katie

Morning came quietly.

Not peacefully, exactly.

Just quietly.

The apartment was still dark at the edges, the kind of early light that made everything look softer than it was. The kitchen lamp glowed warm over the counter. The coffee maker clicked and hissed behind you, filling the silence with the smell of something strong enough to make you feel almost human.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen wearing Jack’s shirt.

You had not planned that part. At least, not consciously. It had been hanging on the back of your closet door for six days, soft and wrinkled and unfairly full of him. He had left it behind after the almost-morning. The one where he had shown up after a shift that had already gone long, showered in your bathroom, kissed you in your kitchen until the breakfast went cold, and then gotten called back in before either of you could pretend you were not disappointed.

He had changed fast. Too fast.His undershirt had gone back on. His jacket had gone over it. His button-down had stayed behind.

You had found it that evening and told yourself you would give it back.

You had not.

Now it hung loose on your body, sleeves falling past your hands, collar slipping wide at your shoulder, the hem brushing high on your thighs while you leaned against the counter and watched coffee drip into the pot.

You should have felt ridiculous.

Instead, you missed him. That was worse.You had seen him yesterday for eight minutes.

Eight.

He had met you outside your building with coffee because he had gotten off shift late, and you had been on your way to work. He had looked exhausted, eyes shadowed, hair still a little damp from the shower at the hospital, but he had smiled when he saw you.

Not much. Enough. He had kissed you once beside your car, warm and brief and nowhere near enough. Then his phone had buzzed, because of course it had, and he had looked at the screen with an expression that told you before he even opened his mouth.

“They need me in early tonight,” Jack had said.

You had tried not to show your disappointment. “How early?”

His mouth had flattened. “Too early.”

So seeing him today was not happening. You knew that. He had gone in before sunset. He was probably fifteen hours deep by now, or close to it, running on hospital coffee and stubbornness. He would be tired. Busy. Needed.

You should not bother him. You poured coffee into your mug. You took one sip. You looked down at the white shirt hanging open at your throat. Then you looked toward your bedroom mirror.

“Oh, this is stupid,” you whispered.

You carried your coffee into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. The mirror caught you before you could climb back into bed. Bare legs. Bare shoulder. His white shirt, loose and rumpled from sleep. Your hair a mess because you had not done anything to it yet. The soft morning light cutting across the room.

It was not lingerie. It was not polished. It was not even particularly brave. It was just you, in his shirt, missing him before the day had properly started.

That was the problem.

You picked up your phone. Then you put it down. Then you picked it up again.

“This is cruel,” you told your reflection.

Your reflection, traitorous and wearing Jack’s shirt, did not disagree. You opened the camera anyway. The first photo was too blurry. The second made you look terrified. The third was worse because it was actually good.

Your phone hid most of your face. One shoulder was bare where the collar had slipped down. The sleeves fell over your hands. The hem of the shirt brushed high on your thighs, and the bed behind you was still rumpled from sleep.

It looked soft. It looked intimate. It looked like you had woken up thinking about him.

Because you had.

You stared at the photo for so long that the screen dimmed. Then you opened his contact before you could lose your nerve.

You: I found something of yours.

You attached the photo. Your thumb hovered over send.

For one more second, you tried to be reasonable. Jack had just worked fifteen hours. Jack was tired. Jack was probably barely home, or on his way there, or finally somewhere quiet after being needed by everyone except you.

You should not. 

You sent it.

Then you threw your phone onto the bed like distance might save you from the consequences. It did not. For three seconds, you stood there in the quiet of your bedroom, heart beating too hard, Jack’s shirt hanging loose on your body, the morning light soft around your ankles.

Nothing happened. No bubbles. No immediate reply.

You should have felt relieved. Instead, you stared at the phone.

“Great,” you whispered. “Very normal.”

The phone stayed silent.

You climbed back into bed because apparently if you were going to make questionable choices before eight in the morning, you were going to do it comfortably. You leaned against the headboard, pulled your coffee into your hands, and tucked one bare knee beneath the hem of Jack’s shirt.

Still nothing.

You took a sip of coffee. Checked your phone. Still nothing. You set it beside your thigh. Then picked it up again. Still nothing. You were seconds away from throwing it under a pillow when, across town, Jack walked into his house with the kind of exhaustion that made even the lock feel personal.

His keys landed in the bowl by the door. His bag hit the floor a second later. He did not bother turning on the overhead light. Morning had already started to creep through the windows, pale and thin, catching on the edge of the kitchen counter, the pair of shoes he had left by the door, the jacket he shrugged off with one hand because his shoulders ached too much to make the motion graceful.

Fifteen hours.

It was supposed to have been twelve.

Then a nurse called out. Then trauma backed up the department. Then one of the night attendings got pulled into a transfer mess. Then Jack had stayed because staying was what he did when people needed help, and no one else was available to give it.

Now the house was quiet.

Too quiet. No monitors. No overhead pages. No Robby’s voice somewhere down the hall telling a resident not to do something stupid.

No you.

Jack stood in the kitchen for a second, one hand braced on the counter, eyes closed. He should shower. He should sleep. He should probably eat something other than vending-machine pretzels and coffee pretending to be a meal. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jack did not move at first. Then it buzzed again. He pulled it out, already half-prepared to see the hospital calling him back. Instead, your name lit up the screen.

Trouble.

His chest did the thing. The stupid thing. The thing he was too tired to pretend away. Jack leaned back against the counter and opened the message.

You: I found something of yours.

Below it was a photo.

Jack went still. Completely still. 

You were in bed wearing his white button-down. Only his white button-down. The shirt hung loose on your body, rumpled from sleep, the sleeves falling past your hands. One shoulder was bare where the collar had slipped down. Your phone hid most of your face, but he could see enough. The curve of your neck. The line of your thigh below the hem. The rumpled sheets around you.

It was not explicit. That made it worse. It looked like morning. It looked like missing him. It looked like you had woken up wrapped in something that belonged to him, climbed back into bed with coffee, and decided he needed to know.

Jack’s grip tightened around the phone. His house was silent around him. He was exhausted. Still half in the hospital in his own head. Body heavy, eyes burning, muscles sore from too many hours on his feet.

And suddenly he was wide awake.

Jack stared at the photo for another second longer than he should have. Then another. His thumb hovered over the screen. There were several things he could say. Most of them were not appropriate before eight in the morning. Most of them were also not helpful, because he was standing in his kitchen after fifteen hours at work with no sleep, no food, and absolutely no ability to get in his truck without making a bad decision.

He typed one word.

Jack: Trouble.

Your screen lit up in your hand. Your stomach dropped. You stared at the message for a second before you answered.

You: What?

At his house, Jack looked at the photo again. A mistake. His jaw tightened.

Jack: Are you alone?

Your reply came back fast.

You: Yes.

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose.

His eyes moved over the photo again. His shirt. Your bare shoulder. The rumpled sheets around you.

Jack: In bed?

You looked down at yourself, leaned against the headboard with your coffee in one hand and his shirt slipping low on your shoulder.

Heat climbed your neck.

You: Yes.

A longer pause.

Then:

Jack: Wearing my shirt in bed.

Your stomach dipped. You set your coffee carefully on the nightstand before you spilled it all over yourself.

You: That seems to be the situation.

Jack: Trouble.

You could hear it. The warning. The restraint. The way his voice would have dropped if he were standing in your bedroom instead of across town, freshly home from a fifteen-hour shift and still somehow able to make one word feel like a hand at the back of your neck.

You: What?

Jack: You know what.

You stared at the screen, pulse beating too fast. Then, because you apparently had no survival instinct at all, you typed back.

You: That’s all?

Across town, Jack stared at the message. His mouth curved faintly. He should not encourage you. He knew that. He was tired enough that his self-control felt thinner than usual, and you were in his shirt, in bed, asking if that was all, like you did not know exactly what you had done. Jack typed.

Jack: No.

You stared at the word until your face went hot. No. That was all. One word, and somehow it felt like his hand at your knee. You swallowed and shifted against the pillows, the collar of his shirt slipping a little lower on your shoulder.

You: You’re home?

Across town, Jack glanced around his quiet house, at the jacket he had dropped over a chair, the bag by the door, the untouched kitchen, the morning light cutting pale across the floor.

Jack: Just got in.

Your chest tightened.

You: You worked a long time.

Jack: Fifteen hours.

You looked down at the shirt again.

The tease in your chest softened into something that ached.

You: You should sleep.

Jack looked at the photo again.

Jack: I was going to.

The dots appeared on your screen. Disappeared. Appeared again. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

You: Sorry.

Across town, Jack’s expression shifted. That was the part he heard differently. Not teasing now. Not entirely. His thumb moved over the edge of the phone.

Jack: Don’t apologize.

You stared at the message.

You: I shouldn’t bother you when you’re exhausted.

Jack stared at the words for a second, something low and tender settling beneath the heat.

He typed carefully.

Jack: You’re not bothering me.

Then, because it was true and because he was too tired to lie well, he added:

Jack: I miss you.

You stared at the words until your chest tightened.

I missed you.

That was worse than anything filthy he could have said. Worse because you could hear it in his voice, quiet and rough with exhaustion. Worse because you knew Jack did not give words like that away unless he meant them. Worse because suddenly the shirt did not feel like a tease anymore.

It felt like a confession you had put on without meaning to.

You sat there against the headboard, coffee forgotten on the nightstand, the hem of his shirt riding higher on your thighs.

You: I miss you too.

The reply came back after a few seconds.

Jack: I know.

Your mouth parted. Then another message appeared.

Jack: That’s why you’re wearing my shirt.

You stared at his last message until your face went hot. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. He was right. Of course he was right. You could have pretended it was laundry convenience, or comfort, or the simple fact that his shirt was soft and oversized and still smelled faintly like him if you pressed your face into the collar like someone with absolutely no dignity.

But Jack would not believe any of that. Jack knew exactly what it meant. That was why your chest felt too tight. You looked down at yourself, at the white fabric hanging loose on your body, one sleeve slipping over your hand, the hem brushing your thighs.

You missed him. You wanted him. You wanted him to know. Unfortunately, being known by Jack Abbot had a terrible habit of making you want to be difficult.

You: Maybe I just like the shirt.

His reply came fast.

Jack: No.

You bit your lip.

You: No?

Jack: You like that it’s mine.

Your stomach flipped. You looked at the message for one second. Then two. Then you set your phone facedown on the blanket and let your head fall back against the headboard.

“God,” you whispered.

Your coffee sat cooling on the nightstand. Morning light moved across your comforter, soft and pale and completely innocent, which felt rude considering what was happening to your pulse. Your phone buzzed again. You picked it up.

Jack: Trouble.

You swallowed.

You: What?

Jack: Don’t start something you don’t want me to finish.

Heat went through you so fast you had to press your thighs together. You stared at the message. Then you looked down at his shirt. The collar had slipped lower on your shoulder. The first few buttons were undone because you had slept in it and tossed too much and missed him too badly. Your necklace rested against your skin, catching the morning light every time you breathed.

You thought about Jack standing in his quiet house across town. Exhausted. Fresh off fifteen hours. Still answering you. Still seeing you. Still somehow making one text feel like his mouth close to your ear.

You: Who says I don’t want you to finish it?

You sent the message before you could lose your nerve. Then, before he could answer, you opened the camera again. Not the mirror this time. Closer. Your face was mostly out of frame. The collar of his shirt slipped low enough to bare one shoulder. The white fabric fell open around the line of your throat and the soft gold of your necklace. One hand held the shirt in place just below your chest.

Not showing too much. Not enough. Just enough to make him think about what was under it. You looked at the photo and nearly lost your nerve. Then you attached it. And sent it.

Across town, Jack’s phone lit up in his hand. He opened the message. For a second, he did not move. The first photo had been bad enough. This was worse. This was closer. Softer. Meaner. His shirt hung open at your throat, the collar slipped off one shoulder, the fabric rumpled from sleep and your hands and whatever restless little impulse had made you send it to him before eight in the morning. He could see the curve of your neck. The bare slope of your shoulder. The necklace resting against your skin.

Not enough. Too much.

His jaw tightened. Jack stood in his kitchen, exhausted down to the bone, one hand braced against the counter and the other wrapped around his phone like it had personally attacked him. He should shower. He should sleep. He should make coffee, or drink water, or do literally anything other than stare at a picture of you wearing his shirt and looking like something he wanted to ruin and take care of in the same breath. His thumb moved before he let himself think too hard.

Jack: Answer the phone.

Then he called. 

Your screen lit up. Forearms. Your heart slammed hard against your ribs. You stared at it for one ring. Then two. Then you answered.

“Hi,” you said.

There was silence on the other end. Not empty silence. Jack silence. The kind that had weight. You pressed the phone closer to your ear, suddenly very aware of the shirt slipping down your shoulder, the heat in your face, the soft sound of your own breathing.

Jack’s voice came through low and rough. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them. You swallowed. “I thought you might miss me.”

Jack exhaled once. Slow. Controlled. Not enough.

“I do miss you,” Jack said. “That is not the problem.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. You leaned back against the headboard, heart beating too hard, his shirt still open at your shoulder. “Then what is the problem?”

Jack was quiet for a second. You could hear him breathing.

“The problem,” Jack said, voice low and rough, “is that I’m standing in my kitchen after fifteen hours at work, and you’re in my shirt, in your bed, asking me if that’s all.”

Your stomach dipped. You looked down at yourself like you needed proof. His shirt. Your bare thigh. The coffee forgotten on the nightstand. The soft morning light.

You swallowed. “Maybe I was just being nice.”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “No.”

Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “No?”

“No,” Jack said. “You were being trouble.”

The word went through you like a touch. You shifted against the pillows, the fabric of his shirt rustling against the sheets. Jack went quiet. Your breath caught.

His voice lowered. “Still in bed?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“In my shirt,” Jack said.

“Yes,” you answered.

“Coffee put down?” Jack asked.

You glanced at the nightstand. “Yes.”

“Good,” Jack said.

Your stomach flipped. “Why is that good?”

“Because I don’t want you spilling it,” Jack said.

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Put me on speaker.”

Heat rolled through you.

“Jack,” you said.

“Put me on speaker,” Jack repeated.

Your thumb hovered near the screen. “Why?”

Jack’s voice dropped. “So you can use both hands.”

Your entire body went hot. You stared at the wall across from your bed for one useless second, like it might tell you how to survive him. It did not.

“You are very bossy for someone who isn’t here,” you said.

Jack’s voice roughened. “I know.”

You set the phone on speaker and placed it on the pillow beside you. “There.”

“Good girl,” Jack said.

The praise hit low in your stomach. You closed your eyes for half a second, and your breathing changed before you could hide it.

Jack heard that.

His voice softened, just enough. “Still want this?”

Your throat tightened. You looked at the phone on your pillow. Then down at his shirt, at the fabric rumpled against your skin, at the bare line of your thigh beneath the hem.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack was quiet for a beat. Then he said, “Say it clearly.”

Your pulse jumped. You knew what he was doing. He could not see your face. He could not read your body the way he did when he was in the room with you. So he was making you give him the only thing he had. Words.

You swallowed. “I want this.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “Good.”

You shifted against the pillow, suddenly aware of every small sound you made. The sheets beneath your thigh. The soft pull of his shirt against your skin. Your own breathing, already less steady than you wanted it to be.

Jack’s voice came through the speaker, low and close despite the miles between you. “Tell me where your hands are.”

Your fingers curled against the hem of his shirt. “On your shirt.”

“My shirt,” Jack repeated.

Your stomach tightened.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Where?” Jack asked.

You looked down, heat climbing your neck. “The hem.”

“Move them,” Jack said.

Your fingers loosened.

“Where?” you asked, because apparently you had decided to make your own life worse.

Jack was quiet for half a second. Then his voice dropped. “Collar.”

Your breath caught.

“Trouble,” Jack said.

“I’m doing it,” you said quickly.

You slid your hand up the front of the shirt, over the rumpled buttons, to the loose collar at your shoulder.

“Tell me,” Jack said.

Your eyes closed. You hated him a little for this. You loved it more.

“My hand is on the collar,” you said.

“Good,” Jack said. “Pull it down.”

Your fingers tightened in the fabric. You pulled. The cotton slipped lower over your shoulder, baring more skin to the cool morning air. Your breath left you too quickly. Jack went still on the other end.

Then he said, “That was a yes sound.”

Your face burned. “You’re impossible.”

“No,” Jack said. “I’m listening.”

God. That was worse. You pressed your head back against the pillow and tried to breathe like a normal person.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “One more button.”

Your hand froze.

“Only if you want to,” Jack added.

That sentence made your chest ache. It made the heat worse. You opened your eyes and looked down at yourself. His shirt already loose around your body, your shoulder bare, the first few buttons undone from sleep and restlessness and missing him. Your fingers moved to the next button. You undid it slowly. The shirt loosened. You swallowed hard.

Jack’s voice roughened. “Tell me.”

You looked at the phone like it had betrayed you. “You know.”

“I know what I told you to do,” Jack said. “I want to hear you say it.”

Your thighs pressed together. “Jack,” you breathed.

“Words,” Jack said.

Your fingers curled in the open fabric. “I unbuttoned it.”

“How much?” Jack asked.

You stared at the ceiling. This man was going to kill you.

“Enough,” you said.

His quiet laugh was almost silent. Almost.

“Not an answer,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes. “Enough that it’s open.”

Jack’s breathing changed. Barely. But there.

Your mouth curved, even through the heat crawling up your neck. “That got you.”

His voice came back lower. “Careful.”

“With what?” you asked.

“With how much you like knowing what you do to me,” Jack said.

Your smile fell apart. Because he was right. Because you did like it. Because he sounded tired and rough and restrained, and somehow that made it worse. He was not even in the room, and he was still everywhere.

You whispered, “I wish you were here.”

The line went quiet. For a second, you thought maybe you had said too much.

Then Jack’s voice came through, softer than before. “I know.”

Your throat tightened.

He exhaled slowly. “Me too.”

The ache of that settled beneath everything else, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. Then Jack’s voice dropped again.

“But I’m not there,” Jack said. “So you’re going to listen to me.”

Your fingers tightened in the open fabric of his shirt. The words went through you slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic. Worse. Deliberate. You looked at the phone on the pillow beside you, his name bright on the screen, his voice filling your bedroom like he had found a way to stand in it without being there.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” you said.

Jack answered, low and immediate, “I am.”

Your stomach flipped. Of course he was. Of course Jack Abbot could stand in his kitchen after fifteen hours at work, exhausted and probably still half-undressed from taking off his jacket, and sound like he had all the time in the world to ruin you from across town. You shifted against the pillows, the sheets rustling beneath you.

Jack heard it. His voice dropped. “Still in bed?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Stay there.”

Your brows pulled together even as heat climbed your neck. “Where am I going to go?”

Jack asked, “Knowing you?”

You pressed your lips together. He let the silence sit for half a second.

Then Jack said, “Somewhere difficult.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, breathless and soft.

Jack’s voice warmed faintly. “There you are.”

The tenderness of it caught you wrong. Not bad. Just sudden. You looked down at his shirt, at the open buttons, at your bare shoulder, at the way your fingers were still curled in the fabric like holding onto him in any form might help. It did not help. It made it worse.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His voice changed immediately. “Yeah?”

You stared at the ceiling. “I really do miss you.”

The line went quiet. This time, it did not feel like heat. It felt like an ache.

Then Jack exhaled, slow and quiet. “I know.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice softened. “I miss you too.”

Your chest tightened, and for one second, the whole thing shifted beneath your hands. The shirt. The photos. The call. The teasing. All of it was suddenly less clever than it had been a minute ago. Less like a game. More like truth.

You swallowed. “This is kind of pathetic.”

“No,” Jack said.

You opened your eyes.

His voice stayed firm. “It’s not.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You haven’t even slept.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“You should sleep,” you said.

“I will,” Jack said.

“You keep saying that,” you said.

Jack’s mouth must have curved because you heard it in his voice. “You keep distracting me.”

Your stomach dipped again. There it was. The heat slid back in, slow and sure.

You let your head rest against the headboard. “I sent a picture.”

Jack said, “You sent two.”

You smiled despite yourself. “The second one was a response.”

Jack’s voice lowered. “It was.”

“You didn’t say anything after that,” you said.

“No,” Jack said, voice rough. “Because I needed to hear you.”

Your hand stilled completely and your breath slowed. Jack noticed immediately.

“Don’t stop,” he said.

A sound left you before you could catch it. Jack heard. He went quiet for half a second.

Then he said, “There.”

Your face burned. “What?”

“That sound,” Jack said. “I want that one again.”

Your hand curled against his shirt. “You are impossible.”

“No,” Jack said. “I’m listening.”

God. That was worse. You pressed your head back against the pillow and tried to breathe like a normal person.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Tell me where your hands are now.”

You looked down. One hand was still gripping the open edge of his shirt. The other was curled loosely against the sheet beside your thigh.

“One is on your shirt,” you said.

Jack asked, “And the other?”

You swallowed. “On the bed.”

“Move it,” Jack said.

Your fingers flexed against the sheet. “Where?”

There was a pause. You could hear him breathe once.

Then Jack said, “Your thigh.”

Your breath caught. You slid your hand slowly over the sheet and onto your bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt. The touch was yours. It did not feel like yours. Not with his voice in the room.

Jack said, “Tell me when you’re there.”

“I’m there,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said. “Higher.”

Heat rolled through you.

“Jack,” you said.

Jack answered immediately. “Only if you want to.”

Your chest ached at the quickness of it. The steadiness. The room he gave you, even while sounding like that.

You looked at the phone on the pillow. “I want to.”

“Then higher,” Jack said.

Your hand moved. Slowly. Over your thigh, beneath the white hem of his shirt, until your fingers rested higher than before, close enough to make your breath catch and not close enough to give you what you wanted. Jack heard that breath.

His voice roughened. “There?”

“Almost,” you said.

The word came out before you could stop it. Jack went very still. You could feel it somehow, even through the phone.

“Almost,” Jack repeated.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“That’s it,” Jack said softly.

Your whole body went hot. You turned your face into the pillow for half a second, muffling a sound that should have embarrassed you more than it did.

Jack’s voice sharpened slightly. “Don’t hide.”

You lifted your head, face burning. “You can’t even see me.”

“I can hear you,” Jack said.

You stared at the phone.

Jack’s voice lowered again. “And I want to.”

Your mouth parted. The honesty in that did something terrible to you. Your fingers flexed against your thigh.

Jack asked, “Still want me to tell you what to do?”

Your answer came fast. “Yes.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to touch.

Then Jack said, “Open your legs.”

Your breath left you in a rush. You looked toward your bedroom door even though it was closed, even though you were alone, even though the whole apartment was quiet around you.

“Trouble,” Jack said.

“I’m doing it,” you said, voice barely steady.

You shifted against the pillows, knees parting beneath the sheet, his shirt falling open a little more with the movement. The fabric rustled. Jack was silent for one beat.

Then he said, “Good girl.”

Your eyes closed. The praise hit exactly where he meant it to. Your hand tightened against your thigh.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “Touch yourself over your underwear.”

Your face burned. “Jack.”

He asked, “Do you want to?”

You nodded before remembering he could not see you.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Then do it,” Jack said.

Your fingers moved. Slowly at first. Careful, like you were waiting for the room to stop you. Like there was anyone there but you, his voice, and the morning light spilling over your bed.

The first touch made your breath catch. Jack heard it.

“Yeah,” he said, rougher now. “There you go.”

Your hips shifted before you could stop them. The sound that left you was small. Not even a moan. Barely more than a breath. But Jack caught it anyway.

His voice changed. “That’s it.”

Your fingers pressed harder. Your head fell back against the headboard. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of your breathing and his through the speaker, the rustle of sheets, the faint hum of the apartment around you.

Then Jack asked, “Does it feel good?”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Yes.”

Jack asked, “How good?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You are impossible.”

Jack repeated, voice lower, “How good?”

You swallowed hard, fingers moving because stopping suddenly felt like punishment.

“Really good,” you whispered.

Jack’s exhale came through rough. “Good.”

Your breath stuttered. That one word. Always that one word. He knew exactly what it did to you now. Worse, he liked knowing.

“Jack,” you breathed.

“I’m here,” Jack said.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because he was not. Not really. He was across town in his quiet house after fifteen hours on his feet, and you were in your bed wearing his shirt, touching yourself because his voice told you to.But he sounded close. He sounded steady. He sounded like he meant it.

Your chest tightened. “I wish you were.”

The line went quiet again. Then Jack said, softer, “Me too.”

You opened your eyes and stared at the ceiling. The ache came back under the heat, threaded through it now, inseparable. Your hand stilled. The room went quiet except for your breathing.

Jack noticed immediately. “Hey.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”

“Don’t think,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes.

His voice gentled, but the command stayed underneath it. “Not right now.”

You swallowed.

Jack said, “Listen to me.”

Your fingers moved again. Slowly. Your breath caught again.

“Good,” he said. “Just like that.”

Your breath shook.

Jack’s voice dropped lower. “Now tell me what you’d want if I were there.”

Your entire body went still.

“Jack,” you said.

Jack said, “Tell me.”

You stared at the phone as if it might save you. It did not.

Your voice came out small. “I’d want your hands.”

Jack’s breathing changed.

“Where?” he asked.

Your fingers pressed down, and your hips shifted before you could answer.

“Everywhere,” you said.

Jack’s rough laugh was quiet and wrecked. “That’s not specific.”

“You asked what I wanted,” you said, breathless.

“I did,” Jack said. “And now I’m asking where.”

Your face went hot.

You looked down at his shirt open over your body, at your hand between your legs, at the bare shoulder where his collar had slipped lower.

“My thighs,” you whispered.

“Good,” Jack said. “Where else?”

“My waist,” you said.

Jack asked, “Where else?”

Your breath caught.

The room felt too warm now. Your skin felt too sensitive. His shirt felt like too much and not enough.

“My neck,” you admitted.

Jack went quiet. Then he said your name. Not Trouble. Your name. The sound of it almost undid you.

You closed your eyes. “Jack.”

“I know,” he said.

His voice was rougher now. Less controlled around the edges. You heard it. You wanted more of it.

Jack asked, “What else?”

You swallowed. “Jack.”

He waited. Your fingers slowed, not because you wanted to stop, but because the answer had lodged itself behind your ribs and refused to come out easily.

Jack’s voice softened. “Tell me.”

Your face went hot. “Your mouth.”

The line went silent. Your heart slammed once, hard.

Then Jack’s voice came through lower than before. “Where?”

Your breath caught. “You know where.”

“No,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes. “Jack.”

“I want you to say it,” Jack said.

Your fingers curled against yourself over your underwear.

The memory hit you so hard you nearly made a sound. The first time. The bed. The headboard under your hands. The way you had thought he wanted you in his lap until his hand caught your thigh and his voice stopped you cold. Not there. Up here.

Your breath went uneven.

Jack had looked up at you like he knew exactly what he was asking for and exactly what it would do to you. Calm. Certain. A little smug. Patient in the most unfair way. You remembered the way your knees had sunk into the mattress on either side of his head. The way his hands had settled warm and steady on your thighs. The way you had hovered because you were worried about making it harder for him, because some anxious part of you had tried to make yourself smaller even then. Then listen to me.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. You could still hear him.

If I need something different, I’ll tell you.

His voice had been rough then. Firm. Devastating. 

Right now, I need you closer.

Your breath caught hard enough that Jack heard it through the phone.

His voice changed. “You’re thinking about it.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Yes.”

Jack went quiet for one beat. Then his voice came back rougher. “The first time?”

Your whole body went hot.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack exhaled slowly. “When I told you not to hover?”

A sound slipped out of you before you could stop it. Jack caught it immediately.

“There,” he said.

Your face burned.

His voice dropped. “That’s what you want?”

Your fingers pressed down, still not enough, nowhere near enough. “Yes.”

Jack said, “Say it.”

You swallowed, pulse beating everywhere. “I want your mouth on me.”

Jack’s exhale came through the speaker, low and wrecked.

You pressed your free hand over your face. “God.”

Jack’s voice sharpened softly. “Don’t hide from me.”

You lowered your hand with a shaky breath. 

Jack said, “Again.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “I want your mouth on me.”

Jack asked, “Like when?”

Your whole body went hot. You knew what he was doing. You knew exactly what he was making you remember.

Your voice trembled. “Like the first time.”

Jack was quiet for one brutal second. Then he said, “I remember.”

Your hips shifted before you could stop them.

Jack’s voice roughened. “I remember your hands on the headboard.”

Your fingers clenched in the shirt.

He continued, lower, “I remember you trying to stay above me.”

Your breath broke.

Jack said, “I remember telling you I needed you closer.”

“Jack,” you breathed.

His voice was rough now. “And I remember how you sounded when you finally listened.”

Your hand moved before you could think. Faster. Harder. The memory did what his voice had already started. It put you back there for half a second, knees in the mattress, fingers locked around the headboard, his hands firm on your thighs, his mouth beneath you like he had never been more certain about anything in his life.

Your breath broke.

Jack heard it. His voice sharpened. “Slow down.”

You tried. You really did. But your body wanted more, and your hand wanted to chase it, and Jack was not there to put his hand over yours and make you behave.

A shaky laugh slipped out of you. “You’re not here to stop me.”

“No,” Jack said. “But you’re going to listen.”

Your stomach clenched. You slowed your hand. Barely, but enough. Jack heard the difference in your breathing.

“That’s it,” he said.

Your eyes closed. 

His voice stayed low, controlled, and rough around the edges. “Move your underwear to the side.”

Your whole body tightened.

“Jack,” you said, weaker this time.

His voice softened instantly. “Do you want to?”

Your answer came barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

“Then do it,” Jack said.

Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt. You did what he told you. The first touch of your bare fingers against yourself pulled a sound out of you before you could stop it.

Jack went quiet. Then his voice came through, rough and pleased. “There.”

Your head fell back against the pillow. Your body felt too warm, too sensitive, too aware of every inch of fabric and skin and absence.

Jack said, “Slow.”

You drew in a shaky breath and tried to listen. Your fingers moved the way he told you. Slow. Then a little firmer when he said, “There.”

Softer when he told you not to rush. Enough to keep you right on the edge of wanting more, not enough to let you have it yet. Jack was quiet for a few seconds except for his breathing. You could hear it now. Lower. Less even. You wanted to know what he was doing with his hands. You wanted it so badly it made you brave.

“Jack,” you said.

He answered immediately. “Yeah?”

You swallowed. “Are you touching yourself?”

The silence after that was brutal. Then Jack exhaled.

“Yes,” he said.

Your whole body tightened. The answer should not have hit you so hard. It did. You pictured his hand, his jaw tight, his head tipped back maybe, his phone close enough to catch every breath you gave him. Your hand moved again, more desperate now. Jack heard the change immediately.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “That did it?”

You covered your face with your free hand. “Don’t.”

Jack asked, “Don’t what?”

“Sound so pleased with yourself,” you said.

His breath shifted, almost a laugh. “I am pleased with myself.”

“You’re terrible,” you said.

“And you’re still listening,” Jack said.

You had no answer for that.

Because you were. Because he was everywhere, even through the phone. Because his shirt was open on your body, and his voice was in your ear, and his hand was on himself because of you.

“Jack,” you breathed.

His voice softened instantly. “You close?”

Your fingers faltered. Then moved again.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack asked, “How close?”

Your breath caught. “Close.”

“Good,” Jack said.

The word drew a soft sound from you.

Jack’s voice roughened. “I want to hear you.”

Your stomach clenched.

You shook your head against the pillow even though he could not see. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Jack said.

Your hand moved faster.

The pleasure built slowly, then all at once, pulling tight under your skin. Jack kept talking. Low. Steady. Rougher now.

“Keep going,” he said. “Don’t hold back from me.”

Your breath broke.

“Jack,” you said, barely a warning.

“I’m here,” Jack said.

And that did it.

Not because he was. Because he wanted to be. Because you could hear how badly he wanted to be. Because he was tired and far away and still somehow holding you steady with nothing but his voice. Your body tightened, pleasure breaking through you in a wave that made your head fall back against the pillow as you came.

You tried to stay quiet.

You failed.

Jack said your name, rough and low, and the sound of it carried you through the rest. For a few seconds, you could not speak. You could barely breathe. Your hand stilled. His shirt was twisted in your fingers. Your knees were loose beneath the sheet. Your coffee was cold on the nightstand. The phone sat beside your pillow, still glowing with his name.

Jack’s breathing was uneven on the other end. Not much. Enough.

You turned your face toward the phone, eyes still closed. “Jack?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice wrecked.

You swallowed. “Did you—”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

Your eyes opened. Heat flickered through you again, softer but immediate.

Jack exhaled roughly. “I wanted to hear you first.”

Your chest went tight. That was so him it almost hurt. You stared at the phone. Then your mouth curved, tired and dazed and a little wicked despite the way your legs still felt useless.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His voice was careful. “Yeah?”

You rolled onto your side, pulling his shirt closer around you. “Do you want me to help?”

The line went quiet. Not empty. Not uncertain. Just quiet in the way Jack got when something landed exactly where you meant it to. His breathing came through the speaker, rougher than before.

Then Jack said, “You already are.”

Your stomach flipped. You curled your fingers tighter in his shirt, still too warm, still sensitive, still soft all over from the way he had talked you through it. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jack’s voice came back lower. “I know.”

You smiled against the pillow, exhausted and pleased and still not nearly as innocent as you should have felt. “Then answer the question.”

Jack exhaled. “Trouble.”

“You made me use words,” you said, your voice still a little unsteady. “Seems fair.”

His quiet laugh was barely there. Barely. But you heard it.

“You want fair?” Jack asked.

You rolled onto your back again, looking up at the ceiling, his shirt twisted around your body. “Not especially.”

“No,” Jack said. “You don’t.”

Your thighs pressed together at the sound of his voice, even though your body was still loose and heavy and too sensitive. Jack’s breathing shifted.

Your mouth curved. “Are you still touching yourself?”

He was quiet for one second. Then Jack said, “Yes.”

Heat moved through you again. Softer this time. Deeper.

You turned your face toward the phone. “Good.”

Jack’s breath caught. It was small. Almost nothing. But you heard it. For a second, you just listened to him breathe. 

He sounded tired now. Not less turned on. Not less focused. Just tired underneath it, the exhaustion of fifteen hours catching up to him around the edges. The image of him in his bedroom across town hit you again, alone in the quiet house, still wearing whatever he had come home in, too wound up to sleep because of you.

Because you had missed him. Because he had missed you too.

Your voice softened. “Jack.”

His answer was immediate. “Yeah?”

Your hand drifted over your stomach, over the loose cotton of his shirt. “Tell me where your hand is.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “You know where my hand is.”

You smiled faintly. “No.”

His silence changed. You could feel him recognizing his own words thrown back at him.

Your voice softened. “I want you to say it.”

Jack’s breathing went uneven. For a second, you thought he might refuse. Then he said your name, low and warning.

You closed your eyes. “Tell me.”

The pause that followed was brutal.

When Jack spoke again, his voice was rough enough to make your toes curl against the sheets. “My hand is on my cock.”

Your breath left you. There it was. The thing you wanted. The thing he had made you earn.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “Good.”

Jack made a sound under his breath. Not a moan. Not quite. Enough.

Your eyes opened. “There.”

He went still.

You smiled, slow and helpless. “That sound. I want that one again.”

Jack’s laugh came out wrecked and disbelieving. “You’re trouble.”

“You knew that,” you said.

“I did,” Jack said.

You shifted against the pillows, listening to him breathe, listening for every small break in his control. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

Jack’s voice came back careful. “You sure?”

Your chest softened. Even now. Even like this.

“Yes,” you said. “I want to hear you.”

His breathing changed again. Then Jack said, “Slow.”

Your stomach flipped. “Slow?”

“My hand,” Jack said, his voice rough. “Slow.”

Your mouth went dry. You pictured it too clearly. The quiet of his bedroom. His body stretched out, exhausted and tense. His shirt maybe half-open or still wrinkled from work, pants down, one hand wrapped around himself, the other near the phone because he wanted every sound you made.

You swallowed. “Because you told me to go slow?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

Your thighs pressed together. You let your hand drift lower, not touching yourself again, just resting over the ache he had left behind. “Do you want to go faster?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

The word came out immediate. Rough. Honest. Your pulse jumped. You turned your face into the pillow, smiling because he could not see it and because you did not know what else to do with the heat in your chest.

“Then do it,” you said.

Jack went quiet. You held your breath.

Then his voice came through, lower. “Say that again.”

You closed your eyes. There was something devastating about giving him permission after all the ways he had given it to you. Something intimate about reaching across the distance with only your voice and giving him the thing he had given you.

You swallowed. “Go faster.”

Jack’s breath broke. Just slightly. Enough. Your body warmed all over again.

“That’s it,” you whispered.

Jack let out a rough sound, and this time, he did not hide it fast enough.

You turned your face toward the phone. “Jack.”

His answer came strained. “Yeah?”

You pulled his shirt tighter around yourself, like that could make him closer. “I wish I could see you.”

Jack exhaled hard. “Don’t.”

Your stomach dipped. “Don’t?”

“Not unless you want me in my truck,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. The image hit fast. Jack leaving his house exhausted, half out of his mind, coming to you because he could not stand the distance anymore.

You wanted it. God, you wanted it.

But he needed sleep. He needed a shower. He needed food. He needed not to drive across town after a fifteen-hour shift because you had put on his shirt and ruined both of you before breakfast.

So you swallowed and said, “Stay there.”

Jack was quiet for one second. Then his voice softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, even though he could not see you. “Stay there.”

His breathing came through uneven. “Okay.”

“But keep going,” you said.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Bossy.”

You smiled faintly. “You like it.”

His rough laugh dissolved into something lower, something that made your whole body tighten again.

“I do,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes and listened.

To him.

To the uneven rhythm of his breath. To the little changes he could not quite hide anymore. You had never heard Jack like this. Not exactly. You had felt him lose control beneath your hands, against your mouth, in the back seat of his truck. You had seen his jaw go tight and his eyes go dark. You had felt the way his body betrayed him when his voice tried not to.

But this was different. This was just sound. Just his breathing. Just the rough edge of his voice. Just the knowledge that he was touching himself in his bed because you were in yours, wearing his shirt, telling him to.

Your throat tightened.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His answer was rough. “I’m here.”

You smiled, but it hurt a little. “I know.”

His breath stuttered. You heard it. He was close. You knew it with sudden, dizzy certainty.

Your voice lowered. “Are you close?”

Jack did not answer right away. Then he said, “Yes.”

The word was strained.

Your fingers curled in the sheets. “Good.”

He breathed your name. Your actual name. Not Trouble. Not sweetheart. Your name, pulled low and rough through his teeth like it cost him something to say it. Your whole chest went tight.

You turned your face toward the phone, voice softer now. “I want to hear you too.”

Jack’s breath caught.

There was one second of silence. Then another.

Then his voice came back, rough and barely controlled. “Say that again.”

You closed your eyes.

“I want to hear you,” you said.

Jack came on an exhale.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you knew. Just enough that your body reacted as if he were right there above you. You listened as his breathing changed, as the control finally cracked, as the quiet room on his end of the line filled with the sound of him letting go because you asked him to.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. You did not say anything. You just listened. And when he finally went quiet, when his breathing turned heavy and uneven, and the whole line seemed to go soft around both of you, your throat tightened so much you could barely speak.

“Jack?” you whispered.

He answered after a second, voice wrecked. “Yeah.”

You smiled faintly into the pillow. “You okay?”

Jack let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I’m supposed to ask you that.”

“You can ask me after,” you said.

“After what?” Jack asked, still rough.

“After you breathe,” you said.

That got you another quiet laugh. Tired. Warm. So Jack it made your chest ache.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

The morning settled around you again, but it was different now. Softer. The coffee on your nightstand was cold. The sheets were twisted around your legs. His shirt was open on your body, wrinkled from your hands, warm from your skin.

Across town, Jack was quiet too.

You pictured him lying in bed now, finally still, one arm probably thrown over his eyes, phone close to his face because neither of you had hung up.

Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You should shower.”

Jack hummed low in his throat. “Probably.”

“And eat something,” you said.

“Probably,” Jack said again.

“And sleep,” you added.

His voice warmed faintly. “Bossy.”

You smiled, eyes closed. “You like it.”

“I do,” Jack said.

Your heart did something stupid.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Maybe he heard the shift in your breathing. Maybe he was too tired to pretend he had not meant it exactly the way it landed.

Either way, he did not take it back.

You curled onto your side, pulling his shirt closed around you. “You really need to sleep.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“You’re going to fall asleep on the phone,” you said.

“Maybe,” Jack said.

Your mouth curved. “That is terrible phone etiquette.”

“I’ll risk it,” Jack said.

You laughed softly, and the sound came out more tender than teasing.

Jack went quiet for another second.

Then he said, “I’m off tomorrow.”

You went still.

“Actually off?” you asked.

“If no one quits, dies, or sets the department on fire,” Jack said.

You smiled. “That sounds promising.”

“I want to see you,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. Even after everything, those words still landed. Maybe especially after everything.

You looked down at his shirt. “You do?”

Jack’s voice softened. “Yes.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jack asked.

You smiled faintly. “Yes, Jack. I want to see you too.”

“Good,” he said.

Your stomach flipped, even now. Especially now.

Jack exhaled, slower this time, exhaustion finally dragging at the edges of him. “Wear the shirt.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Jack,” you said.

His voice was rough with sleep and satisfaction and something dangerously close to affection. “I want it back.”

You stared at the phone. Then you smiled, soft and helpless.

“You said not yet,” you reminded him.

Jack’s mouth must have curved. “Tomorrow.”

Your chest went warm. You pulled the shirt tighter around yourself and closed your eyes.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack’s voice came through quieter now. “Okay.”

Then Jack sighed, tired and low. “I need to hang up before I fall asleep with the phone on my face.”

A laugh slipped out of you. “That would be terrible phone etiquette.”

“I know,” Jack said. “You told me.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Go take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Jack said.

“You better,” you said.

His tired laugh came through soft and low. Jack was quiet for one more breath.

Then he said, “I’ll call you when I wake up.”

You smiled. “Okay.”

“Bye, Trouble,” Jack said.

Your chest went soft. “Bye, Forearms.”

The call ended.

For a few seconds, you stayed exactly where you were, lying on your side in the wreckage of your bed, his shirt pulled tight around you, your phone warm against your palm.

The apartment was quiet again.

Your coffee was cold. Your skin was warm. And tomorrow suddenly felt impossibly far away. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling.

Then, slowly, helplessly, you smiled.

You were going to see him tomorrow. Jack was coming here. He wanted you in his shirt.

You pressed the sleeve to your mouth like that might hide the grin spreading across your face.

It did not.

Morning came quietly.

Not peacefully, exactly.

Just quietly.

The apartment was still dark at the edges, the kind of early light that made everything look softer than it was. The kitchen lamp glowed warm over the counter. The coffee maker clicked and hissed behind you, filling the silence with the smell of something strong enough to make you feel almost human.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen wearing Jack’s shirt.

You had not planned that part. At least, not consciously. It had been hanging on the back of your closet door for six days, soft and wrinkled and unfairly full of him. He had left it behind after the almost-morning. The one where he had shown up after a shift that had already gone long, showered in your bathroom, kissed you in your kitchen until the breakfast went cold, and then gotten called back in before either of you could pretend you were not disappointed.

He had changed fast. Too fast.His undershirt had gone back on. His jacket had gone over it. His button-down had stayed behind.

You had found it that evening and told yourself you would give it back.

You had not.

Now it hung loose on your body, sleeves falling past your hands, collar slipping wide at your shoulder, the hem brushing high on your thighs while you leaned against the counter and watched coffee drip into the pot.

You should have felt ridiculous.

Instead, you missed him. That was worse.You had seen him yesterday for eight minutes.

Eight.

He had met you outside your building with coffee because he had gotten off shift late, and you had been on your way to work. He had looked exhausted, eyes shadowed, hair still a little damp from the shower at the hospital, but he had smiled when he saw you.

Not much. Enough. He had kissed you once beside your car, warm and brief and nowhere near enough. Then his phone had buzzed, because of course it had, and he had looked at the screen with an expression that told you before he even opened his mouth.

“They need me in early tonight,” Jack had said.

You had tried not to show your disappointment. “How early?”

His mouth had flattened. “Too early.”

So seeing him today was not happening. You knew that. He had gone in before sunset. He was probably fifteen hours deep by now, or close to it, running on hospital coffee and stubbornness. He would be tired. Busy. Needed.

You should not bother him. You poured coffee into your mug. You took one sip. You looked down at the white shirt hanging open at your throat. Then you looked toward your bedroom mirror.

“Oh, this is stupid,” you whispered.

You carried your coffee into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. The mirror caught you before you could climb back into bed. Bare legs. Bare shoulder. His white shirt, loose and rumpled from sleep. Your hair a mess because you had not done anything to it yet. The soft morning light cutting across the room.

It was not lingerie. It was not polished. It was not even particularly brave. It was just you, in his shirt, missing him before the day had properly started.

That was the problem.

You picked up your phone. Then you put it down. Then you picked it up again.

“This is cruel,” you told your reflection.

Your reflection, traitorous and wearing Jack’s shirt, did not disagree. You opened the camera anyway. The first photo was too blurry. The second made you look terrified. The third was worse because it was actually good.

Your phone hid most of your face. One shoulder was bare where the collar had slipped down. The sleeves fell over your hands. The hem of the shirt brushed high on your thighs, and the bed behind you was still rumpled from sleep.

It looked soft. It looked intimate. It looked like you had woken up thinking about him.

Because you had.

You stared at the photo for so long that the screen dimmed. Then you opened his contact before you could lose your nerve.

You: I found something of yours.

You attached the photo. Your thumb hovered over send.

For one more second, you tried to be reasonable. Jack had just worked fifteen hours. Jack was tired. Jack was probably barely home, or on his way there, or finally somewhere quiet after being needed by everyone except you.

You should not. 

You sent it.

Then you threw your phone onto the bed like distance might save you from the consequences. It did not. For three seconds, you stood there in the quiet of your bedroom, heart beating too hard, Jack’s shirt hanging loose on your body, the morning light soft around your ankles.

Nothing happened. No bubbles. No immediate reply.

You should have felt relieved. Instead, you stared at the phone.

“Great,” you whispered. “Very normal.”

The phone stayed silent.

You climbed back into bed because apparently if you were going to make questionable choices before eight in the morning, you were going to do it comfortably. You leaned against the headboard, pulled your coffee into your hands, and tucked one bare knee beneath the hem of Jack’s shirt.

Still nothing.

You took a sip of coffee. Checked your phone. Still nothing. You set it beside your thigh. Then picked it up again. Still nothing. You were seconds away from throwing it under a pillow when, across town, Jack walked into his house with the kind of exhaustion that made even the lock feel personal.

His keys landed in the bowl by the door. His bag hit the floor a second later. He did not bother turning on the overhead light. Morning had already started to creep through the windows, pale and thin, catching on the edge of the kitchen counter, the pair of shoes he had left by the door, the jacket he shrugged off with one hand because his shoulders ached too much to make the motion graceful.

Fifteen hours.

It was supposed to have been twelve.

Then a nurse called out. Then trauma backed up the department. Then one of the night attendings got pulled into a transfer mess. Then Jack had stayed because staying was what he did when people needed help, and no one else was available to give it.

Now the house was quiet.

Too quiet. No monitors. No overhead pages. No Robby’s voice somewhere down the hall telling a resident not to do something stupid.

No you.

Jack stood in the kitchen for a second, one hand braced on the counter, eyes closed. He should shower. He should sleep. He should probably eat something other than vending-machine pretzels and coffee pretending to be a meal. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jack did not move at first. Then it buzzed again. He pulled it out, already half-prepared to see the hospital calling him back. Instead, your name lit up the screen.

Trouble.

His chest did the thing. The stupid thing. The thing he was too tired to pretend away. Jack leaned back against the counter and opened the message.

You: I found something of yours.

Below it was a photo.

Jack went still. Completely still. 

You were in bed wearing his white button-down. Only his white button-down. The shirt hung loose on your body, rumpled from sleep, the sleeves falling past your hands. One shoulder was bare where the collar had slipped down. Your phone hid most of your face, but he could see enough. The curve of your neck. The line of your thigh below the hem. The rumpled sheets around you.

It was not explicit. That made it worse. It looked like morning. It looked like missing him. It looked like you had woken up wrapped in something that belonged to him, climbed back into bed with coffee, and decided he needed to know.

Jack’s grip tightened around the phone. His house was silent around him. He was exhausted. Still half in the hospital in his own head. Body heavy, eyes burning, muscles sore from too many hours on his feet.

And suddenly he was wide awake.

Jack stared at the photo for another second longer than he should have. Then another. His thumb hovered over the screen. There were several things he could say. Most of them were not appropriate before eight in the morning. Most of them were also not helpful, because he was standing in his kitchen after fifteen hours at work with no sleep, no food, and absolutely no ability to get in his truck without making a bad decision.

He typed one word.

Jack: Trouble.

Your screen lit up in your hand. Your stomach dropped. You stared at the message for a second before you answered.

You: What?

At his house, Jack looked at the photo again. A mistake. His jaw tightened.

Jack: Are you alone?

Your reply came back fast.

You: Yes.

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose.

His eyes moved over the photo again. His shirt. Your bare shoulder. The rumpled sheets around you.

Jack: In bed?

You looked down at yourself, leaned against the headboard with your coffee in one hand and his shirt slipping low on your shoulder.

Heat climbed your neck.

You: Yes.

A longer pause.

Then:

Jack: Wearing my shirt in bed.

Your stomach dipped. You set your coffee carefully on the nightstand before you spilled it all over yourself.

You: That seems to be the situation.

Jack: Trouble.

You could hear it. The warning. The restraint. The way his voice would have dropped if he were standing in your bedroom instead of across town, freshly home from a fifteen-hour shift and still somehow able to make one word feel like a hand at the back of your neck.

You: What?

Jack: You know what.

You stared at the screen, pulse beating too fast. Then, because you apparently had no survival instinct at all, you typed back.

You: That’s all?

Across town, Jack stared at the message. His mouth curved faintly. He should not encourage you. He knew that. He was tired enough that his self-control felt thinner than usual, and you were in his shirt, in bed, asking if that was all, like you did not know exactly what you had done. Jack typed.

Jack: No.

You stared at the word until your face went hot. No. That was all. One word, and somehow it felt like his hand at your knee. You swallowed and shifted against the pillows, the collar of his shirt slipping a little lower on your shoulder.

You: You’re home?

Across town, Jack glanced around his quiet house, at the jacket he had dropped over a chair, the bag by the door, the untouched kitchen, the morning light cutting pale across the floor.

Jack: Just got in.

Your chest tightened.

You: You worked a long time.

Jack: Fifteen hours.

You looked down at the shirt again.

The tease in your chest softened into something that ached.

You: You should sleep.

Jack looked at the photo again.

Jack: I was going to.

The dots appeared on your screen. Disappeared. Appeared again. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

You: Sorry.

Across town, Jack’s expression shifted. That was the part he heard differently. Not teasing now. Not entirely. His thumb moved over the edge of the phone.

Jack: Don’t apologize.

You stared at the message.

You: I shouldn’t bother you when you’re exhausted.

Jack stared at the words for a second, something low and tender settling beneath the heat.

He typed carefully.

Jack: You’re not bothering me.

Then, because it was true and because he was too tired to lie well, he added:

Jack: I miss you.

You stared at the words until your chest tightened.

I missed you.

That was worse than anything filthy he could have said. Worse because you could hear it in his voice, quiet and rough with exhaustion. Worse because you knew Jack did not give words like that away unless he meant them. Worse because suddenly the shirt did not feel like a tease anymore.

It felt like a confession you had put on without meaning to.

You sat there against the headboard, coffee forgotten on the nightstand, the hem of his shirt riding higher on your thighs.

You: I miss you too.

The reply came back after a few seconds.

Jack: I know.

Your mouth parted. Then another message appeared.

Jack: That’s why you’re wearing my shirt.

You stared at his last message until your face went hot. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. He was right. Of course he was right. You could have pretended it was laundry convenience, or comfort, or the simple fact that his shirt was soft and oversized and still smelled faintly like him if you pressed your face into the collar like someone with absolutely no dignity.

But Jack would not believe any of that. Jack knew exactly what it meant. That was why your chest felt too tight. You looked down at yourself, at the white fabric hanging loose on your body, one sleeve slipping over your hand, the hem brushing your thighs.

You missed him. You wanted him. You wanted him to know. Unfortunately, being known by Jack Abbot had a terrible habit of making you want to be difficult.

You: Maybe I just like the shirt.

His reply came fast.

Jack: No.

You bit your lip.

You: No?

Jack: You like that it’s mine.

Your stomach flipped. You looked at the message for one second. Then two. Then you set your phone facedown on the blanket and let your head fall back against the headboard.

“God,” you whispered.

Your coffee sat cooling on the nightstand. Morning light moved across your comforter, soft and pale and completely innocent, which felt rude considering what was happening to your pulse. Your phone buzzed again. You picked it up.

Jack: Trouble.

You swallowed.

You: What?

Jack: Don’t start something you don’t want me to finish.

Heat went through you so fast you had to press your thighs together. You stared at the message. Then you looked down at his shirt. The collar had slipped lower on your shoulder. The first few buttons were undone because you had slept in it and tossed too much and missed him too badly. Your necklace rested against your skin, catching the morning light every time you breathed.

You thought about Jack standing in his quiet house across town. Exhausted. Fresh off fifteen hours. Still answering you. Still seeing you. Still somehow making one text feel like his mouth close to your ear.

You: Who says I don’t want you to finish it?

You sent the message before you could lose your nerve. Then, before he could answer, you opened the camera again. Not the mirror this time. Closer. Your face was mostly out of frame. The collar of his shirt slipped low enough to bare one shoulder. The white fabric fell open around the line of your throat and the soft gold of your necklace. One hand held the shirt in place just below your chest.

Not showing too much. Not enough. Just enough to make him think about what was under it. You looked at the photo and nearly lost your nerve. Then you attached it. And sent it.

Across town, Jack’s phone lit up in his hand. He opened the message. For a second, he did not move. The first photo had been bad enough. This was worse. This was closer. Softer. Meaner. His shirt hung open at your throat, the collar slipped off one shoulder, the fabric rumpled from sleep and your hands and whatever restless little impulse had made you send it to him before eight in the morning. He could see the curve of your neck. The bare slope of your shoulder. The necklace resting against your skin.

Not enough. Too much.

His jaw tightened. Jack stood in his kitchen, exhausted down to the bone, one hand braced against the counter and the other wrapped around his phone like it had personally attacked him. He should shower. He should sleep. He should make coffee, or drink water, or do literally anything other than stare at a picture of you wearing his shirt and looking like something he wanted to ruin and take care of in the same breath. His thumb moved before he let himself think too hard.

Jack: Answer the phone.

Then he called. 

Your screen lit up. Forearms. Your heart slammed hard against your ribs. You stared at it for one ring. Then two. Then you answered.

“Hi,” you said.

There was silence on the other end. Not empty silence. Jack silence. The kind that had weight. You pressed the phone closer to your ear, suddenly very aware of the shirt slipping down your shoulder, the heat in your face, the soft sound of your own breathing.

Jack’s voice came through low and rough. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them. You swallowed. “I thought you might miss me.”

Jack exhaled once. Slow. Controlled. Not enough.

“I do miss you,” Jack said. “That is not the problem.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. You leaned back against the headboard, heart beating too hard, his shirt still open at your shoulder. “Then what is the problem?”

Jack was quiet for a second. You could hear him breathing.

“The problem,” Jack said, voice low and rough, “is that I’m standing in my kitchen after fifteen hours at work, and you’re in my shirt, in your bed, asking me if that’s all.”

Your stomach dipped. You looked down at yourself like you needed proof. His shirt. Your bare thigh. The coffee forgotten on the nightstand. The soft morning light.

You swallowed. “Maybe I was just being nice.”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “No.”

Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “No?”

“No,” Jack said. “You were being trouble.”

The word went through you like a touch. You shifted against the pillows, the fabric of his shirt rustling against the sheets. Jack went quiet. Your breath caught.

His voice lowered. “Still in bed?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“In my shirt,” Jack said.

“Yes,” you answered.

“Coffee put down?” Jack asked.

You glanced at the nightstand. “Yes.”

“Good,” Jack said.

Your stomach flipped. “Why is that good?”

“Because I don’t want you spilling it,” Jack said.

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Put me on speaker.”

Heat rolled through you.

“Jack,” you said.

“Put me on speaker,” Jack repeated.

Your thumb hovered near the screen. “Why?”

Jack’s voice dropped. “So you can use both hands.”

Your entire body went hot. You stared at the wall across from your bed for one useless second, like it might tell you how to survive him. It did not.

“You are very bossy for someone who isn’t here,” you said.

Jack’s voice roughened. “I know.”

You set the phone on speaker and placed it on the pillow beside you. “There.”

“Good girl,” Jack said.

The praise hit low in your stomach. You closed your eyes for half a second, and your breathing changed before you could hide it.

Jack heard that.

His voice softened, just enough. “Still want this?”

Your throat tightened. You looked at the phone on your pillow. Then down at his shirt, at the fabric rumpled against your skin, at the bare line of your thigh beneath the hem.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack was quiet for a beat. Then he said, “Say it clearly.”

Your pulse jumped. You knew what he was doing. He could not see your face. He could not read your body the way he did when he was in the room with you. So he was making you give him the only thing he had. Words.

You swallowed. “I want this.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “Good.”

You shifted against the pillow, suddenly aware of every small sound you made. The sheets beneath your thigh. The soft pull of his shirt against your skin. Your own breathing, already less steady than you wanted it to be.

Jack’s voice came through the speaker, low and close despite the miles between you. “Tell me where your hands are.”

Your fingers curled against the hem of his shirt. “On your shirt.”

“My shirt,” Jack repeated.

Your stomach tightened.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Where?” Jack asked.

You looked down, heat climbing your neck. “The hem.”

“Move them,” Jack said.

Your fingers loosened.

“Where?” you asked, because apparently you had decided to make your own life worse.

Jack was quiet for half a second. Then his voice dropped. “Collar.”

Your breath caught.

“Trouble,” Jack said.

“I’m doing it,” you said quickly.

You slid your hand up the front of the shirt, over the rumpled buttons, to the loose collar at your shoulder.

“Tell me,” Jack said.

Your eyes closed. You hated him a little for this. You loved it more.

“My hand is on the collar,” you said.

“Good,” Jack said. “Pull it down.”

Your fingers tightened in the fabric. You pulled. The cotton slipped lower over your shoulder, baring more skin to the cool morning air. Your breath left you too quickly. Jack went still on the other end.

Then he said, “That was a yes sound.”

Your face burned. “You’re impossible.”

“No,” Jack said. “I’m listening.”

God. That was worse. You pressed your head back against the pillow and tried to breathe like a normal person.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “One more button.”

Your hand froze.

“Only if you want to,” Jack added.

That sentence made your chest ache. It made the heat worse. You opened your eyes and looked down at yourself. His shirt already loose around your body, your shoulder bare, the first few buttons undone from sleep and restlessness and missing him. Your fingers moved to the next button. You undid it slowly. The shirt loosened. You swallowed hard.

Jack’s voice roughened. “Tell me.”

You looked at the phone like it had betrayed you. “You know.”

“I know what I told you to do,” Jack said. “I want to hear you say it.”

Your thighs pressed together. “Jack,” you breathed.

“Words,” Jack said.

Your fingers curled in the open fabric. “I unbuttoned it.”

“How much?” Jack asked.

You stared at the ceiling. This man was going to kill you.

“Enough,” you said.

His quiet laugh was almost silent. Almost.

“Not an answer,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes. “Enough that it’s open.”

Jack’s breathing changed. Barely. But there.

Your mouth curved, even through the heat crawling up your neck. “That got you.”

His voice came back lower. “Careful.”

“With what?” you asked.

“With how much you like knowing what you do to me,” Jack said.

Your smile fell apart. Because he was right. Because you did like it. Because he sounded tired and rough and restrained, and somehow that made it worse. He was not even in the room, and he was still everywhere.

You whispered, “I wish you were here.”

The line went quiet. For a second, you thought maybe you had said too much.

Then Jack’s voice came through, softer than before. “I know.”

Your throat tightened.

He exhaled slowly. “Me too.”

The ache of that settled beneath everything else, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. Then Jack’s voice dropped again.

“But I’m not there,” Jack said. “So you’re going to listen to me.”

Your fingers tightened in the open fabric of his shirt. The words went through you slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic. Worse. Deliberate. You looked at the phone on the pillow beside you, his name bright on the screen, his voice filling your bedroom like he had found a way to stand in it without being there.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” you said.

Jack answered, low and immediate, “I am.”

Your stomach flipped. Of course he was. Of course Jack Abbot could stand in his kitchen after fifteen hours at work, exhausted and probably still half-undressed from taking off his jacket, and sound like he had all the time in the world to ruin you from across town. You shifted against the pillows, the sheets rustling beneath you.

Jack heard it. His voice dropped. “Still in bed?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” Jack said. “Stay there.”

Your brows pulled together even as heat climbed your neck. “Where am I going to go?”

Jack asked, “Knowing you?”

You pressed your lips together. He let the silence sit for half a second.

Then Jack said, “Somewhere difficult.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, breathless and soft.

Jack’s voice warmed faintly. “There you are.”

The tenderness of it caught you wrong. Not bad. Just sudden. You looked down at his shirt, at the open buttons, at your bare shoulder, at the way your fingers were still curled in the fabric like holding onto him in any form might help. It did not help. It made it worse.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His voice changed immediately. “Yeah?”

You stared at the ceiling. “I really do miss you.”

The line went quiet. This time, it did not feel like heat. It felt like an ache.

Then Jack exhaled, slow and quiet. “I know.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice softened. “I miss you too.”

Your chest tightened, and for one second, the whole thing shifted beneath your hands. The shirt. The photos. The call. The teasing. All of it was suddenly less clever than it had been a minute ago. Less like a game. More like truth.

You swallowed. “This is kind of pathetic.”

“No,” Jack said.

You opened your eyes.

His voice stayed firm. “It’s not.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You haven’t even slept.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“You should sleep,” you said.

“I will,” Jack said.

“You keep saying that,” you said.

Jack’s mouth must have curved because you heard it in his voice. “You keep distracting me.”

Your stomach dipped again. There it was. The heat slid back in, slow and sure.

You let your head rest against the headboard. “I sent a picture.”

Jack said, “You sent two.”

You smiled despite yourself. “The second one was a response.”

Jack’s voice lowered. “It was.”

“You didn’t say anything after that,” you said.

“No,” Jack said, voice rough. “Because I needed to hear you.”

Your hand stilled completely and your breath slowed. Jack noticed immediately.

“Don’t stop,” he said.

A sound left you before you could catch it. Jack heard. He went quiet for half a second.

Then he said, “There.”

Your face burned. “What?”

“That sound,” Jack said. “I want that one again.”

Your hand curled against his shirt. “You are impossible.”

“No,” Jack said. “I’m listening.”

God. That was worse. You pressed your head back against the pillow and tried to breathe like a normal person.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Tell me where your hands are now.”

You looked down. One hand was still gripping the open edge of his shirt. The other was curled loosely against the sheet beside your thigh.

“One is on your shirt,” you said.

Jack asked, “And the other?”

You swallowed. “On the bed.”

“Move it,” Jack said.

Your fingers flexed against the sheet. “Where?”

There was a pause. You could hear him breathe once.

Then Jack said, “Your thigh.”

Your breath caught. You slid your hand slowly over the sheet and onto your bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt. The touch was yours. It did not feel like yours. Not with his voice in the room.

Jack said, “Tell me when you’re there.”

“I’m there,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said. “Higher.”

Heat rolled through you.

“Jack,” you said.

Jack answered immediately. “Only if you want to.”

Your chest ached at the quickness of it. The steadiness. The room he gave you, even while sounding like that.

You looked at the phone on the pillow. “I want to.”

“Then higher,” Jack said.

Your hand moved. Slowly. Over your thigh, beneath the white hem of his shirt, until your fingers rested higher than before, close enough to make your breath catch and not close enough to give you what you wanted. Jack heard that breath.

His voice roughened. “There?”

“Almost,” you said.

The word came out before you could stop it. Jack went very still. You could feel it somehow, even through the phone.

“Almost,” Jack repeated.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“That’s it,” Jack said softly.

Your whole body went hot. You turned your face into the pillow for half a second, muffling a sound that should have embarrassed you more than it did.

Jack’s voice sharpened slightly. “Don’t hide.”

You lifted your head, face burning. “You can’t even see me.”

“I can hear you,” Jack said.

You stared at the phone.

Jack’s voice lowered again. “And I want to.”

Your mouth parted. The honesty in that did something terrible to you. Your fingers flexed against your thigh.

Jack asked, “Still want me to tell you what to do?”

Your answer came fast. “Yes.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to touch.

Then Jack said, “Open your legs.”

Your breath left you in a rush. You looked toward your bedroom door even though it was closed, even though you were alone, even though the whole apartment was quiet around you.

“Trouble,” Jack said.

“I’m doing it,” you said, voice barely steady.

You shifted against the pillows, knees parting beneath the sheet, his shirt falling open a little more with the movement. The fabric rustled. Jack was silent for one beat.

Then he said, “Good girl.”

Your eyes closed. The praise hit exactly where he meant it to. Your hand tightened against your thigh.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “Touch yourself over your underwear.”

Your face burned. “Jack.”

He asked, “Do you want to?”

You nodded before remembering he could not see you.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Then do it,” Jack said.

Your fingers moved. Slowly at first. Careful, like you were waiting for the room to stop you. Like there was anyone there but you, his voice, and the morning light spilling over your bed.

The first touch made your breath catch. Jack heard it.

“Yeah,” he said, rougher now. “There you go.”

Your hips shifted before you could stop them. The sound that left you was small. Not even a moan. Barely more than a breath. But Jack caught it anyway.

His voice changed. “That’s it.”

Your fingers pressed harder. Your head fell back against the headboard. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of your breathing and his through the speaker, the rustle of sheets, the faint hum of the apartment around you.

Then Jack asked, “Does it feel good?”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Yes.”

Jack asked, “How good?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You are impossible.”

Jack repeated, voice lower, “How good?”

You swallowed hard, fingers moving because stopping suddenly felt like punishment.

“Really good,” you whispered.

Jack’s exhale came through rough. “Good.”

Your breath stuttered. That one word. Always that one word. He knew exactly what it did to you now. Worse, he liked knowing.

“Jack,” you breathed.

“I’m here,” Jack said.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because he was not. Not really. He was across town in his quiet house after fifteen hours on his feet, and you were in your bed wearing his shirt, touching yourself because his voice told you to.But he sounded close. He sounded steady. He sounded like he meant it.

Your chest tightened. “I wish you were.”

The line went quiet again. Then Jack said, softer, “Me too.”

You opened your eyes and stared at the ceiling. The ache came back under the heat, threaded through it now, inseparable. Your hand stilled. The room went quiet except for your breathing.

Jack noticed immediately. “Hey.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”

“Don’t think,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes.

His voice gentled, but the command stayed underneath it. “Not right now.”

You swallowed.

Jack said, “Listen to me.”

Your fingers moved again. Slowly. Your breath caught again.

“Good,” he said. “Just like that.”

Your breath shook.

Jack’s voice dropped lower. “Now tell me what you’d want if I were there.”

Your entire body went still.

“Jack,” you said.

Jack said, “Tell me.”

You stared at the phone as if it might save you. It did not.

Your voice came out small. “I’d want your hands.”

Jack’s breathing changed.

“Where?” he asked.

Your fingers pressed down, and your hips shifted before you could answer.

“Everywhere,” you said.

Jack’s rough laugh was quiet and wrecked. “That’s not specific.”

“You asked what I wanted,” you said, breathless.

“I did,” Jack said. “And now I’m asking where.”

Your face went hot.

You looked down at his shirt open over your body, at your hand between your legs, at the bare shoulder where his collar had slipped lower.

“My thighs,” you whispered.

“Good,” Jack said. “Where else?”

“My waist,” you said.

Jack asked, “Where else?”

Your breath caught.

The room felt too warm now. Your skin felt too sensitive. His shirt felt like too much and not enough.

“My neck,” you admitted.

Jack went quiet. Then he said your name. Not Trouble. Your name. The sound of it almost undid you.

You closed your eyes. “Jack.”

“I know,” he said.

His voice was rougher now. Less controlled around the edges. You heard it. You wanted more of it.

Jack asked, “What else?”

You swallowed. “Jack.”

He waited. Your fingers slowed, not because you wanted to stop, but because the answer had lodged itself behind your ribs and refused to come out easily.

Jack’s voice softened. “Tell me.”

Your face went hot. “Your mouth.”

The line went silent. Your heart slammed once, hard.

Then Jack’s voice came through lower than before. “Where?”

Your breath caught. “You know where.”

“No,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes. “Jack.”

“I want you to say it,” Jack said.

Your fingers curled against yourself over your underwear.

The memory hit you so hard you nearly made a sound. The first time. The bed. The headboard under your hands. The way you had thought he wanted you in his lap until his hand caught your thigh and his voice stopped you cold. Not there. Up here.

Your breath went uneven.

Jack had looked up at you like he knew exactly what he was asking for and exactly what it would do to you. Calm. Certain. A little smug. Patient in the most unfair way. You remembered the way your knees had sunk into the mattress on either side of his head. The way his hands had settled warm and steady on your thighs. The way you had hovered because you were worried about making it harder for him, because some anxious part of you had tried to make yourself smaller even then. Then listen to me.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. You could still hear him.

If I need something different, I’ll tell you.

His voice had been rough then. Firm. Devastating. 

Right now, I need you closer.

Your breath caught hard enough that Jack heard it through the phone.

His voice changed. “You’re thinking about it.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Yes.”

Jack went quiet for one beat. Then his voice came back rougher. “The first time?”

Your whole body went hot.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack exhaled slowly. “When I told you not to hover?”

A sound slipped out of you before you could stop it. Jack caught it immediately.

“There,” he said.

Your face burned.

His voice dropped. “That’s what you want?”

Your fingers pressed down, still not enough, nowhere near enough. “Yes.”

Jack said, “Say it.”

You swallowed, pulse beating everywhere. “I want your mouth on me.”

Jack’s exhale came through the speaker, low and wrecked.

You pressed your free hand over your face. “God.”

Jack’s voice sharpened softly. “Don’t hide from me.”

You lowered your hand with a shaky breath. 

Jack said, “Again.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “I want your mouth on me.”

Jack asked, “Like when?”

Your whole body went hot. You knew what he was doing. You knew exactly what he was making you remember.

Your voice trembled. “Like the first time.”

Jack was quiet for one brutal second. Then he said, “I remember.”

Your hips shifted before you could stop them.

Jack’s voice roughened. “I remember your hands on the headboard.”

Your fingers clenched in the shirt.

He continued, lower, “I remember you trying to stay above me.”

Your breath broke.

Jack said, “I remember telling you I needed you closer.”

“Jack,” you breathed.

His voice was rough now. “And I remember how you sounded when you finally listened.”

Your hand moved before you could think. Faster. Harder. The memory did what his voice had already started. It put you back there for half a second, knees in the mattress, fingers locked around the headboard, his hands firm on your thighs, his mouth beneath you like he had never been more certain about anything in his life.

Your breath broke.

Jack heard it. His voice sharpened. “Slow down.”

You tried. You really did. But your body wanted more, and your hand wanted to chase it, and Jack was not there to put his hand over yours and make you behave.

A shaky laugh slipped out of you. “You’re not here to stop me.”

“No,” Jack said. “But you’re going to listen.”

Your stomach clenched. You slowed your hand. Barely, but enough. Jack heard the difference in your breathing.

“That’s it,” he said.

Your eyes closed. 

His voice stayed low, controlled, and rough around the edges. “Move your underwear to the side.”

Your whole body tightened.

“Jack,” you said, weaker this time.

His voice softened instantly. “Do you want to?”

Your answer came barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

“Then do it,” Jack said.

Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt. You did what he told you. The first touch of your bare fingers against yourself pulled a sound out of you before you could stop it.

Jack went quiet. Then his voice came through, rough and pleased. “There.”

Your head fell back against the pillow. Your body felt too warm, too sensitive, too aware of every inch of fabric and skin and absence.

Jack said, “Slow.”

You drew in a shaky breath and tried to listen. Your fingers moved the way he told you. Slow. Then a little firmer when he said, “There.”

Softer when he told you not to rush. Enough to keep you right on the edge of wanting more, not enough to let you have it yet. Jack was quiet for a few seconds except for his breathing. You could hear it now. Lower. Less even. You wanted to know what he was doing with his hands. You wanted it so badly it made you brave.

“Jack,” you said.

He answered immediately. “Yeah?”

You swallowed. “Are you touching yourself?”

The silence after that was brutal. Then Jack exhaled.

“Yes,” he said.

Your whole body tightened. The answer should not have hit you so hard. It did. You pictured his hand, his jaw tight, his head tipped back maybe, his phone close enough to catch every breath you gave him. Your hand moved again, more desperate now. Jack heard the change immediately.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “That did it?”

You covered your face with your free hand. “Don’t.”

Jack asked, “Don’t what?”

“Sound so pleased with yourself,” you said.

His breath shifted, almost a laugh. “I am pleased with myself.”

“You’re terrible,” you said.

“And you’re still listening,” Jack said.

You had no answer for that.

Because you were. Because he was everywhere, even through the phone. Because his shirt was open on your body, and his voice was in your ear, and his hand was on himself because of you.

“Jack,” you breathed.

His voice softened instantly. “You close?”

Your fingers faltered. Then moved again.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Jack asked, “How close?”

Your breath caught. “Close.”

“Good,” Jack said.

The word drew a soft sound from you.

Jack’s voice roughened. “I want to hear you.”

Your stomach clenched.

You shook your head against the pillow even though he could not see. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Jack said.

Your hand moved faster.

The pleasure built slowly, then all at once, pulling tight under your skin. Jack kept talking. Low. Steady. Rougher now.

“Keep going,” he said. “Don’t hold back from me.”

Your breath broke.

“Jack,” you said, barely a warning.

“I’m here,” Jack said.

And that did it.

Not because he was. Because he wanted to be. Because you could hear how badly he wanted to be. Because he was tired and far away and still somehow holding you steady with nothing but his voice. Your body tightened, pleasure breaking through you in a wave that made your head fall back against the pillow as you came.

You tried to stay quiet.

You failed.

Jack said your name, rough and low, and the sound of it carried you through the rest. For a few seconds, you could not speak. You could barely breathe. Your hand stilled. His shirt was twisted in your fingers. Your knees were loose beneath the sheet. Your coffee was cold on the nightstand. The phone sat beside your pillow, still glowing with his name.

Jack’s breathing was uneven on the other end. Not much. Enough.

You turned your face toward the phone, eyes still closed. “Jack?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice wrecked.

You swallowed. “Did you—”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

Your eyes opened. Heat flickered through you again, softer but immediate.

Jack exhaled roughly. “I wanted to hear you first.”

Your chest went tight. That was so him it almost hurt. You stared at the phone. Then your mouth curved, tired and dazed and a little wicked despite the way your legs still felt useless.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His voice was careful. “Yeah?”

You rolled onto your side, pulling his shirt closer around you. “Do you want me to help?”

The line went quiet. Not empty. Not uncertain. Just quiet in the way Jack got when something landed exactly where you meant it to. His breathing came through the speaker, rougher than before.

Then Jack said, “You already are.”

Your stomach flipped. You curled your fingers tighter in his shirt, still too warm, still sensitive, still soft all over from the way he had talked you through it. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jack’s voice came back lower. “I know.”

You smiled against the pillow, exhausted and pleased and still not nearly as innocent as you should have felt. “Then answer the question.”

Jack exhaled. “Trouble.”

“You made me use words,” you said, your voice still a little unsteady. “Seems fair.”

His quiet laugh was barely there. Barely. But you heard it.

“You want fair?” Jack asked.

You rolled onto your back again, looking up at the ceiling, his shirt twisted around your body. “Not especially.”

“No,” Jack said. “You don’t.”

Your thighs pressed together at the sound of his voice, even though your body was still loose and heavy and too sensitive. Jack’s breathing shifted.

Your mouth curved. “Are you still touching yourself?”

He was quiet for one second. Then Jack said, “Yes.”

Heat moved through you again. Softer this time. Deeper.

You turned your face toward the phone. “Good.”

Jack’s breath caught. It was small. Almost nothing. But you heard it. For a second, you just listened to him breathe. 

He sounded tired now. Not less turned on. Not less focused. Just tired underneath it, the exhaustion of fifteen hours catching up to him around the edges. The image of him in his bedroom across town hit you again, alone in the quiet house, still wearing whatever he had come home in, too wound up to sleep because of you.

Because you had missed him. Because he had missed you too.

Your voice softened. “Jack.”

His answer was immediate. “Yeah?”

Your hand drifted over your stomach, over the loose cotton of his shirt. “Tell me where your hand is.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “You know where my hand is.”

You smiled faintly. “No.”

His silence changed. You could feel him recognizing his own words thrown back at him.

Your voice softened. “I want you to say it.”

Jack’s breathing went uneven. For a second, you thought he might refuse. Then he said your name, low and warning.

You closed your eyes. “Tell me.”

The pause that followed was brutal.

When Jack spoke again, his voice was rough enough to make your toes curl against the sheets. “My hand is on my cock.”

Your breath left you. There it was. The thing you wanted. The thing he had made you earn.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “Good.”

Jack made a sound under his breath. Not a moan. Not quite. Enough.

Your eyes opened. “There.”

He went still.

You smiled, slow and helpless. “That sound. I want that one again.”

Jack’s laugh came out wrecked and disbelieving. “You’re trouble.”

“You knew that,” you said.

“I did,” Jack said.

You shifted against the pillows, listening to him breathe, listening for every small break in his control. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

Jack’s voice came back careful. “You sure?”

Your chest softened. Even now. Even like this.

“Yes,” you said. “I want to hear you.”

His breathing changed again. Then Jack said, “Slow.”

Your stomach flipped. “Slow?”

“My hand,” Jack said, his voice rough. “Slow.”

Your mouth went dry. You pictured it too clearly. The quiet of his bedroom. His body stretched out, exhausted and tense. His shirt maybe half-open or still wrinkled from work, pants down, one hand wrapped around himself, the other near the phone because he wanted every sound you made.

You swallowed. “Because you told me to go slow?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

Your thighs pressed together. You let your hand drift lower, not touching yourself again, just resting over the ache he had left behind. “Do you want to go faster?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

The word came out immediate. Rough. Honest. Your pulse jumped. You turned your face into the pillow, smiling because he could not see it and because you did not know what else to do with the heat in your chest.

“Then do it,” you said.

Jack went quiet. You held your breath.

Then his voice came through, lower. “Say that again.”

You closed your eyes. There was something devastating about giving him permission after all the ways he had given it to you. Something intimate about reaching across the distance with only your voice and giving him the thing he had given you.

You swallowed. “Go faster.”

Jack’s breath broke. Just slightly. Enough. Your body warmed all over again.

“That’s it,” you whispered.

Jack let out a rough sound, and this time, he did not hide it fast enough.

You turned your face toward the phone. “Jack.”

His answer came strained. “Yeah?”

You pulled his shirt tighter around yourself, like that could make him closer. “I wish I could see you.”

Jack exhaled hard. “Don’t.”

Your stomach dipped. “Don’t?”

“Not unless you want me in my truck,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. The image hit fast. Jack leaving his house exhausted, half out of his mind, coming to you because he could not stand the distance anymore.

You wanted it. God, you wanted it.

But he needed sleep. He needed a shower. He needed food. He needed not to drive across town after a fifteen-hour shift because you had put on his shirt and ruined both of you before breakfast.

So you swallowed and said, “Stay there.”

Jack was quiet for one second. Then his voice softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, even though he could not see you. “Stay there.”

His breathing came through uneven. “Okay.”

“But keep going,” you said.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Bossy.”

You smiled faintly. “You like it.”

His rough laugh dissolved into something lower, something that made your whole body tighten again.

“I do,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes and listened.

To him.

To the uneven rhythm of his breath. To the little changes he could not quite hide anymore. You had never heard Jack like this. Not exactly. You had felt him lose control beneath your hands, against your mouth, in the back seat of his truck. You had seen his jaw go tight and his eyes go dark. You had felt the way his body betrayed him when his voice tried not to.

But this was different. This was just sound. Just his breathing. Just the rough edge of his voice. Just the knowledge that he was touching himself in his bed because you were in yours, wearing his shirt, telling him to.

Your throat tightened.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His answer was rough. “I’m here.”

You smiled, but it hurt a little. “I know.”

His breath stuttered. You heard it. He was close. You knew it with sudden, dizzy certainty.

Your voice lowered. “Are you close?”

Jack did not answer right away. Then he said, “Yes.”

The word was strained.

Your fingers curled in the sheets. “Good.”

He breathed your name. Your actual name. Not Trouble. Not sweetheart. Your name, pulled low and rough through his teeth like it cost him something to say it. Your whole chest went tight.

You turned your face toward the phone, voice softer now. “I want to hear you too.”

Jack’s breath caught.

There was one second of silence. Then another.

Then his voice came back, rough and barely controlled. “Say that again.”

You closed your eyes.

“I want to hear you,” you said.

Jack came on an exhale.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you knew. Just enough that your body reacted as if he were right there above you. You listened as his breathing changed, as the control finally cracked, as the quiet room on his end of the line filled with the sound of him letting go because you asked him to.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. You did not say anything. You just listened. And when he finally went quiet, when his breathing turned heavy and uneven, and the whole line seemed to go soft around both of you, your throat tightened so much you could barely speak.

“Jack?” you whispered.

He answered after a second, voice wrecked. “Yeah.”

You smiled faintly into the pillow. “You okay?”

Jack let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I’m supposed to ask you that.”

“You can ask me after,” you said.

“After what?” Jack asked, still rough.

“After you breathe,” you said.

That got you another quiet laugh. Tired. Warm. So Jack it made your chest ache.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

The morning settled around you again, but it was different now. Softer. The coffee on your nightstand was cold. The sheets were twisted around your legs. His shirt was open on your body, wrinkled from your hands, warm from your skin.

Across town, Jack was quiet too.

You pictured him lying in bed now, finally still, one arm probably thrown over his eyes, phone close to his face because neither of you had hung up.

Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You should shower.”

Jack hummed low in his throat. “Probably.”

“And eat something,” you said.

“Probably,” Jack said again.

“And sleep,” you added.

His voice warmed faintly. “Bossy.”

You smiled, eyes closed. “You like it.”

“I do,” Jack said.

Your heart did something stupid.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Maybe he heard the shift in your breathing. Maybe he was too tired to pretend he had not meant it exactly the way it landed.

Either way, he did not take it back.

You curled onto your side, pulling his shirt closed around you. “You really need to sleep.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“You’re going to fall asleep on the phone,” you said.

“Maybe,” Jack said.

Your mouth curved. “That is terrible phone etiquette.”

“I’ll risk it,” Jack said.

You laughed softly, and the sound came out more tender than teasing.

Jack went quiet for another second.

Then he said, “I’m off tomorrow.”

You went still.

“Actually off?” you asked.

“If no one quits, dies, or sets the department on fire,” Jack said.

You smiled. “That sounds promising.”

“I want to see you,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. Even after everything, those words still landed. Maybe especially after everything.

You looked down at his shirt. “You do?”

Jack’s voice softened. “Yes.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jack asked.

You smiled faintly. “Yes, Jack. I want to see you too.”

“Good,” he said.

Your stomach flipped, even now. Especially now.

Jack exhaled, slower this time, exhaustion finally dragging at the edges of him. “Wear the shirt.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Jack,” you said.

His voice was rough with sleep and satisfaction and something dangerously close to affection. “I want it back.”

You stared at the phone. Then you smiled, soft and helpless.

“You said not yet,” you reminded him.

Jack’s mouth must have curved. “Tomorrow.”

Your chest went warm. You pulled the shirt tighter around yourself and closed your eyes.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack’s voice came through quieter now. “Okay.”

Then Jack sighed, tired and low. “I need to hang up before I fall asleep with the phone on my face.”

A laugh slipped out of you. “That would be terrible phone etiquette.”

“I know,” Jack said. “You told me.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Go take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Jack said.

“You better,” you said.

His tired laugh came through soft and low. Jack was quiet for one more breath.

Then he said, “I’ll call you when I wake up.”

You smiled. “Okay.”

“Bye, Trouble,” Jack said.

Your chest went soft. “Bye, Forearms.”

The call ended.

For a few seconds, you stayed exactly where you were, lying on your side in the wreckage of your bed, his shirt pulled tight around you, your phone warm against your palm.

The apartment was quiet again.

Your coffee was cold. Your skin was warm. And tomorrow suddenly felt impossibly far away. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling.

Then, slowly, helplessly, you smiled.

You were going to see him tomorrow. Jack was coming here. He wanted you in his shirt.

You pressed the sleeve to your mouth like that might hide the grin spreading across your face.

It did not.

The first time someone suggested date night, Andrew said no so fast that Andie looked up from her blocks.

"No," he said.

The room went quiet.

Not dramatically.

The television was still on low in the background. The washing machine was still making its worrying thump from the utility room. Andie still had one wooden block in each hand, one sock half off, and a smear of mashed banana near her ear that no one had yet explained.

But the word landed.

Craig, who had been leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, lifted his eyebrows.

Deran, sitting on the floor with Andie because he claimed the sofa made him "too visible to toddler attacks," slowly looked up.

You paused with a dish towel in your hands.

Andrew realized too late how hard he had said it.

His jaw shifted.

"I mean—"

Deran pointed at him. "No, I think we got it."

Andrew gave him a look.

Deran looked back, entirely unimpressed. "Very clear. Strong delivery. Bit hostile."

Craig cleared his throat.

"I only said we could watch her for a couple hours."

"And I said no," Andrew replied.

Andie slapped one block against the other.

"Da."

Andrew looked down at her immediately, expression softening in a way that still made your heart twist every time.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm here."

Craig's face softened too.

Only for half a second.

Then he looked at you.

"You two haven't gone anywhere alone since he got home."

"That's not true," you said.

Deran snorted. "Going to the bins together does not count."

"It was very romantic," you said.

Andrew glanced at you.

His mouth twitched.

You smiled back because you knew he was trying not to.

Craig pushed away from the counter.

"I'm serious. Go get dinner. One hour. Two if you remember how to talk to each other."

"We know how to talk to each other," Andrew said.

Deran looked at him. "You spent fifteen minutes yesterday discussing whether the moon book had better pacing than the duck book."

"It does."

"That's not date talk."

Andrew's expression said he disagreed.

You set the dish towel down slowly.

"Craig."

He looked at you.

"We appreciate it."

"But?"

You glanced at Andrew.

He was sitting on the rug now, Andie half in his lap, half climbing over his thigh like he was furniture. He had one hand on her back, not holding her still, just there in case she tipped. He did that a lot.

Touched without trapping.

Guarded without grabbing.

He was learning.

So were you.

"No but," you said softly. "Maybe just not tonight."

Andrew's eyes flicked to yours.

You saw the relief before he could hide it.

Deran saw it too.

Of course he did.

He sighed and leaned back on his hands.

"Fine. Keep being emotionally constipated at home. Saves me from bedtime."

Craig shot him a look. "We're still watching her soon."

Andrew's head came up.

Craig held his gaze.

"Soon," he repeated. "Not because you can't. Because you both should."

The room went still again.

Andrew did not answer.

Andie chose that moment to drop one block and reach for his face.

"Dada."

He looked at her.

Everything in him folded.

You watched it happen.

The way that one word could still take him apart.

The way he looked at her like he had only just arrived and she might vanish if he turned away too long.

You understood then.

Not completely.

But enough.

It was not that he did not trust Craig and Deran.

He did.

In the feral, complicated, Cody way where trust looked like insults and emergency keys and showing up with nappies before anyone asked.

It was not that he did not want to go out with you.

You knew he did.

You felt it every time he touched your waist in the kitchen, every time he lingered in the hallway after Andie went down, every time he kissed you like he was still startled that he could.

It was leaving her.

That was the thing.

He had spent two years being forced away from both of you.

Now, home barely fit around him yet, and people were asking him to walk out voluntarily.

Even for dinner.

Even for one hour.

Even with people he trusted.

Andie patted his cheek.

Andrew closed his eyes for a second.

You looked at Craig.

He looked back.

Then nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

The subject dropped.

For now.

You found Andrew in the nursery later that night.

Andie was asleep.

Finally.

The house had gone soft around the edges, dishes done, living room mostly cleared, rabbit book rescued from under the sofa where Andie had shoved it with great intent.

Andrew stood by the high shelf, looking at the wooden duck.

He did that sometimes.

You had stopped asking why.

Maybe because you already knew.

The duck had been the first thing he made for her. The first piece of his hands that reached home before he could. A ridiculous, crooked-beaked little thing that had become sacred entirely by accident.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"She's down."

He glanced over his shoulder.

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

You tilted your head.

"Andrew."

His mouth tightened.

He looked back at the duck.

You crossed the room and slid your arms around his waist from behind, cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.

He went still.

Then his hand came down over yours.

He still did that too.

Paused first.

Then held on.

"Is it about leaving her?" you asked quietly.

His hand tightened over yours.

There it was.

You felt the answer before he gave it.

"Sounds stupid," he said.

"It doesn't."

"It does."

"It really doesn't."

He breathed in slowly.

"I just got here."

Your eyes closed.

Ouch.

There it was, clean and simple and awful.

You pressed your forehead to his back.

"I know."

"I keep thinking..." He stopped.

You waited.

He was better at talking now than he had been before. Not perfect. Not easy. But better. You had learned not to fill the gaps too quickly.

Finally, he said, "I keep thinking if I leave the room too long, something changes."

You swallowed.

"With Andie?"

"With both of you."

Your arms tightened around him.

"I know it's not the same," he said. "I know dinner isn't prison. I know Craig and Deran aren't guards. I know I can come back."

You turned your face into his shirt.

"But your body doesn't?"

His chest moved under your cheek.

"Yeah."

You nodded.

"That makes sense."

He laughed once.

Humourless.

"Does it?"

"Yes."

He turned carefully in your arms until he was facing you.

His hands settled at your waist.

You looked up at him in the low nursery light.

He looked tired.

Not the prison tired anymore. Not exactly.

Home tired.

Adjustment tired.

The kind of tired that came from learning there were no locks and still waking like there were.

"I want to go out with you," he said.

The admission was rough, almost defensive.

"I know."

"No, I mean—" His jaw worked. "I do. I want that. I want to sit somewhere with you and not talk about nappies or gates or whether she can eat blueberries."

"She can eat blueberries."

"Cut."

"Yes."

"See?"

You smiled faintly.

His thumb moved against your waist.

"I want to be with you," he said, lower now.

Your chest softened.

"You are with me."

"Not like that."

Heat rose gently in your face.

Not because it was new.

Because it wasn't.

Because he was your husband and he had been home long enough now that the first desperate ache of touch had begun changing into something steadier. Still intense. Still careful around the bruised places. But less like survival and more like remembering.

"I know," you whispered.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

"But when Craig said it..."

"You panicked."

"I didn't panic."

"Andrew."

"I reacted strongly."

You laughed softly.

He almost smiled.

Then it faded.

"I don't want her to think I left."

Your heart broke for him.

"She won't."

"You don't know that."

"You're right. I don't."

His face shifted.

You reached up and touched his cheek.

"But I know this. She knows what coming back feels like now. You leave rooms and come back. You go outside and come back. You sleep and wake up still here. She is learning that Dada goes and returns."

He swallowed.

"That's different."

"Yes."

"You're allowed different," you said. "You don't have to stay in one room forever just to prove you're not gone."

His eyes went wet.

He looked away.

You let him.

Then you said, "The first time I left her, I cried in a pharmacy car park for ten minutes."

Andrew looked back at you.

"What?"

You nodded.

"Oh, fully. She was two months old. Craig had her. He was perfectly capable. I had only gone to get nappies, nipple cream, and those terrible protein bars I pretended tasted fine."

His mouth softened.

"A woman knocked on my car window and asked if I needed help."

"What did you say?"

"I said I was fine while holding nipple cream and sobbing."

Andrew stared at you.

Then, unexpectedly, laughed.

A real laugh.

Small, but real.

You smiled.

"It was very dignified."

"I'm sure."

"It felt wrong," you said. "Leaving her. Even though I needed to. Even though she was safe. My whole body kept telling me to go back."

Andrew's laugh faded.

You slid your hand down to his chest.

"So I do understand. Not exactly the same. But I know what it feels like when your head says safe and your body says no."

His hand covered yours.

"What helped?"

"Coming back and finding her fine."

He breathed out.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

He looked toward the cot.

Andie slept curled on her side, one hand near her cheek, soft hair fanned against the sheet.

You leaned into Andrew.

"We can go for one hour," you said. "Close by. Phones on. If you want to come home, we come home. No guilt. No proving anything."

He did not answer.

You waited.

Finally, he nodded.

"One hour."

"One hour."

"Close."

"Very close."

"If she cries—"

"Craig will handle it."

"And if she doesn't settle?"

"Craig will call."

"And Deran—"

"Will pretend he is not worried while being extremely worried."

Andrew huffed softly.

Accurate.

You rose on your toes and kissed him.

His hands tightened at your waist.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"One hour," he repeated.

You smiled.

"One hour."

Date night preparation looked different when you had a toddler and two Cody men providing commentary from downstairs.

You stood in front of the bedroom mirror wearing a black dress you had found at the back of your wardrobe, the kind of dress that belonged to a version of you who slept more than five hours at a time and did not consider dry shampoo a lifestyle.

It still fit.

Mostly.

A little differently now.

Your body had carried Andie. Fed her. Held her. Slept badly for her. Changed in ways you had not always known how to love.

You smoothed your hands over the fabric.

Andrew watched from the doorway.

He had been there for almost a minute without speaking.

You caught his eyes in the mirror.

"What?"

His gaze moved over you slowly.

Not in the hungry way first.

Though that was there too.

But in the stunned way.

Like he was seeing something he had missed without knowing he had missed it.

"You look beautiful."

Your face warmed.

"I have banana on my sleeve."

He stepped into the room.

"There's no sleeve."

You looked down.

"Oh."

His mouth twitched.

"You're nervous."

"I am covered in phantom banana. Of course I'm nervous."

Andrew came up behind you and set his hands at your hips.

You leaned back into him automatically.

The two of you stood there in the mirror.

Your dress.

His dark shirt.

His hands on you.

Your husband.

Home.

You watched his eyes move from your reflection to your bare shoulder, then back to your face.

"You okay?" he asked.

You smiled softly.

"About leaving her?"

"About all of it."

Your throat tightened.

You turned in his arms.

"I'm okay."

His eyes searched yours.

"Good okay?"

"Good nervous."

He nodded.

"Me too."

You reached up and smoothed the collar of his shirt.

"You look handsome."

He looked mildly uncomfortable.

You smiled.

"You do."

"It's just a shirt."

"It's a date shirt."

"It has buttons."

"And none of them have been removed by Andie yet, so we're already winning."

He looked down at himself, checking.

You laughed.

From the hallway, Andie yelled, "Mama!"

Then, immediately, "Dada!"

Andrew's eyes closed.

You patted his chest.

"Your date shirt has been summoned."

Downstairs, Craig called, "We've got her."

Deran added, "Mostly."

Andrew's eyes opened.

You sighed.

"Very reassuring."

Andrew started toward the door.

You caught his hand.

"Wait."

He stopped.

You leaned up and kissed him.

Slowly this time.

Not the quick kitchen pecks of the day.

Not the half-interrupted kisses near the laundry basket or the tired ones after bedtime.

A date-night kiss.

Andrew went still for one beat.

Then his hand slid to your back.

When you pulled away, his eyes were darker.

Softer.

He looked like he had briefly forgotten Craig, Deran, Andie, and possibly the concept of restaurants.

You smiled.

"That was to remind you we are going out as us."

He swallowed.

"Yeah."

"And we are coming back as us."

His thumb brushed your hand.

"Yeah."

You led him downstairs.

Craig and Deran had arrived with the energy of men preparing for both babysitting and siege.

Craig had already moved Andie's water cup to the coffee table, checked the stair gate, and laid out her pyjamas in the exact order of use.

Deran had opened a packet of crisps and taught Andie to say "uh-oh" when dropping blocks into his shoe.

You stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

"Why is she putting blocks in your shoe?"

Deran looked up.

"Fine motor skills."

Craig said, "He's been letting her do it for twenty minutes."

Andie held up a red block.

"Uh-oh."

Then dropped it into the shoe.

Deran looked proud. "See?"

Andrew looked at you.

You looked back.

"Maybe we should stay."

Deran pointed at you. "No."

Craig stepped forward. "Go."

Andie saw Andrew properly then.

Her whole face lit up.

"Dada!"

She toddled toward him, uneven and delighted.

Andrew crouched automatically.

She collided with him, both hands grabbing his shirt.

His eyes closed for half a second.

You saw the cancellation forming in real time.

You touched his shoulder.

"Andrew."

He opened his eyes.

Andie patted his cheek.

"Dada."

"I know," he whispered.

Craig's expression softened.

Deran looked away.

You crouched beside them.

"Baby, Mama and Dada are going out for a little while."

Andie looked at you.

"Mama."

"Yes."

You kissed her cheek.

"You're going to stay with Uncle Craig and Uncle Deran."

Deran muttered, "Strong team."

Craig gave him a look.

Andie held onto Andrew.

"Dada."

Andrew's face tightened.

You put a hand on his back.

"She's safe."

He nodded.

"I know."

"Say it."

His throat moved.

You kept your voice gentle.

Not pushing.

Grounding.

Andrew looked at Andie, then at Craig and Deran, then back to you.

"She's safe."

Your hand rubbed between his shoulder blades.

"She is."

Andie tugged his collar.

Andrew leaned in and kissed the top of her head.

"I'll be back," he whispered.

Your eyes stung.

Andie did not understand.

Not fully.

But maybe she knew enough.

She pressed her sticky little hand against his cheek.

"Dada."

"I know."

Craig stepped closer.

"I've got her."

Andrew looked up at him.

A hundred things passed between them.

Things from childhood. Things from prison. Things from the last fourteen months of Craig showing up, installing crooked gates, filming births, breaking lamps, carrying diaper bags, keeping Andie alive when you cried in pharmacy car parks.

Andrew nodded once.

"Okay."

Craig took Andie carefully.

She fussed immediately.

Andrew's whole body shifted toward her.

You caught his hand.

Craig bounced her.

"Hey, bug. Look. Blocks in Deran's shoe."

Deran lifted his foot.

Andie paused mid-whine.

"Uh-oh."

Deran dropped a block into his own shoe.

"Uh-oh."

Andie laughed.

Just like that.

Andrew stared.

You squeezed his hand.

"She's okay."

He breathed out slowly.

Then, because he was Andrew, he turned toward Craig and Deran.

"No whole grapes."

Craig nodded. "No whole grapes."

"Yellow cup."

"Yellow cup."

"Blue only if she asks."

"She won't."

"She might."

Craig nodded seriously. "Blue only if she asks."

"Duck book if she's clingy. Moon book if she's overtired. Rabbit only if desperate."

Deran looked offended. "Rabbit's desperate?"

"It's structurally weak."

"You recorded it three times."

"For her."

You pressed your lips together.

"Andrew."

He looked at you.

"Go."

He looked at Andie one more time.

She was now fully invested in Deran's shoe.

Then he nodded.

"Okay."

You opened the door.

Andrew stepped out with you.

The moment the door closed behind you, his hand found yours.

Tightly.

You let him hold on.

The diner was small, warm, and close enough to home that Andrew could probably sprint back if he needed to.

You had chosen it on purpose.

Nothing fancy.

No white tablecloths or tiny portions or servers explaining sauces with emotional investment.

Just vinyl booths, low lights, coffee in thick mugs, burgers, chips, and a waitress who called everyone honey regardless of age, gender, or emotional damage.

Andrew chose the side of the booth facing the door.

You noticed.

You did not comment.

He checked his phone before the menus arrived.

Then again after ordering.

Then when the waitress brought water.

Then when someone's phone buzzed three booths away and his hand moved before he realized it was not his.

You let the first few pass.

The fifth time, you reached across the table and covered his hand with yours.

He looked up.

"She is safe."

His jaw tightened.

"I know."

"And you are here with me."

That landed differently.

You saw it.

His eyes shifted from the phone to your face.

The diner moved around you.

Plates.

Voices.

The hiss of the coffee machine.

A family at the corner table negotiating with a child about fries.

Andrew's hand turned under yours until your fingers linked.

"I know."

"You're allowed to be here with me."

He swallowed.

"I know."

"Do you?"

He looked away.

You waited.

When he looked back, his expression was rawer.

"I don't know how to want both without feeling like I'm taking from one."

Your heart broke softly.

"Oh, Andrew."

"I want to be with you," he said, voice low. "I want this. I wanted it when I was inside. I thought about it too much. Sitting somewhere with you. Eating normal food. Touching your hand across a table."

Your thumb moved over his knuckles.

"But?"

"But I just got her." His voice roughened. "I just got mornings. Bedtime. Her yelling at bananas. The way she runs to the door when I come in from taking the bins out like I've been gone six months."

You smiled sadly.

"She is dramatic."

"She is."

"She gets that from you."

"She gets that from you."

You squeezed his hand.

He looked down.

"I don't want to waste time."

"You're not."

"I'm sitting here."

"With your wife."

"And she's at home."

"With people who love her."

He said nothing.

You leaned forward slightly.

"Loving me tonight doesn't mean loving her less."

His eyes lifted.

There.

That was the line.

The thing underneath the thing.

Andrew stared at you like you had opened a door he had not known how to name.

You continued softly.

"You don't have a fixed amount, baby. It isn't a ration. You can miss her and still be here. You can want dinner with me and still be her dad. You can hold my hand for one hour and still go home to her."

His breathing shifted.

"Love doesn't divide like that," you said. "It grows. Annoyingly. Messily. With crumbs everywhere."

His mouth trembled.

Then, almost against his will, he huffed a laugh.

"With crumbs?"

"Have you met our daughter?"

His thumb moved over yours.

"I missed this."

You smiled.

"Crumbs?"

"You."

Your face softened.

"I missed you too."

"I was there."

"No." You echoed him gently. "Like this."

He looked at your joined hands.

Then up at you.

"Yeah."

The waitress arrived with food, accidentally saving both of you from crying into the table.

Andrew stared at his burger like it was slightly suspicious.

You grinned.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're judging the burger."

"I'm assessing."

"It's not a threat."

"It's large."

"It's dinner."

"It has too much lettuce."

You laughed.

"Oh, we are so good at dating."

His mouth twitched.

"What do people talk about on dates?"

"Usually not lettuce threat levels."

"Or toddler bowel movements?"

"Ideally."

"Or whether the rabbit book has narrative flaws?"

You pointed at him. "That one might be allowed because I have strong feelings."

His eyes warmed.

"Yeah?"

"The rabbit makes terrible choices."

Andrew leaned back slightly, like this confirmed something essential.

"Thank you."

"But Andie loves it."

"She has questionable taste."

"She also loves licking the coffee table."

"That supports my point."

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

Andrew watched you.

His expression changed while you were laughing.

Softened.

Opened.

Like something in him was unclenching one finger at a time.

"What?" you asked.

He shook his head.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"I forgot how you look when you laugh somewhere that isn't the kitchen."

That almost undid you.

You reached for his hand again.

"Well," you said, voice thick, "take notes. We may attempt this again in six months."

"Six months?"

"Four."

"One."

You smiled.

"One month?"

"One week."

Your eyebrows lifted.

Andrew glanced at his phone, then back at you.

His jaw shifted.

"Maybe."

Your smile softened.

"Maybe is good."

"Maybe is terrifying."

"Also true."

He looked at the door.

Then at you.

Then deliberately turned his phone face down on the table.

You saw the effort.

The choice.

Your throat tightened.

"Proud of you."

"Don't."

"I am."

He looked uncomfortable.

You loved him.

Then his phone buzzed.

Both of you froze.

Andrew grabbed it.

You leaned over.

A text from Craig.

Alive. Bossy. Fine.

Attached was a photo.

Andie sat in her pyjamas on the living room rug, hair wild, moon book in one hand. Deran lay flat on the floor beside her with three blocks balanced on his chest and one in his hair. Craig's knee was visible at the edge of the frame.

Andie looked delighted.

Andrew stared at the photo for a long time.

His shoulders lowered.

You watched his whole body receive the proof.

Safe.

Happy.

Fine.

Then another text came in from Deran.

She called Craig Dada. Humbling night for everyone.

Andrew blinked.

Then laughed.

A real laugh.

Loud enough that the waitress glanced over and smiled.

You grinned.

"Poor Craig."

Andrew was still laughing under his breath.

"She called him Dada?"

"Apparently."

He looked almost offended and deeply amused.

"I leave for forty minutes."

"She is fickle."

"She knows who I am."

"She does."

"She calls spoons Dada too."

"And laundry baskets."

"She's learning."

You laughed again.

Andrew looked at the photo one more time.

Then set the phone down, screen up this time.

Not hidden.

Not clutched.

Just there.

"They're okay," he said.

You nodded.

"They're okay."

His eyes met yours.

"And we're here."

"Yes."

He reached under the table and hooked his foot gently around yours.

A tiny, ridiculous, intimate thing.

You looked at him over your burger.

"Was that flirting?"

His mouth twitched.

"Maybe."

"Careful. I'm married."

"Yeah?"

"To a very intense man."

"Sounds difficult."

"He is. But he's cute."

Andrew rolled his eyes, but there was colour high on his cheekbones.

You smiled.

There you are, you thought.

Not because he had been gone from you.

Not really.

But because pieces of him were still stepping out into the open, one ordinary thing at a time.

Dinner.

Laughter.

Phone face down.

His foot around yours under a diner table.

One hour became almost ninety minutes.

Neither of you mentioned it until the check came.

Then Andrew glanced at the time and looked startled.

You did too.

"Oh."

His eyes came to yours.

"We should—"

"Yes."

Not panicked.

Not ruined.

Just ready.

Enough for the first time.

He paid.

You let him, because you saw that it mattered.

Outside, the night air was cool.

Andrew took your hand before you could reach for his.

On the walk to the car, he stopped near the passenger door and turned you toward him.

"What?"

He kissed you.

Slow and warm under the diner sign, one hand at your waist, the other against your jaw.

Not prison desperate.

Not kitchen interrupted.

Not bedroom dark and careful.

Date-night kiss.

Public.

Allowed.

Yours.

When he pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for a second.

Then you smiled.

"Good date?"

His forehead rested briefly against yours.

"Good date."

"Ready to go home?"

His hand tightened at your waist.

"Yeah."

This time, the word did not sound like fear.

It sounded like both things could be true.

The house was quiet when you got back.

Too quiet.

Andrew unlocked the door slowly, as if bracing for crying.

Instead, the living room lamp was on low.

The television was muted.

Craig was asleep sitting upright on the sofa, arms crossed, head tipped back in a position that looked deeply uncomfortable and extremely Craig.

Deran was on the floor.

Andie was asleep on his chest.

Completely out.

One hand curled in his shirt, cheek squished against him, little body heavy with trust.

Deran was awake.

Barely.

He looked at you from the floor with the haunted eyes of a man who had been trapped for a long time and would die before disturbing the child.

"Help," he mouthed.

You covered your mouth.

Andrew stopped in the doorway.

His face changed.

Not jealousy.

Not panic.

Something softer.

Tenderness, maybe.

Awe.

Andie was safe.

Safe enough to sleep on Deran like he was furniture.

Safe enough that Craig had fallen asleep on guard.

Safe enough that the house had kept breathing without either of you inside it for ninety whole minutes.

You stepped close to Andrew.

"See?" you whispered. "Safe."

His eyes stayed on Andie.

"Safe," he repeated.

Deran mouthed, Get her.

Andrew crossed the room quietly.

He crouched beside Deran.

Deran whispered, "She weighs more when she sleeps."

Andrew's mouth twitched.

"I know."

"She called Craig Dada."

Craig, without opening his eyes, muttered, "She did not mean it."

You snorted softly.

Andrew slid one hand under Andie's back and the other under her legs.

She stirred.

Everyone froze.

Craig opened one eye.

Deran held his breath.

Andie made a tiny grumble and turned her face toward Andrew's chest.

"Dada," she mumbled.

Andrew closed his eyes.

You pressed a hand to your mouth.

Deran looked at the ceiling like he had personally been attacked.

Craig whispered, "See?"

Andrew lifted her fully into his arms.

She settled immediately.

Like she had known even asleep that he was back.

He held her for a second in the middle of the living room.

Not moving.

Just breathing.

Then he looked at Craig and Deran.

"Thank you."

Craig sat up straighter.

Deran pushed himself slowly onto one elbow.

Neither of them seemed to know what to do with that.

Craig nodded once.

"She was fine."

Deran rubbed his chest. "Heavy. But fine."

"She's not heavy," Craig said.

"She is when she's asleep and cutting off circulation to your ribs."

Andrew huffed softly.

Andie stirred again.

You moved beside him.

"I'll take her up."

He looked at you.

Then down at Andie.

"I've got her."

You smiled.

"I know."

You followed him upstairs.

In the nursery, he laid her in the cot with the careful precision he still used every time, though he was faster now. Less afraid. More practised.

Andie rolled onto her side, one hand under her cheek.

Andrew stayed bent over her for a moment.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"She really was okay."

He nodded.

"I know."

"You okay?"

He looked at her.

Then at you.

"Yeah."

"Good yeah?"

His mouth softened.

"Good yeah."

He brushed a kiss over Andie's hair.

"Night, baby girl."

She slept on.

Downstairs, Craig and Deran were speaking in low voices, probably arguing about whether Deran had been trapped or had "chosen the floor."

Andrew crossed the nursery toward you.

You stepped back into the hallway.

He closed the door halfway, leaving it cracked.

Then he turned and pulled you into his arms.

Fully.

No hesitation.

You went willingly, your cheek against his chest, his chin against your hair.

"Thank you," he said.

"For dinner?"

His arms tightened.

"For bringing me back."

Your throat closed.

You lifted your head.

"You came back."

His eyes were wet in the hallway light.

"Yeah," he said. "But you kept the door open."

That one hurt.

Beautifully.

You touched his face.

"I was always going to."

"I know."

"Do you?"

He looked toward Andie's half-open door.

Then down the stairs, where his brothers were still in the house.

Then back at you.

For once, the answer came without too much fight.

"Yeah."

You smiled through tears.

"Good."

He leaned down and kissed you.

Soft.

Slow.

Home.

Behind the nursery door, Andie slept.

Downstairs, Craig and Deran finally started bickering properly, which meant everyone was fine.

Andrew rested his forehead against yours.

"Can we do it again?" he asked.

Your eyebrows lifted.

"Date night?"

"Yeah."

You smiled.

"You want to?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

He breathed out, then nodded.

"I want both."

Your chest ached.

"Me too."

He held you closer.

Andrew had spent two years learning what it meant to miss you.

That night, with Andie safe upstairs, your hand in his, and the front door unlocked below, he began learning something new.

That coming home did not mean never leaving.

It meant leaving for one hour and finding his way back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

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Two weeks later, you and Jack Abbot had settled into a routine.

You hated that even more than the first routine.

The first routine had been accidental. Emergency housing. Shared bathroom. Coffee pot logistics. Two people trying not to murder each other before morning lectures.

This routine was worse.

This routine had structure.

Every morning, you walked to class together.

Not because either of you had agreed to it.

Not because it was pleasant.

Because you lived behind the same front door, attended the same medical school, and Jack had been unfortunately correct about the fact that you liked sleep more than you disliked his company.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, you walked home together too, because your last lectures ended at the same time and neither of you had managed to invent a convincing reason to linger on campus for twenty extra minutes just to avoid the other.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you split after lunch for separate labs, study groups, review sessions, or whatever other academic obligation had been designed to ruin your afternoon.

On Fridays, you did not walk home together.

Technically.

You simply ended up at the same crosswalk within thirty seconds of each other, turned in the same direction, and maintained a deeply mature three-foot distance until you reached the apartment.

That was different.

You did not study together.

You studied near each other.

Jack took the kitchen table. You took the couch. Sometimes the floor, if your back started to hate you. Sometimes the armchair, if you got there first and refused to move on principle.

You did not ask each other questions unless absolutely necessary, which apparently meant three to six times per night depending on the subject, the professor, and whether Jack was being difficult about admitting he needed help.

When Jack needed your notes, he stood at the edge of the living room with his textbook tucked under one arm and said, “Can I see your notes?”

You always looked up from your page. “Say please.”

Jack always stared at you like you had asked him to surrender territory.

Then he always said, “Please.”

That part was important.

Unfortunately, the system had consequences.

The first time you needed his notes, you tried to handle it with dignity.

You stood beside the kitchen table and stared at the open notebook near his elbow.

Jack kept writing for half a second.

Then his pen slowed.

Stopped.

He did not look up. “Use your words.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Can I see your notes for Singh?”

Jack lifted his head slowly.

Your stomach dropped.

“Can you?” Jack asked.

“No,” you said immediately.

His brow lifted. “No?”

You glared at him. “No, because I can already see where this is going.”

Jack looked up at you. “Where is it going?”

You held out your hand. “Into my hands. Ideally.”

Jack leaned back in his chair like he had all night to enjoy this. “Try again.”

You tightened your hand around the edge of the table. “Abbot.”

His brows lifted. “One word.”

You pointed at the notebook. “Notes.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved. “Different word.”

You glared at him.

Jack looked deeply, offensively patient.

“Please,” you said.

His mouth curved. “See? Not fatal.”

You sighed. “The night is young.”

Jack slid the notebook toward you. “Page thirty-eight.”

You opened it and immediately hated how useful it was.

“Your handwriting is pretentious,” you said.

Jack picked up his pen again. “My handwriting is legible.”

You glanced down at the page. “Pretentiously legible.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Still counts.”

You looked up at him.

Jack looked very pleased with himself.

You pointed at him with his own notebook. “Do not start making that a thing.”

“Too late,” Jack said.

You also did not share meals.

You shared leftovers.

There was a difference.

Meals implied planning. Meals implied intention. Meals implied someone looking into the fridge and thinking about what another person might want after a long day of pretending not to be exhausted.

Leftovers were practical.

Leftovers were math.

If you made too much pasta, and Jack was across the hall, and eating all of it yourself would be medically inadvisable, then offering him some was simply responsible roommate behavior.

If Jack made too much rice, or eggs, or one deeply suspicious but surprisingly good skillet dinner out of whatever had been in the fridge, and there happened to be a bowl left on the counter with your name not written on it but somehow implied, that was also logistics.

Food logistics.

Apartment logistics.

Survival.

The bathroom schedule had become the only place where your rivalry had paperwork.

Every morning, you had twenty-two minutes.

Jack had made the schedule.

Of course Jack had made the schedule.

He had written it in clean block letters on a notecard and taped it to the inside of the bathroom cabinet like a man who believed civilization depended on posted procedures.

It was not laminated only because you had threatened to move out.

If you went over by one minute, Jack knocked immediately.

Every time.

Without fail.

“You’re over,” Jack said through the bathroom door on Monday morning.

You looked at your reflection in the fogged mirror, mascara wand frozen halfway to your eye. “It has been thirty seconds.”

“It has been one minute and twelve seconds,” Jack replied.

Your eyes narrowed at your own reflection. “You timed me?”

Jack’s voice stayed calm on the other side of the door. “I’m leaving without you.”

You leaned closer to the mirror and finished the mascara. “Great. Enjoy your lonely little walk.”

Silence.

Then, from the hallway, Jack said, “You have two minutes.”

You smiled despite yourself.

He did not leave.

He never left.

That was the problem.

By the end of the second week, the apartment had started to feel less like Jack’s place with your boxes in it and more like something neither of you had agreed to name.

Your sweater ended up on the back of the couch and stayed there for three days.

Jack’s old mug migrated to the shelf beside yours.

Your pathology notes lived on the coffee table.

His cardiology textbook lived on the kitchen table.

There was always coffee in the morning.

Always enough for two.

You did not talk about that.

Talking about that would have been dangerous.

So you talked about normal things instead.

Rent. Rotations. Gross anatomy review.

Who used the last of the milk.

Whether the radiator noise was getting worse.

Whether Jack was physically capable of shutting cabinet doors all the way.

Whether you were physically capable of being ready on time.

You were, for the record.

Mostly.

And then Saturday came.

Saturday should have been safe.

There were no lectures. No labs. No hallway full of classmates ready to witness whatever horrifying roommate behavior you and Jack Abbot had apparently started producing against your will.

There was no reason to be awake before eight.

Which was why, when you finally dragged yourself out of bed a little after nine, still half-asleep and morally opposed to consciousness, you expected exactly three things from the kitchen.

Coffee. Silence. Privacy.

You got one of them.

Barely.

You shuffled down the hallway in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt, one hand dragging through your hair as you aimed toward the coffee pot with the blind faith of someone who had not yet remembered that she shared an apartment with her academic rival.

Then you reached the kitchen.

And stopped.

Jack was there.

Shirtless.

Sweaty.

Standing near the sink with one hand braced on the counter and a glass of water in the other, his chest rising and falling like he had just come back from a run. His hair was damp, curls darker at the ends and pushed back from his forehead in a way that did absolutely nothing to help you survive the situation.

Your brain, which had successfully completed an entire year of medical school, offered you one clear, academic thought.

Oh. No.

Jack looked up.

You looked at him.

At his face.

Only his face.

Mostly his face.

His brow lifted. “Problem?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

That, unfortunately, was a problem.

Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand, still frozen midair, as if you had been about to reach for the coffee pot and had lost motor function halfway through.

Then his mouth almost moved. “Coffee’s made.”

You blinked.

Coffee. Right. You were here for coffee. You were a person with goals.

“I can see that,” you said.

Jack glanced toward the coffee pot. “Good.”

You stepped into the kitchen with every ounce of dignity you had left, which was not a lot. “Don’t sound surprised.”

Jack lifted the glass to his mouth and took a drink of water.

You did not watch his throat move.

You did not.

You looked at the cabinet instead.

Jack lowered the glass. “You stopped walking.”

You opened the cabinet too forcefully. “I was thinking.”

Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “About?”

You pulled down the nearest mug and set it on the counter. “Coffee.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on you for one second too long. “Convincing.”

You reached for the coffee pot. “Don’t start.”

The coffee poured into your mug with a steadiness you personally deserved an award for maintaining.

Jack stayed by the sink.

Still shirtless. Still sweaty. Still existing in your kitchen, like the lease allowed this.

You set the coffee pot back and leaned against the counter beside it, mug clutched in both hands like caffeine could restore your dignity. “Do you always wander around half-naked before breakfast?”

Jack’s brow lifted. “I ran.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, because that had done absolutely nothing to answer the question and somehow still explained everything.

Jack set his water glass in the sink. “What?”

You gripped your mug tighter. “That was not the question.”

“I got hot,” Jack said.

You stared at him. “That was also not the question.”

His mouth curved slightly. “What was the question?”

You lifted your chin, refusing to move from the counter on principle. “Whether this is going to be a regular occurrence.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Does it need a rule?” Jack asked.

Your grip tightened around the mug.

The roommate agreement. Of course. Of course, he would do this.

You lifted your chin higher. “Yes.”

Jack folded his arms.

That did not help.

That made everything much worse.

His mouth curved slightly. “No shirtless running recovery in the kitchen?”

“No being…” You gestured vaguely at him with one hand and immediately regretted it. “Like that.”

Jack glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Like what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know what.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on yours, steady and unreadable in a way that warmed your face. “I really don’t.”

You tightened your grip on the mug. “You absolutely do.”

Jack did not answer.

Instead, he moved.

One controlled step toward you.

Then another.

You went still before you could tell yourself not to.

Jack braced one hand on the counter beside your hip and reached past you with the other for the coffee pot.

His chest was inches from yours.

Barely inches.

Close enough that the warm, salty scent of sweat, morning air, and Jack filled your lungs before you could decide not to breathe. Close enough that you could see the beads of sweat tracking down the side of his neck, sliding over his collarbone, catching briefly against the glistening skin of his chest before disappearing lower.

Your brain stopped working.

Fully.

Catastrophically.

Jack’s arm shifted beside you as his fingers closed around the pot's handle.

For one second, neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes fixed on the center of his chest, which was an enormous mistake.

So you looked up.

That was worse.

Jack was watching you now, expression still controlled, but his eyes were sharper than they had been a minute ago.

Aware.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

You swallowed. “You could have said excuse me.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

Briefly. Barely. Enough.

His voice was lower when he answered. “I thought about it.”

Your fingers tightened around your mug. “You should’ve gone with that.”

Jack’s mouth curved.

Small and slow.

“Too late now,” Jack said.

The coffee pot lifted from the counter beside you.

Jack stepped back.

The air returned all at once.

You hated that you noticed.

Jack poured coffee into his mug with maddening calm, like he had not just committed a felony against your nervous system before breakfast.

You stared at him.

He glanced over the rim of the pot. “Problem?”

You blinked. “No.”

Jack set the pot down. “Convincing.”

You pointed at him with your free hand. “Put on a shirt.”

Jack’s grin sharpened.

You closed your eyes briefly, then opened them. “As a courtesy to the shared living environment.”

Jack leaned back against the opposite counter with his coffee. “As a courtesy.”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

“To the shared living environment,” Jack repeated.

You nodded again. “Yes.”

Jack looked down at himself, then back at you. “The living environment seems fine.”

You pointed toward the hallway with your mug. “The living environment wants you to put on a shirt.”

His grin appeared before he could stop it.

Small, cocky, devastating.

You turned away from him with your coffee. “I’m going back to bed.”

Jack looked toward the clock on the stove. “It’s nine-thirty.”

You started toward the hallway. “Emotionally, it’s still dawn.”

“You have to study,” Jack said from behind you.

You tightened your grip on the mug. “You have to wear a shirt.”

A quiet huff of laughter slipped out of him.

You heard it.

You hated that you heard it.

You made it halfway to the hallway before his voice followed you, low and entirely too pleased.

“Good morning to you too.”

You stopped.

Your fingers tightened around the mug.

You did not turn around.

You stared straight ahead at the hall, at your bedroom door, at safety.

Then you said, with as much dignity as a woman fleeing a shirtless man in her own kitchen could manage, “Morning, Abbot.”

Behind you, Jack laughed under his breath.

You kept walking.

This was going to be a problem.

By noon, you had decided two things.

One, Jack Abbot knew exactly what he had done.

Two, you were not above retaliation.

This was not flirting.

This was justice.

Which was why, after lunch, you changed into fitted shorts and an old tank top, dragged your yoga mat into the living room, and unrolled it in the exact stretch of floor between the couch and the coffee table.

It was a perfectly reasonable place to do yoga.

It was also directly visible from the kitchen table.

That was a coincidence.

Mostly.

Jack was exactly where he usually was on Saturday afternoons, seated at the kitchen table with a textbook open, a pen in his hand, and one of his painfully organized notebooks beside it.

You did not look at him as you stepped onto the mat.

That would have been obvious.

You lifted your arms overhead, rolled your shoulders back, and bent forward with the serene focus of a woman who had absolutely no ulterior motives.

The kitchen went quiet.

Beautiful.

You kept your hands on the mat and stretched a little deeper.

Behind you, the kitchen chair creaked.

Not loudly or dramatically.

Just enough.

Your mouth curved before you could stop it. You stayed folded forward for one more breath, then another, giving the silence plenty of time to incriminate him.

Jack did not say anything.

Neither did you.

Slowly, you rose halfway, planted your palms on your thighs, and looked back at him over your shoulder.

Jack was not looking at his textbook.

He was looking at you.

Specifically, he was looking at the part of you currently arranged in a way that made his attention extremely easy to identify.

His eyes lifted to yours a second too late.

Perfect.

Even better, a faint flush had started high on his cheekbones.

You arched one brow. “Problem?”

Jack’s face did not change.

That was impressive.

The blush stayed, though.

His pen shifted once between his fingers. “No.”

You held his gaze. “Convincing.”

Jack leaned back in his chair as if he had just been caught committing a felony. “You’re in the middle of the living room.”

You straightened slowly and turned toward him. “I live here.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “I noticed.”

The words landed before either of you could pretend they had not.

Your stomach flipped.

You lifted your chin. “I’m stretching.”

Jack looked at the yoga mat, then back at you. “Subtle.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?”

His mouth curved slightly. “You heard me.”

You folded your arms. “Are you accusing me of something?”

Jack set his pen down with maddening care. “Retaliation.”

You stared at him. “That is a serious accusation.”

Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the mat before returning to your face. “That is a serious stretch.”

You stared at him.

Jack stared back.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

You hated him.

You hated that you wanted to laugh.

You turned back to the mat before your face could give you away. “Flexibility is important.”

Jack did not answer.

That was your first warning.

Unfortunately, you kept talking.

“I find it useful outside of yoga too,” you said.

The silence behind you changed.

You froze.

You had not meant it like that.

Not exactly.

Not out loud.

From the kitchen, Jack’s pen tapped once against the table.

Once.

Then stopped.

You closed your eyes.

Behind you, Jack’s voice came out very even. “Do you?”

Your face went hot. “For posture.”

Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Of course.”

You stared down at the mat. “And preventing injury.”

Jack’s pen shifted softly against the table. “Important.”

You swallowed. “And general mobility.”

Jack was quiet for a beat. “Very practical.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Don’t.”

Jack’s mouth curved, but the flush on his cheekbones had deepened slightly. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You were about to.”

Jack held your gaze for one second longer than necessary. “I was considering it.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then you lowered into a lunge, one knee bent, palms flat on either side of your foot, because apparently you had decided the only way out was through.

Behind you, the kitchen chair creaked again.

You smiled down at the mat.

“You going to study?” you asked, keeping your voice mild.

Jack was quiet for half a second too long.

Then his voice came lower. “Eventually.”

Your breath caught.

Barely.

But the apartment was small, and Jack Abbot had become horrifyingly good at noticing things you wished he would miss.

You glanced back.

He was still watching you. The blush had not gone away. Neither had the look in his eyes. Controlled. Careful. Not smug now. Aware.

Your satisfaction faltered.

This had been easier when you were winning.

You shifted your weight and sat back on your heels, suddenly very aware of the shorts, the tank top, the loose fall of your hair against your neck, and the fact that Jack was sitting ten feet away looking at you like he was trying very hard not to.

“You’re staring,” you said.

Jack’s jaw shifted.

Caught.

Actually caught.

The flush on his face made something low in your stomach pull tight.

His eyes flicked back to his notebook. “I was thinking.”

You blinked. “About?”

Jack looked up again.

One corner of his mouth lifted.

There he was.

Your face warmed. “Don’t answer that.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, pen still loose between his fingers. “Wasn’t planning to.”

You pushed yourself upright, suddenly desperate to be standing. “Good.”

Jack’s gaze followed you as you reached for the edge of the mat. “Done already?”

You rolled the mat with more force than necessary. “I got what I needed.”

Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “Did you?”

You froze for one terrible second.

Then you looked up at him.

His face was still flushed.

Yours was not better.

This entire plan had gone very badly.

You tucked the rolled mat under your arm and lifted your chin. “Stretching, Abbot.”

Jack looked at the mat under your arm, then back at you. “Right.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t make that sound like a question.”

Jack picked up his pen again, but his mouth was still curved. “I didn’t.”

“You did with your face,” you said.

His eyes flicked up to yours. “My face is innocent.”

You stared at him. “Your face has never been innocent a day in its life.”

That got him.

A quiet huff of laughter slipped out before he could stop it, and for one second, the blush and the laugh and the way he looked down at his textbook like he needed somewhere safe to put his eyes made your chest feel strangely tight.

You did not like that.

You liked it too much.

So you turned toward the hallway.

Jack’s voice followed you before you made it three steps. “New rule.”

You stopped, but you did not turn around. “No.”

Jack’s pen tapped once against the table. “No retaliatory yoga in the living room.”

You looked back at him over your shoulder. “It wasn’t retaliatory.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Convincing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No staring during yoga.”

Jack held your gaze. “I wasn’t staring.”

You tipped your chin toward the kitchen table. “The chair gave you away.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved.

Then the flush on his cheekbones came back.

You turned away before either of you could make it worse.

For once, Jack did not say anything.

That felt like victory.

It also felt like the apartment had shifted again, one more inch toward something neither of you were ready to name.

You carried the yoga mat back to your room and shut the door behind you.

Then you leaned against it, closed your eyes, and took one careful breath.

This had been retaliation.

Technically.

Unfortunately, you were beginning to suspect Jack Abbot did not know how to lose correctly.

You stood there for another few seconds, listening to the quiet on the other side of the door.

No chair scraping.

No pen moving.

No dry comment from the kitchen.

Good.

That was good.

That was what you wanted.

Then you heard the faintest sound of Jack clearing his throat.

Your eyes opened.

No.

Absolutely not.

You pushed off the door, grabbed a change of clothes, and went straight for the bathroom.

A shower was neutral.

A shower was private.

A shower was a reasonable and medically advisable response to yoga, humiliation, and the deeply unfair fact that your roommate looked like that while being such a pain in the ass.

When you came back out, your hair was damp, your skin was warm, and you had changed into soft shorts and an old oversized sweatshirt that had survived more laundry cycles than most relationships.

Jack was still at the kitchen table.

He looked up when you came down the hall.

His gaze moved over your damp hair first.

Then the sweatshirt.

Then your bare legs.

Not long.

Not rudely.

But not fast enough.

You kept walking toward the couch, textbook tucked against your chest, and arched one brow as you passed him. “Study.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.

For half a second, he said nothing.

Then his mouth curved.

Small.

Still somehow pleased.

“Gladly,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

Jack looked back down at his textbook.

You crossed to the couch with the dignity of a woman who had absolutely not won that exchange as cleanly as she wanted to.

For the next twenty minutes, you actually did study.

You stretched out across the couch with your legs draped over one arm, one foot bare, the other hooked lazily at the ankle. Your textbook rested open against your stomach, and you held your notebook above your face, reading the same handwritten pathway until the words started to blur into one long accusation.

Inflammatory mediators.

Vascular permeability.

Neutrophil migration.

Macrophage activation.

Awful.

All of it.

You shifted the notebook higher and frowned at your own handwriting.

You were somewhere between prostaglandins and leukotrienes, deeply committed to pretending the morning had never happened, when a shadow fell across the page.

You blinked.

Before your brain could decide what that meant, Jack’s face appeared upside down over the edge of the notebook.

You nearly dropped it on your own nose.

“Jesus,” you said, jerking the notebook down against your chest. “What is wrong with you?”

Jack was leaning over the back of the couch, forearms braced along the top cushion, his curls hanging slightly forward from the angle.

His mouth curved, not quite a grin, but close. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

You stared up at him, heart still trying to recover. “Why are you over here?”

Jack’s gaze moved lazily over your position on the couch. “Why are you studying like a Victorian invalid?”

You tightened your grip on the notebook. “I’m comfortable.”

Jack tipped his head a fraction farther over the back of the couch. “You look deceased.”

You stared at him for one beat. “That’s because pathology is killing me.”

That got the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth.

You hated that you noticed.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the notes in your hand. “You’re rereading the same page.”

You frowned. “Were you timing me?”

Jack raised a brow. “You sighed three times.”

You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, still facing him across the back of the couch. “That is not evidence.”

Jack’s expression stayed infuriatingly even. “It’s strong evidence.”

You sat up a little more, the textbook sliding down into your lap. “You’re very judgmental for someone hanging over a couch to harass me.”

Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to the page on your lap. “What are you stuck on?”

You should have lied.

Instead, you lifted the notes a little. “Early reversible changes.”

Jack stayed where he was, upside down and deeply irritating. “You know them.”

You frowned at him. “Then why don’t I feel like I know them?”

Jack’s shoulders shifted slightly against the back of the couch. “Because you’re tired.”

The answer came so simply that it knocked the sarcasm right out of you.

For half a second, all you did was look at him.

He looked back.

Still upside down. Still too close. Still somehow managing to sound annoyingly practical and unexpectedly right at the same time.

You looked down first and tapped the page with one finger. “Fine. Quiz me.”

Jack was quiet for a beat, and when you glanced up again, that softer version of his cocky expression had appeared, the one that looked less like he was winning and more like he was amused you had given him an opening.

“Confident,” Jack said.

You adjusted the notes in your lap. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Jack’s forearms stayed braced on the back of the couch as he looked at the page. “Earliest reversible change with hypoxic injury?”

You leaned back against the cushion. “Cellular swelling.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the notes. “Mechanism?”

You tucked one leg beneath yourself. “ATP depletion causes failure of ion pumps. Sodium accumulates inside the cell, water follows, cell swells.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved. “Textbook answer.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Correct textbook answer.”

He looked back at the page. “Ribosomal detachment from the rough ER causes what?”

You sighed. “Decreased protein synthesis.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to yours. “Good.”

The word landed wrong.

Not bad wrong.

Worse.

Warm wrong.

You looked back down at your notes. “Say correct.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “What?”

You kept your eyes on the page. “Say correct. Not good.”

There was a pause.

Then Jack’s mouth curved. “No.”

You looked up at him. “No?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “No.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

His gaze dropped back to the notes. “Good is faster.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Jack turned the page. “Coagulative necrosis.”

Terrible man.

You forced yourself to focus. “Architecture preserved. Usually ischemic injury. Except brain.”

Jack nodded once. “Brain?”

You answered before he could finish. “Liquefactive necrosis.”

Jack’s finger moved down the page. “Abscess?”

You shifted the textbook higher in your lap. “Also liquefactive.”

Jack looked at you. “Caseous?”

You wrinkled your nose. “TB. Cheese-like. Gross.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Medical terminology at its finest.”

You shrugged against the cushion. “If pathology didn’t want me to say gross, pathology should be less gross.”

That got him.

A quiet laugh.

Not a huff this time.

An actual laugh, low and brief and surprised enough that you looked up before you could stop yourself.

Jack was smiling.

Not smirking. Not winning.

Smiling.

It changed his whole face for half a second, softening the sharp edges, making him look younger, easier, like someone you might have liked immediately if you had met him somewhere without exams and point differences and all the reasons you had built to be difficult with him.

Then he looked back at the page.

The smile disappeared.

But not completely.

Something in your chest felt strange.

Jack cleared his throat. “Fat necrosis.”

You blinked yourself back into focus. “Trauma to fat tissue. Pancreatitis. Saponification.”

Jack nodded once. “Good.”

You looked up slowly.

He was not looking at you.

The corner of his mouth moved anyway.

Terrible, terrible man.

Jack asked another question.

You answered.

Then you asked him one.

He got it right.

Unfortunately.

Then you asked him another, more difficult one, because you were not above pettiness in the pursuit of education.

Jack got that one right, too.

More unfortunately.

At some point, he stopped leaning over the back of the couch and came around to sit beside you.

Not close.

Not at first.

He sat at the other end, one arm stretched along the back cushion, your textbook open in his lap and his notebook balanced against his thigh. You sat with one leg tucked beneath you, your own notebook resting against your knee, a pen trapped between your fingers.

It was normal.

It was practical.

It was two exhausted medical students studying because that was what exhausted medical students did.

Except Jack was good at quizzing you.

That was annoying.

He did not give hints too early. He did not let you get away with vague answers. He waited through your frustration without rescuing you from it, then said one word that made your brain snap into place, as if he had known exactly which wire was loose.

You hated that.

You liked it.

You hated that more.

Jack tapped your textbook with the end of his pen. “Chemical mediators derived from arachidonic acid.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I hate that sentence.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “That isn’t an answer.”

You let your head drop back against the couch. “Prostaglandins and leukotrienes.”

Jack glanced down at the page. “Good.”

You turned your head to glare at him.

He did not look up.

The corner of his mouth moved anyway.

“You are enjoying this,” you said.

Jack turned the page. “You getting the answers right?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Me getting annoyed.”

His mouth curved. “That too.”

You looked away first, because the room had done that thing again where it suddenly felt smaller without anyone moving.

Safe ground.

You needed safe ground.

You grabbed his notebook from the coffee table and flipped to the cardiopulmonary section. “Define afterload.”

Jack’s brow lifted. “That’s your revenge?”

You settled deeper into the couch. “Define it without sounding like you’re being held at gunpoint by a textbook.”

Jack leaned back, considering. “Pressure the ventricle has to overcome to eject blood.”

You paused.

Then you frowned. “That was annoyingly normal.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Good?”

You pointed his notebook at him. “Do not make me weaponize your own notes.”

Jack reached over and plucked the notebook from your hand. “You’d lose.”

You scoffed. “I would absolutely not lose.”

“You’d get distracted by my handwriting,” Jack said.

You stared at him. “Your handwriting is not that impressive.”

Jack glanced down at the page. “It’s legible.”

“It’s pretentiously legible,” you replied.

His eyes flicked to yours.

For one second, he only looked at you.

Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Still counts.”

The laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Small.

Barely there.

But there.

Jack’s expression changed.

Not much.

Just enough for you to know he had heard it.

You looked down at your notebook immediately, like there might be something life-saving in the margin.

There was not.

There was only your own handwriting, several inflammatory pathways, and the horrifying knowledge that Jack Abbot had made you laugh without even trying.

The afternoon moved after that.

Not quickly, exactly.

Easily.

That was worse.

You quizzed him on preload.

He quizzed you on necrosis.

You asked him to explain Starling forces and then regretted it because he actually did.

Calmly.

Clearly.

Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, drawing a small diagram in the margin of your notebook.

You corrected the label on one arrow.

He stared at it for half a second.

Then he nodded. “Good catch.”

You blinked.

Jack looked up. “What?”

You looked back at the diagram too quickly. “Nothing.”

His gaze stayed on your face for a second longer. “That was nothing?”

You tapped the paper with your pen. “It was a rare moment of you being gracious. I’m processing.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Take your time.”

“I need three to five business days,” you said.

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

Low and brief and real.

You looked down at the notebook again, but this time you were smiling too.

That was the problem.

You were smiling.

Not because you had won.

Not because he had said something irritating and you had found the perfect response.

Just because.

Because he was sitting beside you with his sleeves pushed up, one of your pens in his hand, making ugly little diagrams in the margins of your notes.

Because he looked less like your rival when he was explaining something and more like someone who wanted you to understand it.

Because you had spent so much time trying to beat Jack Abbot that you had not prepared for what it would feel like to be helped by him.

You shifted on the couch, uncurling one leg from underneath you.

Your knee brushed his thigh.

Barely.

A small, accidental touch.

Skin against fabric.

Nothing.

Jack stopped mid-sentence.

You stopped breathing.

His gaze dropped to where your knee had touched him.

Then lifted back to your face.

For one second, neither of you moved.

It was ridiculous.

You had touched him before.

His hand on your shoulder in the lecture hall.

Fingers brushing over a pen.

A sleeve in the hallway.

Nothing about this should have mattered.

But this was different.

Because no one was watching.

Because there was no excuse of a crowded aisle or a narrow hallway or furniture that needed moving.

Because you were both sitting on the same couch, surrounded by shared notes, borrowed pens, and the remains of an afternoon you had not meant to give him.

Your eyes flicked toward the window.

The light had changed.

That was when you realized.

The bright afternoon had gone soft and gray around the edges. The room was dimmer than it had been. Your stomach had started to ache with hunger, and you had not noticed because you had been too busy talking to Jack.

Studying with Jack.

Laughing with Jack.

Sitting beside Jack.

For hours.

Actual hours.

Your chest tightened.

Oh.

You liked this.

Not the idea of it.

Not the tension.

Not the annoying, electric, infuriating game of trying to make him blush and then regretting it when he did.

This.

The quiet. The couch. The notes. The way he looked at your diagram like your brain was something worth following.

The way he said good and made it sound like a dare.

You liked being with him.

The realization startled you so badly that you moved.

Too fast.

Your knee pulled away from his thigh, and your notebook slid half off your lap.

Jack’s hand moved on instinct, catching the edge before it could hit the floor.

He held it there, fingers curled around the cover.

You stared at his hand.

Then at him.

Jack’s brows drew together slightly. “You okay?”

You stood before you could think better of it.

“Fine,” you said, reaching for the notebook.

The word came out too quick.

Jack noticed.

He sat back slowly, still holding your notebook. “That didn’t sound fine.”

You reached for the notebook. “It was fine-adjacent.”

Jack did not let go immediately.

Not to trap you.

Not to be difficult.

Just long enough for you to look at him.

His voice was quieter when he spoke. “What happened?”

You hated that question. You hated it because it was not teasing. You hated it because he sounded like he actually wanted to know.

You took the notebook from his hand and tucked it against your chest. “Nothing.”

Jack looked at you for a beat. “That word is getting less convincing.”

You tried for a smile.

It did not feel like one. “Maybe you’re getting harder to convince.”

His expression changed.

Barely.

But you saw it.

You saw him understand that something had shifted, even if he did not know exactly what.

You stepped around the coffee table, needing space, needing air, needing the room to stop smelling like coffee and paper and Jack’s soap.

“I’m going for a walk,” you said, already moving toward the hallway.

Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”

You moved to grab your shoes, then turned toward the door. “Yes.”

Jack stood.

Not fully toward you.

Just enough that the movement caught in your peripheral vision.

Your whole body noticed.

“Do you want—” Jack started.

You looked back too quickly.

He stopped.

The offer sat there unfinished.

Do you want company?

Do you want me to come with you?

Your grip tightened around your notebook.

Jack’s mouth closed.

Then he nodded once, like he had decided not to make you answer something you could not handle.

“Take your key,” Jack said.

The ordinary words hit worse than the unfinished question.

You looked at the bowl by the door, where both of your keys sat side by side.

Two keys.

Same apartment.

Same bowl.

Dangerous.

You set your notebook on the narrow entry table and picked up your key. “I know.”

Jack stayed by the couch. “Okay.”

You opened the door.

Then paused, because leaving without saying anything felt too abrupt, and saying too much felt impossible.

You looked back.

Jack was still standing in the living room, your textbook open on the couch beside him, his notebook on the coffee table, one of your pens still in his hand.

He looked like he belonged there.

That was the problem.

“I’ll be back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I know.”

You swallowed.

Then you stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you.

The air outside the apartment was cooler.

Less close.

Less warm.

Less him.

You stood there for one second with your key pressed into your palm and your heartbeat too loud in your ears.

Inside the apartment, everything had gotten too easy.

That was the problem.

Not the shirtless kitchen incident.

Not the yoga mat.

Not his stupid mouth or his stupid praise or the stupid way he laughed when he forgot to stop himself.

Those things were dangerous, yes.

But they made sense.

Heat made sense.

Want made sense.

This was worse.

Because for a few hours, you had forgotten to hate him.

And the terrible part was, you were starting to think he had forgotten too.

The first time Andrew said, "I've got her," everyone stopped moving.

Not dramatically.

No plates shattered. No music stopped. No baby screamed on cue.

But the kitchen went still in the way it did now whenever something new and fragile stepped into the room.

You were standing by the counter with your bag open, trying to remember whether you had put your keys in it or if Andie had hidden them somewhere deeply cursed, like the laundry basket or inside one of Craig's boots.

Craig was leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, watching you make a mental list of things you had already written down on an actual list.

Deran sat at the table with Andie on his lap, letting her pull every napkin from the holder because he had apparently decided discipline was a theory best explored by other people.

And Andrew stood near the sink, one hand curled around his half-finished coffee, eyes on you.

You looked at him.

"What?"

"I said I've got her."

Craig straightened slightly.

Deran's hand paused over the napkin holder.

Andie, unaware of the adult weight in the room, held up a napkin with great pride.

"Da."

Andrew looked at her.

Then back at you.

"You need to go."

"I don't need to go."

"You have an appointment."

"It's just the pharmacy and the grocery shop."

"And the thing at the bank," Craig said.

You pointed at him. "Unhelpful."

"And you haven't been out of the house alone since he got home," Deran added.

You turned to him slowly.

He lifted his eyebrows.

"What? I observe things."

"You observe things in the most annoying way possible."

Andie slapped a napkin against his chest.

Deran looked down at her. "See? She agrees with me."

"She does not."

"She respects honesty."

"She's eating the napkin."

Deran gently removed the corner from Andie's mouth. "No eating paper, criminal."

Andie yelled.

Andrew set his mug down.

"I've got her," he said again.

Softer this time.

Not a challenge.

Not pride.

A statement he was making himself stand inside.

You looked at him properly then.

He had been home nine days.

Nine days of learning the house by touch and sound. Nine days of sleeping badly beside you and pretending you did not notice. Nine days of Andrew waking at every noise, then relaxing when he realized the noise was only Andie dropping a toy, the kettle clicking off, Craig at the back door, Deran swearing softly because he had stepped on a block.

Nine days of bedtime attempts.

Nine days of morning chaos.

Nine days of Andie saying Dada at him so often that sometimes he had to turn away because the word still hit him too hard.

But he had not been alone with her yet.

Not fully.

Not without you in the house, or Craig in the kitchen, or Deran pretending not to hover.

He saw you realize it.

His jaw tightened.

You stepped closer.

"Andrew."

"I can do it."

"I know."

His eyes searched yours.

"No." You softened. "I know."

That seemed to knock some of the fight out of him.

Behind you, Craig cleared his throat.

"I can stay."

Andrew's eyes flicked to him.

Craig immediately held up both hands. "Not because you need me. Just—"

"No," Andrew said.

The word was not harsh.

But it landed.

Craig stopped.

Deran looked between them, then down at Andie, who was now trying to shove a whole napkin into the gap between his wristwatch and skin.

Andrew looked at Craig.

"I need to do it."

The kitchen went quiet again.

This time, no one pretended not to understand.

Craig nodded once.

"Yeah."

Deran's mouth tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat.

"Are you sure?"

Andrew looked at you.

"No."

Your lips parted.

Then he added, "But I've got her."

That was what made you almost cry.

Not the confidence.

The honesty.

You crossed the kitchen and reached for his hand.

He gave it to you immediately now. That had become one of the small changes since he came home. In the beginning, he had still hesitated before touching. Like some part of him expected permission to be revoked. Now, if you reached, he reached back.

You squeezed his fingers.

"I won't be long."

"You can be as long as you need."

"Don't be heroic."

"I'm not."

"You are frequently heroic in stupid ways."

His mouth twitched.

"I'll call if I need."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Deran made a low sound.

You glanced over.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just funny watching you give him a toddler command briefing."

"I have not started the briefing."

Craig looked alarmed. "You haven't?"

"No."

Andrew's attention sharpened.

You turned fully toward him.

"Snacks are in the left cabinet. Not the top shelf, the middle one. The top shelf has crackers she thinks she wants but will throw because they are apparently offensive after noon."

Andrew nodded seriously.

"Water cup is on the drying rack. Use the yellow one, not the blue one, because she hates blue in the morning but also sometimes in the afternoon if she has decided to make that everyone's problem."

"Yellow cup."

"No whole grapes."

"I know."

"Nothing smaller than the end of your thumb unless it is meant to dissolve."

"I know."

"She can have banana but she may become angry at it."

Andrew frowned. "Why?"

"No one knows."

Craig nodded. "The banana thing is real."

"She will ask for the rabbit book and then reject the rabbit book."

Andrew's expression darkened. "That book is a problem."

"You recorded it."

"For her."

"She loves it."

"She has questionable taste."

Andie looked up from Deran's lap.

"Da."

Andrew softened instantly.

"Not you," he told her.

You smiled and kept going.

"The wooden duck stays on the high shelf."

"Always."

"She will point at it and yell."

"I know."

"You cannot give it to her."

"I won't."

"Even if she says please."

"She can't say please."

"She has a look."

Andrew paused.

You nodded gravely.

"She does."

"I won't give her the duck."

"Good. If she falls, check her pupils, check for vomiting, check if she settles, and call me if you're worried."

His face changed slightly.

You hated that you had said it.

But also, it was true.

"Okay," he said.

"Not every fall is an emergency."

"I know."

"You say that like you know, but you once asked if hiccups were neurological."

Deran choked on a laugh.

Andrew shot him a look.

Deran held up Andie's hand and waved it. "She said it, not me."

You stepped closer to Andrew again, lowering your voice.

"She's tougher than she looks."

"I know."

"And she trusts you."

His eyes came to yours.

That landed.

"She does," you said.

He swallowed.

Craig pushed away from the fridge. "We'll go."

Deran blinked. "We will?"

Craig gave him a look.

Deran stood with a sigh and handed Andie to you.

She immediately reached for Andrew.

"Da."

Andrew took her.

No hesitation.

Maybe that was why you finally believed you could leave.

Andie settled against his chest and began inspecting the collar of his shirt like it was her job.

You touched her hair.

"I'll be back soon, okay?"

Andie did not care.

She had found a button.

You leaned in and kissed her cheek.

She accepted this with regal indifference.

Then you looked at Andrew.

He was already watching you.

You rose on your toes and kissed him.

Soft.

Brief.

Not because you wanted it brief.

Because if you let it become anything else, you were going to stay.

Andrew's hand touched your waist for one second.

"Go," he said quietly.

You smiled against his mouth.

"Bossy."

"You need to practice too."

That hurt more than you expected.

Because he was right.

You had spent fourteen months being the first answer. Before that, you had spent the pregnancy learning how to carry things alone while keeping him close through calls and visits and letters.

Leaving Andie, even with him, even with her father, felt like stepping off a curb you knew was there but still distrusted.

You nodded.

"I love you."

"I love you."

You touched Andie's back.

"I love you."

Andie tugged Andrew's button.

"Da."

"I'm choosing to take that personally."

Andrew's mouth softened.

You picked up your bag.

At the door, you turned back.

Andrew stood in the middle of the kitchen with Andie on his hip.

His daughter.

Your daughter.

Their daughter.

She was leaning against him like she had never once questioned whether he could hold her.

He looked terrified.

He also looked like he would rather die than put her down.

"You've got her," you said.

He nodded once.

"I've got her."

Then you left.

For twenty-three seconds after the door closed, nothing happened.

Andrew stood in the kitchen with Andie on his hip, listening to your car start outside.

Andie looked at the door.

Then at him.

Then back at the door.

"Mama?"

His chest tightened.

"Mama's coming back."

Andie stared at him.

He crouched slightly so he could see her face better.

"She went to the shop. And the pharmacy. And the bank."

Andie blinked.

"Boring stuff," he clarified.

She looked at the door again.

"Mama."

"She's coming back."

He did not know if he was telling her or himself.

Andie considered this.

Then held out the button she had yanked loose from his shirt.

Andrew stared at it.

"How did you get that off?"

She smiled.

He looked down at his shirt.

One button missing.

Nine days home, and his daughter had already begun dismantling him physically.

"Okay," he said.

Andie shoved the button toward her mouth.

"No."

He caught her wrist before she could eat it.

Gently.

Quickly.

His heart slammed into his ribs.

Andie frowned.

"No."

"That's my line."

"No."

"You can't eat buttons."

Andie yelled.

Andrew placed the button on the counter, well out of reach.

She lunged for it.

He shifted her away.

She yelled louder.

"Okay," he said, already sweating. "Good start."

He carried her into the living room.

The room looked different without you in it.

Not empty.

Just bigger.

The toys were scattered across the rug. The approved player sat in its basket. Books lay in a crooked pile near the sofa. A soft duck toy had been abandoned under the coffee table like it had given up on life.

Andie pointed.

"Down."

He set her down.

She immediately crawled toward the coffee table, pulled herself up, and reached for your mug.

Andrew moved fast.

"No."

Andie looked at him.

Then at the mug.

Then at him again.

"No," she said.

"Exactly."

She smiled and reached again.

He moved the mug to the mantel.

Andie's face collapsed into betrayal.

"No!"

"You can't have coffee."

"Da!"

"I'm Dada, yes. Still no coffee."

She dropped dramatically onto her bottom.

Andrew crouched.

"Are you hurt?"

She cried harder.

He reached for her.

She turned away.

He froze.

Not wanting him.

That was fine.

That was normal.

Toddlers did that.

He knew that.

Probably.

"Andie."

She crawled toward the toy basket, still sobbing, and grabbed the rabbit book.

Andrew sat back on his heels.

His chest hurt.

He told himself not to be stupid.

She wanted the book. Not him. That was not rejection. That was a child being angry about coffee.

He could handle this.

Andie crawled back to him and shoved the rabbit book into his lap.

Oh.

He stared at it.

Then at her.

"You want this?"

She sniffed.

"Da."

He picked up the book.

"I thought you were mad."

She patted his knee impatiently.

"Okay."

He sat on the floor and opened the rabbit book.

He hated the rabbit book.

The rabbit had poor judgment, repetitive phrasing, and no respect for reasonable consequences.

Andie loved it.

So he read.

His voice was awkward at first.

Too careful.

Too aware of the empty house around him.

But Andie settled between his knees, one hand on his leg, thumb in her mouth, listening.

By page three, she had forgiven him.

By page five, she was trying to turn the pages herself.

By page six, she had thrown the book and crawled toward the sofa.

Andrew stared after her.

"We weren't done."

Andie pulled herself to standing against the cushion.

"No."

"That's not how stories work."

She slapped the sofa.

"No."

He closed the book.

"Fine."

She turned, grinned at him, and tried to climb.

"No."

He moved toward her.

She lifted one foot like a tiny mountain climber.

"No climbing."

She looked over her shoulder at him.

"Da."

"No."

Her face lit up at the challenge.

Andrew understood, very suddenly, why you were tired all the time.

The next hour was a campaign.

Andie tried to climb the sofa four times.

She succeeded once.

Andrew aged six years.

She found one of your hair ties under the rug and attempted to eat it.