“Damn.” He says taking a sip. Garrett follows behind him before muttering, “Holy shit.”

“What?” You ask again.

A massive bruise is already spreading across the right side of your lower back, the skin turning an angry mix of purple, blue, and dark red. You can almost make out where the edge of the bar caught you.

Allie winces.

“Y/N…” she says.

“It’s that bad?” You ask. Sure it was a little sore, and you’d planned on taking some advil but surely it couldn’t be that bad already.

Logan gently lets your shirt fall back down, before rubbing a hand over his face.

“I should’ve killed him.” He says plainly.

“Logan.” You say.

“I’m serious.” He counters.

“You are absolutely not serious.” You say.

“I should have beat his ass.” Logan says. He lets out a dry laugh.

“John.” You say seriously, snapping his attention back to you. “I’m okay, baby.” You say.

“He put his hands on you.” His voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“He put his fucking hands on you.” He says. The anger that had been simmering all night suddenly melts into something else entirely. Fear. He steps closer, carefully placing his hands on your hips, avoiding the bruise completely.

“Hey…” You reach up and cup his cheek.

“I’m okay.” You assure him.

“You won’t be tomorrow.” He says.You frown.

“What?” You ask.

“That bruise is going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better.” He says. He would know, he was used to getting banged up like that but at least he was the same size as the guys slamming into him. That guy was nearly two of you.

“It already looks pretty bad.” Logan says. Dean whistles from the couch.

“Pretty bad? Honey, that thing is going to look like modern art by morning.” He says.

Despite everything, you laugh. Allie smacks Dean’s arm.

“Read the room, dingus.” She says.

“What? I’m trying to lighten the mood.” Dean offers.

“You should get some ice on that.” Garrett offers, moving into the kitchen to grab one of the many gel ice packs the boys kept in the freezer.

Logan nods, taking the ice pack from Garrett.

“I’ll take care of her.” He says. You smile softly as he guides you up the steps to his room, practically your shared room at this point. You change quickly, slipping out of your jeans and top and into one of Logan’s t-shirts. He finally looks at you, his eyes still full of guilt.

“I’m not mad at you.” He clarifies, as you lay down on the bed, wincing as your back hits the soft surface.

“You kind of seem mad.” You reason.

“I’m mad…” He pauses. “Just not at you.” He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m mad because someone thought they could hurt you.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his.

“I’d still do it again.” You say. He groans.

“I know you would.” He says. “Roll onto your belly let me ice your back.” He instructs. You do as he says, hissing slightly when the cold pack hits your back.

“And you’d still love me anyway.” You tease. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Unfortunately.” He says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. You grin.

“Unfortunately?” You ask.

“I was hoping for someone with a stronger sense of self-preservation.” He jokes.

“You got me instead.” You say.

“I sure as hell did.” He laughs. “I wouldn’t want anyone else.” He adds, laying beside you and holding the ice pack in place for you.

“No more bar fights though, okay?” He says with a laugh. You roll your eyes.

It was a normal, intimate night between the two of you. You rocking rhythmically on his lap while his hands gripped tightly beneath your jeans, fingers pressing into your ass hard enough that it would 200% leave a mark in the morning.

He slipped out of your pants to drag up your shirt slowly, hissing appreciatively through his teeth at your bra choice, " jesus, it's like you're tryin' to kill me."

You giggle breathlessly against his lips, leaning back to tease him, " dunno what you mean baby," your finger slips coyly past your unbuttoned waistband and into the lace band of your thong, the pretty blue peaks out behind the denim, just enough for Logan to bite his lip and glance up at you from below his lashes.

"yea?" He grips your wrist and hooks the elastic under his thumb, snapping it against your abdomen- laughing when you jolt and moan under your breath, "y'sure you have no idea what I mean?"

you shake your head and slink off his lap, "not a clue." you planted your knees onto the carpet and lay your cheek against his thigh, pushing your elbows together and boosting your tits up, presenting a shameful image for him to admire.

Logan threads his hands through your hair, "what d'ya want pretty? hmm?" he strokes your face, pushing the odd strand away from your eyes and tucking it behind your ear.

you shuffle a little beneath him, biting your lip.

Logan grins down at you, "you thinking about something baby?" you nod your head slowly, "you can tell me. it's just us here."

"wantyoutoslapme" you mumble, your fingers playing with the zipper of his fly, barely noticing the obvious tent brushing against your nose- more occupied with the sudden dryness of your throat and the burning of your cheeks.

Logan tilts his head, squinting at you, "might need you to enunciate a little darling." his index finger taps your pouted lips, pretending to not enjoy your embarrassment, he definitely didn't feel his head swim at the way your chest heaved with the weight of his stare and he swears that the sight of your pressing your thighs together didn't make his dick even harder than it was.

You glare at him, but there wasn't any heat behind it, "I said it clearly enough."

"I dont think you did baby," He leans down to peck your mouth, holding himself back from licking into your mouth and devouring that sweet, peachy taste of your lipgloss.

you whine and almost bury your head into the crook of where his thigh meets his pelvis, ignoring how he stifles a laugh, eventually you sigh. What did your mother always say? closed mouths dont get fed.

You don't really want to be thinking about your mum right now, but she always had words of wisdom that were multi-faceted.

"I want you to..." you blink up at him, "slap me."

Logan pauses above you, the hand that was playing with the ends of your hair and running along your shoulder froze.

"what?"

"see I knew you'd do that-" You huff, noncommittally shrugging your shoulders "it's fine, take off your pants, I'm more than happy-"

Your fingers are held in place with his, "let a guy buffer for a bit baby. It's not everyday your girlfriend asks you to slap her."

"yea but not in like a weird way" you justify, "in like a kinky way. you don't need to full palm bitch slap me, just like. a little one."

"a little one?"

"yea, try it"

"now?"

"babe start acting your IQ and slap me"

Logan huffs, and against every single nerve in his body, against his rational judgement, against his brothers parenting and beatings into his brain that under no circumstances do you ever lay your hand on a woman, jackass.

"okay..." he brings his hand up and pulls back very slightly.

well to him it was.

but you jerked back as you watched him bring his hand out, further and further like a rubber band and you weren't prepared to feel snap against your face.

"woah!" you grab his wrist and place it, maybe 4 inches away from your cheek, "the fuck you winding up for?"

"I'm not" he jumps, "babe I dont want to hurt you, I dunno how I feel about hitting you."

you cock your head at him, "I get that, but you're not hurting me, its more like.." you chew your lip racking your brain for an example, "oh."

you slap his thigh.

Logan hesitates, staring at the spot that you slapped, "huh..." he nods slowly. It wasn't so much of a slap than a firm pat against his skin, sure his muscles tingled a little beneath his jeans, but the area warmed just as quickly. maybe he could see the appeal.

you rush to interrupt his thoughts, "sorry- that probably was so random. and I won't force you to do anything you dont want to, I'm more than happy with what we do right now plus we can find other things."

"no..."

"no?"

"no- I mean yes- no." He shakes his head and wraps his hands around your shoulders, "I'll slap you."

What a weird sentence, and whats weirder is that your panties flooded almost instantly.

"yea?"

"yea ill slap you."

"ok, but don't like warn me before, it's the surprise that-"

you swallow the rest of your words with a gasp, your cheek burned deliciously and Logan's hand hovered by the area in question. Slowly you returned back to your position, your breathing stutters and fingers quake as red, hot pleasure burns through your body.

"like that?" Logan's cocky smirk makes you want to simultaneously stick your fingers down his throat and beg him to fuck the living daylights out of you.

"yea, just like that. do it again. m'dont care that it hurts"

He does it again, gaining confidence- instead of hovering and waiting for your approval his hand forms a choker over your neck, his fingers bracing against your jaw, "pretty baby doesn't care that it hurts huh? Just wants me to slap her" He brushes his knuckle against your face, "So fucking gorgeous, fuck, you wouldn't think that you're such a filthy girl from your face darling."

You whimper, barely noticing that your hand had started to slip under your panties and rub slow circles over your clit.

"turns y'on? never would've thought that you're into this, not in my wildest dreams." Logans eyes flutter from your face, where moans slip from your puckered lips to your fingers that begin to quicken.

He tsks, watching your hips roll into your palm, "naughty girl," He slaps the other cheek. Not letting you register the tingles blooming through your face before he manhandles you onto the bed.

You laugh, sitting up onto your shoulders as Logan kneels between your legs, dragging his arms backwards to slide off his t-shirt, gripping the neckline and throwing the article somewhere onto his floor.

He lowers himself, staring up at you predatorily, his lips dragging up from your stomach, biting the skin until you fall back with an appreciative hum- head bouncing on the soft pillow beneath you. He lifts again, one palm pressed to where his lips were teasing you, the other caressed your neck, pushing your hair away.

"this," he murmurs lowly, pointer finger ghosting from your throat down to your cleavage and circling your nipple through the flimsy fabric. The bud hardened and you arched into his touch- gasping softly, "off." he flicks the puckered nub.

You struggle to contort your arms to your clasp, shoulders straining against the stretch.

Eventually it falls limp and you graciously throw it in the general direction of where his shirt was carelessly thrown on the floor.

Logan hums from above you, "hmmm, this is the perfect view, in fact.." he trails off, grabbing your jeans and tugging them harshly down your legs, contributing to the pile on the other side of the room. You moan when he presses a finger against the ruined fabric of your panties, "there she is..my pretty girl."

You blush and attempt, albeit pathetically, to whine against his arms placing your legs wide apart, bending at the knee so he can slot comfortably between them, still rubbing and teasing you over the lace of your underwear.

The protests die on your tongue when he pulls the barrier to the side and delivers another slap, this time to your pussy, which clenches hopelessly around nothing. Logan brings his hand up in awe, fingers glistening under the yellow glow of his lamp.

"oh my god" he glances at you, grinning when he sees you nearly at the point of tears, "you are so into this. The whole tough guy, dominant thing really does it for ya?"

You shield your face from his teasing, "I didn't fucking know asshole," you peak at him between your fingers, "and don't act like you dont love this." you angle your knee to grind into his bulge.

"you play dirty, baby," he punches out, gripping your knee in place while he taps against the hand covering your mouth.

You lower your palm hesitantly and startle against his fingers that bury themselves into your mouth, the taste of your arousal bursts over your tongue, and you delicately hold his wrist, keeping the two digits firmly in place as you coat them with a thick layer of your saliva.

he hisses, watching you intently make a show out of sucking his fingers, tongue swirling and weaving in between the knuckles. Logan chuckles to himself when you try to force more into your throat, barely gagging when your swollen lips meet the webbing of his hand.

"what's got you so worked up pretty?" you roll your eyes and discreetly shift your hips towards him- the answer is pretty obvious, but Logan decides to toy with you a little bit more.

Maybe he really is loving this whole dominant thing.

He takes his fingers gently from your mouth, skimming them down your body and into your underwear.

"fuck! Logan," Your hand shoots down to grip his forearm, eyes rolling back and fluttering shut when he rolls your clit between his soaked fingers.

"nuh uh baby," He breathes against your lips, arm bracketing over your head to hold himself up, "look at me. wanna see your gorgeous eyes." his fingers drum against your temple until you meet his gaze.

You jump forward and bite his lip, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to drag him closer to you while free hand snakes under his arm, digging your nails into his back.

Logan swears against your mouth, "or you could do that." You laugh at his surprise, but it turns into a guttural moan when he delves into your face, mouth devouring yours whilst his tongue strokes and licks any inch of you he can reach.

"please" you whisper when you break apart for air, breathing into each others mouths, "Logan, you gotta do something- pleaseeee," you whine and buck your hips when his fingers stop circling your clit and tease your hole.

"patience baby," He snickers, thoroughly enjoying watching you suffer.

"fuck you, and fuck your patience." you grit out, squeezing your eyes shut when he barely breaches you with the tips of his digits, "fuck you more than your patience, ohmygod, god I'm going to kill you logan. As soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more, I'm breaking up with you. How humiliating is this, I'm so wet baby- please come on."

Logan nods along, almost condescendingly to your babbles, eyes widening in the right places and pouting his lips at the better ones. But when your voice breaks into that breathy whine, his resolve shatters along with it and he can't help but swallow the gasp you let out when he sinks in, knuckles deep.

"fuckkk" you both say in unison, granted yours is more muffled because you've arched so far back that your mouth is in the pillow, but Logan compensates, his voice is significantly deeper than when you started and the obscenity is breathed against your sternum- where his mouth is peppering kisses whilst watching your chest bounce with each hard thrust of his wrist.

Your moans are choppy and sound more like sobs when Logan sits up onto his haunches, staring at where his fingers disappear inside of you, a wet trail left along them every time he pulls back.

"You're doing so well baby," he bites his lip, angling the hell of his palm into your clit, so with each push the bundle of nerves is bumped with the calloused skin, "look at you, doing so well f'me." he leans down briefly to kiss your pussy, but stays longer when he feels how wet you are against his lips.

"Logan," you whimper warningly, both hands scratching his scalp as you fight against the momentum to trap his head between your thighs, "Logan m'gonna cum if you do that."

He glances up at you, almost as if he forgot you were present whilst he got lost in your pussy, the lower half of his body now bent along and off the bed- it seems he took you with him, your knees now hooked onto his shoulders.

"I mean I'm not complaining," He shrugs, huffing in amusement when you roll your eyes, which widen comically when one of the hands that was wrapped around your thigh and rested on your hip came down in a harsh smack.

You let out a broken moan when his head dips again, this time working in tandem with his fingers. The sounds are lewd and you feel inexplicably sorry for whatever poor soul was getting the free show- but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming amount of pleasure that spiked through your entire body.

Logan slurped and nipped at your pussy, tongue lavishly stimulating your clit with harsh sucks that ended in debauched pops, making your head spin and cheeks flush.

"what were you saying pretty?" he mumbled against you, removing his mouth to kiss the inside of your thigh. You whimpered in response, barely able to bring your head up to meet his gaze, "what?"

"that," His fingers sped up and mouth parted when you jolted, gripping your breasts whilst gaping at him, " 's soon as we're done fucking, and we fuck a little bit more,' " his voice is pitched slightly higher, mimicking you, breaking at bits when he leans down to spit on down onto your hole where his fingers disappear, "what was the end bit? I cant seem to remember."

His fingers slow, much to your dismay, as he waits for your response,

"No! nono, baby," you words are slurred as you blindly reach for his wrist, "baby," you coo at him, stroking his hair, "I don't even remember, you know what they say, bitches be crazy. all that jazz."

He snorts at you, "really?"

"yea, but I'm bitches. please make me cum."

"You're not a bitch pretty," He kisses your cheek.

"John," You grind your hips down into his fingers, "Can we talk about the feminist meaning of the phrase and the wider effect on society. after you make me cum."

"Oh so I'm John now?" He pecks your hip, curling his fingers slowly.

"No," You stroke his face and whisper, "Logan."

He hums happily, increasing the pace slightly whilst crowding over you with his body, "And?"

Your chests brush together as you grind out a deep groan, hands limply hung from his shoulders.

You hook your ankles over his hips, welcoming him into your space, "Baby," You murmur, noses brushing together. Logan speeds up, plunging fast inside of you, the promiscuous sound of your wetness makes you arch your back.

"Anything else?" He prompts, breath fanning over your neck- you moan and bury your finger in your hair,

"F-fuck" You legs quiver around his torso, "I don't fucking know, daddy? sir?"

Logan nips at your throat, "Not what I was looking for, but I'll take it." He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly and rolling it between his teeth.

"Shit," Your hands fly to cradle his face against your breast, "cumming, yes Logan, don't stop" You sob into his hair, body convulsing against his.

A silent scream parts your mouth as wetness gushes onto Logan's fingers, you twitched and writhed as he continued to fuck you with slow thrusts- his fingers making hollow and wet sounds against you.

Only when your orgasm subsided is when he removed his fingers, eyes glistening as he sucked off your arousal. You watched, heavy pants still billowing out between your lips.

"So..." He slumped next to, already moving to grab a wet wash cloth, "You got any other requests for me?"

And if there was one thing that he learnt, it was that you were chaos.

Not in the loud kind of way that left you with a reputation. 

It was this way that knew how to keep Logan on his feet 24/7 with you.

𝟏 “𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝,”

You were in your dorm with Allie and Hannah doing fit checks as Logan sat on your couch watching. 

He promised to take the three of you to your girls night booking as he liked making sure that you were safe. 

Hannah stood in the frame of your phone as she looked at what she was wearing “so this is actually all from their closests.” She laughed as she did a little twirl. 

You laughed as you shook your head “your shoes are yours!” You corrected as Hannah nodded “yeah these are all mine.” 

The brunette pointed to her sneakers before she pulled you into the frame “the skirt I stole from Allie and the shirt is from brandy.” A smirk spread across your face as Hannah motioned to Logan to join you in your shot. 

Logan wrapped his hand around your waist “I’ve dressed my current boyfriend today in fact.” His arm tensed around your waist. 

He turned to you with a confused expression “your current boyfriend?” He reiterated your words as you nodded with a smile. 

Hannah and Allie giggled from beside your phone “are you planning on getting another one in the future?” Logan scoffed as you caught your lower lip between your teeth trying to swallow your own laughter. 

You ran your fingers down his shirt “hey as they say the night is still young,” you teased as you pulled your attention back to the camera. 

You did everything to not laugh “wow never in my life have I been so offended.” That broke the girls as they were now losing it on the other side of the camera. 

That made Logan clock what was going on “I hate you.” He grumbled as he shook his head making you laugh as well.

You grinned as you cupped his jaw “you love me.” You mumbled as he stuck his tongue out before he kissed you. 

Allie crossed her arms “you better not try to keep her tonight.” Her warning made Logan shake his head.

He laughed as he let his hand settle on your waist “oh no this one is your problem tonight.” He announced as he patted your hip.

𝟐 “𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫?”

You were sat on Logan’s bed as he came out of the bathroom “baby can you call my phone f’me? I can’t find it.” He had a towel wrapped around his waist. 

You nodded as you threw your phone to the bottom of his bed as you looked up from your laptop. He used your password to unlock it before he typed in his number.

Then he frowned

“Wait.”

You  barely looked up “what?” You cocked your head as he sat down on the foot of his bed. 

He turned your phone to face you “why am I saved as John Logan in your phone?” He furrowed his eyebrows as it got your attention.

You placed your laptop next to you as you leaned up to sit closer to him “because that’s your name silly.” You rested your chin against his shoulder.

Logan laughed as the sensation made his squirm “yeah but that’s so formal.” He whined as his lips formed a pout. 

You actually laughed at the sight “you want me to save you as Prince Charming or something?” You proposed as he thought about it seriously for a second.

And then he nodded.

“Maybe I should just save you as an unknown number?”

There was a pause before he shook his head “you’re just mean.” You laughed as you stood up.

You shrugged, “it’s more mysterious.” As you wriggled your eyebrows, Logan pulled you onto his lap.

“You’re one update away from me blocking you.” 

His warning made you laugh as you stuck your tongue out at him.

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed his cheek before you grabbed your phone from his hand. 

You were quick to type something before you showed it to him “happy?” 

‘𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗’ 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 ‘𝙼𝚢 𝙼𝚊𝚗 💙’

“Very.”

𝟑 “𝐈’𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠,”

You were at practice, sitting in the bleachers in his hoodie, legs swinging as you watched the guys skate drills.

He came out of the locker room as he had his bag slung over his shoulder.

His breath was heavy, hair messy, looking annoyingly good in that effortless way that always made you forget your point for a second.

But not this time.

You pointed vaguely pointed to the group of lower-class men behind Logan “the guy with the dark hair,” you said casually “he’s kind of my type.”

John didn’t even turn around “you mean Carter.” His face turned into a sharp scowl as he heard the younger boys making a joke behind him. 

You nodded as you slotted your phone into the pocket of your hoodie “yep.” You had to admit that if you were a freshman and single, you genuinely would have thought that the dude was hot. 

He looked like a younger version of Logan which is why you found this so funny “you don’t even know him.” Logan deeply inhaled through his nostrils as he grumbled.

You shrugged as you licked your lips “I am just saying,”that’s when he slowly turned his head toward you.

Logan sucked at his teeth “you’re joking right?” He was practically weighing up the cost of what his bail money would be if he hit Carter.

You shrugged, “am I?” There was a beat of silence.

Then he stopped walking “that’s it.” He announced as he shook his head 

“What?”

Logan sharpened his gaze back to the younger teammates “we’re leaving. I’m transferring teams. Maybe we’re moving countries.”You laughed as he hoisted you over his shoulder making you squeal.

He started walking the two of you out of the rink “you are a nightmare god.” He was genuinely considering relocating his entire life out of spite.

Or possibly throttling Carter into fear to avoid you for the rest of his life.

Carter never found out he was nearly responsible for a national hockey scandal.

𝟒 “𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞,”

After Dean swore that you and Logan were the worst when it came to PDA. 

And as you had a thing for proving the blonde boy wrong, you set yourself up on a challenge. 

You wanted to see just how long it would take Logan to realise if you swiped his kisses. 

Dean believed that Logan wouldn’t make it past 5 pm but you decided to back your boyfriend more than that “but you can’t avoid him all day then!” Dean pointed out as he watched Logan walk into the cafeteria. 

You smiled as you got up “luckily for me I have a class in ten minutes.” You shot back as you stuck your tongue out at the blonde. 

Logan dropped his bag into the seat where you were just sitting “hey pretty girl.” Logan smiled as he leaned down to kiss your lips. 

You swerved letting his lips grazed your cheek “hey babe I gotta go!” You patted his cheek before you ran off. 

It left Logan a little confused as he watched you run off “that was a little weird right?” Logan motioned to you as your body disappeared into the crowd. 

Dean shook his head as he ate a carrot stick “not a clue what you’re talking about.” The second rule that you two came up with was that, neither one of you could hint that there was a bet going on. 

By the time 2 pm came around Logan was waiting outside of your building after class “hey there princess.” Logan walked towards you with a smile as he reached for your hand. 

You matched his facial expression as you leaned up to kiss him before you remembered what was going on “hi handsome.” You awkwardly shifted into giving him a hug. 

As Logan patted your back, he almost wondered if he was just dreaming “the guys are waiting back at the house.” His announcement came as he mentally went through the previous events of the day as he was concerned he pissed you off. 

You pulled away with a smile “perfect,” you squeezed his hand “shall we go?” You asked as you cocked your head. 

Dean watched how you dodged Logan throughout the next few hours. 

If you were any decent with a pair of skates, Dean would have proposed that he got you on the team. With the way you had been side stepping Logan, it was almost impressive. 

Logan however, lacked the sentiment as you excused yourself to go to the bathroom “is it just me or is she being weird?” Logan spoke up as Dean celebrated.

But his cheering fell short when he realised that it was in fact 5:01 pm, what made your boyfriend even more confused was that you were running down the stairs cheering. While Dean sat with his head in his hands. 

The brunette motioned between the two of you “okay what is going on between the two of you?” Logan asked as you marched over to him.

Your hands cupped his cheeks “god I love you.” You pulled him into a kiss that was so strong the two of you actually fell onto the couch. 

Logan wasn’t going to complain as his hands steadied himself on your waist “god I hate it when she’s right.” Dean’s grumble was enough to make Logan pull away from you. 

He cocked his head, making you sigh, “we had a bet that if I didn’t kiss you, you couldn’t last until five PM before you brought it up.” Your announcement made him laugh. 

Logan stood up as he pulled you up with him “so that’s why you didn’t kiss me,” he spoke as he cocked his head. 

You nodded now feeling somewhat bad until Logan wrapped his arms around your waist “if you boys will excuse us, we have some making out to catch up on.” His eyes flickered with mischief as the boys groaned. 

Garrett shook his head “turn that up so we drown them out.” He grumbled, tapping Tucker’s shoulder as he pointed to the tv while Logan led you upstairs.

𝟓 “𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞?”

You were sat in the kitchen as Tucker cooked dinner for the group. 

Logan was propped up on the counter as Garrett sat next to you “oh my god babe you wanna know what I saw?” You asked as Logan nodded. 

He snatched a freshly cut carrot from Tucker’s chopping board, making the younger boy swat his hand away “Dean is on hinge!” Your announcement made all three boys freeze. 

While Tucker and Garrett looked at each other, a little confused why you were on that app. Logan seemed far more curious to know what kind of prompts Dean had picked “wait show.” Logan motioned to you to hand him your phone.

When you smiled both other boys laughed finally catching onto what you were doing “nah I didn’t take a picture of it because I was so shocked, I just had to press close on his profile.” You swore your boyfriend must not have heard you properly.

But Logan shook his head “you can’t tell me that you found his profile and then not show me!” The boy whined as he walked over to you. 

His hands wrapped around your shoulders as he rested his head against yours “c’mon babe.” He dragged out the last letter of the last word making you grin. 

Logan pressed a kiss into your hair “this is just cruel and unusu-” he cut himself off as he stood up straight. 

Garrett stood up as he reached for his phone seeing that he was meant to meet Hannah for dinner “bingo.” He patted Logan’s shoulder before he left. 

Logan cocked his head as he looked at you “why are you on hinge?” He turned your body towards him. 

You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back a laugh “I just like to see who is single.” You nodded to yourself, earning a laugh from Garrett before he left the room. 

Your boyfriend cocked his head as he furrowed his eyebrows, “so is your profile like just you or?” He trailed off making you scoff “John Logan do you seriously think that I’m on a dating app to find us a throuple?” 

Your words made Tucker cough as he packed up, laughing “I mean you’ve always said you wanted to try something.” Logan shrugged as he kissed your cheek. 

You scoffed as you gasped, “yeah like positions in your bed, not who is gonna watch.” Tucker had opted to slowly slip out of the room as he was no longer interested in listening to this conversation. 

Logan tucked your hair behind your ear “who said anything about them watching?” His smirk strengthened as your cheeks reddened. 

It wasn’t often that you were speechless but in this moment you actually didn’t know what to say “should I be concerned that you actually seemed turned on by this?” You cocked your head as you pursed your lips together.

Your boyfriend laughed as he shook his head “you’re the one finding my friends on hinge.” Logan taunted as he pinched your side. 

You rolled your eyes “I don’t have a damn hinge account!” You groaned making him smile.

Logan wrapped his arms around you as you stood “good,” he mumbled as he pecked your lips “for the record I like having you all to myself.”

+ 𝟏 “𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝,”

The group was all in the living room as the boys played the NHL video game in the tv while Logan and you were on a beanbag “thanks.” He sent you a smile as he pulled you on top of him as you handed him a water bottle. 

He pressed a kiss against your cheek making you grin “you two make me sick.” Garrett gagged seeing the two of you from the corner of his eye. 

It made you laugh as you stuck your tongue out at him “oh babe?” Logan spoke up as he scrolled on his phone. 

You turned back to face him “my ex texted me today.” He spoke casually, still not looking at you. 

You blinked slowly as your throat constricted “your what?” Your face turned as if you had just eaten a lemon.

You hadn’t noticed that the boys paused the tv to focus on you both as you were too concerned, and kept scrolling on his phone.

“Ex.”

You stared at him like he had grown three heads “for what?” You didn’t want to jump to conclusions but in that moment, you were teetering on the edge. 

Logan shrugged “she was checking in.”You felt your face go flat as there was little left in your reserve to bite your tongue.

Part of you wondered if when you went to the kitchen to get water, if you were dropped in some alternate universe “oh, that’s sweet,” you said slowly, your body tensed as you prepared your next question “did you reply?” It felt like a penny could have dropped in that moment and it would have echoed through the house.

He shrugged as he bounced his foot “yeah,” there was silence as you sat up a little.

Tucker swore he watched you crack your knuckles a little “you replied.” You couldn’t miss the scowl on your face as you rolled your eyes.

“Mhm.”

Now he looked at you, like he was trying not to smile “and what did you say?” You struggled to understand what rock Logan had hit his head with to assume that you’d be totally fine with him chatting all to his ex like it was nothing. 

He leaned back running his fingers through his hair “I just said hi,” he shrugged as you finally scoffed because that was it.

Something in you snapped instantly “oh, perfect,” you said, standing up “that’s great. I love that. So glad we’re doing this.”

“Doing what?”

You grabbed your bag as you stopped to look at him“whatever this is. Whatever situation I’ve apparently been invited into.” Part of you didn’t know if you were about to commit murder or just burst into tears.

Now he was definitely smiling “you’re jealous.” He pointed out as he stood up crossing his arms in the process.

Your lips formed a sharp line “I’m not jealous.” You grumbled as it made you stop what you were doing.

Logan looked at your bag “you’re literally packing up your things.” Half the stuff that you had thrown into it was stuff that you used to just leave at the house. 

Dean had to admit he didn’t think that you had so many chargers at theirs “I’m going home.” You corrected Logan as you rolled your eyes.

“With my hoodie.”

A wicked laugh escaped your lips “oh you won’t need it where you’re going,” you snapped and that finally broke him.

He laughed like actually laughed and it was enough to make you clench your teeth.

And still he laughed again “babe,” he said, still grinning, “I don’t have an ex.”

You froze as your hands landed on your hips as your bag fell to the floor “huh?” You cocked your head as you were trying to keep the words that came out of your mouth appropriate.

“I made it up.”

You stared at him for a full five seconds and the boys swore that Logan must have gone too far “you are so dead,” you went to hit his chest but instead he pulled you into his arms.

He kissed your knuckles, still laughing “karma is a bitch huh?” Logan teased you as he ran his thumb over your cheek.

Dean rolled his eyes as he rubbed his knee “you two make me sick.” He fake gagged as he shook his head. 

When Logan grabbed a pillow off of the couch and threw it at the blonde.

As you laughed, you knew that you couldn’t even stay mad for long.

Because John Logan looked way too happy watching you lose your mind over him.

And you hated that you liked that part the most.

8:21. 

You checked your phone for the millionth time. 

You were supposed to meet him at the restaurant at 7pm, and he was almost an hour and a half late. 

Well, you hoped he was late. You hadn’t yet accepted the probable fact that you’d been stood up. I mean, you were no stranger to chaotic schedules, unplanned overtime, and last minute catastrophes that had to be dealt with. Residency often rendered your social life moot; you could barely keep up with your commitments at the hospital, let alone a vibrant dating life. Maybe he had an equally demanding job; maybe there was a plausible excuse for why he left you stranded in this Italian restaurant without the decency of a “sorry, not interested anymore” text. 

You looked at your phone again–8:26. Okay, you’d give him 4 more minutes before you decide to pack it up. You try to subtly survey the restaurant for any sign of him, but are met only with the pitying looks of the waitstaff, who would, in all likelihood, be the only ones benefitting from this humiliation ritual. The hostess checked in with you at the bar regularly, the bartender had given you a glass of merlot on the house, and a very kind server brought you a charcuterie board to nibble on–had even brought you extra olives when you commented on how they were your favorite. They were all getting fat tips–or at least as fat as you could afford. 

8:31. Despite your best efforts you felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your throat got that tight, achy feeling that precedes a sob. You felt so foolish. 

You looked up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away and tried to even out your breathing. 

You didn’t even want to go on this date. You’d all but sworn off of dating, the ROI not worth the emotional whiplash you were subjected to more often than not. It was becoming harder and harder as you got older to open up to people, expose your vulnerabilities and greatest fears, only to have them spit back in your face when things didn’t go their way. 

So you stopped with the apps, stopped the meaningless dates that were nothing more than a hookup vehicle for most. But your friends had convinced you that you needed to get back out there, that things would be better in Pittsburgh–the proverbial ocean filled with different, better fish than your hometown. And perhaps they were tired of hearing you wax poetic about the hazel-eyed night shift attending that you had no chance with. 

But you did want to find that person. As much as you were an independent, capable woman–doctor, even–the truth was you were lonely. Your days consisted of going to work, where you spent 12+ hours caring for Pittsburgh’s sickest, and coming home to microwave whatever sad frozen meal you had in your freezer. Sometimes you had the energy to join some of the night shift for post-shift breakfast, but that was about it. 

You wanted someone to share your life with, to ask about your day or if you’ve eaten. Someone who knew that your favorite flower was lily of the valley, but since they were too expensive you would settle for a bouquet of peonies; that you loved horror movies even though they scared the daylights out of you; that knew you loved olives but hated pickles. Someone who knew you, inside and out. 

There was a chasm in your chest that ached, that yearned for someone to take care of you–not financially, though you wouldn’t be opposed to that–but emotionally. To tell you that you were good, worthy, that you weren’t too much or too clingy. That wanted you as much as you wanted them. That felt the tension leave their shoulders when they looked at you, because you just being there made things better. 

Was that too much to ask for? 

It’d been so long since someone had even flirted with you, and even longer since you’d hooked up with anybody. Your dry spell was bordering on sahara levels of arid. Hell, at this point, you think you’d cum for the next guy who called you pretty. 

You shake yourself out of your pity party, dabbing your eyes with a napkin and gathering up the courage to ask for the bill, when you hear someone calling your name. Great. You’re halfway to a breakdown over some stupid guy who stood you up, and now you would have to sit through pleasantries with someone when you desperately wanted to go home and cry into a bottle of wine.   

You turned, fake smile plastered on your face.   

The person you least expect to see is the aforementioned hazel-eyed attending. He’s standing by the hostess stand, off to the side, dressed in dark blue jeans and a tight black shirt. It was unfair, really, how good the man could look in the most basic outfit. His shirt was pulled taut across his chest, muscles straining against the fabric and outlining the planes of his pecs. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his strong, freckled arms on display, and sinful thoughts ran through your head at how those arms would feel around you.  

You smiled and waved at him, reluctantly making your way over. It’s not like you can avoid him at this point, though these are less than ideal circumstances to meet him outside of work. 

“Small world,” he joked as you approached, a soft smile gracing his features. 

“I guess so,” you said sullenly, not up to your usual banter.  

“Big plans for the night?” he asked, eyes skating over your form, taking in the pretty red dress you’d donned for the evening, the light coat of makeup you applied, the hairstyle you wrangled your locks into. In any other scenario, you’d be preening under his watchful eye, giddy that he was eyeing you up and down.  

Now, though, you wilted under the attention. The humiliation from the night and the tingly feeling pooling in your gut at his gaze swirled together in some rancid amalgamation of emotions. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry or both, but ideally not in front of him.  

Your silence, apparently, concerned him. He looked at you seriously now, his eyes getting that clinical, assessing look in them as he took you in, “You okay?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his features.  

It was the one question you did not want to be asked. Because, for some reason, you could keep it all inside, bury the feelings as deep as they’d go, as long as someone didn’t ask if you were okay. The barest expression of concern had your lip trembling, throat tight as you managed to squeak out a meek, “I’m fine!” 

You could feel a tear tracing down your cheek, and you wiped it away furiously. Your eyes focused on a spot over his shoulder, unable to bear the pitying look that was undoubtedly on his face.  

“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, hand coming up to rest lightly on your upper arm.  

You shook your head, powerless to staunch the flow of tears now running down your face. “Sorry, I just, uh, I had a date tonight and he didn’t show, so,” you made a helpless gesture, your shoulders shrugging in feigned nonchalance. You felt ridiculous, crying over being stood up in front of your attending who was just trying to make small talk with you. 

You let out a garbled laugh, “Shit, sorry,” you hiccup, “this isn’t your problem, I don’t wanna interrupt your night any more than I already have. Have a good night,” you said, moving to push past him and scurry out the door.  

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, his body blocking your exit. 

“You’re not interrupting. I was just about to place a to-go order,” he said, a hesitant look crossing his face before he continued, “But, uh… would you like to have dinner with me instead?”

You're taken aback. It’s the last thing you expected him to ask you. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t thought about him in this context. On the contrary, Jack Abbot had been the subject of many a ‘boyfriend’ dream over the past year you’d worked with him. He was kind and generous and funny, his humor as dark as yours. He was steady in the face of chaos, a lighthouse in the foggiest of days–a man you could depend on when shit hit the fan. It’s part of the reason you switched to nights. You always felt calmer in his presence, more assured of your capabilities because he believed in you. 

And he was undeniably gorgeous–his fine wrinkles and graying curls set your body ablaze each time you looked at him, your panties soaking through in record time. You loved especially when he went a day or two longer without shaving, his scruffy cheeks looking like a delectable place to sit. 

Your mind was plagued by obscene fantasies of him, the sinful images assaulting you at the most inopportune times. You knew he’d treat you right, wouldn’t prioritize his pleasure over yours. He was older, experienced, not a kid fumbling around in the dark, searching for your most sensitive spots and coming up empty. You imagined the way his stubble would feel on your skin, his jaw scraping down your neck as he pressed kisses there, moving lower and lower until he was nestled between your thighs, mouth hot against your aching pussy. The way he would stretch you out and fill you up, have you desperate and begging for more. 

You’re snapped out of your lustful daydream when he says your name, an inquiring tone meant to prompt a response. Oh right, he asked you a question. 

You shook your head, not because you didn’t want to have dinner with him, but because you didn’t want to do so under these conditions; you didn’t want to be a charity case. 

“That’s very kind, but you don’t have to have a pity dinner with me. I’m a big girl, I can handle a little rejection.” 

“It wouldn’t be a pity dinner,” he shook his head immediately, “come on, you got all dressed up, let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble.” 

He cleared his throat, “Unless you really don’t want to, obviously, and I’ll let it go,” he said, “but I’d hate to see you go home cryin’.” And he looked so sincere, his pretty eyes so soft and squishy, all but pleading for you to accept his offer.  

You chewed on your lip, considering it. It wouldn’t be the worst way to spend your night. As of now your plans for the rest of the night were getting sadder by the moment. Things could only go up from here, you supposed. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure,” you nodded. 

“I’m positive,” he said, hand coming up to rest on the small of your back, guiding you back up to the hostess stand. “Table for two, please.”

The two of you were sat at a corner booth near the back of the restaurant, the section secluded and not too loud. It was a classic Italian restaurant–warm, dim lighting illuminated the space from antique sconces on the wall, the walls were a beautiful exposed red brick, and the tables were candlelit and laid with red and white checkered cloths. The leather of the booth was soft but worn, the cracks spidering out and indenting into the back of your thighs a sign of how well loved this place was. 

The booth forced you close together, your thighs not quite touching each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. His scent is intoxicating, all warm amber and oud, mixed with a hint of citrus and his natural musk. It took all your power not to burrow your nose into his neck and inhale deeply. 

You were lucky to have the same waitress that checked on you at the bar, though you did have to assure her that this was not the man who stood you up. You were honestly a little concerned at the death glare she gave him at first–a true girls girl. 

“So, Dr. Abbot, how was your day off?” you asked, fiddling nervously with the hem of your dress. Despite your easy rapport at work, it felt awkward to be sitting here with your attending, especially when you were desperately trying to keep your feelings for him at bay. 

“Oh it was fine, picked up a shift with the SWAT unit and didn’t get shot at, so, you know, all things considered,” he said, then waved his hand dismissively, “and please, call me Jack. We're not at work,” a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“Okay, Jack,” you laughed, the tension easing a bit as you threw formalities out the window.  

“I would ask you how your day off was, but I think I have a pretty good idea,” he said with a teasing lilt.

“Yeah, not my best moment. This is partially why I stopped dating, I hate getting my hopes up,” you said, a little more vulnerable than you intended but you supposed you were past that now. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I think whatever man decided to let you slip through their fingers is a fuckin’ idiot.” 

You sputtered a bit at that, your cheeks heating up. It was a kind platitude, and you wished that it made you feel better, but it did little to alleviate the pit in your stomach that made you feel small; that screamed that you weren’t good enough.

“But enough about that asshole. Do you want to order an appetizer?” he asked, scanning the menu. 

“Oh no, I’m okay, thank you.” 

“You sure? My treat, remember, don’t worry about prices.” he looked up, concerned. 

“I’m fine, really,” you bit your cheek, reluctant to spit it out, “our waitress may or may not have given me a pity charcuterie board at the bar.” 

His face was still for a moment before you saw the edge of his mouth betray him, quirking up in a suppressed smile. 

“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned, your own resolve already breaking as you took in how pathetic the situation actually was. “It’s not funny!” you laughed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the menu. 

“No, no, definitely not,” he intoned, a look of mock-seriousness on his face before he broke out into a laugh, “I’m sorry! But it is objectively a little funny,” he hedged, hands held out defensively to block another menu attack.  

“It is not! It means that the poor waitress had to go talk to her boss and ask if they could comp an appetizer for the miserable sad sack at the bar!” 

“She probably didn’t call you a miserable sad sack. Maybe sad puppy dog girl, but not miserable sad sack,” he teased. 

You gasped exaggeratedly, “I am not a sad puppy dog girl!” 

“Oh yes you are. It’s the eyes. And the general obedient demeanor," he smirked. 

Oh. Your tummy twisted at that, but you quickly filed it under things that I simply do not have enough time to unpack right now. 

“You’re mean,” you pouted, lip jutting out and arms crossed. You weren’t really upset, but it felt fun to play it up a little bit.  

“Aww,” he pouted back at you, his tone just a tad condescending, “let me make it up to you. What do you say to some good wine and garlic knots?” 

You gnawed on your lip, considering his offer, “what the hell, let's do it. It’s not like I’m going to be kissing anybody tonight anyway,” you said, a little bitter, before realizing that was probably not an appropriate joke to make in front of your boss. 

“You never know, we could always pull a Lady and the Tramp,” he joked, not looking up from the wine menu. 

You were a little stunned at that. Was he… flirting? No. Definitely not. This was a strictly platonic date. Right? I mean, the puppy comment you could explain away, but this… this was different, wasn’t it? Who just jokes like that about the most romantic canine kiss in history? A joke, you settled on. Because you’d already gotten your hopes up enough for one night. 

Dinner was nice. Really nice. 

Conversation flowed freely, starting out in neutral territory with updates about patients, work gossip, whatever the fuck was going on with Robby. But you soon moved out of the work realm and into personal matters. You told him about your childhood–where you grew up, your favorite childhood pets, how much trouble you got into as a teen. 

And you learned a lot about Jack. That he came from a military family that moved around a lot, but spent a large chunk of time in North Carolina. He had two sisters, both older than him. One stayed in North Carolina and the other lived in West Virginia. Both married to military men, and both notorious for giving Jack shit about everything. But they were his rocks when he lost his leg, and then again when he lost his wife, and he was endlessly grateful for them. 

You both loved 90s alternative rock, which surprised you because you took Jack to be more of a classic rock fan, to which he merely glared at you and said that he wasn’t that old. You both had childhood crushes on Winona Ryder; his borne from her role in Heathers, and yours from Girl, Interrupted. He surprised you with the fact that he was a good cook, a fact that seemed unfathomable to you based on his general vibe. 

Now, though, you’d moved to med school stories, and Jack was regaling you with stories about him and Robby back in the day.  

“We must have been… god, I must have been a third year med student, and Robby was… an R2? and he had really pissed me off that night. I don’t even remember what he did, I just remember being so annoyed at him,” he laughed, shaking his head at the memory, “It was a quiet night, so he snuck off to the on-call room to catch a few hours of sleep, leaving me to do all the scut. So, I recruited the help of the charge nurse, Carol, and our attending, Mark, and we applied a cast to his right leg while he was knocked out.” 

He’s cackling now, almost unable to finish his story between wheezing gasps of air, “we paged him, like, 10 times until he answered, and next thing we know he’s bursting out of the on-call room and onto his ass before he even realized what happened!” 

You’re laughing hard now, too, trying to picture a younger version of Robby gracelessly tripping over an unnecessary leg cast in his hurry to answer his page. It sounded so unlike the self-assured, stoic version you knew him to be.  

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “how mad was he?”  

“Oh he was pissed. Not because of the cast, but because 5 minutes after we paged him, a 15-car pile up came in and he got benched until he could get the cast off. He had to wait for it to dry before he could saw it off, and the whole time he just sat there glaring at me.” 

“Did he get you back?” you asked, hungry for more crumbs of their life before you, before the Pitt as it was now.    

“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “the fucker taped nails to his shirt, took an x-ray, and switched out the real film for the fake before I noticed. I was freaking out to Mark, yelling about how this patient needed surgery before they perfed. Meanwhile Mark was in on it, and made me feel crazy when he pulled out the perfectly normal x-ray for my patient. He said, ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you in school these days, but this looks like a perfectly normal x-ray,’” he said, in an impersonation you could only assume was Mark.

“That’s fucking crazy,” you giggled, “can you imagine someone doing something like that in the Pitt? I think Robby’d actually have an aneurysm.” 

“Yeah, the old man’s lost a bit of his whimsy over the years,” he shook his head. 

“Old man, huh? Those are fighting words from a man merely 3 years younger than him,” you teased, “and much grayer,” you added with a wink.  

“Watch it, missy,” he warned, then, quieter, “not too old to teach you some manners.”

Feeling emboldened by the wine, you leaned a little closer, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Tracing the rim of your wine glass, you looked up at him. You swear his eyes drifted to your lips, but before you could do anything about it, he cleared his throat, steering the conversation back into safer waters.  

“So, why did you get into emergency medicine?” 

You thought about it for a moment, considering how honest you wanted to be. “I wanted to meet people where they were at, help them in a real, immediate way. The traumas are great and exciting, and there’s nothing like making a pickup that saves someone’s life. But I like the less exciting stuff, too. The mundane care that doesn’t save a life, but makes someone feel better. Helps them get over a cold, or helps soothe a burn; suturing up a lac, or removing foreign objects from patients and not making them feel worse about their predicament. That stuff is just as important as the traumas.

Especially with how fucked healthcare is in this country, people come to us when they’re at their most vulnerable, and usually don’t want to be there. I just hope that I can make things less scary for patients when they come in, make sure they feel like they’re cared about and not being judged for coming to us.” 

It’d been a long time since you’d answered that question honestly. Usually, you had your stock answer that you pulled out, which was a more eloquent version of “I want to save lives!” And that was still true, but there was so much more to working in the emergency department than just saving lives. It was paperwork and insurance and bed shortages and nursing shortages and all the other fucked up shit in the world that inevitably contributed to the cases you saw come through the doors at the Pitt. 

“What about you? Was emergency medicine always it for you, or did you ever consider going into something else?” you asked. 

He shook his head, “Not seriously, no. Considered switching to critical care after my leg. I wasn’t sure if I was cut out for the hustle and bustle of the emergency room after that. But it was the only place I wanted to be, so I figured it out, did what I needed to do to get back to where I was before the accident.” 

“Well, for what it's worth, I’m glad you stuck with EM. I couldn’t imagine working at the Pitt without you. I don’t think I’d be half the doctor I am without you,” you said, looking up at him. 

You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten, his arm slung over the back of the booth and your thighs pressed against each other. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, you’d be amazing with or without me,” he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know, I’ve taught a lot of residents in my years, and you… you’re really cut out for this. Not everyone is.” 

The praise made you preen, the proximity of his hand to your face doing nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart. For a brief moment, you think he might lean in, might press those pillowy pink lips to yours, kiss you until you can’t think stra–

“Hi, sorry to interrupt but we’ll be closing in 15 minutes. Here’s your check when you’re ready,” the waitress said, setting the check down and scurrying away. 

You checked the time on your phone: 11:15. Did you really spend almost 3 hours talking to Jack? It certainly didn’t feel like it. 

“I guess we should get out of here before they kick us out,” Jack said, sliding out of the booth and offering you his hand.

You’re giggling at another one of Jack’s jokes as you leave the restaurant, the bill graciously paid by him despite your best efforts to split it. Your limbs were loose from the wine, goosebumps springing up on your arms from the early summer air turned chilly. 

“Thank you for dinner. You salvaged an otherwise shitty night,” you laughed. 

“It was no problem, really. I had a nice time,” he said, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed.

You mirrored him, shoulder scraping against the gritty brick, and looked up at him. 

“Hold on, I think you have a little sauce on your face,” he said, and before you could grab a tissue from your purse, he reached out. His thumb gathered the sauce at the corner of your lips, going further to brush the pad of it across your bottom lip. The movement dragged your lower lip down slightly, your mouth parting involuntarily with it. You’re not sure why, but your tongue darted out, licked the pad of his thumb and the residual sauce.

Jack’s breath hitched, the sharp intake of air the only thing you could hear despite the sounds of car alarms and drunk party girls on a Friday night in downtown Pittsburgh. 

You looked up at him, tongue still pressed flat against his thumb, and searched his eyes for a sign that the heat building between you is mutual. 

Fuck it, you decided. 

Without thinking about it too much, you leaned up and pressed your lips against his. And god, did they feel nice. They were soft, but firm, and he tasted faintly of the wine you’d shared earlier mixed with the slight acidity of the tomato sauce from his dinner. Your hand tangled in the curls at the base of his neck, and they’re so soft, but also a little stiff. You wondered, briefly, if he uses mousse, or hairspray, or if he’s got a whole curly girl routine down before realizing that oh my god he wasn’t kissing you back. Oh no, oh fuck. 

How did you misread this situation so horrifically? You thought you were getting all the right signals, thought that he liked being with you, that he was flirting with you. But maybe it really was just a courtesy, a pity dinner. 

Your cheeks are hot when you pull away from him, shame sitting thick and heavy in your stomach, numbness prickling up your arms in staticky goosebumps. And Jack is just standing there, the dumbfounded look on his face doing nothing to assuage your embarrassment.  

You backed up, trying to create some distance, to lower the temperature between you that apparently only you felt. 

Looking down at your shoes, unable to make eye contact, you babbled out, “I-I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate and I don’t know why I-” your voice cracked and it felt like your lungs weren’t properly inflating with oxygen, “I don’t know how I misread things, but I guess I did so again, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna go home and pretend this never happened,” you said, turning around and starting down the street, despite the fact that you most certainly needed to Uber home, not walk. 

You’re trying not to cry for the umpteenth time that night when you hear him calling your name, “Wait!” 

He caught up with you, only a few strides away from where you were standing, and grasped your arm gently. “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, a little breathless, “I just… you surprised me.”

“Surprised you?” you laughed, “I damn near sucked your thumb, Jack,” you said, genuinely confused how a man like Jack Abbot could be surprised that a woman would try to kiss him; that the next logical step from erotic thumbsucking would be a kiss. “And you flirted with me all night! You made a Lady and the Tramp joke! How else am I supposed to take that?”  

He rubbed at his jaw anxiously, a slight blush coating his cheeks, “I mean, yeah, I was surprised. I’ve liked you for a while now but then I heard you talking to Santos about how you didn’t want to go out with that cardiology attending and just assumed I didn’t have a shot,” he admitted sheepishly. “And maybe I got a little brazen with my flirting because I thought you didn’t see me like that anyway, figured it couldn’t hurt.” 

It’s your turn to be surprised now. You hadn’t realized he heard that conversation, or that he’d taken the wrong idea from it; the opposite idea, actually.   

You took a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers finding his curls again, “Well, if you recall, snoopy, I said that part of the problem was that I just didn’t want to fuck that cardiology attending,” you said, looking up at him and batting your eyelashes, “that isn’t the case with you.” 

He looked shocked, but recovered quickly, his confident air returning to him. “Oh, is that so?” he asked, lips quirking up into a smile as he backed you up against the rough brick wall. His hand rested on the wall next to your head, the other on your hip, stroking you through your dress. 

“In that case, please allow me to make up for my rude behavior,” he said, dipping down to kiss you properly this time. 

You’d pictured this moment countless times before, but nothing compared to the real thing. Jack Abbot is a no nonsense man–a wartorn vet who understands more than most the importance of not wasting time. You expected your first kiss with him to be hungry, maybe a little sloppy, but when his lips meet yours, he’s achingly tender. It wasn’t uncertain–there was no question underlying his kiss–it was deep and languorous, like he was content to take his time up against this brick wall and savor the slide of your lips against his because he knew he had you right where he wanted you, finally. 

He commanded you, his hand cupping your jaw to angle your head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened up for him. The slide of his tongue against yours was delicious, the slick muscle curling around yours before moving back to your lips, sucking at your bottom lip and biting down gently. Your mind felt fuzzy at the way he handled you, guiding and taking you how he saw fit.

Some of his restraint dissipated, your mouths moving feverishly against each other. You couldn’t get enough of him; you pulled him into you and hooked your leg around his waist to draw him as close to you as possible. Pathetic, embarrassing whines and whimpers escaped you involuntarily, your body unable to mask how this man was making a mess of you.

His hand fell to the thigh wrapped around him, calloused fingers sliding up under your dress and gripping the bare flesh. He pulled you close, his pelvis rolling against yours sinfully. You could feel the hard outline of his cock against your cunt, your hips thrusting forward to meet the friction. A frustrated moan fell from your lips at the clothes separating you, at the inability to feel his skin against yours. 

You pulled away only when air was necessary–and because you were very close to being cited for public indecency if things went any further. 

“Sorry, I probably taste like garlic,” you said dumbly, fingers tracing over your spit slick lips, numb and swollen from Jack’s attention. 

He laughed, forehead resting against yours, “you taste incredible,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nose, then your cheek, and then under your ear. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but my place is a couple blocks from here, if you’d like to come home with me.”  

You nodded, a giddy smile breaking out across your face, “I would very much like to go home with you,” you said, already grabbing his hand and dragging him down the street. 

The entryway is dark as you stumbled into Jack’s townhouse, the walk talking longer than it should have due to your need to drag him into searing kiss after searing kiss every dozen or so steps. 

Jack navigated the two of you through the dark, your bodies unceremoniously plopping down on his couch. You fell onto his lap, knees sinking into the leather cushions and thighs stretching over the wide berth of his hips. Your kisses had devolved from slow and deep to fast and hungry, teeth nipping and clashing against one another, your breathing ragged from the exertion.   

He was rock-hard and throbbing under you, the outline of his cock pressing deliciously against your pussy. The only articles of clothing separating you were the thin, lacy excuse for panties you were wearing and his jeans. Your eyes fluttered closed as you ground your hips down on him, the combination of rough denim and the drag of his cock on your aching cunt forcing loud moans and whimpers from your lips. 

Jack was just as loud, his hips canting up to meet your rolling hips. His hand travelled to the back of your dress, fingers playing with the zipper, “this okay, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. You nodded, too caught up in his lips to give a verbal answer. 

He chuckled as he pulled the zipper down, easing the sleeves down next and pulling away to get a look at you. He let out a sharp breath, the air stolen from his lungs as he took you in, hands gripping your waist tight and rolling his hips hard against you.  

Your pretty tits were held up in an unlined white bra, your hardened nipples peaking through the barely there lace. He threw his head back against the couch, pupils blown wide as they fixated on your chest. ““My pretty, pretty girl. Was this all for him?” he asked, thumbs running in circles around your areolas. You nodded shyly, a bit embarrassed that you’d put on your good lingerie for some random guy. But it wasn’t all for nought, if Jack’s reaction was any indication. 

“What a fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbled before enveloping your nipple between his lips, sucking the bud through the lace. He captured the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging and pinching it, then soothing it over in soft circles. The sensation was dizzying. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, and he knew exactly the right pressure to ride the line between pleasure and pain.

But the lace was getting in the way; you couldn’t feel the scratch of his stubble like you’d dreamed of for so long. You unclasped your bra, tugging on his curls and pulling his face back just enough to let the garment fall down between you. 

A guttural sound left him as he dove back in, lips suctioning onto your nipple and sucking hard, cheeks hollowed out and tongue swirling around the bud. Your hand tightened in his curls, arching your back and pushing your chest against his mouth. He alternated between the two, sucking, licking, and biting at one and kneading, flicking, and pinching the other. You could finally feel the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin, your eyes rolling back in your head as your hips doubled their effort, grinding hard against his cock. 

He released your nipple with a wet pop, “you know how hard it’s been keepin’ my hands to myself, pretty girl? and all this time you’ve been hidin’ this pretty set of tits under your scrubs,” he shook his head in disbelief, “don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything other than stuffin’ my face between these tits when I see you at work.”  

His lips returned to your chest while his unoccupied hand moved under your dress, his rough palm gripping the fat of your ass and guiding you over his length faster. Every grind of your hips had your clit bumping up against the head of his cock, the pressure exquisite. Your slick was dripping down your thighs and seeping into his jeans, the schlick schlick schlick steady background noise among your moans and groans.  

You didn’t realize how fast your orgasm was building until you were nearly on the precipice of it, letting out a strangled moan and, “I’m gonna–” before the wave crested. Your thighs trembled, a dull ache forming from keeping them stretched around Jack’s bulk, but it only added to the pleasure that zipped through you. That staticky feeling radiated through you, your pussy contracting and fluttering around nothing. 

You’re panting into the crook of his neck as you ride out the aftershocks, your hips still grinding against his clothed cock, your lips letting out tiny gasps and whines. 

“Did you… did you just cum, sweetheart?” Jack asked, a stunned look on his face. 

You could feel how hot your cheeks were, shame curling through you because yes, you did cum from a little nipple play and grinding on his cock. 

“I-i’m sorry, it’s just been a long time and no one’s touched me in so long and you feel so good, I didn’t think that would happen so quickly,” you said, panicked, “I’m sorry if I ruined things.” 

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said, thumbs brushing away the embarrassed tears you weren’t even aware had fallen, “you didn’t ruin anything, okay? I was just surprised, is all. I’m sorry if anyone’s made you feel that way, but you don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me. Never,” The sincerity of his words triggered a new bout of tears. You buried your head in the crook of his neck again, his scent a calming balm to your nerves. 

“Plus, do you know how much of an ego boost it is to know I had such a pretty girl cummin’ on lap in under five minutes? That’s the stuff of dreams, baby,” he teased, pulling you out from your hiding spot and pressing kisses to your cheeks.

You laughed, still sniffling a bit, “gosh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a crybaby tonight.” 

“It’s okay, honey,” he said, then, teasing, “but I can think of much better reasons for you to be cryin’, and none of them have anything to do with you being sad or embarrassed,” he said, kissing you properly now, tongue licking deep into your mouth. 

You moaned into his mouth, then squealed as he hoisted you up, carrying you to his bedroom. He set you down at the edge of the bed, then properly removed your dress from where it was awkwardly gathered at your waist.

He didn’t waste any time, dropping to his knees and parting your legs, pushing them up toward your chest. “Hold 'em there for me, baby, wanna take a good look at you,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the damp fabric between your legs. You did as he told you, hooking your hands under your knees and spreading yourself open for him. You felt exposed, but the awestruck look in his eye as he examined your pussy sent shockwaves through your body. 

“This all because of me?” he asked, thumbing at your center over the fabric, pressing lightly against your clit with each stroke. Your panties were soaked through, the tiny scrap of fabric doing nothing to obscure your puffy folds that were sticky with a mix of your slick and cum. “What a mess you made, honey. Guess I’m gonna have to clean you up,” he said, pulling your panties to the side and licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit.

You moaned, hips lifting off the bed and chasing his mouth. The contrast of his hot tongue on your cool flesh was blistering. His hands grabbed the back of your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there and stopping any movement of your hips. You whined at the restriction, your hands fisting in the soft sheets instead.

“Waited so long for this honey, shit, fuckin’ dreamed about how you’d taste,” he moaned into your pussy, mouth lapping and sucking at your folds, gathering all the spend and slick and swallowing it down like nectar. His face was nestled deep into your cunt, tongue exploring every crease and crevice your cunt had to offer, licking, sucking, biting–and taking note of what made you scream. 

And once he discovered it, he didn’t just eat you, he devoured you. He was a man possessed, with no regard for his own need for air. His tongue assaulted your clit, alternating between rubbing tight circles around it, short kitten licks, and long, languorous licks that had him shaking his head between your thighs. Every now and again he wrapped his lips around your clit and suckled it, the light leaving your body every time. Your hips rocked against his mouth despite his hold on you, wrecked moans falling from your lips.  

“Fuck, jack, please–r-right there!” 

“That’s it, baby, let me hear you, tell me how good I’m makin’ you feel,” he said, pulling back just far enough to spit onto your cunt before running two fingers up your slit, pushing them in without preamble. The stretch was delicious, his thick fingers curling deep into your wet heat and finding that sweet spot in no time. He exploited it mercilessly, massaging it with the pads of his fingers. His lips returned to your clit, sucking harshly now, giving you no reprieve from his ministrations. 

“Feels so good Jack! Never felt this good before!” you cried. 

The slurping and squelching was lewd, your moans and breathless cries of his name intermingled to create an obscene symphony that you’re sure the entire population of Pittsburgh could hear. 

“You gonna cum on my face, honey? Gonna give me another one?” he asked, fingers massaging your g-spot. “Wanna–fuck–wanna feel this tight cunt squeeze my fingers when she cums.” 

“Y-yes, please Jack, ‘m gonna cum, feels sosososo good” you cried out, your second orgasm crashing over you. Stars burst behind your eyes, back arching uncomfortably off the bed and walls clenching so hard around his fingers you’re not sure how he hasn’t lost circulation. Your legs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you rode out your orgasm, hips rutting against his mouth and fingers. He didn’t mind, licking and sucking you through it, his fingers keeping pressure on your g-spot until you were pushing him away.

He peppered your body with kisses as you came down, starting at your thighs and making his way up over your tummy, ribs, and breasts. He came to rest above you, a dopey smile on your face as you pulled him in for a lazy kiss. His face was soaked with your spend and you could taste the tang on his tongue when he kissed you. 

“You’re stupidly good at that,” you whispered, body still boneless and floaty. 

“Yeah? Want me to show you want else I’m stupidly good at?” he asked while finally shucking his shirt off. 

“Yeah?” you said absentmindedly, eyes glazed over at the majesty that was Jack Abbot’s chest. You immediately began pressing kisses across the newly exposed skin–to his neck, collarbone, pecs, and tummy. You’re even able to scrape your teeth across a nipple before he holds you back at arms length, laughing.   

“Yeah, honey,” he laughed between your frantic kisses, “but you gotta let me breathe for a sec, gotta take care of my leg.” 

“Let me,” you said, slipping down to the floor and sitting back on your heels. You ran your palms up his thighs, hands coming to rest on his belt before going any further.

“You don’t have to do that, honey.” 

“I know,” you said softly, “but I want to. If you’re okay with that.” 

He cradled your face in his hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You turned into it, kissing the palm of his hand to assure him that you wanted to do this. 

“I care about you Jack, and this is part of you. I just wanna help you, wanna make you feel good,” you said earnestly, giving him your puppy dog eyes.

“Yeah. Okay, honey, go ahead,” he nodded, sitting back on his elbows to watch you. You grasped his belt again, unfastening the buckle and pulling the belt through the loops, discarding it somewhere behind you. You moved to the button of his jeans, deftly popping it open and hooking your fingers into the waistband, tugging them down with Jack’s help. 

Your breath hitched at the sight of his dark gray boxers, a wet spot front and center that made your mouth water. You learned forward and kissed the damp fabric, moaning at the slight taste of precum that danced across your lips. 

“Careful, sweetheart…” he warned, but there wasn’t much heat behind his words. 

You just grinned up at him before getting back to the task at hand. Your fingers travelled down to the sleek metal attached to him, getting a feel for the mechanism before unlocking and twisting it off. The liner came next, tossed to the side before you pressed your fingertips into his skin, massaging the skin to get some blood flow back into the residual limb. You pressed sweet kisses to his flesh, from the front of his knee to the scarred flesh of his leg, tongue dipping out to trace the prominent scar just above his amputation site. 

Jack breathed heavily above you, tiny groans escaping him unbidden. A look flickered across his face, and you think, briefly, that this may be the first time you’ve seen him truly vulnerable. It wasn’t a secret that he’d lost the lower portion of his leg in the war, but he didn’t flaunt it either. You wondered if there was an insecurity that lay deep within him, despite his overt confidence; if other women had reacted differently, cruelly even to the sight of his prosthesis. It made your heart ache to think about it, to think of someone doing anything but worshipping his beautiful body the way he deserved.  

“So pretty, Jack,” you whispered, kisses inching higher up his thigh now, “wanna taste you now.” 

When you’re met with the sight of Jack’s cock, you’re well and truly speechless. You knew he was big from your time on the couch, but seeing it was different. He was thick and veiny, the tip flushed a deep red and leaking precum furiously. It rested against his belly, curving slightly to the left. And did you mention that he was thick? Mouth agape, you wondered how you were going to fit him in your mouth. Or pussy. 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, hands perched against his thighs, just staring at his cock, until Jack tilts your head back, fingers tightening in the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. 

“Thought you wanted a taste, honey. You just gonna sit there and stare at it all night?” he asked, a smug smile on his lips. 

“Maybe,” you mumbled, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

Before you can do anything of your own accord, his hand is guiding your head forward, the head of his cock pushing gently against the seam of your lips. You take over from there, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his tip, the precum gathered there salty and sticky against your lips. Your tongue dipped out to caress the spot just below his head, running the flat of your tongue along it before moving back to his head, spitting a glob of spit onto him and wrapping a hand around his base. You started with long, slow strokes, squeezing and twisting on the upstroke, your hand meeting your lips where they suckled at his tip. 

You moaned at the steady stream of precum invading your mouth, “taste so good Jack,” you said before taking more of him into your mouth. You're only about halfway down and your lips are already stretched tight around him, spit leaking from the corners of your mouth in filthy waterfalls. You hollowed your cheeks out, bobbing your head up and down his shaft, your tongue massaging the underside of his cock. 

“Fuck, baby, who knew you had such a filthy fuckin’ mouth on you,” he groaned, hips rutting up slightly. 

His tip occasionally hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag and tears to prick behind your eyes, but you don’t care; the feeling of him weighing heavy on your tongue is reward enough. 

You feel a light pressure applied to the back of your head, “deeper, baby, know you can take it,” he groaned. You obliged, breathing deep through your nose and sinking down further onto his cock until you felt him hit the back of your throat and your nose was nestled in the trimmed grey curls at his base. Your hand grappled for his where it was perched on your head, using it to push harder against your head, trying to convey to him that you wanted him to take over; to fuck your face. 

He groaned, hips jerking involuntarily as he realized what you wanted. He gathered your hair in his hands, hips shallowly trusting into the wet heat of your mouth. His mouth was slack, grunts and groans loud as he fucked your face. His pace builds, his cock roughly pistoning in and out of your mouth. Tears are falling freely now, your mouth stretched to capacity and throat being used and abused by his fat cock. 

“See? These tears are much prettier, baby,” he huffed out, thumbs brushing the trails where they fell. “So fuckin’ pretty, crying with my cock in your mouth.” 

You moaned around him at that, the praise and shame swirling in your tummy. Your hand came up to cup his balls, massaging and squeezing them gently between your fingers. 

You’re suddenly pulled up off his cock and into his lap, spit stringing from your shiny, swollen lips. You whined at the loss of him, your mouth feeling uncomfortably empty now. 

“Fuck–you feel too good, honey,” he grunted, setting you back against his pillows, “can’t cum in that pretty little mouth tonight, need to be inside you.” 

He grabbed a condom out of his drawer before moving back to you, sitting back on his knees and rolling the condom on. You let out an annoyed whine. You’ve never hated the more rational side of your brain more than you do right now. You craved to feel him bare inside you–to feel him cum deep inside you, the hot white ropes painting your walls. And while you trusted him implicitly, you knew safety was of the utmost importance, so condom it was. 

“Don’t worry, baby, soon as we get tested, you won’t be able to stop me from fuckin’ this pussy raw,” he groaned, settling between your spread thighs. His body was a soothing weight above you, the warmth he emanated relieving any anxiety you had. 

He gripped the base of his cock and ran it through your sopping folds a few times, the tip catching slightly on your entrance on each pass. “Please, Jack, need to feel you,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him close. 

He cursed before giving in, notching the head of his cock against your entrance and entering you slowly, letting you feel and adjust to every inch on its own. Your head fell back into his plush pillows as he sank fully into you, your mouth open in a silent scream. Your walls were tight around him, clenching viciously at the intrusion–you’d never been stretched so wide, or filled so thoroughly. It felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs and replaced by his cock. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your short nails biting at his skin. 

You were still for a moment, both your chests heaving as you adjusted to the feeling of one another. Then, once Jack composed himself, he started to move–slow, shallow thrusts at first, your pussy still clenching tight around him, sucking him in greedily with each thrust. 

“Relax for me, honey, that’s it, doin’ so good for me,” he grunted, eyes closed, “pussy feels so good.” 

You willed your body to relax, for your muscles to go lax around him. You shifted your legs up higher, the heels of your feet digging into the soft flesh of his ass. 

“There you go, so good for me,” he moaned, “knew you’d be so good for me.” 

He pulled out again, easier this time, until only the tip remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward. His thrusts were slow but hard, his hips slamming against you each time he bottomed out. The drag of his cock against your walls felt so good, his thick, throbbing length rubbing up against every sensitive spot. You felt every thick vein and ridge, as if they were imprinting into your walls, making a home there. You moaned at the thought of eternity, of Jack making your pussy his again and again and again. 

He was watching you with a wondrous look on his face, his eyes flitting between your blissed out face and bouncing tits. “So fuckin’ sexy, baby, you don’t even understand how fuckin’ gorgeous you are,” he groaned, hips picking up speed, fucking you faster and harder. 

The adrenaline and emotions from the night came crashing down around you. The feeling of his cock dragging through your walls mixed with the sweet words he was whispering into your ear had you feeling exposed and vulnerable, made you feel seen. Your hands were frantic, running over every bit of skin you could get your hands on, needing to feel his skin against yours. You pulled him impossibly closer, his chest now flush against yours, the friction it provided to your nipples dizzying.  

You didn’t notice the tears until Jack was kissing away the salty tracks, his tongue sneaking out to lick up the length of your cheek. “You’re my little crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked, a sweet hint of condescension in his tone, “just can’t help babbling over my cock, huh, baby?” 

You could only whimper at that. The words should feel shameful, degrading, even, but the fondness on his face, the constant reassurance he’d been giving you all night only made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Because you weren’t a crybaby, you were his crybaby. 

The coil in your stomach tightened, your orgasm fast approaching. He was fucking you hard and fast now, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet smack. “Jaack, I’m gonna–fffuck–I need–” you gasped at a particularly hard thrust, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

But Jack knew what you needed before you did, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it, and you were done for. Your toes curled, heels pressing harder into his ass as you came, white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Your walls spasmed wildly, your orgasm crashing through you in waves. You were absolutely drenched, your pussy gushing around his cock, leaking down your ass and onto the bed. 

Jack wasn’t far behind, his hips stuttering as your walls seized his cock in a vise grip. “F-fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, his hips going into overdrive now, chasing his climax and fucking you hard and deep.

"Cum for me, Jack, wanna make you feel good," you cried.

He ground his hips into one last time, cumming with a loud moan, cock buried deep inside you and hips pressed flush against yours. 

He collapsed on top of you, head resting on your chest. He pressed lazy kisses to your sternum, collarbone, the soft flesh of your breasts–whatever he could get his lips on from this angle. Your fingers carded through his curls, the motion soothing as you tried to catch your breath. 

Eventually, though, you had to part. 

You whined as he pulled out, your cunt empty and cold now that he’d taken his warmth away. He grabbed his arm crutches, disposing of the condom and retreating to the bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and began cleaning you up, gently wiping at your swollen pussy and sticky thighs, making sure you were comfortable before tossing the rag in the hamper.  

He slid back into bed when he was finished, laying on his side and pulling you close against his chest. Your head was cushioned by this arm as you curled into him, your sweat slick bodies cool to the touch now that the heat had dissipated. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he said, fingers brushing up and down your ribs, the touch featherlight.  

“Mmm probably as long as I have,” you said, snuggling closer to him.

“Really? When did you realize you wanted to kiss me?”

You didn’t have to think about it at all. “My birthday, on the roof. I gave you a cupcake and you got frosting all over you,” you giggled at the memory, “and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to kiss it all off of your stupidly handsome face.” 

He laughed with you, the creases around his eyes deepening as he did. He was so pretty, you thought for the thousandth time that night. 

 “I remember that,” he smiled, “I remember being so proud that I made you laugh that night.” 

“What about you?” you asked. 

He thought about it for a minute. “I think the need to kiss you has been simmering in me since I met you, but the first time I had the conscious thought was when you patched me up after that patient clocked me in the head,” he said, his hand now on your cheek, stroking the bone there, “you were standin’ between my legs, stitchin’ up my forehead, and all I could think about was pulling you close and kissing you until I couldn’t breathe.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

He sighed, “I’m your superior and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn't feel the same way.” You knew he didn’t want to delve into the ‘superior’ thing right now, didn’t want to have the long, complicated conversation that was sure to come in the following days. 

“And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself once I started,” he said, lightening the mood a bit. 

You giggled at that, rolling your eyes affectionately. But something nagged in your head about what he said. 

“Wait…” you said, piecing together a timeline, “that was nearly a year ago! You’re telling me we could have been doing this for a year!?” you exclaimed, slapping him on the chest lightly. 

He shook his head at you, a sheepish look on his face. You were both idiots. 

“Well, I guess we have a lot of lost time to make up for, then, don’t we?” he said cheekily, capturing your lips again and pushing you onto your back, determined to make you a very happy woman.

a/n: thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it <33

1. pilates class @ 7am — tomorrow!!

2. build-a-bouquet @ 2pm

3. charm bracelet making workshop @ 3pm

4. pottery! @ 6pm

5. watch the sunrise @ ???

6. friendship bracelet and love island night @ 8pm

7. herb garden creation @ 9am

8. farmers market @ 11am

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

But the prospect of having to find alternate escapes from the family was worrying. Surely the man was just old, preaching outdated opinions about the sanctity of marriage. It’s not like anyone could truly stop you. 

Ursula had asked why you were so bothered by it, anyway. Marriage happens because two people are delusional enough to think that they’ll be together forever. That had shut you up for a while. Sometimes, though, that conversation lingers in the back of your head. 

Like now, as you’re donned in the dress a hundred other Danforth women before you have worn. A dress she might have worn. 

You look through the arched windows of their manor at the venue below and see servants bustling about. There’s a knock on your door, and the maid behind you buttons the last bit of your dress before going to answer. You don’t have to turn to know who it is as she opens the door. It’s been nearly a day since Titus last spoke with you, and you’re sure he’s been going stir crazy. 

“Leave us.”

“But, sir-”

“Do I really need to repeat myself?”

You finally turn, letting out a weary sigh as the poor girl flinches back. “Don’t scare her. You’re the one breaking tradition, after all.”

His shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice. The maid makes the wise decision to slip past him rather than argue further. You step down from the stool she’d had you on and eagerly rush toward him. He’s got even less patience than you, reaching forward and snagging your waist, dragging you into his chest. 

You let out an airy laugh, hands wrapping around the lapels of his suit. “Missed me that much, hm?” He tenses up and you frown, glancing up at him. “What is it?”

Titus’s gaze is distant, eyes cloudy with something you can’t quite place. He finally looks down at you, face softening and lips turning up. “You’re going to do great tonight.”

Your brows furrow as you let out a confused laugh. “I hope so. I’m not really sure how I could screw up my own vows.” His lips purse, like he wants to correct you. But he stays quiet. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?”

“And what are you doing here?” You jump, head thumping into his chest as Ursula breaks up the tense moment. She lingers in the doorway, a pointed look directed at her brother. 

Titus’s hands squeeze once around your waist before he backs off. “I’m not allowed to speak with my future wife?”

A smile slips unbidden onto your face. You’re still getting used to the thought of being the next Mrs. Danforth. Ursula’s gaze cuts to you, her shoulders tense as she takes in your giddy demeanor. “It’s against tradition.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in that silly stuff,” you tell her. 

“Not your tradition, honey. It’s a Danforth thing. Titus.” Her voice is firm; there's no room for arguments. He gives you a lingering stare before following her out of the room. 

Ursula isn’t the worst sister-in-law you could have. She’s cold and distant with you, but you prefer that to being overbearing and constantly accusing you of being a gold digger. As half his family likes to do. If you were in it for the money, there were plenty of easier rich men you could have gone after. You want something else from the Danforths. Loving Titus just happened to be a pleasant change in plans. 

Ursula keeps pulling you aside. Asking if you’re completely sure you want to be with him. You know that if you told Titus about her constant questioning, he’d be beyond upset. Which is the only reason you’ve kept it to yourself. But you’d be lying if you said she wasn’t the reason you were so riddled with anxiety today. It’s not so much about marrying him as about forever being connected to his family. 

Poor or rich, though, in-laws will always be a pain in the ass. 

“I do.”

“I do.”

The entire wedding is a blur. From being led down the aisle to saying your vows. There’s only here and now. The heavy weight of the Danforth family ring on your left finger as you hold Titus’s hand. You think the priest says something about kissing the bride. But you’re not listening. The only thing you can focus on is your husband. 

He’s got that wild look in his eyes, eager and ready to devour you. The priest barely finishes what he’s saying before Titus cups your cheeks and drags you into him. Your lips part in surprise against his as he kisses you in a way that pushes the boundaries of propriety. But as Titus's hand drops to cup the back of your neck, you’re sure you’re the only one worried about that. 

Your arms wind around his neck, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as he kisses you with a fervent desire bordering on desperation. His ring is on your finger. You’ve officially taken his last name, and you can’t understand this anxiety coming off him. Surely he can’t lack that much faith in you.

“Titus,” you whisper, trying to get a breath in for a moment. He pauses, eyes cloudy as he stares down at you. “Save it for the honeymoon,” you laugh, but he doesn’t join you. His hands flex around you once, twice, before you’re letting out a short squeal as he lifts you off your feet. He does it with ease, hardly breaking a sweat as he marches you back down the aisle. 

Ursula shoots him a knowing look, rolling her eyes as you pass by. You can’t help but laugh, holding tight to him as you glance over his shoulder. But the guests don’t look happy that the ceremony is over and it's time for the reception. They don’t seem particularly enthused about you joining the family, either. Instead, they stand, staring at you and whispering amongst themselves with hungry looks on their faces. 

You swallow roughly, forcing your gaze off them. “Where are you taking me?” you demand, frowning as you realize he’s heading back inside the manor. The reception’s meant to take place in the main courtyard. 

His eyes flit down to you before there’s a small smirk on his lips. “I want a moment alone with my wife. Is that so wrong?”

You struggle to subdue the smile on your face. “We have a reception to get to.” You’re not exactly eager to go back out there with his vicious family members. But they’re going to know exactly what the two of you are getting up to. 

He scoffs, as if he heard your thoughts. “Don’t give a shit about them, alright, sweetheart. They’re having their fun. Let's have ours,” he says, setting you down in front of one of the many bedroom doors. Titus shoots you a wink, opening it and pressing his palm to your lower back, ushering you in. 

You should resist; try to remake your first impression with his family. But… fuck ‘em. This isn’t the wedding you wanted. This isn’t the house you wanted. You’re going to let yourself have a little fun today. 

You lace your fingers with his, dragging him inside after you. He barely pays enough attention to kick the door shut behind him. You let out a quiet giggle at his excitement, but it’s quickly cut off by him dragging you into another kiss. He always leaves you feeling wrecked. Like you’ve been hit with a sudden fervor, a passion ignites within you that no one else has ever brought forth. 

Your hand wraps around his suit, struggling with the buttons as you drag it down his arms. He lets out a low chuckle at your own eagerness. You suppose you’re perfect for each other. Both so pathetic and desperate to be naked and within each other’s arms at all times. 

His hands struggle with the complicated buttons on the back of your dress. A short gasp leaves you as he breaks away, whipping you around. He tries for a moment to preserve the dress, and then you hear a very loud rip as he tosses away the idea of preservation. 

“Titus!” You scold, hands coming up to try to catch the dress before it falls to the floor. It’s pointless, though. The heirloom has been thoroughly destroyed. “You know they’re going to blame me for that,” you hiss. 

Though when you glare over your shoulder at him, it’s hard to remember why you were mad. He’s got a cocky smirk on his face as he shrugs, shoving the dress down your body. “I’ll take care of it,” he swears, his voice husky with the promise of a dozen other things. The dress is the last thing on his mind. 

Your lips tilt up, and you wind your arms around his neck once more. Rough hands skate down the backs of your thighs until he’s lifting you, leading you both back to the bed. You work eagerly on untucking his shirt, nails scratching greedily down his muscled chest. “How’d I get so lucky?” You wonder as he drops you down on the bed.

He offers you a sly grin, quickly undoing his belt as you help him push his pants down. “Think I’m supposed to be asking you that, Mrs. Danforth.”

“Mm,” you hum, “I’m not going to get used to the sound of that.”

He pauses, expression turning serious. “You will,” he swears, closer to a demand, really. 

Your brows furrow, some of your excitement dimming as you cup his cheek. “Of course,” you mutter, frowning as he leans into your touch. He’s usually eager for affection, but something is off. 

He doesn’t let you linger on the thought for long. He drags you down until your pelvis is flush with his and you can feel just how much your new name excites him. He reaches down to peel off your underwear, only to let out a low groan when he realizes you hadn’t bothered with any. 

He shoots you a sharp look that you only grin at. “What? I thought it would be a nice surprise for the garter toss,” he lets out another groan, face falling into your neck as you laugh. It turns into a deep moan as his fingers skate across your center, your want quickly coating them. 

That desperate urgency burning beneath his skin enthuses your own. Your hips jolt up impatiently, legs flexing around his hips as you let out an impatient groan. “Titus,” you whisper, lips skating across his jaw as he teases you. “Please.” You’ve barely finished the word before his touch disappears. 

You’re tempted to complain before you catch him pushing down his boxers, movements quick and desperate as he works to free himself. You would tease him if you weren’t so riled up yourself. How tonight goes is a coin toss, no matter how hard you worked to prepare yourself. Who knows? They might need this dress in another few months for the next Mrs. Danforth. 

The thought burns at you, bites beneath your skin, and sends white-hot rage boiling through your body. Another woman in this bed, with her legs wrapped around the man you were never supposed to want. Your nails dig into Titus’s back, earning a sharp hiss just as he inches himself inside you. 

Something on your face must give away some of your inner turmoil. His brows turn in as his hand clasps the back of your neck, and he drags you into another desperate kiss. A keening whine passes between your lips as his free arm props your knee over his elbow, somehow burying himself deeper inside you. 

“God,” you moan, finding it hard to catch your breath. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your body thrumming with pleasure only he knows how to give. 

He’s more intense than any man you’ve ever been with. Each time with him feels like a recoupling of your souls. But this is different. 

His hand slips from the back of your neck, resting over the hollow of your throat as his thumb presses into your pulse. He’s pressing himself deeper inside you, as if he’s trying to merge you into one being. One soul that can’t be split. As endearing as such a desperate desire is, there’s a gnawing worry in the back of your mind. 

He’s acting like this will be your last time together. As if this one moment is all he’ll have to remember you by. Your hands come up, clawing down his back at a particularly deep thrust. The moan it lurches from you only makes his grip tighten. 

This is not the end.

You’re so distracted by the feeling of him over you, inside you, consuming you, that you can’t pay attention to your own worry. That fire is building, spreading; you don’t want to be put out. You want to ignite and burn with him. 

Your pleasure crests as you let out a husky moan, legs tightening around his hips as you lazily meet each one of his thrusts. He loses his rhythm after a moment, lips lazing across your cheek and down your neck. Again, he lingers at your pulse, teeth digging slightly into the sensitive skin. 

You jolt, back arching as the pain makes pleasure throb in your already sated core. His hips stutter before you can feel warmth spilling into you. That fire sparks, ignites, and then shudders as you both lie there, chests heaving.  

Your fingers drag up his back, feeling him shiver at the light touch. They find their way into his hair, scratching through the loose curls. You can’t help but smile at the way he sinks into your touch, practically melting into you. 

“We should stay here,” he whispers. 

Your eyes narrow, hands stilling as you try to push him back. He’s stubborn, face pressed firmly into your neck a moment longer before obeying. “I was promised cake,” you mutter, smiling slightly. 

He chuckles, knowing that you hadn’t even been able to choose that for your wedding. “How about this… You stay here with me, and I'll get you whatever cake you want tomorrow. The actual flavor you wanted.”

You really should go back out there. Actually attend the reception of your own wedding. But you doubt you’re capable of walking right now, much less entertaining polite conversation with his horrific family. “Deal,” you whisper, dragging him down into another kiss. 

Something stirs between your legs, and you let out a low groan. “How is that even possible?”

“Look what you do to me, Mrs. Danforth,” he smirks, getting comfortable between your legs once more. You’d push him away if you didn’t like the sound of that name so much. 

Your head is on Titus’s chest when you hear it, a strange bell tolling in the distance. Your body goes still, the noise reminding you of why you ever came back here. 

“What’s that?” You play at confusion, bleary eyes opening as you turn toward the window. His hand tightens around your shoulder, breath stalling beneath your ear. “Titus?” You frown, glancing up at him. 

He’s not looking at you, gaze drifting somewhere beyond you. There’s a knock at the door before you can press further. Titus’s eyes fall shut before he shifts you away, getting up to answer. Ursula stands in the doorway, backlit by the candelabra of the old estate. You frown, lifting the covers to obscure the thin nightgown you’re wearing. 

“It’s time.” She glances toward Titus before taking a step inside. 

“Time?” you ask, gaze darting between the twins. “Time for what? I’m pretty sure we already missed the reception,” you try to laugh, but it trails off at their grim expressions. Something inside you coils tight. 

You’ve been waiting for this. 

Ursula beckons you forward, but Titus steps up. Your brows turn in as you glance over at him. His expression is pinched. Bound by the oaths and secrets of his family, but his love for you is holding him back. You slowly get out of bed, waiting for him to do something, but he stands frozen between you and his sister. 

“Titus?” you try, almost wondering if he really would break tradition. 

He turns toward you, mouth opening, and something sharp on his face. “Enough,” Ursula butts in, eyes wide as she watches her brother. “There’s something I need to show you. It’s a tradition of sorts in our family,” she explains, but her gaze never wavers from her brother. 

Your husband, who is caught between loyalty and devotion. 

You squeeze his hand as you pass by, offering a confused smile. He buys into the act, a shaky breath leaving him as he steps back. “Is everything okay?” You ask, your voice pitched to sell the naivety they’re eager for. 

“Ignore him; his nerves seem to be getting the best of him,” Ursula cuts in. Her smile is wide, too tight at the edges to be anything real. But you pretend, playing into the role they’ve come to expect from you. You follow her from Titus’s room. 

You’re only a few steps away when you hear footsteps behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the male members of Titus’s family storming into the room. They push him back from the doorway, slamming the door closed behind them so he can’t follow you and Ursula. 

A part of you hopes he truly would have broken the rules for you. Not that they would ever let him go without some blood spilled. 

“Wherever we’re going, I’m sure I’m not dressed for it,” you joke, motioning down at the white, silk nightgown that barely brushes your knees. Ursula hums, and you glance over at her. Her shoulders are tense, expression painfully pinched. If you didn’t know her any better, you’d almost think she was regretful. You’re not sure a Danforth is capable of remorse. 

“You’ll be fine,” she tells you coolly. “I only wanted to show you something.” She leads you through the winding halls until you reach one covered in portraits. 

People dressed in suits and wedding gowns decorate the paintings on the wall. Each expression is grim and haunted. “There is a tradition in our family. One we’ve held for hundreds of years. It’s an initiation of sorts into becoming a Danforth. The final test to prove your worth.”

“Oh? And suffering a wine-drunk aunt isn’t enough?” Ursula offers a pitying laugh but brushes past your comment. Dread and anticipation coil deeper the further you walk. 

“Our family is a part of something special. We follow a man whom few others do, who has never led us wrong. Those who enter the family must also prove themselves to him. Some others who follow him like to simply play games with the brides.”

She stops in front of a portrait, and a woman with a gaunt and haunted face stares down at her. You recognize her from the pictures Titus so rarely shows you. Her mother had been gone for years before you’d ever stepped foot in this place. 

“A few simply sacrifice their brides in the name of Le Bail.”

Your head whips towards her, attention ripped away from the painting. “Sacrifice?”

“None of that’s important.” She cuts you off, turning on her heel. Her expression is flat, but her eyes are narrowed into worried slits. “When the time comes, you need to run.”

“What-" You’re cut off as steps thud up behind you. An arm clamps its way around your throat before you can even turn. A sharp prick at the skin of your neck as cold liquid rushes through your veins, and you go limp in your attacker's arms. 

You were eight the first time you set foot on the estate. A new job your mother had acquired, cleaning for the reclusive Danforths. You were nine by the time she’d fully charmed the eldest Danforth. And the wedding happened only a few days after your birthday. 

There’s not much of the ceremony that you remember. You’d stood behind your mother on the altar. She hadn’t had any other friends to join her bridal party, and Chester Danforth hadn’t minded how close his new bride was to her daughter. 

The twins had been sitting in the front row, each of them looking bored and eager to get the ceremony over with. You’d liked listening to the vows, not that you remember them anymore. You’d simply enjoyed the idea of a love so strong they were ready to bind themselves to each other for the rest of their lives. 

You hadn’t yet discovered what divorce was. Better yet, you hardly knew what a betrayal was. After the reception, Chester and your mother led you and the twins up to the top floor of the estate. 

“I want you kids to stay in here now; your new mother and I have some business to discuss.” Ursula had grimaced at Chester calling your mom her new one. But she’d said nothing, ever the perfect daughter. Titus had glared, but he rarely butted up. 

Chester glared down at his children, disappointed in their lack of response. You had lingered awkwardly beside them, still such an outlier in their dynamic. “Titus, try to get to know your new sister.”

“She’s not my sister,” Titus had snapped, only a few years older than you. Chester was quick, too quick for any of you to stop him. His hand snapped out, striking Titus harshly across the cheek. Your mother flinched, eyes wide as she hung off the arm of her new husband. You’d tried to step forward, but she’d stopped you with a terrified look. 

For a moment, the mask she’d been wearing slipped. You saw the fear in her eyes. For yourself or her, you’d never find out. 

Titus went quiet, sulked to the back of the room as Chester set his eyes on you. You’d cowered, too afraid to meet his eye. With a satisfied hum, he’d taken your mother, and she’d left without a goodbye. 

Ursula sank into an armchair, eyes fluttering closed. Titus simply crossed his arms, glaring through the window. It was only a few years' age difference between you all, but it was daunting nonetheless. 

You’d sat on the carpet, too afraid to mess up their fancy couch and chairs. “When do I get to go home?” You’d asked, your voice quiet as you fiddled with a thread on your dress. 

“This is your home,” Ursula had responded boredly. 

“For now,” Titus snapped, glaring over at you. You gulped, refusing to meet his eye. You didn’t want this big place to be your home. You wanted to go back to the apartment and hide in your room. You didn’t like these people, and you didn’t like your new stepfather. 

A bell tolled in the distance, and you jumped as laughter echoed through the halls. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a game the adults play,” Ursula told you, leafing through a book without actually reading anything. They’d left a dollhouse in the room for you to play with, but you were afraid of looking like a baby in front of the twins. 

“Oh. Will I get to play?”

Ursula’s eyes shot up to meet yours, and you frowned at the concern in them. “I hope not.”

“I’m sure she’d do great,” Titus scoffed, throwing a mean glance your way. You were pretty sure that wasn’t actually a compliment. 

It took another hour before you gave in and inched toward the dollhouse. You glanced over your shoulder, but neither of the twins was looking at you. Humming softly to yourself, you picked up the porcelain figures and danced them through the foyer of the ancient set. 

A piercing scream echoed through the halls. It rattled through your bones and made tears burn in your eyes. You gasped, jumping up with a start. The doll slipped from your hands, cracking against the floor and shattering at your feet. 

“What was that?” 

Ursula’s brows raised, boredly glancing over at the door. She let out a heavy sigh but didn’t answer you. “Part of the game.” You jumped again as Titus’s voice echoed in your ear. Whipping around, you found him hovering just behind you, but his attention wasn’t focused on you. Rather, the porcelain doll was broken at your feet. 

“Oh,” you let out a small gasp, dropping to your knees as you rushed to pick up the pieces. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, hissing when a shard slipped against your palm. 

“Forget it,” he grunted, kneeling and offering you the handkerchief from his suit. You hesitated, hardly ever having gotten a nice word from him, let alone a peace offering. He waved it in your face, and you quickly took it. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. He only stood up, going back to standing by the window. You pressed the handkerchief to your bleeding wound, grimacing as a stinging pain radiated through your palm. 

A bell tolled off in the distance, and you frowned. Suddenly, the room’s door opened. Ursula shot up straight, eyes wide as she peered over at her father. He wore a grim expression that made her own face fall, her gaze going blank as she looked over at you. 

Chester called your name, and you frowned. “Say goodbye to Titus and Ursula.” You didn’t want to. Something about his voice made your stomach twist. But you didn’t want him telling your mother you’d been bad. 

Turning back to the twins, you offered a shaky smile. “Goodbye-”

Ursula didn’t so much as flinch, but Titus had grimaced, looking away as his father rushed up behind you and pressed a syringe to your neck. Neither had objected as he dragged you from the room and threw you into your new, lonely life, with only a small envelope of cash. 

This is the second time in your life these fuckers have drugged you, and it’s starting to piss you off. You slowly lift your head, finding it heavy and aching. Your eyes blur and refocus as you struggle to take in your surroundings. 

Mud and sticks press up against the sensitive flesh of your limbs. It takes a moment for you to realize they’ve dumped you in the forest bordering the estate. With a shaky sigh, you struggle onto your hands and knees. Sharp rocks bite into your hands as you push yourself up to stand on wobbling legs. 

The blood rushes from your head, leaving you dizzy and stumbling as you try to rest against a tree. You’d never known how this works. Only got bits and pieces from drunken relatives with big mouths. 

They aren’t supposed to tell you that your wedding night ends with your being hunted like a dog, of course. But they didn’t know that you were already aware of their little tradition. Of the long list of women who’d gone missing once they visited this haunted estate. You pieced together what you could from the stories they’d told without ever giving away too much. 

Nowhere had you figured out that they drugged the women before they began slaughtering them. It seems unfair to expect a woman to prove she can survive a ruthless world when you begin by crippling her. But you doubt these people care for fairness if it comes at the expense of a good show. 

You reach up, yanking leaves from your hair as you dig into the updo they’d done for you. Buried carefully is a slim, silver pin. You slide it free and, with unsteady hands, slip off the cap, revealing the sharpened blade within. 

It’s barely larger than a letter opener. But you need whatever advantage you can get, and you were too afraid they would search you to try strapping on a knife. 

Pushing away from the tree, something sharp stabs into the sole of your foot. Glancing down, you let out a weary sigh. It’s not enough that they drug you. They need to take your shoes too? 

Do they even want you to survive? Or is this all one big joke to them?

Your chest clenches, thinking of Titus watching them do this to you. Watching them dump you in the woods to be shot at like a wild animal. Clenching your eyes shut, you shake your head. He chose his side; you knew this would happen.

It doesn’t matter where he is. You have one goal tonight, and it isn’t to survive. You want the blood you’re owed. 

Steeling yourself for the pain, you make your way through the woods. You search out any landmarks or hints as to which side of the property they left you, but it’s too dark to see anything. The best you can do is keep your steps quiet and try to remain aware of your surroundings. 

It takes a while more of walking before you hear them. Two loud-mouthed Danforth cousins complaining about their plans for later tonight. “How long do you think the hunt will take this time?”

“I don’t know,” one of them sighs. “Last time we got her in half an hour. I’m already getting fucking bored just standing out here.”

“I told you we should have started looking-”

His sentence ends in a choked gurgle as you sneak up behind him, slim blade slipping across his throat. The other man’s eyes widen as he chokes on his gasp, too shocked to reach for the gun strapped to his hip. 

You grin as the body falls to the ground, bending down to pick up the shotgun he’d dropped. The other one finally reaches for his handgun, but you’re already standing up, double-barrel pointing right at his chest. 

“Uh-uh,” you scold, motioning for him to put the gun down. He throws it into the leaves, and you let out an impatient huff. He whips his hands up in surrender, dropping to his knees before you can even tell him to. 

“Where am I?” you demand, eyes flitting across the ground, trying to find the metal glint of a gun buried in the undergrowth. Asshole couldn’t have just handed it to you?

He grimaces and shakes his head. “I can’t say-”

The blast of the shotgun echoes through the trees, scaring a few owls from their branches. You would be worried about the noise if it weren’t for the much louder screeching in front of you. The cousin wriggles wildly on the ground, screaming and clutching his bleeding leg. 

Just below his knee, his left leg is barely hanging on. The blast had been more potent than you’d expected, but it’s not like you needed him whole, just alive. “Now!” You demand, pushing closer. 

“Okay!” he screams, bloody hands slipping across what’s left of his leg. “East courtyard! We’re in the East Courtyard! Please, I need-”

You ignore him, having finally spotted the gun he’d so carelessly tossed away. His cries of pain are silenced as you bury a bullet into his head. And one into the other man’s, just for good measure. Your eyes dart down to his boots, and a wicked idea runs through your head. 

“You’re telling me she did this?” Ursula glares down at the bodies of Malcom and Brent. Two cousins whom Titus had cared nothing for. He hadn’t even known their names until some maid had rushed up to tell them their bodies had been found. 

“Who else would have?” His aunt demands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares at her boy’s bodies. 

“Nothing in the rules about killing family,” Titus reminds her, kneeling beside one of them. Malcolm or Brent, he doesn’t truly care. 

Ursula shoots him a sharp look as their Aunt’s blubbering grows worse. He ignores her in favor of examining the wounds on the body. One bullet to the head- what the others assume he died from. But he knows that you were stripped of any weapons you might have held, anything that would have given you an advantage in the game. 

It’s clear that you shot this one through the back of the head and the other straight to the face. He doesn’t know where you would have gotten the gun. His gaze narrows, and he finally sees the small slit against the throat. 

The true cause of death. 

You’d slit his throat with something and were trying to hide it. Why?

“I just don’t understand why she took their shoes?” His aunt cries, wiping her eyes vigorously. Titus’s eyes drop to the corpse’s bare feet, and he snorts. 

“You took hers, didn’t you?” Both Ursula and his aunt shoot him sharp glares, but he’s in no mood to play at being nice tonight. He needs to find you before someone else does. No one would tell him where you’d been dropped off, likely anticipating what he was going to do. He’s been struggling to track you down since the game began. 

“Titus,” Ursula mutters, nodding toward something in the dirt. He steps closer and sees fresh bootprints in the mud. 

His aunt gasps and shoots forward. “That little bitch,” she hisses, pulling her gun from her hip and following your trail. Ursula follows behind her, but Titus hesitates. This is too easy. You’re too clever to have already stashed a weapon on you and killed two of his family to make such a simple mistake. 

He knows it's a trap he’s walking into, but he follows his sister and aunt just so he might have a chance to see you. 

The trail leads them all to a small clearing. Too much open space for him to feel comfortable. Ursula hesitates at the edge of the field, glancing around with a suspicious look. His aunt barrels forward, paying little mind to any danger around her. 

“What the fuck?” She mutters, glancing down at the boots you’ve abandoned in the grass. Her head lifts just as a shot echoes through the trees. Titus’s head whips around, trying to find where you are. The bullet grazes his aunt’s throat, hitting just deep enough to nick her carotid, sending blood flying as she falls to her knees. 

Her hands scramble along her throat, struggling to staunch the blood as she chokes on it. Ursula takes a foolish step forward, and then she falls to her knees. A loud groan rips from her chest as she clutches her right thigh. Right where you’ve just buried another bullet in her. 

“Go get her!” She growls, slapping at Titus’s hand. He’s already moving, gaze locking onto a streak of movement further in the trees. He never knew you were such a good shot; it wasn’t information you’d offered up to him. Even on the rare occasion that he took you hunting, you always seemed to miss whatever animal you were aiming for. He had honestly been worried about how well you would be able to defend yourself tonight. 

There seems to be more to you than you’d let on. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribs, blood pumping painfully as you race through the woods. Boots too big for you slip up and down your ankles, only slowing you down as you try to outrace the predator hot on your tail. 

You can’t hear him following behind you, his footsteps nearly silent as he tracks you down with ruthless efficiency. You should have shot him in that field. Ursula didn’t matter; you could take her down in hand-to-hand easily. 

It should have been Titus you crippled. It should have been him you shot down, so he couldn’t come after you. If anyone could ruin your plans tonight, it’s him. But you were weak. You cowered at the thought of hurting him, and now he’s hunting you. 

One moment of mercy- that’s all it takes. 

A scream rips from you as something heavy barrels into your side. It’s cut off as your body slams against the ground, breath ripped from you in one violent yank as Titus straddles your hips. He clamps a hand around your mouth, eyes darting around the woods as you try to regain your bearings. 

When he’s sure no one else is around, he slowly releases you, though he doesn’t allow you to stand. He keeps you pinned and completely at his mercy. His eyes are crazed as they assess you. 

Futilely, you kick out, hands reaching up and scratching at any flesh you can find. You already know he won’t let you go, but you try anyway. “Enough,” he mutters, swatting your hands away like they’re nothing. 

That must be all you are to him, for how quickly he turned against you. Nothing.

“Go on,” you goad, teeth bared as you glare up at him. “Do it.” This is a gamble, and one you want to be confident in but just can’t be. You don’t know how he would kill you or if he’s thought about it often. 

A bullet would be quick. His hands wrapped around your throat would feel more personal, but it would hurt. Not just your death. But knowing he had loved you and could still look you in the eyes and slaughter you like an animal. This must have been how she felt when they’d killed her.

Something flashes across his face. Pained and disgusted as he stares down at you. You couldn’t have offended him. He’s the one pinning you down. He holds your life in his hands, not the other way around. But the way he’s looking at you, the gleam in his eyes, you’d never be able to guess the truth of the situation. His leash is in your hands. You should’ve known how to tug.

“Do what?” He snaps, eyes narrowed as his gaze roves over you. Still assessing, but now you can understand what for. He’s trying to see if someone else has gotten to you first. If you’re hurt in any way. 

Maybe he really does care. 

Or maybe he’s such a sadistic bastard that he wants to toy with you a bit first. 

“Kill me,” you hiss out, hate and barbed hurt frothing at the corner of your lips. “That’s what this is all for, isn’t it?” You demand, throat closing as you choke back tears. This wasn’t meant to be so fast. You’d worked for years to get to this moment. And now…

You just pass all that work off and hand your life away because you were too weak to kill your husband when you had the chance. 

“Did I mean anything to you?” You bite the words out, the truth too painful to realize as you stare up into his cold eyes. 

Your mother had been here once. Pinned down by the man she was meant to spend the rest of her life with. Titus’s father had slaughtered her. Cut her down where she stood for the sake of tradition. You were a fool to think this was a fate you could escape. 

 His hands loosen around your wrist, face falling as he draws back. You wrench away from him, scrambling back from his hold as you surge to your feet. He remains where you left him, kneeling in the dirt as he stares up at you. 

“You were going to let them kill me!” You accuse, biting back the disgust you feel looking down at him. 

“No, never,” he bites out, gaze turning sharp. His hands reach out, linger in the air between you like he can’t decide if he should stay kneeling or pin you down again. “I was never going to let them hurt you.”

You hesitate for a moment, and you see how much it hurts him. Taking a step forward, his hands fly out, crumpling the ruined skirt of your nightgown in his palms. He drags himself forward, face buried in the silk as you let out a shuddering sigh. 

“I was trying to protect you,” he insists. “But they wouldn’t tell me where you were. I didn’t even know if you were alive.”

Something in you snaps. The fight you’d been carrying disappears as you fall to your knees before him. He doesn’t let you feel the impact, touch greedy as he pulls you into his chest. You have no desire to escape him or his suffocating hold. 

But that fire still burns for the man who started this all. The one who gave you a reason to get involved with the Danforths. And if you have to use Titus's warped sense of devotion to get to him, so be it. 

“Why did you let them take me?” You whisper, hands cupping his cheeks. Your eyes narrow at how he sinks into your touch. How eager he is for forgiveness. Can you trust this devotion he holds for you over his loyalty to his own family? You’re not sure, but it's a gamble you’ll have to take. 

The blood on your hands can’t be for nothing after how long you’ve waited. 

“I,” his mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. No matter what, he doesn’t have a good enough excuse for his betrayal. Which works well in your favor. 

You put a tremble in your voice; it's not hard to muster, but you lay it on as thick as you can. Your lips quiver as you stare up at him. Your voice is broken as you whisper, “Why’d you let them take me?”

Titus’s expression twitches; he flinches from the accusation. But there’s only so far he can run from the truth. “I was never going to let them hurt you,” he insists, gaze pleading. 

“They already did,” you bite back, ripping your touch from him like he’s burned you. 

They hadn’t. His ridiculous cousins hadn’t even gotten the chance to raise their weapons. He, however, doesn’t need to know that. What he needs to know is that you’re afraid, vulnerable. He has to want to protect you. 

“I can fix this,” he insists, getting to his feet and trailing slowly behind you as you pace. “Let me help you. Let me keep you safe.”

You let out a sharp scoff, but there’s no true emotion behind it. This is all just another act, one part of a long play that’s meant to be coming to a close. “Why would I ever trust you, again?”

His hands reach out, snatching up your wrists as he whips you around to face him. It doesn’t hurt, but it's tight enough that you can’t slip free from him. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, or maybe declare his love again, voices echo through the forest. Your shoulders jolt as his gaze whips behind you both. 

There’s a group coming toward you both. They’re stomping loudly through the underbrush, conversation vague and careless. They couldn’t care less if you hear them. They all just assume you’re easy prey. Even if you’ve already killed three of them. You’re almost tempted to take out your gun, show them what a true predator looks like. 

But Titus’s hands are clamping around your shoulders, his expression severe as he surveys you. “If you keep heading north, you’ll reach the estate. I want you to go to the ballroom and wait for me.”

“What-“

“Wait for me,” he demands, his gaze already seeing that gnawing desire to run in your eyes. You glare at him, but he won’t budge. 

“What are you going to do?”

Slowly, like it pains him to, he releases you. His hands slip off your shoulders, and he reaches behind his back. He untucks a gun from his belt and you frown. It wouldn’t have taken him much just to pull that on you. A part of you wants to hope that he really doesn't want you dead. But you can’t trust him and you certainly can't trust your own bleeding heart. 

“There’s no rule against killing family,” is all he tells you as he backs away. You swallow roughly, slowly heading back through the trees. But you keep your eyes on where he disappeared and how easily he blended into the shadows. 

Just as you begin to see lights flooding through the tree line, you hear it. Three gunshots and then a scream that rips through the night. You pause for a moment. Something wicked and warm fills your chest as you think of him hunting them down. For you. 

Bursting through the forest, you find the mansion just as he’d instructed. You’re finally starting to gain a sense of where you are. Glancing over your shoulder, you check that no one’s following before running inside. 

You have a decent enough idea where you are now. You run through the marble hall, stopping for a moment to shove off the too-large boots that you’d stolen. With a low sigh, you come to a stop before a grand staircase. There’s a door in front of you. Beyond it will be the ballroom. You can hide, cower as you wait for Titus to rescue you and get you through the rest of the night. 

The thought is revolting to you. It’s easier, but you didn’t claw your way here just to give up right at the end. Your nails bite into your palms as you turn toward the stairs. You swore to yourself that the Danforth line will either be ended by or controlled by you. You won’t allow your sensitivity to hold you back anymore. 

With a fortifying breath, you start up the stairs. You glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one’s followed behind you. Your heart stills, your body freezing as you hear the unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back. Swallowing roughly, you glance up. Just at the top of the stairs is one of Titus’s cousins. 

Her hand trembles, gun shaking in her grip as she stares down at you with wide eyes. You’re about three steps away from her. Enough time for her to fire. You doubt she makes a good shot with the way the gun is shaking in her hand. But you don’t need to be a good shot when you’re this close. One bullet will be lethal. 

You hold out your hands and she flinches, finger pressing loosely against the trigger. With a risky lunge, you leap forward, shoving her hands up just as she pulls the trigger. The shot rings out in your ear; it rattles through your brain and knocks you off balance as you try to shake off the ringing in your head. She lets out a noise of surprise, not hesitating as she leaps forward and shoves you back. 

Your bare feet slip against the stairs, heart thudding against your chest as you feel the air rush up around you. Your stomach plummets as you’re knocked down the stairs. The first impact slams against your ribs, knocking the breath out of you as you go tumbling down the steps. You land on your side, your shoulder cracking beneath the weight of your body. Pain rips through you, slams up your spine and rips across your nerves as you struggle for breath. 

Her footsteps pound above you, frantic and rushed as she aims her gun once more. Your face is smashed against the cold marble, lungs trembling as your eyes slam shut. The shot echoes through the foyer, rattles against your bones. But no more pain comes. 

Risking one eye open, you peer up in time to see her head jerk back, her body dropping with a thud. Blood pools beneath her head and you let out a rattling breath. “Come on.” Calloused hands wrap around your arms, gentle as they stand you up. 

“Titus,” you mutter, still delirious from the gunshots and pain. He stands behind you, the barrel of his gun still smoking at his side. 

“What were you-“

You’re sure whatever he was about to say would turn you away from these stairs. Away from what you’ve worked so hard towards. But more voices echo through the halls. The gunshots were enough to draw the attention of anyone still in the estate. Titus’s head jerks in the direction of their voices and you use your one good arm to shove away from him. 

They spot him as you rush up the stairs. They call out his name and gasp as they see the dead girl on the stairs. You clutch your limp arm to your chest, breath coming heavy and short. Your ribs are tight and aching. You’re certain you broke something falling. But you’re closer than you’ve ever been to having your revenge. 

Swallowing down the pain, you race to the uppermost floor. To the room you know is housing the monster behind all your tormenting grief. You don’t knock or announce yourself, just throw the door open, teeth biting into your lip at the pain that shoots up your side. 

The old man sits in his wheelchair, glaring out at the courtyard below from his window. He doesn’t even flinch as you barrel in. Just lets out a low sigh like you’re inconveniencing him just by existing. 

You stand there, staring at the senior Danforth, gun held in your good hand. “Mr. Danforth,” you drawl, wrestling your breath back into shape as you let the door close behind you. “Do you remember me?”

He hums, head barely tilting over his shoulder. “I believe you just married my son. I’m honestly surprised you even made it this far.” He lets out a little huff. Probably mad that some cheap little orphan managed to marry his only male heir. To survive their twisted game this long.

”Do you remember her?” You ask, whispering your mother’s name as you draw the hammer of your gun back. 

“Oh,” he finally turns his wheelchair toward you, a cruel sneer on his lips. “Lovely woman,” he mutters. “A shame she wasn’t strong enough to lead my family.”

Your eyes narrow, finger trembling around the trigger as you lift your arm. “She was plenty strong,” you hiss. “But how would she ever win when you drug her and drag her out into the woods? I’d hardly call that fair.”

He shrugs, steepling his fingers as he surveys you like you’re nothing more than a gnat flitting about his face. “Life isn’t fair.” 

You point the gun at him, your eyes burning as you suck in a sharp breath. This is it. You end this here. 

The door slams open behind you and you jump, gun dropping to your side. Titus crashes into the room, eyes crazed as he surveys you and his father. The smug look on Chester’s face falls as he rolls himself closer to his son. 

“She tried to kill me, Titus. Finish the game, now!”

You back up as Titus stalks forward. Your heart sinks as he slowly reaches for the gun. Your grip goes lax around it as he backs you into a corner. Your spine hits the wall with a dull thud as you release a shuddering breath. 

His hand grazes your waist, his other one taking the gun from you. “Do it,” you whisper. “Kill me.”

His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. Voice low, he asks, “Why would I do that?”

Your gaze dips to his father, but he’s watching you both with a peculiar expression. One you can’t read. “Because if you don’t kill me,” you bite out through clenched teeth. “Then I will kill your father.” You hesitate, biting your lip as the truth stumbles out. “For what he did to-“

“Your mother,” Titus finishes, almost looking amused. 

“What?” You whisper. 

At the same time, Titus’s father snaps, slamming his hand against the arm of his wheelchair. “Enough games, Titus. Be done with her!”

But your husband’s eyes don’t leave your own. He’s got you pressed up against the wall. His attention is solely focused on you as he offers a wayward grin. Something malicious lurks underneath it. “You think I don’t know who you are? Who your mother is?”

”How long have you known?” You whisper, eyes wide as they dart between him and his father. 

“The whole time,” he answers, hand flexing around your waist. “I thought this was a game for you. I was waiting for you to make the first move.” His face dips forward, nose brushing against your jaw as his lips move softly against the sensitive skin. “You never did,” he wonders aloud, almost disappointed. 

“Because I love you,” you insist, hand reaching up to cup his cheek. He lifts his head, forehead falling against yours. The cold barrel of the gun bites through your nightgown and you let out a low whimper. 

“You or me?”

Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head. “What?”

”Who pulls the trigger, sweetheart?”

Your eyes widen as you glance between him and his father. All this time, you’d been working toward this moment, always expecting it to be your last. Wasting your life to kill the man who’d murdered your mother and ruined what good was left inside you. You’d thought Titus to be a stepping stone, an obstacle in your path. 

But this…

This is far sweeter than anything you could have dreamed up. It wouldn’t hurt the eldest Danforth at all to be killed by some nobody girl. But to have his heir in your hands, throwing away all loyalty to his father in exchange for a spot at your side… It was better than anything you could ask for. 

“Please, Titus,” you whisper, eyes watery as you stare up at him. The hammer of the gun pulls back and you slowly release him. He steps away from you. The tears disappear as a smile pulls on your lips. You lean against the wall, broken and bloody, and watch as realization dawns on Chester Danforth’s face. 

“Titus, what the hell are you doing? Throwing away your family for some whore-“ your shoulders jump to your ears as his head flips back, brains spraying along the walls. You knew it was coming, but still, Titus hadn’t even hesitated. 

You look over at him, see the tight set of his jaw, the water lining his eyes. “Oh,” you croon, reaching for him. He turns, stalking toward you as a gasp rings out. You jolt forward, turning toward the door just as Ursula walks through. 

Her hands tremble around her mouth, breath coming quick and pained as she takes in the dead body of her father. “What did you do?” She demands, voice cracking as she whips around on you. You don’t hesitate as you did earlier. Don’t let her get off easy with a shot to her leg. 

You rip the gun from Titus’s hand and aim with your bad arm. This close, you don’t need great aim to knock her brain loose. Her body crumples to the floor as blood begins to pool around her body. The recoil knocks you back, and the gun clatters to the floor as you stumble back into the wall. 

“Titus,” you whisper, stomach dropping as he stares at his dead sister. “I’m so sorry, Titus. She never would have let me live after that. I had to. For us-“

Your words are cut off as he grabs your arms, dragging you into his chest. You let out a gasp, but it’s swallowed by his lips as he kisses you. It’s fervent, violent and desperate as he shoves you against the wall, hands squeezing around your broken ribs. 

You let out a pained whine, hands dragging up his shoulders and burying themselves in his hair. He groans into your open mouth as the bell rings out in the distance. 

You’ve done it. 

You’ve made it through the night. Now… The Danforth power, the riches, everything that makes them who they are. You hold it all in your hands. Their heir, their future- it's yours to command. 

“I can’t risk it.  That was a dark day.”  He was looking past you, lost in thought reliving the last time he’d woken the sleeping attending.  Abbot, the former soldier who understandably had seen some scary things that often led to PTSD.  Abbot, the part-time SWAT medic, who might not react well to being startled awake by a coworker and might knock said coworker’s favourite Dunkin’ drink from his hand.  Shen had been devastated, low on caffeine, and the least chill you’d ever seen him.  It would have been funny if the rest of his shift hadn’t been so rough because of the spill.  “Please, dude,” he begged.  You sighed and agreed to get Jack.  

The room wasn’t as dark or as quiet as it should be for sleep but soldiers and nightshift workers could sleep anywhere and anytime.  Jack was laying on his stomach on a couch in the staff lounge.  His prothetic leg was within reach, leaning against the arm of the couch.  You considered calling his name loudly, startling him awake from a safe distance but that felt mean.  As soon as he was awake, it would be nothing but noise and chaos until his shift ended.  He looked so peaceful, you really didn’t know how things went so south with Shen.  

You made your way closer, opting for a soft approach.  Sitting down gently on the edge of the couch by his ribs, you said his name and waited for movement from him. You tried again, nothing.  You eyed his back a moment, making sure it moved with breathing.  You put a hand on his shoulder, and slowly slid it across his back, smiling when he started to stir.   See Shen?  This was how you carefully woke a sound sleeper.  You dragged your hand back across the same simple path of his shoulders, smug that your soothing gesture had solved everything when Jack mumbled, 

“Hey, sweetheart.”  What?!  No.  That was not the desired effect, especially not when hearing that term of endearment in his sleepy voice seemed to short-circuit a very important part of your brain.  In his stirring, his forehead came to rest against your thigh.  He sighed like a weary sailor finding land after seasons at sea.  You squirmed slightly at the heat his heavy exhale brushed against the seam of your pants.  He started move more purposefully, and you thought he was waking up.  Instead, his arm reached for more contact and you froze when it snaked slowly around your thigh, his hand tucking underneath your leg, and successfully stopping you from pulling in your next breath. 

It was the second time today you’d seen a man hug something protectively to his chest but you were having a very different reaction to this one.  You managed a shaky breath, but Jack Abbot wasn’t done.  On another sleepy exhale, his hand skimmed up the underside of your leg, sparking sweet sensations as it slid until his palm was nestled in the nook of your knee.  That alone might have been survivable but the placement of his hand meant that his forearm laid along your inner thigh and his elbow was cushioned in the most uncoworkerly corner of your body: your crotch.  

You made a sound.  One you’d definitely never made at the hospital.  One Jack Abbot definitely heard, because he tightened his hold on you and said,

“Lay down with me, honey.”  The sudden surge of temptation to accept his invitation was so strong, it constricted your chest.  Your heart twisted at how sweet he’d sounded.  He’d said it so lovingly, like you were together, like you were…  Oh.  Oh no.  Was he thinking about his dead wife?!  “Need you,” he said softly and it was a knife through your heart.  

“Dr. Abbot,” you said as professionally as possible but not being able to breathe properly really took the power out of your voice.  Overwhelmed by the delicious feelings flooding from all points of contact with him and horrified at yourself for the lust flowing through you while he was wholesomely just deeply in love with his late wife, you reached out for something to help steady you.  Aiming for the couch, but being off-kilter because of the cuddly boa constrictor of a coworker currently coiled around your leg, your hand landed left of where you’d planned, right onto his head where it sunk into a soft sea of salt and pepper curls.  You made another noise in frustration, torn between needing this to end and never wanting it to.  Letting your hand slide off him turned into more of a caress, and his eye cracked open.  

He stared up at you sleepily, almost suspiciously, but maintained his strong grasp.  For a second there was a flicker not unlike the look in Shen’s eyes as he had cradled the iced coffee to his chest.  Or the look in a dog’s eye when they’ve got something they know you’re going to try to take away and they plan to fight you for it.       

“Hi,” you said, more than a little breathless.  “Shen needs you.”

He woke up quickly then, jerking his head and hands away from you, turning one way then another before he was sitting alert and army-trained on the couch.  

“Fuck, sorry, I thought I was dreaming.”

“About your wife,” you added on, needing to acknowledge it. 

“What?” He asked, his face twisting at the out of the blue mention of her. 

“What?” You echoed, wondering why he seemed confused.  He tilted his head at you, quietly considering.

“I wasn’t dreaming about my wife.”  The statement came lightly but it made the air in the room incredibly heavy.  It felt like he was actually admitting something else.  Something potentially life-changing.  

You sprang from the couch, set on a quick escape, only to hear a clatter as his prosthesis was knocked from its resting place.  Mortified at not only putting hands on an attending and stirring up memories of his late wife, now you could add destruction of property or hate crime against the disabled by throwing around his much-needed leg.  You crouched to reach for it, desperate to right the wrong.  Jack had the same instinct about saving his leg, only faster.  This meant you sort of collided, landing with your arm outstretched along his and your chin on his shoulder. 

He looked down, at where you had not managed to grasp his prothesis, but instead had your hand wrapped around his.  Thankfully you weren’t attached to a heart rate monitor when he turned his head to look at you, because all sorts of alarms would be going off and a whole team would be running in to save you when his nose bumped yours.  Marvelling at his face just a breath away, you didn’t know how you were going to recover from this.  

“Wanna know who I was dreaming about?” He teased, tempting you with the idea of you two.  

“I think I understand now why Shen dropped his drink,” You whispered.  

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a hint of a laugh, and the corner of his mouth started to lift in a smirk before he pulled his mouth to the side to hide it.  Jack shook his head at you, and it took him out of your space enough that you could think clearly again.  You stood on shaky legs and backed away towards the door as he accused,

“Hey, you started it.”  You stayed quiet, unable to defend yourself, because you had, in fact, started it with the shoulder slide.  At the door, you paused as he started adjusting his prosthesis,

“Is your leg alright?” You asked, hoping you hadn’t damaged it.  Jack peered up at you, amusement brightening his eyes. 

“Is yours?”  He asked, gesturing to where your skin was still suffering from aftershocks.  

“My leg is,” you looked down at the limb in question, “fine,” you lied, trying to downplay your reaction to him.  But did that sound too nonchalant or even ungrateful to say about your perfectly fine leg to someone holding a prosthesis?  “It’s great,” you overcompensated, mildly concerned that might be bragging.  He nodded,

“Yeah, it felt great.”  You laughed at his unexpected feedback.   

“You did not just say that.  Is that your medical opinion?”  He smiled at you, all too pleased with himself and your heart skipped a beat.  It was a toss up whether having him alert and flirty or semi-conscious and cuddly was more hazardous to your cardiac health.  From the gleam in his eye, you knew he was about to deliver some devastatingly flirtatious line.  You needed to get out while you still could.  “Go find Shen,” you ordered, fleeing the room.  

You sped-walked down the hall, leg still tingling while you wondered if this was a newfound version of phantom limb, and how long the symptoms would last.  Peeking over your shoulder to see if Jack had come out yet, you rounded the corner quickly and crashed into someone in scrubs.  Beyond the contact, there was the sound of plastic hitting the floor and liquid splashing.  

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

Jack is about to say something about ordering takeout, but the words catch in his throat when he looks inside the bedroom.

You’ve already kicked off your sneakers and shed your jeans. Standing at the foot of the bed in just your sweatpants, you grab the hem of your t-shirt, and pull it over your head, letting it drop to the bed.

Next comes the real relief.

You reach back, unhooking your bra that’s been digging into your ribs for the last hours. With a groan of comfort, you toss it onto the nightstand. You cup your breasts, using your hands to gently massage the aching skin where the wires had been pressing and trapping heat all day, trying to get the blood flowing again.

Jack stands there for a moment, his gaze softening. The sheer domesticity of the scene makes something melt in him.

He steps fully into the room. "Everything okay, doll?" he asks.

You look up, letting out a smile. "Yeah. Just... bras are brutal after a double shift. It feels like they're trying to bruised my ribs by the end of the day."

Jack closes the distance between you.

"Bra problems require expert care," he teases softly, his hands coming to rest gently on your hips. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Let me take over? My hands are warm, and I happen to have an excellent bedside manner."

You smile, tilting your head. "Is that an official medical recommendation, Dr. Abbot?"

"Strictly therapeutic," he murmurs.

Jack turns you, his chest brushing against your bare back as he closes the distance. You instinctively lean into him, letting out a soft sigh as he supports you.

He wraps his arms around your waist for a brief second, pressing a warm kiss to the crook of your neck.

"Relax, doll," he whispers warmly against your skin.

He slides his hands upward, his palms completely warm against your skin as they replace your own. His hands cup you gently, immediately bringing a sense of relief to the ache.

Jack knows exactly how much pressure to apply, using his thumbs to trace the red indentations left behind by the underwire, smoothing over the irritated skin in slow circles.

You let your eyes close, completely melting against him. Your back is pressed flat against his chest, feeling the steady, calming thud of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.

"Better?" Jack asks softly, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as his hands continue their soothing, rhythmic motion.

"So much better," you murmur, closing your eyes and letting your head rest back against his shoulder. "You're hired permanently."

"Good, because I don't plan on quitting my job," Jack chuckles. He presses a tender kiss to the side of your neck, his thumbs smoothing over your skin, content to just hold you and soothe away the stress of the day for as long as you need.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Jack turns and gives a sly smile before returning to the skillet. “I know it’s probably ill-advised to raid a chef’s kitchen. But you looked so peaceful, I didn’t dare wake you.”

You approach him from behind, wrapping your arms around his waist and peeking around him. “I’m just glad to see you not scratching up my good pans,” you kiss his shoulder.

“Go sit down,” Jack tilts his head back.

“You need any help?” you ask, clearly wanting to step in somehow.

“Nope,” Jack shakes his head. “Get outta here.”

“Ugh,” you groan. “Yes doctor.”

You reluctantly pull yourself away from him and gather plates, silverware, and napkins from your cabinets. You start a pot of coffee, the smell finally alerting your senses to fully awaken. “Coffee?” you hold up two mugs.

“Yes, please.” Jack nods while plating up the eggs.

It’s very domestic, and you can’t help but smile to yourself a little. You have good harmony in the kitchen, which you find very surprising. Previous partners have hardly ever wanted to cook for you, joking that they were always too intimidated. Which was funny, until it wasn’t. Until it evolved, and meant that after a rough shift, or a shitty night’s sleep, you were still on your own in more ways than one. Jack was the first one to step up in that way. You bite your lip, trying to push the feeling down. It was too much too soon, and you don’t want to dwell on it.

“Are you working today?” Jack asks as he brings the food to the table. Eggs, breakfast sausage, and toast. A classic, American breakfast. Right on brand for him, you figure.

You shake your head, “No. I mean, yes and no. I have to run the recipes through later today, work out any kinks, and make sure they’re ready for the staff tasting in a few days.” You pull the eggs up to your mouth and notice Jack watching intently. “What? Is my hair fucked up?”

“Nope, I just wanted to make sure I didn’t poison you, is all,” Jack takes a sip of coffee, the mug hiding a smile.

You narrow your eyes and take a huge bite. They’re eggs, and they taste like eggs. Well seasoned, thank goodness. “You used salt,” you nod, “at least we aren’t starting from square one.”

“Okay, well I’m not totally inept. I’d like to think I can handle myself in the kitchen.” Jack starts eating as well.

You reach out and grab his hand, squeezing it. “Thank you,” you say, earnestly, “I mean it. Thank you for making breakfast.”

Jack pushes a smile to the side, like he doesn’t want to take the compliment. “Anyway, let me know how it goes.”

“I will, as soon as I get the recipes…sorted out,” you trail off, staring blankly at the plate in front of you.

“You know what people like in the fall?” Jack nods, taking a bite. “Apple pie.” He smiles.

“Apple pie,” you mull it over. You should be annoyed that he tries to insert himself. But you find it oddly endearing. The way that he smiles at you, he’s earnestly trying to help. “Hey, maybe I can bring you something after. Since you want to be my taste-tester.” You nudge his knee with yours.

“I’ve gotta head to the hospital tonight,” he takes a sip of coffee. He looks over to you, considering. “Save me some, I’d still love to try.”

“Maybe I will,” you shrug, your mouth curved in a small smile.

After breakfast, Jack insists on helping clean up. It takes several firm words to finally kick him out of the kitchen. There’s always something keeping Jack in your orbit, like he can’t quite pull himself away. A hand on your waist, a lingering look, anything to keep him tethered to you somehow.

“Do you want to take a shower?” you nod back to the hallway.

“Nah, I’m gonna head home and get cleaned up,” he bends down to kiss your forehead.

“Okayyy,” you drag the word out. You lower the robe just below your shoulders, heading down the hall. “Then I guess I’ll just go by myself.”

“That’s not going to work on me again!” Jack calls after you. But sure enough, you hear him curse to himself, then the sound of his footsteps trailing after you down the hall.

In the bathroom, you’ve already discarded the robe. You’re brushing out the kinks in your hair when Jack saunters in. He comes up behind you, planting wet, open kisses up your neck, his hands on your hips.

“I do need to leave,” he mutters.

“You have to leave now?” you ask, feigning innocence. You press your back to his bare chest.

Jack groans. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll fuck you again. And then I’ll never leave. And who’s going to patch up the pretty chefs and their busted fingers if I’m not there?”

You spin around in his grip, threading your fingers through his curls, resting them on the back of his neck. “And you can tell those pretty chefs to get lost,” you smile and bring your lips to his, kissing him slowly.

Jack groans into your mouth. But his hands are still planted on your hips. Still lingering, still keeping you in his orbit.

“Ugh, okay,” you push against his chest. “Get out of here.”

“I will call you, okay?” Jack kisses you one last time, before backing away towards the bathroom door.

“I’ve heard that one before,” you roll your eyes. After a beat, Jack steps back in and plants an open palmed smack on her bare ass. You yelp, “Fuck off!”

When you come out of the shower, towel wrapped tightly around your chest, you look around the apartment, finding evidence of last night. Your discarded boots, the glasses from last night in the sink. And a bright note left on the refrigerator in shitty, doctor handwriting.

Thank you for dessert ;)

You roll your eyes, but leave the note pinned to the fridge.

The kitchen is calmer than usual. It’s day time, for one, and there’s only a few people on the line. You, Scottie, Wes, and one other cook. You had texted Wes a few days prior. Recipes titles, and pictures of the final products you spent all day working on. He replied, “cant wait 2 try” which was less enthusiastic than you were hoping. But nevertheless, it was an approval. So now you’re in the kitchen, prepping the recipes for the staff tasting.

The back of house goes first. This is the first time the menu is fully seen together. Everyone tastes it, gives notes, decides what’s working and what isn’t. Once the menu is finalized, the front of house gets a run through. You aren’t trained in savory, but you’ve worked in enough kitchens to know what tastes good. You’re honest.

Replace the roasted brussels sprouts with glazed carrots.

Add some heat to the pasta.

The squash soup should be garnished with pepitas.

You’re unapologetic, not holding back any opinions. But then it gets to dessert. You push the plates out onto the table, trying to put out that you are calmer than you really are.

“Alright, you’re up,” Scottie smirks.

You cast him daggers, and clear your throat. Everyone grabs forks and passes the first plate around.

“First, we have a Bourbon Chai Molded Crème Brûlée. Steeped with whole spices overnight. Topped with a vanilla bean sugar before torching,” you nod at the custard as everyone eats. They share nods, some double-dipping.

“I like it,” Wes smiles. “You think we can up the portion slightly? Looks squat on the plate.”

“Yeah, of course,” you nod, making the note on your recipe.

“Next is the Pumpkin Ganache Tart. Shortcrust pastry, eggless pumpkin custard, and a spiced pumpkin ganache piped on top.” This is your passion project. You hold your breath as everyone tries.

“Damn, this is good,” Scottie takes another fat bite.

“Thanks, Miller,” you nod.

“But the ganache needs more salt.” He adds after the fact.

“I’m pretty sure you just have POTS,” you shoot back without hesitation.

“No, he’s right,” Wes shakes his head. “Just a little. Amp it up.”

You bite your cheek. The last dish is the cake. The one Wes asked for. Also the one you can thank Jack for. His sweet comment turned into the inspiration you needed. It’s not the most impressive cake to ever exist, but it’s going to be a crowd-pleaser. At least, a Jack pleaser.

“Browned butter cake, filled with alternating layers of Dulce de Leche pastry cream and apple butter. The apple butter has one ingredient: apples. Slow roasted until all of the water is cooked out. Finished with a brown sugar swiss meringue buttercream. As promised, a 15 layer cake,” your eyes are plastered to the plate, even as people dig their forks into the slice.

No one says anything for a minute, they just…look at each other.

“For fucks sake someone say something,” you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Relax,” Wes grips your shoulder. “It’s great. You did good.”

You relax. Slightly. Hums and nods of agreement come from around the table. No notes. Shocking.

“You were right!” you nearly shriek on the phone. You’ve spent the last hour finalizing the menu with Wes and Scottie, costing out the recipes and placing ingredient orders.

“Of course I was,” Jack replies. “What was I right about this time?”

“Apple pie, Jack.”

“You made apple pie?”

“No- well. No, not exactly.” You balance the deli containers in your hand as you get into your car. “The cake I needed to make for the new menu. You said apple pie and I took that as inspiration. It passed.”

“That’s great news. I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

“Well, listen, I saved you some portions of, well, everything,” you look over at the containers sitting precariously on your passenger seat. Maybe you should buckle them in. “You want to meet up later for a hand off?”

Jack shuffles on the other end, “I’ve got like an an hour before I need to head in for my shift.”

“So that’s a no?” you say, almost disappointed.

“That’s not a no,” Jack says, leaving the end of his sentence hanging.

“Is that a challenge? Are you saying if I don’t see you in the next hour, I’ll have to wait, what, like 15 hours?”

“I’ll text you my address. Clock is ticking,” you can almost hear the smug grin on his face.

“And what if I’m busy? You don’t even know what I have going on today,” you counter.

“Well, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

Jack’s apartment isn’t far from the restaurant, and you rush through every stale yellow that’s definitely a red by the time you pass under it to shave a few minutes off. You text him when you park, and he buzzes you up.

“You know, the least you coulda done is met me downstairs. I had to carry all of these by myself,” you huff playfully when he answers the door, pushing by him with the stack of containers in both hands.

“Hello to you too,” Jack takes the containers and kisses your cheek. He seems to know that you’re just giving him a hard time.

When he leaves to take them to the kitchen, you have a moment to take it all in. Your eyes go straight up to the vaulted ceilings and massive windows. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

The living space is sparsely decorated, but not barren. Just minimalist, especially compared to the organized clutter of your apartment. You were kind of expecting typical man furniture, either a dusty couch that hasn’t been cleaned in 25 years or a weirdly modular set that the furniture store sold at a good deal. But it looks curated. Like he picked out every single thing with care. He actually lives here.

“It’s not much,” he says, coming back to your side.

“If this isn’t much,” you turn back to him, “I don’t want to know what you thought of my apartment.”

“Your place was perfect,” he smirks.

You two look at each other for a moment, both fighting stupid grins like teenagers. You take one step closer, setting your hands on his chest. “Hi,” you smile.

“Hi,” Jack leans in and kisses you, his hands finding your waist and back, pressing you closer.

It’s the first time you’ve seen each other- really seen each other- since he left your apartment after the botanical gardens. You talked almost every day, and face timed each other on occasion. But with you in the kitchen most days testing recipes, and Jack picking up extra shifts to help out, it was hard to make time to actually meet.

So the kiss quickly derails. Jack drops his mouth to your jaw, pressing wet kisses down your neck.

“Jack,” you breathe.

“I missed you,” he mutters into your neck.

“If I had known this would happen when you invited me over,” you bunch your hands up in his shirt, “I’d have baked for you days ago.”

Jack looks up at you then, a glint in his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I had no ulterior motives?”

You consider for a moment. “No.”

“Smart girl,” he leans in again, cupping your jaw. His hands are warm, and you two grab at each other in that feverish way you did all those nights ago. Only then, it was testing, understanding each other and figuring out how to move together. Now, it’s days of pent-up pining coming to a breaking point.

“We have less than an hour, this is what you want to do with your time?” you tease. But you back up, taking him with you, until your legs hit the couch.

“Plenty of time,” he nips at your lips, gently easing you down onto the couch. Jack is stretched out above you now, bracing himself with his forearm. You widen your legs, making room for him between them.

Jack reaches between you two and palms your cunt. He drops his head down to the crook of your neck. You gasp at the contact, dragging your hands up the length of his back, resting on the back of his neck. You gently tug at his curls, pulling his face to yours.

“You really want to pull a quickie?” you ask, smirking.

“You’re making me sound like a horny teenager,” he groans.

“I’m not opposed,” you shrug.

“Let me just make the trip over here worth your while.” Jack presses a kiss against your neck before peeling himself off of you. He pulls you by your legs to the end of the couch, situating himself between your thighs.

“Come on, up,” he taps your hip, motioning for you to lift.

You hold yourself up, and he slides your pants over your ass and down your legs, discarding them entirely. It’s a little clumsy, and you yelp, but soon you’re sitting in your panties, with a very eager Jack resting his cheek on your inner thigh.

“Jack, don’t you want me to take care of you before your shift?” You ask, but your voice is weak, already aching for him.

“Nope, this is it. This is what I want,” he grips your thighs, pressing his lips to your panties. “I want you to squirm and wriggle under me. And I want to make you come. It’ll be a great ego boost before my shift.”

“I’m not going to argue,” you moan as his kisses hover over your covered clit.

“Like I said,” Jack’s thumbs hook under the edge of your panties, “smart girl.”

He slides your panties down your knees, exposing your pussy to the open air. He folds your legs up, your knees pressed against your chest. After the first night, Jack is coming at this more confidently, clearly understanding you better. What you like, what makes you moan.

So when he slips two fingers inside your soaking cunt, he knows that the third will make you squeal. He also knows that if he curves them just so, he can pull a moan from you. He presses light kisses to your clit, savoring the taste of you.

“Oh fuck,” you whimper. You don’t know what to do with your hands. They rest on your knees for a moment, but end up tangled in Jack’s hair. You’re practically grinding on his face as his tongue laps you up. Soon, you lose the strength to hold yourself in that position, and your legs fall, trapping Jack’s head with your thick thighs.

“Come on, sweetness, let me hear you,” Jack mutters, his fingers picking up speed. He looks up at your face, frozen in a silent moan, eyes squeezed shut. “You like this?”

“Yes, shit, yes,” you moan. Your hips start bucking slightly against your will, body aching to be closer to him. “I do, I really do.”

Jack removes his fingers, much to your displeasure, and sends his tongue in, drinking up your juices. He pushes his wet fingers up your shirt, pressing against your bra. You take your shirt off to give him better access.

“I’m so close, fuck.” You reach for Jack’s hand on your chest and bring his fingers to your mouth, licking them clean. His eyebrows raise slightly, not in shock, but in interest.

“Good to know,” he mutters.

Jack brings a thumb down on your clit, and soon you’re right on the edge. “Right there, oh shit,” you press your hand behind his head, surely suffocating him, until you finally find release. A long whimper slips out, your breaths become erratic, and your body tenses, then falls slack.

“God, that was hot,” Jack comes up from between your thighs and presses a kiss to your lips. You slide your tongue over his, tasting yourself on him.

The next ten minutes are spent just on the couch, draped over each other as Jack rubs soothing circles on your back. You still haven’t put your clothes back on, and Jack is still completely dressed. Feels unbalanced. With a sigh, you check the time on your phone.

“There’s still time, Jack, I could blow you right now.” You’re joking, but mostly serious.

“I told you, I’m good,” he smiles down at you and presses a gentle kiss you your lips.

“Okay,” you sigh, fighting a smile. “I should probably go, though, and let you get out of here.”

You rise from the couch, Jack’s eyes glued to you as you collect your clothes and put them back on. Slowly. His mouth is twisted up in not quite a smirk but still clearly amused.

“Enjoying the show?” you ask, sliding your pants on.

Jack rises from the couch and grabs a handful of your ass. “Always,” he mutters in your ear before disappearing down the hall. He returns just a few minutes later, dressed in his hospital scrubs.

“My turn,” you bite your lip and make a show of looking him up and down.

“Alright, alright,” Jack grins. "You done objectifying me?"

"Never," you bite your lip and press your palms to his chest. “Don’t forget, I want honest feedback on the desserts, okay?”

“Scout’s honor. I’ll bring something with me to try on a break.”

“Were you a scout?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Yes, Jack Abbot,” you deadpan, “I think you were a boy scout. What I can’t decide is if you were the dweeby rule- follower or the corny overachiever.”

“Secret third option,” he smirks, “I didn’t want to be there, and kept disappearing in the woods on camping trips.”

“That checks out.” You file that information away, adding it to what little you know about Jack’s past. He talks a lot about the present. His current job, current patients, current dreams. But he doesn’t share much about where he came from, or what he’s been through.

Jack pulls you in by your waist and kisses you again, like he just can’t say goodbye to you.

“This is very domestic,” you pull yourself away and slip out the door. “Bye honey, have a good day at work.” With a wink, you’re gone, down the hall.

“Whose cake is this?” Shen sticks his head in the fridge, picking up the deli container with the slice of apple butter cake.

“Mine,” Jack says flatly. He offers no other explanation before walking out of the break room. Shen follows behind.

“I didn’t think you had a sweet tooth like that,” Shen crosses his arms.

“I contain multitudes,” Jack shrugs. “What do they say? Never let them know your next move?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the pastry chef, does it?” Ellis walks by, wiggling her eyebrows at Shen.

“The who?” Shen asks, suddenly intrigued.

“Is my personal life being broadcasted somewhere?” Jack’s eyes dart around, “Am I being Truman’ed?”

“Ah, question answered,” Ellis smirks.

“You two, go deal with the femoral fracture that just came in,” Jack shoos them away.

“Kay, so-” Ellis leans into Shen as they walk off.

You let out a breath, pulling the perfect quenelle and laying it on the plate. “I’m a little busy at the moment. Service,” you set the plate up on the pass before grabbing another.

“And I did tell him that. But he says he knows you and that you invited him here.” Trina says, the edges of her words lifting. “Very hot, intense eyes.”

This is what makes you finally stop. There’s only one person you invited to the restaurant at all recently. And it was a joke, almost. In the way that if he didn’t want to come, you wouldn’t take it personally. But you would really want him to come. And now he’s here.

You take stock of the tickets on the board, dwindling after a slight rush, and recalibrates. “Just, uhm, give me a minute. Tell him he’ll have to wait.”

Trina’s eyes widen. “Holy shit you do know him.”

“Trina, please,” you bristle.

Trina backs away, her eyes not leaving you reddening cheeks. “Oh, we are totally talking about this after.”

“Bye Trina.”

The young server bounces away, an extra swing in her ponytail after learning something that you didn’t want to share.

It takes a second, but you regain your composure. The heat coming up your neck is surely due to the heat of the kitchen. It takes just a few minutes for you to knock out the next few tickets before starting on the last one. The dish you will deliver yourself. You take stock of your prep, what you have left over and what you can put together. You barely know the man, and now your trying to put a dish together that you think he may possibly like. But after a deep breath, you're in it again. This is your world. And you're good at your job.

A slice of vanilla bean Basque Cheesecake, plated with cherry compote and crushed salted almond brittle. Simple, but elegant. Something he could dig his fork into.

“Taking fifteen,” you nod to the Garde-Manger chef. He’ll watch your station while you step away. You remove your spare towel and apron, smoothing down the flyaways that have surely formed. On your way out, you catch your reflection in the metal door. You wipe under your eyes, trying not to look totally exhausted, and step out into the dining room.

There are eyes on you immediately. Hard not to notice the whites, pristine and folded at your elbow, and sticking out in the dim lighting and lively chatter. You make your way to the bar, and it takes all of about three seconds to see him. Broad shoulders, cinnamon sugar curls. He’s chatting with the bartender, who is completely enamored in their discussion.

You slip the plate in front of him and take the stool next to him. “I hope you didn’t already order dessert. This seat taken?” you ask.

Jack Abbott’s eyes drop to the dessert in front of him, but quickly find your face. His eyes find yours immediately, and his smile softens, “All yours.” You can feel your ears redden. Thank God for the dim dining room lighting.

“Thank you, Louis,” you nod at the bartender, “I hope this gentleman didn’t take up too much of your time.”

“Nah,” Louis shakes his head, “this guy has some crazy stories.”

“I’m sure he does,” you reply, but your eyes don’t leave Jack’s.

You wait for Louis to step away, taking care of someone else down the bar. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” you lean back in the stool.

“I think I should be asking that,” Jack nods down at the plate. “What do I have here?”

You tell him about the dessert. “Not on the menu, by the way. Chef special.”

A smile pulls at the corner of Jack’s mouth. “I’m honored.”

“I’m surprised to see you here, what with you working nights and all.” you shrug.

“I do get days off, you know,” Jack raises an eyebrow. “And I’m not one to turn down an offer for a great meal.”

“Well, it is because of you that I can even still make any desserts,” you wiggle your fingers at Jack.

On your left hand are two scars that make a perfect line across your middle and ring fingers. A late night and an intense argument in the kitchen, because when are they ever not intense, and a careless mistake with your best knife landed you in the ER in the middle of service. It wasn’t deep enough to nick the bone, but enough for you to have to sit out of service for almost a week, saddled with limited prep, and your Executive chef still won’t let you live it down.

“How are you holding up?” Jack asks, reaching for you. “No lingering pain, I hope.”

You let him take your hand and turn it over in his, inspecting his handywork. His hands are warm and calloused, and his grip is gentle, as if the already healed scars will burst open again at any moment.

“No pain,” you muse, watching him, “thank you.” Jack releases his grip, much to your dismay. You prop your head up with your other hand.

You open your mouth to say something, but there’s a hand at your back before you can start. “Chef, I’m sorry to interrupt.” It’s Casey, a long-standing server. He nods at Jack and gives a strained smile. “There’s a really big table with a birthday, and no one in the kitchen will write on the desserts.”

You deflate a little, your head sagging in your hand. You groan. It took less than 5 minutes for your 15 minute break to be cut short for something that you know the guys in the back are capable of. Writing “Happy birthday” with melted chocolate in a squeeze bottle is not rocket science, they just don’t want to do it. So they sent Casey- sweet, kind Casey, who would never be on the receiving end of your ire- to fetch you.

“Okay, Case, I’ll be right there,” you nod and the server is gone as quickly as he appeared, muttering a small ‘thank you’ as he leaves.

“Duty calls?” Jack asks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you groan, sliding off the stool.

“No, don’t be,” Jack assures you. “You’re working. I have no doubt if you came to visit me during a shift at the hospital, it wouldn’t look much different.”

You chew on your bottom lip, contemplating. It’s not terribly late, and he did come all the way out to see you. “Tell you what,” you start, leaning against the bar, “service is going to end in like an hour. It’ll take me a little bit to clean up my station after that. If you want to wait, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. If you don’t want to, no harm. Leave your number with Louis and I’ll be sure to make it up to you.”

“Deal,” Jack smiles, and you notice a dimple on one of his cheeks. Your stomach flips. “Besides, I’ll be busy here for a minute, dessert’s just been served.” He pulls the plate closer to him.

“Right, I’ll make sure to get your feedback after.” you smirk. You flag down the bartender, “Louis! Make sure Dr. Abbot is taken care of over here, as long as he’d like. On me.”

“Heard,” Louis gives you a knowing grin, that you promptly ignore.

With one last look, you push away from the bar and head back into the kitchen. It wasn’t a particularly busy night, even for a Wednesday. You continue to push out the last few tickets, while half of them don’t even have dessert, motivated by just the possibility of ending the night with Jack.

Thirty minutes later, Trina comes bouncing back to your station, a grin plastered on her face. “The hottie at the bar would like to send his compliments on the dessert.”

Without looking up from your plate, you nod, “Thank you, Trina.”

“So, like, who is he?” Trina leans in.

“Thank you, Trina,” you say, firmer.

“Boo, you’re no fun.” Trina pouts and turns away.

But the compliment sends heat up your neck, and you fight back a smile, instead chewing on the inside of your cheek. You hope you don't have to explain yourself to the guys who definitely all heard that exchange.

It doesn’t take you long to clear the tickets, and you start cleaning your station immediately, cater-wrapping leftovers and storing sauces and garnishes. You wipe down the stainless steel surfaces, trying not to think about Jack, and if he stayed, which ultimately ends with you thinking about him anyway.

“Damn,” the Sous Chef stops by your station with a sanitation bucket, not caring how it sloshes everywhere, “you got some place to be?”

“Get lost, Miller,” you deadpan.

Scottie leans his hip on your station, crossing his arms. “I’m just wondering if your incredible speed and attention to detail tonight has anything to do with the guy waiting around at the bar for you.”

You try not to give anything away, but you stiffen, just slightly. Jack waited. He stayed at the bar for over an hour, just waiting for you.

Scottie notices. “Gentlemen!” He hollers to the rest of the kitchen, “We've got a hot date over here tonight!” The kitchen erupts in hoots and laughter, and completely inappropriate questions ranging from who is he to have you fucked yet.

You remove your spare towel and apron, throwing them in Scottie’s face. “Just because you are in a bout of involuntary celibacy, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”

Scottie tosses the linens on the floor. “Hey, if you’d bother to bring any of your lady friends around-”

“Sorry, my friends like to orgasm when they have sex,” you scrunch your nose and push passed him, and the rest of the kitchen lets out a string of ‘ooohs,’ laughing and shoving Scottie back to his station.

It’s jokes, mostly. You have grown accustomed to the inappropriate and invasive atmosphere of the kitchens you've worked in. There’s another woman on the crew, Rose, but your shifts hardly ever line up, with one of you on prep during the day and the other on service at night. So you try to blend in in the ways you can, and be better in every other way. Wittier, smarter, faster. Don’t give them a reason to think you're the weak link.

“I’m out,” you call, walking towards the locker room. “See you losers tomorrow!”

In the locker room, you hang up your whites, and slip a crewneck on over your tank top. It’s not sexy, but it beats the dingy, worn straps of the camisole. You slide off your bandana and try to tame the flyaways it produces.

There’s a fine line between looking like a complete slob, and looking like you're trying way too hard, and you aren't sure how to stay on it. After fiddling with your appearance for way too long, you grab your bag and push yourself out into the dining room.

Sure enough, Jack Abbot is still waiting for you. He’s scrolling through something on his phone when you approach. Louis is nowhere to be found, probably refilling syrups.

“You waited,” you smile, coming up next to him.

Jack’s gaze immediately snaps to you, and his shoulders drop, like he’d been nervous about something. “Hey, yeah,” he smiles. “I’m a night owl, obviously. Had I gone home, I probably wouldn’t have gone to sleep, anyway.”

“Well, this place is just about closed,” you nod to the lingering guests, the servers gathered around a table, rolling silverware for the next day. “Would you want to head to a bar and grab a drink?”

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Jack slides off the stool.

The cool breeze is a balm to your flushed cheeks and nervous energy. It’s late August, so the nights are finally becoming cooler in Pittsburgh. The two of you walk to a bar that’s less than a block away. Your arms bump together as they walk, but neither of you overcorrects to stop it from happening again.

It’s not a bar that you have been to often, but whenever you need a drink without the watchful eye of your own staff, you head here. The bartenders are to the point, not bothering you with stories and questions when you clearly just want to zone out, and you tip well, so it’s mutually beneficial. You and Jack slip into an empty booth, each with a cold beer.

“So, Dr. Abbot, if I may call you that-” you settle into the booth, dropping your bag on the worn vinyl.

“Jack, please,” he interrupts, with a grin on his face.

“Jack,” you roll his name around in your mouth. “Have you been a doctor long? And always in the ER?”

Jack takes a long sip of his beer before answering. “I’ve been an attending for about 20 years, give or take.”

“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows slightly, “20 years. Long time.”

“Alright, alright,” Jack laughs, raises his palms towards you in surrender, “get the age jokes out now.”

Even though you are doing the mental math to try to figure out his age, you shake your head. “No, not in like, an age way. I just can’t imagine having the same job for that long. I’ve never stayed anywhere longer than 3 or 4 years. I was starting to think I was cursed.”