Oh Yes, In The Pit Of Despair

Pittsburgh was not bad. That almost made it worse.

It was pretty in ways you had not expected. Green hills. Old brick. Rain-dark streets. Houses tucked into slopes like the whole city had been built by someone stubborn enough to make gravity negotiate.

There were good meals. Good walks. Good days, technically. But none of it was Vegas. None of it was home.

Vegas had been heat rising off pavement after midnight. Neon bleeding across sidewalks. Music spilling out of open doors. Tourists laughing too loud. Coworkers yelling over the bar noise. The constant pulse of people moving, spending, leaving, arriving.

Vegas never asked you to be still. Pittsburgh did.

And at first, stillness had felt like relief. Then it started to feel like punishment. You were in your thirties. You had worked too long, carried too much, rebuilt yourself too many times to suddenly become someone who filled her days with errands and walks and waiting for someone else’s work shift to end.

But that was what your life had become.

Groceries.

Laundry.

Reading.

Dinners.

Walks through neighborhoods that were beautiful and quiet and not yours.

You were grateful. That was the part that made you angry. Because Robby had given you safety. A bed. Financial breathing room. Insurance. A house where no one expected you to be anything but okay. And still, some ugly, restless part of you kept pressing against the walls.

Not because you wanted to leave him. Not exactly. Because you missed yourself. You missed your life. You missed working.

Not bartending specifically. Not the sticky floors or the men who thought tipping meant they had purchased your patience. Not the ache in your feet after a long shift or the smell of tequila clinging to your hair no matter how long you stood under the shower.

You missed having somewhere to be.

A reason to leave the house that was not an appointment or a grocery list. A schedule that belonged to you. A body tired from doing something other than waiting.

Some mornings, the thought of going back showed up before you had even finished your coffee.

Not as a plan. Not exactly. More like checking for an exit in a crowded room.

How much money did you have left? How long would the drive take? Could you get your old job back, or had someone already taken your shifts?

You never followed the thought all the way through. You always closed the app, folded another load of laundry, made another grocery list.

But the thought kept coming back anyway. 

You missed the noise.

Real noise. Human noise. The kind that filled the air before you had time to think too hard. Glasses hitting counters. Music too loud. Someone laughing from across the room. Someone yelling your name because they needed another bottle from the back. The low, constant movement of a place that did not care if you were lonely because it was too busy being alive.

Robby’s house was quiet. Not empty. Not anymore. But quiet in a way that made your thoughts louder. You knew the sounds of it too well now.

The dishwasher clicking into its dry cycle. The refrigerator humming. The heat kicking on. The distant rumble of Robby’s motorcycle when he came home late enough for the whole neighborhood to hear it before you did.

You knew which cabinet stuck. Which burner on the stove ran hotter than the others. How long the washing machine took to finish a cycle.

You knew all of it because there had been too much time to learn it.

At first, you told yourself it was useful. Robby worked long shifts. You were here. Cooking made sense. Cleaning made sense. Grocery shopping made sense. It was not like you were doing anything else. That thought started as a joke. Then it stopped being funny.

Some days, you woke up and made a list just to prove the day had shape.

Laundry.

Bank.

Walk.

Dinner.

Prenatal vitamin.

Call pharmacy.

You wrote things down even when you knew you would remember them, because crossing them off gave you a small, pathetic sense of accomplishment.

Other days, you did not make a list at all. Those were worse. Those were the days you stood in the kitchen with your hands braced against the counter, looking around for something that needed doing and feeling a little sick when you realized you had already done it.

The floors were clean.

The fridge was organized.

The dishes were put away.

The laundry was folded.

Dinner was planned.

There was nothing left to fix. Nothing left to manage. Nothing left to be useful for.

So you walked.

At first, walking helped.

You found different streets, different hills, different houses with porch swings and overgrown gardens and old stone steps slick from rain. You learned where the sidewalks cracked and where the trees arched low enough to brush your shoulder if you were not paying attention.

Then the walks started looping back on themselves.

Same streets.

Same houses.

Same quiet.

Same body moving through a place that still did not feel like yours.

And when you came home, Robby’s house waited exactly where you had left it.

Safe.

Warm.

Still.

You started getting quiet.

Not all at once. Not enough that anyone could point to a single moment and say, There. That was when it changed.

But Robby noticed anyway.

He noticed when you stopped leaving the television on in the afternoon. When your answers got shorter. When you started making dinner earlier and earlier, like getting it done sooner might make the evening arrive faster.

He noticed when you stopped telling him about the places you went.

At first, he tried asking.

“How was the museum?”

“Fine.”

“Coffee shop any good?”

“Fine.”

“Did you like the park?”

“It was fine.”

Fine became the word you used when you did not have the energy to explain that nothing was wrong enough to justify how wrong you felt.

Robby never called you on it.

That almost made it worse.

He would just nod once, careful and quiet, and let the answer sit there like he could tell it had teeth.

You wanted him to push. You wanted him to leave it alone. You wanted him to ask the exact right question that would crack you open without making you bleed.

You hated that no version of him could win.

You hated that too.

You hated how patient he was. How steady. How he gave you room without making you feel abandoned. How he came home exhausted and still checked the fridge to see if you had eaten. How he never asked you to explain feelings you had not figured out how to name.

You hated that he was doing everything right and you still felt like this.

Then the snippiness started.

Small things at first.

He asked if you had taken your prenatal vitamin, and you looked up from the sink with soap on your hands and said, “Yes, Michael. I managed to swallow one pill without supervision.”

The second it left your mouth, you wished you could take it back.

Robby only stood there for a beat, hand still on the refrigerator door. You watched the apology rise in your throat and die there.

Then he nodded once. “Okay.”

That was all.

No argument. No wounded look. No lecture about how he was only trying to help.

Just okay.

He grabbed a bottle of water, asked if dinner needed another twenty minutes, and moved around you like you had not just snapped at him hard enough to leave a mark.

Which somehow made the guilt sharper.

Another night, he came home and found you sitting at the kitchen table with a grocery receipt, circling prices you already knew were too high.

“You need me to pick anything up tomorrow?” he asked.

You did not look up. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I said no.”

The room went quiet.

Robby set his keys in the bowl by the door. Softer than usual.

“Okay.”

Something inside you twisted.

“Why do you keep asking me the same thing?” you snapped, finally looking at him. “I said no. I heard you the first time.”

His expression flickered before smoothing out.

“I was just checking.”

“I know what you were doing.”

For a second, he only looked at you.

Then his jaw shifted once.

“You know I’m just trying to help, right?”

The words were not sharp. Not exactly. But they were not as soft as okay either.

That made it worse.

You looked down at the receipt. “I know.”

“You don’t have to bite my head off for it.”

The silence that followed felt enormous.

Your eyes closed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” he said.

But this time, it sounded tired. Not angry. Just tired enough to make your chest ache.

Because he did know. And he was still standing there.

You did not even know what you meant half the time.

Only that everything inside you felt rubbed raw. Like your life had narrowed down to a house that was not yours, a body that kept changing, and a man who was kind enough to make your anger feel unfair.

Some nights, the pressure had nowhere to go, so you cried in the bathroom with the faucet running and hated yourself for needing even that.

You stared at yourself in the mirror and tried to pinpoint the exact place where gratitude had curdled into resentment, where rest had become stagnation, where being cared for had started to feel indistinguishable from disappearing.

The worst part was waking up each morning and doing it all again.

Coffee.

Laundry.

Walk.

Dinner.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

The worst day was the junk drawer.

It should not have been the junk drawer. That was what made it worse.

Robby came home to the contents of it spread across the kitchen counter.

Batteries. Pens. Loose screws. Tape. Rubber bands. Receipts. Three chargers that belonged to nothing useful. A takeout menu from a restaurant that had closed two years ago. A handful of keys with no labels and no obvious purpose.

You had sorted all of it into separate piles.

The drawer itself sat open and empty while you wiped down the inside with a paper towel, jaw tight, sleeves pushed up, one hand braced against the counter like this was a task with stakes.

Robby stopped in the kitchen doorway. For a second, he did not say anything.

Then, carefully, “What happened?”

You did not look up. “Your junk drawer was disgusting.”

“It’s a junk drawer.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

“No, the point is that things go in it. Not that they rot there until future civilizations find them.”

The room went quiet. You kept wiping. The drawer was already clean. You knew that. Robby probably knew it too. Still, he did not say anything right away. He just stood there with his bag still over one shoulder, watching the counter.

Watching you. Not judgmental. That would have been easier. Careful. That was worse.

He set his bag down near the door.

“Did something happen today?”

“No.”

Too fast.

His eyes moved to your face. You hated that he heard it. The silence stretched. 

You dropped the paper towel into the trash and reached for a stack of pens you had already tested twice.

“You don’t have to do that.”

His brows drew together slightly. “Do what?”

“Handle me.”

“I’m not handling you.”

“Yes, you are.”

Robby stayed still.

You snapped a rubber band around the working pens a little harder than necessary.

“You do that thing where you get all calm and careful like I’m going to break if you speak normally.”

His expression shifted, small enough that you almost missed it.

“I’m trying not to make it worse.”

“Well,” you said, looking up at him finally, “that’s worse.”

The words landed badly. You knew it immediately.

Robby looked down for half a second, then back at you. His face did not harden. That would have been easier too.

“I’m not mad about the drawer,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you standing there like that?”

“Because I came home and found you sorting rubber bands like your life depended on it.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “It needed to be done.”

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, gently, “Did it need to be done today?”

Something in you went still.

You looked down at the counter.

The batteries.

The pens.

The small bowl full of screws.

All of it suddenly looked ridiculous.

Your hands curled against the edge of the counter.

“I needed something to do.”

The words came out flat.

Robby did not answer right away. That was worse than anything he could have said.

You swallowed once and kept staring at the mess.

“I already did the laundry. I already went to the store. I already took a walk. Dinner’s already made. The house is clean. The dishes are done.”

Your voice stayed level.

Too level.

“There was nothing else.”

The silence after that felt different.

Not sharp.

Not heavy.

Just bare.

Robby stepped farther into the kitchen, but not too close.

“You don’t have to keep finding things to fix.”

Your mouth tightened. “If I don’t, then I just sit here.”

He absorbed that quietly.

You hated how small your voice sounded when you added, “I’m tired of sitting here.”

Robby’s face softened.

Something in you recoiled from it. Not because it was pity. Because it wasn’t. Because he understood enough to make it dangerous.

“I’m not ungrateful,” you said quickly.

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” You looked up, defensive before he had even accused you of anything. “I know what you’ve done. I know I’m safe here. I know I have a doctor because of you. I know I have insurance and food and a place to sleep, and I know all of that matters.”

“I know.”

“But I hate this.”

The words came out before you could make them kinder.

You stopped breathing for a second.

Robby did too, maybe.

You waited for the flinch. The hurt. The quiet proof that you had finally said too much. It did not come. His eyes stayed on yours.

“The house?” he asked.

“No.”

Immediate.

At least that part was true.

Your fingers tightened against the counter.

“No,” you said, softer. “Not the house.”

You searched for the right words and found nothing clean enough to hold it.

“This.”

You looked around, but there was nothing specific enough to blame.

The counter.

The drawer.

The piles.

Your own body.

Your whole life.

“This,” you repeated. “Whatever this is.”

Robby did not move.

You looked down before he could see too much.

“I feel like I’m waiting all the time.”

The confession scraped on the way out.

“Waiting for appointments. Waiting for test results. Waiting for you to come home. Waiting for the baby to be here. Waiting to know what happens after that. Waiting to feel like any of this is actually mine.”

Robby’s mouth tightened, but he still said nothing.

You hated that you were grateful for it.

“I had a life,” you said.

Your voice nearly broke on the last word. You shook your head once, quick and angry at yourself.

“I had a job. I had people who knew me. I had streets I could walk without looking at my phone. I had places I belonged even when they were terrible places.”

You looked back at the counter. “At least they were mine.”

The kitchen went completely still.

The refrigerator hummed behind you. Late afternoon sunlight pressed faintly against the windows. Somewhere outside, a car passed too slowly down the street.

You picked up one of the loose keys and turned it over in your fingers even though it told you nothing.

“Maybe this was a mistake.”

Robby went very still. You heard it more than saw it. The change in the room. The absence of movement.

Your eyes closed.

“That’s not—”

You stopped. Because you did not know what it was.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice thin. “Maybe you should just sign the papers.”

Silence.

The key bit into your palm.

“Maybe I should go back.”

Robby’s jaw shifted once. “Is that what you want?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because if the answer had been yes, maybe that would have been easier. If the answer had been no, maybe that would have been easier too.

Instead, you stared down at the piles on the counter and felt like every possible version of your life had become too large to look at directly.

“I don’t know.” The words were barely more than breath. “I don’t know what I want.”

Robby stayed quiet.

You hated that too. You hated that he did not rush in and tell you what to feel.

You hated that he did not make himself the villain so leaving would feel cleaner.

You hated that he stood there looking at you like he was trying to understand something that kept changing shape in your hands.

“I just know I can’t keep being this person,” you said.

Your voice cracked on person.

You looked around the kitchen.

At the drawer.

At the folded receipt.

At the house that had kept you safe and somehow made you feel smaller every day.

“I’m in your house. I’m using your insurance. Your money. Your space. And I’m snapping at you because you asked if I took a vitamin.” A short, humorless laugh left you. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here half the time except making both our lives harder.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. “You’re not making my life harder.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not.”

“Michael.” Your fingers curled against the counter. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for me. There was a reason you left Vegas.”

Robby went still.

“Because you didn’t want this life.”

His face changed then. Not anger. Not exactly. But something sharper than the patience he had been giving you all week.

“Don’t do that.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Decide what I want for me.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yes,” he said, quiet but firm. “It is.”

The room held still around the words.

“You keep giving me an exit I didn’t ask for.”

You swallowed. “I’m trying to be realistic.”

“No,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel. Just immediate enough to make you go still.

“You’re trying to make the decision easier.”

Something in your chest pulled tight.

“Because I don’t know how to make any decision anymore,” you snapped, and your voice broke before you could stop it. “I used to know what I was doing. I used to have answers. I used to have a life that made sense, even when it was messy, and now I can’t even tell if staying here is brave or stupid.”

Robby did not answer.

Your eyes stung.

“You don’t know what this feels like.”

That stopped him.

For the first time since he came home, Robby looked like the words had gotten through somewhere he had not expected.

A muscle shifted in his jaw.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”

The admission sat between you.

No argument.

No correction.

No pretending.

He took a slow breath.

“I don’t know what it feels like to leave everything behind. I don’t know what it feels like to be nineteen weeks pregnant and sitting in someone else’s kitchen feeling like your whole life got replaced by appointments and grocery lists.”

You looked away.

“But I know this isn’t just about Vegas,” he said.

Your eyes moved back to him.

He held your gaze.

“And I don’t think going back fixes the part that hurts.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to pick up every neatly sorted pile on the counter and scatter it just to prove none of it could stay organized anyway.

Instead, your mouth trembled once.

“I don’t know who I am here.”

There it was. The whole ugly center of it.

Not Vegas.

Not Pittsburgh.

Not the house.

Not Micheal.

You.

Robby’s expression shifted.

The sharpness did not disappear exactly. It softened into something quieter. Something worried. Something that looked too much like understanding.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then his eyes shifted toward the small table near the door.

Toward his keys.

Toward the spare helmet sitting on the lower shelf beneath his.

When he looked back at you, something in his expression had changed.

Not fixed.

Not certain.

Just decided.

“Come with me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“Come with me.”

Your eyes flicked toward the small table by the door. Toward his keys. Toward the spare helmet sitting beneath them. Then back to him.

“For a ride?”

“Yes.”

You let out a short breath.

“Michael.”

He waited.

“You’ve spent the last month pointing out every mildly unsafe thing I’ve done.”

The corner of his mouth almost moved before settling again.

“You climbed onto the counter to reach a mixing bowl.”

“There was a chair right there.”

“You ignored the chair.”

“I was efficient.”

“You tried to move the bookshelf by yourself.”

“It was crooked.”

“It was heavy.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “And now you’re suggesting a motorcycle.”

“Yes.”

There was no defensiveness in it. No attempt to argue. Just the answer.

Your gaze drifted toward the window. Late afternoon light. Dry roads. The quiet neighborhood beyond the glass.

“You know this sounds insane.”

“I know.” The admission came easily. “I don’t think sitting in this kitchen is helping either.”

Something tightened painfully in your chest.

You looked back at the counter. At the sorted batteries. The bundled pens.

The keys you had been turning over in your hand like one of them might unlock a version of your life you recognized.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you admitted.

“I don’t either.”

Your head lifted.

Robby held your gaze. “But I know walking isn’t enough anymore.”

Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just honest.

His eyes moved briefly toward the helmets, then back to you.

“And I think you miss it.”

Your throat tightened.

You did not ask what he meant.

The bike.

The noise.

The movement.

The part of yourself that had surfaced for a few minutes at dinner when he’d mentioned the rattle.

Robby’s voice stayed quiet.

“You sounded more like yourself talking about motorcycles than you have talking about anything else lately.”

That hit harder than you expected. Because he was right. Because you had not realized he had noticed that too.

Your hand drifted unconsciously toward the curve of your stomach.

Fear.

Habit.

Uncertainty.

Robby noticed.

He always noticed.

“If anything feels wrong,” he said, “we turn around.”

You looked at him.

“No questions asked.”

Something in your throat tightened. Not because of the bike. Not because of the offer.

Because after everything you’d just thrown at him, your fear, your resentment, your uncertainty, he wasn’t trying to convince you to stay.

He wasn’t trying to convince you to go. He was just offering you a way to breathe.

“You really think this is going to help?” you asked.

“No,” he said honestly.

Then, after a beat, “But I think sitting here is hurting you.”

The truth of it settled heavily between you.

You looked around the kitchen one more time.

The junk drawer spread across the counter.

The clean house.

The safe house.

The house that had started to feel too small around your skin.

Then you looked back at him.

“…Okay.”

Robby did not smile. He did not look relieved. He just nodded once.

“Okay.”

And for the first time all afternoon, the word did not sound like surrender.

Robby reached for his keys. And for the first time all day, the house did not feel like it was closing in.

You had forgotten.

Not the mechanics of it. Not how to swing your leg over the bike or settle your feet onto the pegs. Not the way the helmet muffled the world into something smaller and clearer all at once.

You had forgotten what it felt like.

The engine vibrated beneath you as Robby pulled away from the curb, steady and smooth beneath your hands.

Fall had settled over Pittsburgh while you weren’t paying attention.

The air held that crisp edge that only came for a few weeks every year. Cool enough to slip beneath the cuffs of your sweatshirt. Warm enough in the afternoon sun that you did not shiver. The sharp scent of drying leaves mixed with exhaust and chimney smoke somewhere in the distance.

For the first few minutes, you were aware of everything. The way your hands wrapped around Robby’s middle. The solid line of his back beneath your palms. The steady rise and fall of him breathing under your arms. The careful way he accelerated. The fact that you were nineteen weeks pregnant on the back of a motorcycle.

You could practically hear the list of reasons this had been a bad idea. Then Robby settled into the road.

Not fast.

Not flashy.

Just steady.

His body shifted before every turn, subtle enough that you felt it before you understood it. A lean to the left. A correction. A pause at a stop sign long enough to make absolutely sure the cross street was clear. He rode the way he did most things when he cared too much to say so outright.

Carefully.

Completely.

Without asking you to notice.

So you stopped fighting the movement.

Your hands loosened against his jacket. Your body remembered the old rhythm. Follow the lean. Trust the balance. Breathe.

The city unfolded around you. 

And you remembered.

You remembered the wind. The way it slipped around your helmet and tugged at loose strands of hair. The vibration beneath your legs where they pressed against warm metal. The strange freedom of having nowhere to be except exactly where you already were.

You remembered riding behind your father while desert nights settled over Nevada, still warm long after the sun disappeared. You remembered the smell of hot asphalt cooling beneath streetlights. You remembered resting your helmet against his back and listening to him laugh with people your grandmother swore were perfectly respectable until they got together.

You remembered loving it.

Not the recklessness people assumed came with motorcycles. Not the danger. You had never cared much about that part. 

You loved the simplicity of it.

Road.

Balance.

Movement.

You couldn’t check your phone. Couldn’t make grocery lists. Couldn’t reorganize drawers. Couldn’t sit in the same quiet house trying to figure out who you had become.

There was only this.

The steady rhythm of the engine beneath you. The city moving around you. The warmth of another person in front of you.

Robby took the back roads exactly like he had promised.

Slow.

Careful.

He stopped completely at yellow lights most people would have pushed through. Checked mirrors with almost annoying consistency. Left more space between himself and every other car than strictly necessary.

You found yourself smiling inside your helmet. Of course he did. The ridiculous part was that it worked. Because every careful turn and measured acceleration loosened something in your chest. Because the steadiness did not feel like control. It felt like permission.

You did not have to brace for the next thing.

You did not have to explain why you had snapped.

You did not have to make your gratitude look prettier.

You only had to hold on.

Trees burned gold and orange above sidewalks you had walked a dozen times.

You rode past the bookstore in Squirrel Hill where you had spent an hour pretending to browse before leaving empty-handed. The coffee shop with the crooked chalkboard sign and pastries that had been worth the hype. The museum where you had wandered through exhibits reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.

The bridge everyone insisted you had to see at least once. The park where you had walked until your feet hurt because you had not known what else to do with the day.

You had been to all of these places.

Taken pictures.

Ordered coffee.

Gone home.

But this felt different.

Not like visiting.

Not like trying.

Pittsburgh passed around you in flashes of old brick and turning leaves and sunlight caught on river water. And for the first time since arriving, you were not wondering whether you could learn to love it.

You were not comparing it to Vegas.

You were not measuring what it lacked.

You were just there.

Present enough to notice the cool air against your cheeks.

Present enough to feel Robby’s breathing beneath your hands.

Present enough to tighten your arms around him once, not because you were scared, but because your body had remembered how to move with someone else’s.

Present enough to realize the constant restless buzzing in your head had gone quiet.

Not fixed.

Not gone forever.

Just…

quiet.

At a stoplight, Robby glanced back at you.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice carrying through the helmets.

You looked at him. At the familiar slope of his shoulders. At the concern tucked into the question.

Then you looked past him at the city stretching out beneath a sky washed pale blue. Leaves skittered across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, someone was raking a yard.

You realized you had stopped thinking.

Completely.

You squeezed him once around the middle.

“Yeah,” you said.

And for the first time in weeks, you meant it.

Robby looked at you for one second longer. Not long enough to make it strange. Just long enough that you knew he heard the difference.

Then the light changed.

He faced forward again, and the bike moved smoothly beneath you.

You kept your arms around him.

Looser now.

Not because you were paying less attention, but because your body had remembered what to do. The balance. The lean. The small shifts with the road. The trust required to follow someone else’s movement without fighting it.

He kept riding.

Past streets you recognized now.

Places you had already been.

Places that had felt like assignments when you visited them alone.

Now they blurred past in pieces of color and sound, less like places you were supposed to appreciate and more like proof that the world was still moving around you.

You did not have to decide what any of it meant. You only had to hold on.

At some point, the route changed.

Not enough for you to notice right away. Pittsburgh still felt like a city made of turns you did not know and hills you had not learned by instinct yet.

But you did not ask immediately. The ride had loosened something in you. Or maybe it had quieted something. Enough that not knowing, for once, did not feel like danger.

Then fifteen minutes became twenty. Twenty became longer. The houses thinned slightly. The streets widened. The storefronts changed from coffee shops and restaurants into older brick buildings, repair shops, warehouses with garage doors rolled halfway open.

Your arms tightened slightly around his middle.

“Michael?”

He turned his head just enough for you to see the edge of his helmet.

“Yeah?”

“Where are we going?”

For a second, he did not answer.

Then, “One more stop.”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. Then you settled back against the seat. The wind tugged at your sweatshirt. The engine hummed beneath you.

Whatever came next, you were still moving.

For now, that was enough.

A few minutes later, the bike began to slow. Robby eased off the street and into a small lot beside a low brick building. He pulled into a spot near the open bay and cut the engine.

The sudden silence rushed in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Robby climbed off first. He pulled his helmet off and dragged a hand through flattened hair before turning back toward you.

Without a word, he reached for the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave beneath his fingers. Cool fall air brushed against your face as he lifted the helmet away, taking the muffled quiet of the ride with it.

He hooked it over one arm before holding his hand out to you. You took it. The motion happened easily. Thoughtlessly. His grip steadied as you swung one leg over the bike and slid carefully down onto solid ground.

He let go once both of your feet were beneath you. Then he stepped back, tucking both helmets against his side like none of it was worth mentioning.

You adjusted the sleeves of your sweatshirt and looked up.

Auto & Cycle.

That was it. No name. No explanation. Just two words painted in faded block letters above the open garage bay.

The smell reached you next.

Oil.

Rubber.

Hot metal.

You turned toward him. “Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“Where are we?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Duke’s,” he said.

You looked past him at the low brick building, the open bay, and the dark oil stains baked into the concrete.

Then back at him.

“This is Duke’s?”

“Yeah,” Robby said. “This is Duke’s.”

Then a man appeared in the bay, wiping his hands on a rag. Older. Broad through the shoulders. Grease on his shirt. His face unreadable enough to make most people rethink small talk.

He looked at Robby first.

“Thought you’d be back later,” he said.

Robby shifted the helmets against his side. “Plans changed.”

Duke’s gaze landed on you then. There was no obvious surprise there. Just assessment. The kind that came from years of looking at people and deciding whether they knew what they were doing.

Robby glanced between the two of you and introduced you.

Duke gave a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Duke wiped his hands on the rag again, then nodded toward the open bay.

“Come on in.”

It was casual. Not warm exactly. Just an invitation.

You glanced at Robby.

He did not say anything. Did not nudge you forward or explain why you were there. He only stood beside you with both helmets tucked against his side, letting the choice belong to you.

So you stepped inside.

Duke’s shop was cleaner than your dad’s had been. Not clean. No working shop was ever really clean. But there was a system here. A rough one. Enough order under the mess to tell you Duke knew where things belonged even when they were not there.

Duke nodded toward Robby’s bike.

“Robby says you diagnosed his bike from the couch.”

You glanced over at Robby. He looked mildly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t diagnose anything,” you said. “He told me when it rattled.”

Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly, like that was exactly the point.

“Most people wouldn’t know what to do with that.”

You shrugged. “It’s just process of elimination.”

“Most people’s process of elimination starts and ends with ‘sounds expensive.’”

A corner of your mouth moved.

“They’re not wrong.”

“No,” Duke said. “They usually aren’t.”

He jerked his head toward the motorcycle sitting near one of the lifts.

“You want to take a look at this one?” he asked casually. “Could use a second opinion.”

You blinked.

“Me?”

“Unless there’s another motorcycle whisperer hiding in here.”

Your eyes shifted toward the bike.

It was older. Half-disassembled in a way that suggested someone had already thrown time and money at the obvious answers. The tank rested off to the side. Side covers leaned against the workbench. Parts had been arranged neatly enough to tell you Duke had a system, even if no one else could read it.

You found yourself stepping closer before you’d fully decided to. “What’s it doing?”

Duke leaned against the workbench. “Depends who you ask.”

You looked over at him.

“Owner says it started acting up out of nowhere.”

You made a face. “So the owner’s lying.”

“Almost definitely.”

That got the smallest huff of amusement out of him.

“The actual problem?” you asked.

“Rough idle on cold mornings. Hesitation under throttle. Intermittent misfires once it’s hot.”

You circled slowly around the bike. 

“Compression?”

“Good.”

“Fuel pressure?”

“Within spec.”

“Plugs?”

“Changed.”

“Coils?”

“Swapped.”

“No difference?”

“Nope.”

You hummed softly. “Annoying.”

“Exactly.”

Your gaze moved over the exposed engine. Not touching. Just looking.

“Any codes?”

Duke rattled them off.

You frowned. “Only when it’s hot?”

“Mostly.”

You glanced up at him. “‘Mostly’ is a dangerous word.”

“Yeah,” Duke said. “That’s where I keep getting stuck.”

You bent slightly to get a better angle.

“If compression’s good, fuel pressure’s good, and plugs and coils didn’t change anything…” You trailed off. “I’d start looking at things that change once everything heats up.”

“Like?”

“Vacuum leak. Sensor drift. Wiring issue that only shows itself once everything gets warm enough to expand or shift.”

Duke nodded slowly. “You troubleshoot for a living?”

You kept your eyes on the bike. “I just don’t like guessing.”

“Neither do I.”

For a second, the two of you stood there looking at the motorcycle.

Then Duke pushed away from the bench.

“Alright,” he said. “Show me where you’d start.”

You pointed toward the intake side of the engine. “Did you smoke test it hot?”

Duke paused. “No.”

“But you did cold.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d rule that out before chasing electrical ghosts.”

Duke looked at you for a beat. Then nodded. “Fair.”

The conversation settled after that.

Question.

Answer.

Theory.

Counterpoint.

Duke would ask what you’d check next. You’d answer. He’d throw out another possibility. You’d explain why you agreed or disagreed. Nothing formal. Nothing forced. Just two people working through a problem.

Somewhere behind you, Robby stayed quiet. When you glanced back once, he was leaning against the opposite workbench with both helmets tucked against his side.

Watching. The thoughtful line between his brows had disappeared. He looked relaxed. Like maybe this had been what he’d hoped for when he pulled into the lot without telling you where you were going.

You looked away before you could sit with that too long.

Duke tapped the side of the bike. “Let’s see if you’re right.”

And for the first time in weeks, you realized nearly an hour had passed without thinking about what came next.

By the time Duke stepped away from the bike, the sun had started slipping lower behind the buildings. None of you had noticed the hour slipping by.

The garage doors stayed open, letting cool fall air drift through the shop. Long shadows stretched across the concrete, cutting between toolboxes and crates and the half-disassembled bike still sitting near the lift.

At some point, Duke pulled beers from an old refrigerator near the back. One for himself. One for Robby. Then he looked at you, looked briefly toward your stomach, and handed you a bottle of water without comment.

You took it without making him say anything. That felt easier somehow.

A few minutes later, the three of you had settled near the open bay.

Duke sat on an overturned crate, beer balanced against one knee. Robby leaned back against the workbench with his ankles crossed, nursing his bottle slowly. You sat on another crate, one hand wrapped around your water, the other resting loosely against your thigh.

The shop had gone quiet in the way working places did after the day was mostly done. Not silent. Just lower.

The radio hummed somewhere behind you. Traffic passed outside. Metal ticked softly as the bike cooled near the lift.

Duke took a drink, then stared out through the open bay like the memory was somewhere past the street.

“Once rode through Arizona with no front brake.”

You blinked. “What?”

Robby looked over slowly. “You’ve never told me that.”

“Because you make that face.”

“I’m a doctor. This face is appropriate.”

Duke ignored him. “Line went bad outside Flagstaff. Responsible thing would’ve been to stop.”

You waited.

He took another drink. “I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I was twenty-five and stupid.”

Robby tipped his beer toward him. “Half that sentence is still true.”

Duke gave him a flat look.

You tried not to smile.

“How far did you ride?”

“Too far.”

“That’s not a distance.”

“It is when you’re the one learning from it.”

Robby shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Back brake worked,” Duke said.

“Oh, well,” you said. “Perfectly safe.”

“See? She gets it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“What happened?” you asked.

Duke looked back toward the open bay.

“Came down a mountain road too hot. Had to choose between laying it down or becoming part of the guardrail.”

You went still for half a second. “And?”

“Didn’t become part of the guardrail.”

Robby closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Duke shrugged. “Bike was mostly fine.”

“You were not mostly fine,” Robby said.

“I could walk.”

You stared at him. “That is a very low standard.”

“Worked for me.”

You laughed then, sharp and surprised.

Duke’s mouth twitched like he’d been waiting for it.

“So the lesson was fix your brakes?” you asked.

Duke considered it. “No.”

“No?”

“The lesson was don’t let twenty-five-year-old men vote on important decisions.”

Robby lifted his beer slightly. “Hard to argue with that.”

Duke ignored him again. “They were idiots.”

“You rode with them,” you pointed out.

“I was also an idiot.”

There was no shame in his voice. Just fact. That made you laugh harder.

The conversation moved from there without effort.

Duke told you about a ride to Tennessee where six grown men had gotten lost because none of them wanted to admit they could not read a paper map. Another time, he and two friends ended up sleeping behind a laundromat because someone had confidently declared they could “absolutely make it another hundred miles.”

“Who was someone?” you asked.

Duke took a drink. “Me.”

Robby shook his head faintly.

You told them about Vegas.

Not the painful parts. Not the lonely parts. Just the ones that came easier in a garage with the sun going down.

The bartender stories. The tourist who cried because she thought she had lost her hotel, only to realize she was standing inside it. The man who tried to convince you Canadian money counted as a tip because it was “basically the same.” The bachelorette party that lost a bridesmaid for three hours and found her playing blackjack with three retired firefighters from Ohio.

Duke listened with his beer resting against one knee, expression still mostly flat, but not unreadable anymore. Every so often, his mouth pulled slightly at the corner, or his eyes narrowed in that dry, entertained way that made it clear he was enjoying your stories.

Robby mostly stayed quiet. Every now and then, he added something dry enough to make you glance over. But mostly he watched. Not the way he had been watching at home lately. Not worried. Not measuring whether you were tired or hungry or quietly falling apart.

Just watching you talk. Watching you laugh. Watching you lean into a conversation that had nothing to do with appointments or bills or what came next. 

And for once, you did not mind being seen.

You took another drink of water and listened while Duke described a night ride through West Virginia that had apparently involved a wrong turn, a thunderstorm, and a man named Spider who refused to ride behind anyone because he believed it was “spiritually humiliating.”

“What happened to Spider?” you asked.

Duke looked at his beer.

“Married a librarian. Moved to Arizona.”

“Good for Spider.”

“He sends Christmas cards now.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

You laughed again, softer this time.

The sound felt strange in your chest. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. For weeks, your days had been so quiet that even your own thoughts had started sounding too loud. Now you were sitting in a garage on a crate, listening to an old ex-biker tell stories like regrets were just facts with better lighting.

It was the first time in a long time you had been out of the house without feeling like you were trying to prove you were fine. You were not trying to be fine here. You were just there. And somehow that was easier.

The sun dropped lower. The light at the edge of the bay turned amber, then thin.

Eventually, Duke looked toward you.

“You get bored at the house,” he said, “come by.”

You blinked. “What?”

He took another drink of beer. “I could use company from someone who knows what they’re doing.”

For a second, you did not answer. The offer was so casual you almost missed the weight of it.

Not a job.

Not charity.

Not a favor.

Just an open door.

Your eyes moved automatically to Robby. He was already looking at you. Quiet. Unsurprised. Like maybe he had hoped Duke would say it, but he had not asked him to.

“It’s up to you,” Robby said.

You searched his face. “You’d be okay with that?”

His answer came easily. “You don’t need me to be okay with it.”

You had not realized you were waiting for permission until he refused to give it.

Duke glanced between the two of you.

“You can also say no,” he said. “I’m not adopting you.”

You looked back at him.

The corner of your mouth moved.

“That’s a relief. I’m terrible with curfews.”

“Figured.”

Robby glanced down, hiding a smile behind his beer.

Duke pointed the bottle toward the half-disassembled bike. “But you might be useful.”

The words settled somewhere warmer than they should have.

Useful.

Not fragile.

Not waiting.

Not someone being carefully kept safe inside a house.

Useful.

You looked around the shop again.

The crates.

The tools.

The open bay.

The old stories still lingering in the air.

Then you nodded once.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Maybe I will.”

Duke gave a short nod like that was all he needed. “Good.”

Robby looked down at his beer, but you caught the brief relief in his face before he hid it.

Outside, the last of the sun slipped behind the buildings.

And for the first time since you came to Pittsburgh, the thought of tomorrow did not feel quite so empty.

—

The ride back was quieter.

Not worse.

Just quieter.

The kind of quiet that came after a day had finally loosened its grip and left both of you careful with what remained.

You held onto Robby as he took the long way home, the city slipping past in darkening streets and porch lights and trees thinning into shadow. The air had cooled since earlier, sharper now against your cheeks, but the engine stayed warm beneath you.

This time, you did not count turns or wonder how far from home you were.

When the bike stopped at a light, you rested your forehead briefly between his shoulder blades. Robby did not look back. He only covered one of your hands with his for half a second before the light changed.

The touch was brief. Barely anything. Still, something in your chest ached.

Because earlier, you had stood in his kitchen and tried to hand him an exit. You had said papers. Vegas. Mistake. Words that still sat between your ribs like bruises.

And he was still here. Steady beneath your hands. Taking the long way home.

By the time Robby pulled into the driveway, the sky had gone deep blue at the edges.

He cut the engine.

The silence settled around you slowly.

No radio.

No tools.

No Duke telling stories like nearly dying in Arizona was a normal personality flaw.

Just the quiet street.

The house.

Michael.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Robby got off first, same as before. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under one arm before turning back to you. His fingers found the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave.

Cool evening air touched your face as he lifted the helmet away. Neither of you said anything.

He set both helmets against his side, then held out his hand. You took it without thinking.

His grip was steady as you climbed off the bike. He let go once your feet were beneath you, but only after making sure they were.

Inside, the house felt different.

Not changed.

Just less narrow.

You stood near the entryway while Robby set both helmets down by the door.

The hallway light was off. The kitchen was dim except for the glow over the stove. Somewhere deeper in the house, the refrigerator hummed.

The junk drawer was still spread across the counter.

Pens.

Batteries.

Loose screws.

The mess you had left behind.

For the first time all day, looking at it did not make your chest tighten.

Robby followed your gaze. He did not say anything about it. He only set his keys in the bowl and leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall, giving you room to decide what happened next.

You looked at the helmets by the door.

Then at him.

“Thank you, Michael.”

Robby glanced over. “For what?”

You swallowed once. “For not letting me disappear in here.”

His expression changed.

Small.

Quiet.

Enough.

Then you added, because that felt too bare, “And for introducing me to Duke.”

Robby looked down for half a second. 

When he looked back up, his face was softer.

“You liked him.”

You shrugged one shoulder. “He’s fine.”

“High praise.”

“He’s tolerable.”

“That’s basically friendship.”

A faint smile tugged at your mouth. It faded, but not completely.

“I mean it,” you said, quieter now. “Thank you.”

Robby rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“I do.”

You tucked your hands beneath your arms. “I know you were trying to help.”

He looked at you for a second.

Then nodded once.

“I was.”

The honesty settled between you. Not awkward. Just there.

You glanced toward the helmets again. “I just don’t want to invade your personal life.”

His brow pulled together. “My personal life?”

“Duke. Your friends. Your places.” You looked back at him. “I know I’m already in your house. I don’t want to start showing up in all the corners of your life, too.”

Robby’s gaze dropped briefly. When it came back to you, there was something steadier in it.

“You’re not invading anything.”

“You say that.”

“I mean that.”

You pressed your lips together.

He pushed away from the wall, but he did not come too close.

“You’re allowed to have people here,” he said.

The words were quiet. Careful, but not fragile.

“You’re allowed to make friends. You’re allowed to have places that aren’t this house or the doctor’s office or whatever grocery store has the least offensive produce.”

A small breath left you.

His thumb worried once at the edge of his sleeve.

“You don’t have to ask permission to take up space.”

The words settled somewhere low in your chest. For a second, all you could hear was the refrigerator. The soft settling of the house around you.

Robby’s voice stayed quiet. “I don’t want you watching the front window and wondering if that’s it.”

You looked down at the floorboards. The sentence hurt. Not because it was cruel. Because it was too close to something you had not said out loud.

You swallowed once before looking up again.

He glanced toward the living room, then back.

“If something isn’t working,” he said carefully, “tell me before you decide to just live with it.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

Your throat tightened. “You make that sound easy.”

“I don’t think it is.”

That somehow made it easier to hear.

Robby held your gaze. “But I’d rather know.”

For a second, the house felt too quiet again. But not like before. Not like walls pressing in. More like a room waiting for you to choose where to stand.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Robby nodded. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his mouth twitched faintly.

“And if you ever need actual girl company, I know a few residents who would be thrilled to have someone new to complain about me with.”

A surprised breath left you.

“Residents?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re offering me your residents?”

“I’m offering you potential allies.”

“Against you?”

“Realistically, yes.”

Your mouth curved despite yourself. “They don’t like you?”

“They like me fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth.

“I’ve been called an asshole once or twice.”

You looked at him. “You?”

“Allegedly.”

Your mouth curved. “That tracks.”

“See?” His shoulders loosened at the sight of your smile. “You’ll have plenty in common.”

This time, the smile stayed a little longer. Robby saw it. He didn’t comment. You were grateful for that.

You glanced toward the door, toward the helmets resting side by side.

Then back at him. “I did like getting out.”

“I know.”

You looked at him.

He blinked, like he had answered too quickly.

“I mean…” His hand fell away from where it had half-lifted. “I’m glad.”

A small silence settled. This one felt easier.

You nodded once. “Me too.”

Then you turned toward the hook by the door and hung your jacket there. Not over the back of a chair. Not folded beside your bag like you might need it again at any second.

On the hook.

Beside his.

For the first time in weeks, you did it without looking over your shoulder first.

Robby noticed.

He didn’t say anything. He only reached past you, took the helmets from the floor, and set them side by side on the shelf.

Yours beside his.

The house was still the house.

Quiet.

Safe.

Waiting.

But it did not feel like the edge of your life anymore.

It felt like somewhere you could leave.

And somewhere you could come back to.

SET AFTER:

Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC’s fiery new attending.

Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren’t the only explosive thing happening at Jesse’s Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot…

This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a ‘sticky’ situation.

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Tell. Me. To. Stop (NSFW) - Jealousy is not an emotion Brendon Park is accustomed to.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you…

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon’s day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David’s calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David’s attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he’s been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father’s Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon’s greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon’s focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he’s called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you’re in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon’s world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.

The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.

Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.

Roses - Brendon is forced to deal with a vindictive POS when a dozen red roses are delivered to your door.

The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.

Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.

A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn’t expect.

The Best the Ravens Have Ever Looked (NSFW) - Brendon has a real problem with your shorts.

Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.

The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.

The Body Pillow - Brendon and you settle in for your first night at the new house.

Brendon’s been gone for approximately one hour when the boredom starts to set in. It takes you a minute to realise what’s happening because you aren’t used to being in the house alone just yet, you don’t have base line for what happens when he’s at work.

The first problem is the silence. It feels like an oppressive cloth hanging over you, draping across your shoulders weighing you down. You’re used to busy hospitals, neighbours chatting through the walls at your old apartment but the house… it’s quiet, especially with Brendon not in it.

You turn the TV on, clicking the volume down so there’s a low consistent thrum of voices keeping you company. It’s marginally better, and it helps you focus on the next issue… what to do.

Brendon took care of the dishes before he left and everywhere else is spotless so you’re currently sitting here twiddling your thumbs. You know this is how people stagnate, they lose their sense of purpose and their mental health takes a nose dive right into the toilet… so right now you need to find a new purpose, something within your capabilities.

Small daily goals is what your counsellor said to you.

You just have to figure out what they look like.

That’s when you remember the laundry hamper in the bedroom, it’s got a couple of days’ worth of clothes in and laundry can’t be that hard can it?

You are wrong, so fucking wrong that you have to laugh at yourself because you’ve realised you’ve forgotten some key components, like how to transport the actual clothing to the laundry room with your wheelchair. You can’t drag it and wheel, and there’s no way to carry it without damaging your stump so… it’s time to put those problem solving skills to the test.

The bathroom has a nice seagrass basket that holds hand towels, it would slot perfectly on your lap. You retrieve the item, unrolling the handtowels and folding them neatly on top of the body towels, messing up Brendon’s system.

He’ll get used to it, you console yourself as you roll back into the bedroom and park alongside the hamper with your breaks on, the basket set up in your lap. You reach into the hamper and begin to sort through the clothes, depositing them in your basket. It takes a couple of trips to and from the washing machine to fill it, but you feel pretty accomplished once the machine is on, and the water is swirling around. You leave the basket on top of the dryer for the next stage before returning to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.

Although the laundry antics have worn out your body, your mind is still chaotically busy, looking for engagement so a nap is completely out of the question but… there have been some things you’ve been meaning to Google, things you aren’t ready for Brendon to find out about just yet.

You power up your laptop on the kitchen table and begin to type.

Best sexual positions for RBKA…

It’s a rabbit hole of information.

Medical studies, amputee charities, Reddit posts.

Most of them are dedicated to male amputees but the Reddit posts prove fruitful… and eye opening.

There’s a lot of information to digest so you pull up an excel spreadsheet to keep track of the positions, the pillow placements, sex aids. You’re impressed by how versatile it really is. A lot of things will have to wait until your stump has healed but there’s still enough to work with in the meantime. You’d worried that sex would become boring with your amputation, that you’d be limited to a certain set number of positions but that is not the case at all.

You snigger as you take in the full depth of the spreadsheet, it’s a full colour coded affair with tabs and tables separating positions, toys and adaptions. You’ve essentially made a database of things to try when you’re feeling ready for it and if that isn’t the most Type A bullshit you’ve ever heard of you don’t know what is.

By the time Brendon gets back from the hospital you’re folding dry laundry on the couch, watching one of your shows. The pile sits on the cushion beside you, the folded items resting in the seat of your wheelchair so it’s all within close proximity.

“You have been a busy girl.” He murmurs, his lips skimming over your forehead in greeting.

“Oh Brendon.” You smile, tilting your head up so that you can capture his mouth. “You have absolutely no idea.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!

Chapter 6: Paperwork as a Weapon. “Throw it down (The caution blocks you from the wind), Hold it up (To the rays) You wait and see when the smoke clears…” You Learn-Alanis Moresette.

Andrew Cody had held a lot of weapons in his life.

Guns, mostly.

Pistols small enough to disappear beneath a shirt. Revolvers that sat heavy in his palm and kicked up through his wrist when he fired them. Shotguns that bruised his shoulder even when he held them correctly. Rifles with cold metal pressed against his cheek while he watched a target through the sights and waited for someone else to give the signal.

He knew how every one of them felt.

He knew the difference between a gun that had been cleaned recently and one that hadn’t. He knew the smell of oil, metal and powder. He knew how ammunition clicked into place and how the weight changed when the magazine was full. He knew how a weapon could make a frightened man brave and a stupid man dangerous.

Knives were different.

Quieter.

More personal.

You had to get close enough to smell someone’s breath when you used a knife. Close enough to feel their body move. Close enough that there was no pretending you hadn’t meant it.

He’d held hunting knives, kitchen knives, switchblades and box cutters. Anything with an edge could become something else when it was put in the right hand—or the wrong one.

Pope had used things that had never been designed to hurt anyone.

A sledgehammer, a crowbar, a tyre iron. A length of electrical cable wrapped around his fist because it was what he had within reach. Chains. Rope. Broken glass. Heavy flashlights. Pieces of wood torn from whatever was close enough to grab. A brick once, rough against his palm, the corners biting into his skin as he lifted it.

He’d used doors as weapons, slamming them into bodies. Walls, too, if someone stood close enough to one. Floors. Countertops. Car bonnets. His own weight.

His hands.

His hands were the weapon he trusted most. They couldn’t be knocked away and forgotten in the grass. They didn’t jam. They didn’t need loading. They were always there at the ends of his arms, scarred across the knuckles and strong enough to turn fear into something physical.

Weapons made sense to Pope.

You held them.

You aimed them.

You used them.

Afterward, there was blood or damage or silence. Something you could see. Something you could understand. He had never realised how easily a few sheets of white paper could become a weapon.

Not until that Saturday afternoon.

Henry was sitting on the rug in the middle of your living room when Pope walked in, his legs folded underneath him and an alphabet puzzle spread across the floor. The wooden pieces were painted in bright colours, some of them chipped along the edges from being dropped or chewed or forced into the wrong places.

Henry held the letter R in one hand, turning it over and over while he stared at the empty spaces in the board.

“R,” he murmured through the lego tyre between his teeth.

“R,” you answered automatically from somewhere near the kitchen counter.

Your voice sounded wrong.

Not obviously wrong. You weren’t crying. You weren’t shouting. You weren’t doing anything that would’ve made most people stop and look.

But Pope knew you now. Not entirely, not in the way he wanted to.

Enough.

He knew the normal rhythm of your voice when you were tired. Knew the brighter, forced version you used around strangers and the quiet version you used when Henry was close to being overwhelmed. He knew your dry little laugh when you realised you’d said too much. He knew how you said his name when you were surprised to see him and how you stretched out okay when you were trying to convince yourself something really was.

This voice was too flat.

Too carefully held.

Pope shut the door behind him and checked the lock without thinking, turning it until he heard the deadbolt settle. The extra latch was already in place above it. You had added another one after your husband showed up.

You were standing at the kitchen counter with your back half-turned to him. One hand was pressed against the edge hard enough that the tendons stood out beneath your skin. The other held a piece of paper you weren’t reading anymore.

There were more pages spread across the counter.

White paper, black ink. A yellow legal envelope lying open beside it; You tried to hide the tears before you faced him.

He saw you lift your fingers to the corner of one eye. Saw the quick swipe, the irritated blink. Like you were angry at your own face for showing what you were feeling. But your nose was red. Your cheeks were flushed unevenly. Your breathing had that faint catch in it, barely there, the way it did when you’d been trying not to cry for too long.

Pope stopped near the edge of the living room.

He wanted to ask what was wrong, the question rose immediately, blunt and hard in his throat.

He wanted to ask who had done it; more than that, he wanted to ask how to fix it but you were moving too much. From the counter to the sink. From the sink to the fridge. Opening the fridge without taking anything out, then shutting it again. Picking up a dishcloth and folding it, unfolding it, folding it again.

You couldn’t stay still for more than five seconds.

Pope waited.

He’d learned that about you, too. If he pushed while you were moving, you’d make a joke. You’d offer him coffee. You’d ask about Craig or the weather or whether the gate was still holding properly.

You’d do anything except tell the truth before you were ready.

So Pope stood silently while Henry worked the R into the wrong space, pulled it back out and tried again.

Finally, you placed both palms flat against the counter and stayed there.

Pope looked at the paperwork, “What happened?”

You flinched as if you’d forgotten he was in the room, then you looked at him and attempted a smile, “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t even a convincing lie.

Pope’s gaze dropped to the pages again. You saw it and shifted slightly, not enough to block them. He wondered whether you were too exhausted to stop him or whether this was something else.

Trust, maybe.

The thought landed uncomfortably inside his chest; You trusted him enough not to hide the weapon.

“It doesn’t—” Your voice caught. You cleared your throat, pressing your lips together until the break disappeared. “It doesn’t matter.”

Pope walked toward the counter and you didn’t move to stop him.

That mattered. Months ago, you would’ve gathered the pages up. You would’ve laughed too loudly and shoved them into a drawer. You would’ve created distance between him and anything that might make you vulnerable.

Now you let him come close.

Not touching close.

Close enough to read.

The heading was formal. A petition. Temporary custody. Proposed arrangements. Statements written in the kind of bloodless language people used when they wanted cruelty to look reasonable.

Pope read slowly.

He wasn’t stupid, regardless of what people thought when they heard the pauses in his speech or watched him struggle to fit a thought into words. He understood paperwork. He understood contracts, police reports, court records and the way an official sentence could hide a threat behind neutral language. Your husband wanted primary custody.

Not twenty percent.

Not weekends.

Not even the twenty-eighty agreement you had mentioned over breakfast.

Almost everything.

The pages described you as unstable. Financially insecure. Unable to provide consistent care without support. They mentioned your reduced work hours. The late bills. The move to Oceanside. Every difficult thing you had ever survived had been rearranged into evidence that Henry should be taken from you.

Pope felt his jaw lock.

Henry placed the R into its correct slot, “R,” he said again, pleased.

“Good words, buddy,” you replied, your voice cracking around the edges.

The contrast made something vicious move through Pope.

Henry was sitting five feet away, safe and calm because of you because you knew the jam had to go over butter. Because you understood that Oh no, little baby, what happened? meant he’d hurt himself. Because you kept tyres in your pockets for him to chew and installed locks high enough that he couldn’t reach them. Because you worked less so that he had someone who understood him when the rest of the world became too loud.

The man who had lasted one night alone with his own son was telling a court that you were incapable.

Pope could picture him still. Maroon Henley. Dark hair. Boot wedged in your door.

Pope’s fingers curled against the counter.

He could make this stop.

The thought came with the same cold clarity as a plan.

He could find out where the man lived. It wouldn’t take long. Follow him for a few days. Learn when he left for work, where he parked, whether he lived alone. Pope could put him in a room and make him understand that Henry wasn’t a bargaining chip and you weren’t property he could keep through signatures and court dates.

He could put divorce papers in front of the man and hold his hand steady until every page was signed.

Simple.

Clean.

Effective.

The anger wasn’t wild, that was what made it dangerous. It settled into Pope’s muscles with purpose, drawing his shoulders tight and slowing his breathing.

Then you looked at him.

Your eyes were still wet, and there was something open in them that stopped the plan before it could fully form.

You trusted him.

Not with everything. Not yet; But with this.

You had let him read the papers. Let him see your face when you couldn’t hold it together. Let him stand in your home while Henry played on the rug and you had nothing polished left to give. The feelings Pope had for you had been growing so quietly he hadn’t known when it became something he couldn’t ignore.

With you, Pope didn’t imagine becoming clean.

He imagined becoming honest, that was worse.

That was more dangerous.

Because when he looked at you now—red nose, flushed cheeks, hands shaking over custody papers—he didn’t want you to save him. He didn’t want you to make him normal.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted to be someone you could fall apart in front of without regretting it afterward. He wanted to take the papers out of your hands and carry some of the weight, even though he didn’t know how.

And the fact that he wanted anything that badly terrified him.

You wiped beneath your eye again and gave him another strained smile, “What brings you over anyway?” you asked, as though the answer mattered. As though you weren’t standing beside documents designed to take your entire life apart. “Did you need something?”

Pope stared at you.

You were doing it again. Redirecting. Making yourself useful. Giving him an escape from your pain so he wouldn’t have to be uncomfortable.

He looked back down at the petition, “It matters,” he said.

Your smile faltered.

Pope tapped one finger against the page. Not hard, but enough that the paper shifted, “This.”

You swallowed. “Andrew—”

“He wants Henry.”

The words came out low and flat.

You folded your arms tightly across your chest, a barrier built too late; “He wants to punish me,” you corrected quietly. “Henry’s just how he’s doing it.”

Pope already knew that.

Hearing you say it still made his anger sharpen. He thought again about asking where the man lived. The question sat ready behind his teeth.

Instead, Pope forced his hands open, “You got a good lawyer?”

You gave a tired laugh that contained no humour, “I have a lawyer.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your eyes met his.

For one second, Pope thought you might snap at him. A spark of irritation moved across your face, and he welcomed it. Anger looked better on you than shame. Anger meant there was still fight left.

Then the fight sagged beneath exhaustion.

“But, you know, family court is slow,” you said. “And expensive. And apparently everyone involved gets paid by the hour, so there’s no real incentive for anyone to stop sending twelve-page letters saying the exact same thing in increasingly creative legal language.”

You gestured toward the pages.

Pope glanced at the envelope. The name of the law firm sat printed in the corner.

He memorised it without trying.

“And he has money,” you continued. “Not unlimited money, but enough. Enough to keep going longer than I can.”

Your voice went quieter on the final sentence.

There it was.

The weapon beneath the paperwork.

Not that your husband had a stronger case, that he could afford to exhaust you.

Pope understood endurance as violence. Not the loud kind. Not the kind that left blood on the floor or bruises blooming beneath skin. This was quieter. Cleaner. The kind of violence people could commit while wearing suits, speaking politely and sending letters on expensive stationery.

Smurf had used it against all of them.

She knew pressure didn’t have to break a person immediately. Sometimes it worked better if it didn’t. You applied it slowly. Consistently. You made every day slightly harder than the one before it. You withheld affection, money, safety—whatever someone needed most—and then waited.

Eventually resistance became more painful than surrender.

Eventually people stopped fighting because they were too tired to remember what they had been fighting for.

Smurf had built an entire family that way. She could make Craig crawl back with money, Deran with guilt, Baz with power. With Pope, it had always been love—or whatever warped, conditional imitation of it she had taught him to recognise as love. She would pull him close, call him her baby, make him feel useful, then withdraw everything the second he stepped beyond the limits she had drawn for him.

A leash didn’t need to be visible to work.

Your husband understood that too.

Different house. Different weapon. Same strategy.

“He thinks you’ll give up,” Pope said.

His voice came out low and certain. He was still staring at the papers on your counter, at the neat blocks of legal language that tried to make cruelty sound reasonable.

You looked down at Henry instead of answering immediately.

Henry had moved on to the letter S, running his thumb slowly over the painted curve. The puzzle piece was bright yellow, worn along one edge where his teeth had found it more than once before you’d redirected him to the little black lego tyre. He turned it around in his hand, studying it from every angle as if the shape might change if he looked long enough.

“S,” Henry murmured.

You watched him with an expression Pope had come to understand over the last few months.

Love first.

Fear underneath it.

Always fear underneath it.

“No,” you said at last, your eyes still on your son, “He thinks I’ll run out of money.”

There was no self-pity in your voice. That made it worse.

You said it like a fact. Like gravity. Like the inevitable conclusion to an equation you had worked through too many times to pretend the answer might change.

Pope’s gaze shifted to the pile of unopened mail near the fruit bowl.

It wasn’t even hidden anymore.

When he’d first started coming inside, you used to turn the envelopes face down or sweep them into a drawer when you caught him looking. Now they sat in plain view: electricity, water, insurance, something from your lawyer, something from a debt collector. White envelopes with red ink. Final notices. Amount overdue. Late fees added to late fees, the quiet accumulation of punishments for not having enough money in the first place.

The world liked to charge poor people extra for being poor.

Pope understood that kind of logic. The Cody jobs had started in places like that—rent due, food running low, Smurf saying there was money out there and only cowards waited for permission to take it. Eventually they had stopped pretending they stole because they needed to. But the beginning had mattered.

Need could make almost anything seem reasonable.

He looked back at you, “How much?”

Your head lifted. “What?”

“The lawyer.”

The question changed your face immediately.

Not dramatically. You didn’t recoil or tell him to mind his business. But suspicion tightened the corners of your eyes. Your shoulders drew back from the counter. Your arms folded loosely across your stomach, as if your body had decided to guard itself before your mind caught up.

Pope regretted the question as soon as he saw it because he knew what it sounded like.

Money offered with a hand already reaching for ownership.

Smurf had never paid for anything without buying part of the person along with it. Rent, cars, legal trouble, jobs—she called it taking care of family, but the bill always arrived eventually. Sometimes months later. Sometimes years. She would drag up every dollar she had ever spent and lay it at your feet like evidence that your life belonged to her.

Pope didn’t want you looking at him and seeing that.

He didn’t want you hearing How much? and thinking, What will he want from me afterward?

His eyes dropped back to the custody petition and for a moment, he thought about Lena.

He had done everything backward with Lena.

He had wanted to keep her close because closeness felt like protection. He had wanted to surround her with money, walls, people who would make sure she never understood what it was to go without. Every job, every risk, every envelope of cash could be turned into a justification if he looked at it the right way.

College. Rent. Food. A life where Lena didn’t have to stand at a kitchen counter staring at bills and deciding which one could survive being ignored for another week.

He had continued working jobs after prison because criminal work was the only kind of work the Codys had ever properly taught him. And when Lena was still close enough for him to pretend he could build her a future, he had told himself the money could become something clean once it reached her.

That was the lie men like Pope lived on.

The money was dirty. The reason didn’t have to be.

He had imagined Lena older without really knowing what older looked like. A place of her own. Tuition paid. A fridge with food inside it. A car that started every morning. No one using money to tell her where she belonged. He had wanted to give her the kind of safety cash could buy because he hadn’t known how to give her the kind it couldn’t.

In the end, the safest thing he had ever given Lena was distance from him.

He had let her go.

Now, looking at you, Pope wondered whether anyone had ever been willing to take risks for you like that.

Not own you. Not rescue you so they could remind you later, just take some of the weight off your shoulders.

Had anyone ever looked at the impossible numbers in front of you and thought, Fine. Then they’re mine too?

Your husband clearly hadn’t. He had money, or at least enough of it to keep paying someone to frighten you. Enough to make family court into a waiting game he believed he could win. Enough to turn time into another weapon.

Pope had money.

Cody money.

Cash that never looked quite right in a bank account and couldn’t be explained without questions. Money made from safes and heists and fear. Money that could pay your lawyer but might poison everything between you the second he placed it in your hands.

He could solve the cost; He didn’t know how to solve what the offer would mean.

“It doesn’t matter,” you told him. “I’ve got it sorted.”

Pope stared at you.

You absolutely did not have it sorted.

He could tell by the unopened envelopes. By the way you had started buying the cheaper coffee even though you complained it tasted like burnt dirt. By the small repair in the knee of Henry’s trousers. By the fact that you hadn’t replaced the microwave even though it only worked if you slammed the door twice.

You were winging it.

Moving money from one bill to another. Paying enough to stop one company from calling while another sent a final notice. Hoping the lawyer wouldn’t ask for another retainer before you found a way to scrape it together. Hoping for the best because hope was currently cheaper than a court application.

You turned away from him and leaned back against the sink. Your palms pressed into the edge behind you, your shoulders hunching as if you needed the counter to hold up part of your weight.

“I just…” Your eyes lowered to the floor.

Pope waited.

He had learned not to fill the gaps when you were trying to talk. If he interrupted, you used the interruption as an exit. You would smile, make some dry comment and retreat before the truth could finish leaving your mouth.

“Every time I think it’s done,” you began, “every time I think we’ve come to an agreement, he comes at me with something else.” Your fingers tightened around the edge of the sink, “First he said he’d sign if I didn’t ask for anything. So I didn’t. I didn’t ask for the house. I didn’t ask for money. I didn’t ask for half of anything because I just wanted out.”

Pope felt his jaw tighten.

You had been trying to purchase freedom by leaving everything behind.

Your husband had taken the payment and kept the cage locked anyway.

“Then it was visitation,” you continued. “Then it was the custody split. Then it was that I’d moved without consulting him, even though he knew I was moving. Then it was that Henry needs consistency and apparently that means staying near a father who has seen him three times in the last year.”

The bitterness in your voice sharpened with every sentence.

Good, Pope thought. He preferred your anger to your shame. Anger meant you still understood this wasn’t your fault.

You rubbed at your forehead, pressing two fingers between your eyebrows, “And I’m so tired.”

The anger vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared.

That frightened Pope more.

“I’m tired of not being able to relax,” you said. “I’m tired of not sleeping. I’m tired of checking my phone and wondering what new thing he’s decided I’ve done wrong.”

Pope’s eyes flicked toward the front door, the additional bolt sat high above the handle. The chain was drawn across even though it was the middle of the afternoon. Your phone was face down on the table, but Pope had noticed it vibrating twice since he arrived.

You continued, quieter now, “I’m tired of thinking about what’s going to happen to Henry if he gets sent to his father.” Your voice caught, you swallowed hard and stared at your son.

Henry was still occupied with the puzzle. The S hovered over the board as he searched for its place, unaware that two adults were standing ten feet away discussing where a court might decide he belonged.

“He doesn’t know him,” you said. “Not really. He doesn’t know what the different sounds mean. He doesn’t know that Henry saying ‘oh no, little baby’ means he’s hurt himself. He doesn’t know he’ll only eat the toast if the butter is underneath the jam, or that if you cut it into triangles instead of squares he sometimes won’t touch it.”

Pope listened.

“He doesn’t know the difference between Henry being upset and Henry being overloaded. He thinks every meltdown is bad behaviour. He thinks if Henry doesn’t respond, he’s ignoring him on purpose,” Your eyes filled again, but this time you didn’t turn away quickly enough to hide it, “What happens when Henry’s screaming and he can’t make it stop?” you asked, your voice almost breaking. “What happens when he bites or hits because he can’t communicate and his father decides he needs discipline?”

Pope’s hand curled against the counter.

He knew exactly what could happen when an adult treated distress like disobedience. Smurf had built whole punishments out of that misunderstanding.

“What happens when Henry runs?” you continued. “He doesn’t check locks. He doesn’t think he should have to. He used to get angry at me for putting latches up because he said they made the house look ridiculous.”

Pope glanced again at the bolt. The locks weren’t ridiculous, they were the reason Henry was still inside the house.

You dragged in a breath that shook on the way down, “I keep thinking about him waking up somewhere that isn’t here. Looking for me. Not understanding why I’m gone.” Your mouth twisted, trying and failing to contain the grief of a thing that hadn’t happened yet, “He’ll think I left him.”

Pope’s chest tightened so quickly it felt like impact.

For one second he saw Lena—not as she had been when he last watched her from a distance, safe and settled, but younger. Confused. Waiting for adults who kept disappearing. Wondering whether she had done something wrong.

He saw Julia, too.

People always thought abandonment was about the person who left. It wasn’t. Not to a kid. A kid turned it inward. A kid built explanations out of themselves because that was easier than accepting the adults around them had failed.

Pope couldn’t let Henry believe you had left him.

The thought arrived without qualification.

Not he didn’t want it.

He couldn’t let it happen.

He could plan robberies.

He could study a building until he knew where every camera pointed, how long a guard took to walk his route, what street would be clear at a certain time. He could account for vehicles, weapons, witnesses and mistakes. He could create contingencies for contingencies until the thing in front of him felt small enough to control.

He could plan violence down to the second; But he couldn’t work out how to help you without making you feel like you owed him.

Money would solve part of it.

Money would also look like a chain if he handled it wrong.

He wanted to say, I’ll pay.

He wanted to place enough cash on the counter that you never had to look at another red notice again. He wanted to make the lawyer answer every letter, file every motion and keep fighting until your husband ran out of spite or breath.

But Pope knew you. You would refuse.

Not because you didn’t need it, but because you would rather drown than discover the lifeboat had a rope tied around your ankle.

He needed another route.

A way to help that didn’t require you to take anything directly from him. A way to understand what was happening before he acted. Information first. Plan second.

“Who’s your lawyer?”

You blinked at him.

“What?”

“Your lawyer,” Pope repeated, slower this time. “Who is it?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”

Pope looked back down at the petition.

The law firm’s name was already printed on the letterhead, but he wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to know whether you trusted this person. Whether they returned calls. Whether they were any good or simply the only one you could afford.

“Because you said you had one,” Pope replied.

“I do,” Your mouth tightened.

Pope could see the wall going up again. The instinct to protect what little control you had left.

He softened his voice—not by much, but enough, “Are they good?”

You hesitated slightly, “They’re… fine,” you said at last.

Pope stared at you and stayed quiet.

“Andrew.”

“Fine doesn’t keep him from taking Henry.”

Your face went pale.

Pope regretted the bluntness immediately, but he couldn’t take the words back. He didn’t know how to wrap danger in softer language. He only knew how to point at it.

You looked down at the floor, “No,” you said quietly. “It doesn’t.”

Pope’s anger shifted,  he took the lawyer’s letter from the counter and read the name printed beneath the signature for a second time.

Marianne Keller. Keller Family Law.

Pope fixed it into his memory.

The address too.

He didn’t need to write things down when they mattered. His brain held onto details differently when there was a threat attached to them—the name on a security uniform, a licence plate, the timing of a camera sweep, the exact position of a lock. Once something became part of a problem he intended to solve, it stayed.

He placed the letter back on the counter in precisely the same spot, “I’m not giving you money,” he said.

Your head lifted sharply.

The movement was so immediate Pope knew he had guessed correctly. Whatever you had expected him to say, it had involved money. An offer. An argument. Another person deciding what was best for you and demanding you be grateful for it.

Pope forced himself to meet your eyes.

It was harder than facing a gun. Guns were simple. A gun pointed at him meant danger. A finger moving toward the trigger meant act first. There were only so many outcomes, and Pope understood every one of them.

Your expression wasn’t simple.

There was suspicion there, but not only suspicion. Fear. Pride. Exhaustion. The faint embarrassment of someone who hated being seen when they were struggling. The guarded look of a woman who had learned that help was rarely free and that generosity could become evidence against you later.

Pope understood that look because Smurf had put it on all her children eventually.

“I know you won’t take it,” he continued. “And I’m not gonna make you.”

Some of the tension left your shoulders, but not all of it. Your arms remained folded over your stomach. Not defensive enough to be obvious, but Pope noticed the way your fingers curled into the fabric at your sides.

“Then why do you want to know who my lawyer is?”

Pope looked down at the letter again; He thought about telling you he wanted to check the lawyer out.

That sounded like he didn’t trust your judgement.

He thought about saying he knew people who could find out whether Marianne Keller was competent, whether she had ever been disciplined, whether she won cases or simply kept sending bills until her clients could no longer afford to answer the phone.

That sounded like what it was: surveillance.

He wanted to tell you the truth; Because if you won’t take the money, I can bypass you and give it directly to the lawyer.

But he knew how that sounded too.

It sounded like your answer didn’t matter. Like no was merely an obstacle and Pope was already searching for a quieter way around it.

It sounded like Smurf.

The comparison turned his stomach.

Smurf never accepted a boundary she didn’t like. She smiled, changed direction and found another point of entry. If one of her boys wouldn’t take money from her hand, she paid a debt behind his back and waited until the favour became useful. She called it love because the word control wasn’t warm enough.

Pope didn’t want to control you.

He didn’t want to buy a place in your house or make you feel as though every cup of coffee, every conversation over the fence and every moment with Henry existed because he had paid for the privilege.

But he did want the problem gone.

That was the part of himself he couldn’t make gentle.

Pope saw a threat and removed it. He found a weak point and reinforced it. He saw someone he cared about drowning and couldn’t understand why he should remain on the shore merely because they were too frightened to take his hand.

Cared about.

The words passed through his mind before he could stop them.

His eyes shifted to you.

You were standing against the sink in an old shirt, your hair pulled back badly, your face still blotched from tears you had tried to hide. There was nothing polished about the moment. Nothing romantic in the way people usually imagined romance.

There were dirty breakfast plates beside you. A stack of legal papers on the counter. Henry’s abandoned chew near the fruit bowl. A damp patch on your sleeve where you had wiped your face too quickly.

Still, Pope felt something draw tight beneath his ribs.

He had started noticing too much.

The tiny line between your eyebrows when you were calculating money in your head. The way you checked Henry’s location every few seconds even when he was sitting safely within sight. The different versions of your laugh—the real one that escaped before you could control it and the thinner one you used when you were trying to make something painful sound funny.

He knew which mug you reached for first in the morning. He knew you forgot to drink your coffee while it was hot. He knew you touched the lock after closing the door, even when you had watched it click.

He knew you said I’ve got it sorted when what you meant was I don’t have another option.

Pope didn’t know when learning those things had stopped being observation and become affection.

Maybe it had happened slowly enough that he hadn’t recognised the danger.

A gate fixed here. A conversation there. Henry’s hand in his, pulling him toward a missing puzzle piece as though Pope’s presence required no explanation. You looking over the fence and smiling when you saw him, not because you needed something but because you were glad he was there.

Nobody had ever made Pope feel wanted in such an ordinary way.

There had always been a function attached to him. Smurf wanted what he could do. The family wanted him when something needed force, planning or cleaning up. Even affection had usually come wrapped around usefulness.

You asked him inside for breakfast.

You gave him coffee; You talked too much when you were nervous and then looked embarrassed, as though he might resent being trusted with the details of your day.

Pope didn’t resent it. In fact, he collected every detail.

He carried them home with him.

“Because I want to make sure they know what they’re doing,” he said finally.

Your mouth tightened slightly, “You’re going to investigate my lawyer?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly.

Your eyebrows lifted.

Pope corrected himself. “Maybe.”

Despite everything, a breath of laughter escaped you. It was quiet and damp around the edges, but it was real.

The sound went through him like warmth. Pope’s face remained mostly still, but something softened behind his eyes. He would have done more than investigate a lawyer to hear that sound again without the exhaustion beneath it.

“Andrew,” you said, his name carrying a warning that wasn’t particularly convincing.

“What?”

“You can’t intimidate my lawyer.”

“I didn’t say I was gonna intimidate anyone.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t.”

Pope glanced at the letter, “I won’t intimidate your lawyer.”

The pause before lawyer was small.

You noticed it. Your eyes narrowed. “Or anyone else involved in my custody case.”

Pope looked back at you.

That was harder to promise.

Your husband had put his boot in your doorway. He had used Henry to keep you frightened and legal paperwork to make the fear look respectable. Pope could picture several effective ways of removing him from the situation. None of them involved family court.

You held his gaze, waiting.

Pope’s jaw shifted, “I’m not gonna do anything that hurts your case,” he said.

It was not the promise you had requested.

You knew it.

Pope knew you knew it.

But after a long moment, you let out a tired breath and looked toward Henry, who had started lining the puzzle pieces along the edge of the rug instead of putting them into the board, “That is disturbingly specific.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Not necessarily comforting.”

Pope’s mouth pulled faintly at one corner. He watched your shoulders loosen another fraction, and the feeling inside him deepened—quiet, possessive only in the sense that he wanted to protect this moment from whatever came next.

Not possessive of you.

He was becoming careful about that distinction.

You belonged to yourself. That was the whole point.

Your husband treated you like something he could keep by refusing to sign his name. Smurf treated people like extensions of herself. Pope had spent too much of his life confusing love with ownership to pretend he didn’t recognise the danger.

Whatever was growing inside him could not be that.

He would not make you another thing caught in a Cody grip.

He looked down at the letter one last time.

Marianne Keller.

“I’m just gonna check,” he said.

“Check what?”

“That she’s good.”

“And what happens if she isn’t?”

Pope’s eyes moved back to yours, “I find someone who is.”

You stared at him as though trying to decide whether his certainty made you feel safer or more nervous. Probably both. That was usually what Pope did to people.

You rubbed your palms against your arms. “I can’t afford someone better.”

He laughed, full bellied and loud, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder and his arms circling your waist loosely again.

“It’s not funny,” you protested, unable to hide the laugh from your own voice. “You can’t go over there with banana goop all over your shirt. And your poor hair!” You patted at the beautiful mixture of dark and silver curls with the back of your hand, as if apologizing to them for sullying them with your sticky banana-laced fingers.

Jack only pulled back for a moment, still grinning but looking down at you with that familiar smug look you’d fallen for so long ago.

“Believe it or not, they have this great new invention for that,” he drawled, ducking his head to peck you on the cheek. “It’s called shampoo,” he murmured. “Supposed to really be something.”

You rolled your eyes, half heartedly pushing him off so you could wash your hands. “It’s only new to you, old timer.”

You felt almost silly walking through the ED with a paper plate of banana bread muffins, all wrapped up in saran wrap. The clean antiseptic smell in the air stung your nostrils, and you could hear crying from down the hall. It always amazed you how Jack could come back to this, day after day and night after night. It wore him down, sure, no one could leave completely unaffected by the things they saw, but he remained steadfast and stubborn, the same headstrong man who insisted on your fourth date that you’d be married someday with the confidence of a man who knew he was right.

You paused as you neared the central desk, looking around and trying to decide where the best place was to drop off the muffins. You hoped you’d see Jack, just to say a quick hello and tell him about the treat you’d made for him, but you didn’t want to distract him when there was work to be done and lives to be saved. The staff lounge was always a safe bet, but you hadn’t thought to bring a note to leave with them. You didn’t want them sitting there untouched, knowing only a few of the staff who’d been there for years would recognize your form of offering to the kind and dedicated staff of the Pitt. Even the med students deserved a muffin though, especially after the stories Jack had told you about the new recruits struggling with proper nutrition, shoving a few protein bars into their bags at the beginning of their shift and hoping it would be enough to sustain them for 12 hours.

Not on your watch. You would find some spare paper and a pen, and make sure everyone knew they were welcome to a snack. You might even draw an embarrassing heart or write a love letter and slip it into Jack’s locker for him to find at the end of shift.

You were hugging the wall, looking around for Lena or another familiar face not wearing anything bloodstained when someone approached you.

“Excuse me?” the woman asked. “Ma’am, you can’t be here. Only active patients are allowed back here, you have to wait your turn in chairs until someone brings you back.” You laughed. This wasn’t the first time you’d been mistaken for someone drifting through the wrong door just to end up in the middle of the ED.

“Oh no,” you started, “I’m not a patient. I’m actually here to see a doctor.”

The woman, a pretty woman you’d guess to be somewhere in her forties, glanced over you, as if she was weighing the odds between believing you or not. The plate of securely wrapped muffins in your hands seemed to sway her in your favor.

“Which doctor?” she asked, suspicion leaking into her voice.

“Dr. Jack Abbot,” you answer. “He’s my-”

“Oh, Jack!” she all but squealed, instantly brightening at your husband’s name. “I love Jack, he’s practically my work husband.” The warm smile on your face flickered at that, a bitter taste forming in your mouth that you weren’t familiar with.

“Is that so?”

The woman, Cheryl, it said on the ID badge clipped to her pocket, seemed to need very little prompting to launch into a tirade of reasons to love Jack. All of which were right, you knew, but somehow that did little to stop the growing knot in your stomach.

“Jack’s the best,” she said, guiding you towards the desk she must have been occupying when she noticed you standing by the wall. “He’s always helping me with my patients, checking it to make sure I’m doing alright, making little jokes just for us,” she looked down almost bashfully, a faint pink rising to her cheeks, though she found no issue continuing to talk.“He walks me to my car at night sometimes. He’s just always there, helping me, looking out for me.”

“Y-yeah,” you fumbled for words. All of that sounds like Jack, in a way. “He’s a great attending. The PTMC is lucky to have him.” You realized with a clench in your stomach that his coffee mug was on her desk, the same goofy travel mug that read Best Doctor on One Leg that you’d gotten him as a joke Christmas present one year. You’d just washed it the night before, still shocked he still used the damn thing outside of the house. Cheryl snorted a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” she said, leaning across the desk and speaking with an almost conspiratorial hush. “But he’s really here for me in particular, if you know what I mean.” If she can tell from your expression that your stomach drops, the plate of muffins now set aside on the central desk because they feel too heavy for your tired wrists, she doesn’t give any indication. “It’s crazy, it’s like every time I look behind me he’s just staring at me.”

She seemed to remember she was at work and not with her friends at a bar gushing over the cute boys they liked, suddenly looking a bit sheepish.

“So, why are you here to see Jack? Did he treat you?”

You plastered on a fake smile, suddenly wishing you’d taken those acting classes in high school. “Oh, uh, no. No, I just know him. I wanted to bring these by for everyone working today,” you tap the plate of muffins, your hands feeling too unsteady to risk holding them. “I figured I would say hi if I saw him, but he’s got to be busy, y’know, saving lives!”

Cheryl gave you an odd smile then, noticing for the first time that something was wrong. There was something concerned in her eyes, almost pitying, that made you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“Okay, well, I’ll tell him someone stopped by,” she offered, using a comforting tone usually reserved for children and people more upset than the situation called for. 

Someone. You were “someone.”

You nodded, too sharply, already turning on your heels. “Thanks, you do that.” You grimaced as you began to walk away, cursing yourself for everything that had happened in the last ten minutes.

You were curled up on the couch when Jack came home the next morning. It wasn’t unusual for you to be up so early, preparing a quick breakfast for your husband so you’d be sure he actually ate something and took some time to rest before heading to the gym to work off some stress or collapsing in bed after a quick shower. This morning you’d done none of that though. You had slept like shit, laying awake on Jack’s side of the bed, head pressed to his pillow to breathe in the smell of his shampoo and something distinctly him, watching the ceiling fan spin in endless circles above you. You’d tossed and turned, only slipping under for a few hours at a time before you realized with an uncomfortable ache that you were awake again. 

By four in the morning you’d given up, hauling yourself unceremoniously out of bed and trudging to the couch. With a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and a book in hand, you collapsed with a huff, wincing as you turned on the lamp on the end table, even the low light feeling like a sudden intrusion. You stared at the lamp once your eyes adjusted, taking in the smooth porcelain and the small imperfections in the glaze. It was a gift, you remembered, something off your and Jack’s wedding registry. You had loved the set of lamps you’d found at a local farmer’s market, the other part of the pair sitting on a table at the far end of the couch, where you usually sat tucked under your husband’s arm, pressed against his chest to listen to his heart beating, but you had a hard time justifying the cost. Weddings were already so expensive, and even with the modest way you’d chosen to have your ceremony, you didn’t want to go overboard. Jack had laughed at you, teasingly daring you to find handmade lamps at a better price anywhere else, let alone ones that had you so immediately enamored. It wasn’t until two years into your marriage that Jack had admitted during a quiet moment, curled up around each other in bed, that he had been the one to buy the lamps. He had given you that easy smile, all crinkled edges and sleep-tussled hair, when he explained it like it was simple. You had wanted them, but didn’t think you’d deserved them. He disagreed, and, being Jack Abbot, went about fixing it in the most him way possible, treating you with the kindness you’d always yearned for even though you hadn’t even realized it at the time.

You still loved the lamps. Imperfections and all.

Jack kicked off one of his shoes at the door, leaving the other on his prosthesis until he could sit down. He shrugged off his heavy army backpack, laden with all the tools you knew he carried and hoped he never needed, and rested it in the seat of one of the dining room chairs. He moved towards the couch, stepping unevenly at the height difference from still having one shoe on.

“Goodmorning, beautiful.” His hands swept through your hair, gently brushing it out of your face. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering for a moment before straightening back up.

“Have you slept at all?”

You shrugged lazily, giving him a weak smile.

“Some. Definitely not enough though.” You patted the space on the couch next to you, uncurling your legs to make room for him.

Jack joined you on the couch, lowering himself down carefully with a faint grimace. His hands moved to his pant leg, tugging up the fabric to undo the fastenings of his prosthesis. Once it was off, and he’d let out a deep sigh of relief he’d never let anyone else hear, his artificial limb propped up to stand on the floor beside him, he held an arm out to you. You eagerly moved towards him, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulder to draw you closer and press a whiskery kiss to your temple.

“Welcome home,” you said, giving him an easier smile as you settled into your spot against him. He leaned back into the couch, letting the soft cushions welcome him like an embrace.

“I missed you,” you continued, no longer trying to hide just how tired you were, physically and emotionally. “I always sleep better when you’re here.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His hand moved soothingly up and down your arm. “I sleep better with you too.”

“Shen said he saw you during our shift.” There was no accusation to his statement, just a light lilting tone of confusion. You’d never go in and not ask to see him, even if you only had time to press a kiss to his cheek and tell him how proud you were of him before sending him off again with a cheeky wink and the occasional slap to his ass if no one was around.

“Yeah, I made some banana bread muffins and thought you and the troops could use a pick me up.” 

Jack didn’t acknowledge how you side stepped the question he hadn’t asked.

“So I saw. They were delicious, by the way,” he added. “We almost had to intervene so Joy wouldn’t get too territorial over them. Thank you, for bringing them in.” Another kiss was pressed to your temple, lingering a little longer than the last. “I’ve gotta admit, I had my doubts when you started freezing bananas, but I stand corrected.” You chuckled softly. “Damn right you do,” you murmured into his scrub top. The antiseptic smell still clung to him, but you could pick up enough of him that it didn’t matter. “Never question my freezer organization skills against mister.”

Jack chuckled, his nose pressing into your hair and drawing in a deep breath. His hand drew lazily up and down your arm for a few moments as you sat in silence, just taking each other in again after a long day. 

“Want to tell me why you didn’t wait to see me today?” Jack’s voice was quiet, his low tone rumbling in a way you always loved. There was no pressure in his question, just genuine interest and a tinge of concern. You could tell him no, and he’d accept it, just draw you into a firm hug and hold you until he went to shower before joining you back in bed.

“It’s stupid,” you confessed. You toyed idly with the drawstring of his scrub pants, knowing your frown looked more like a pout than you wanted it to. 

“Nothing about you is stupid,” he said seriously, tipping his head a bit lower to press his forehead against the crown of your downturned head. “Sometimes questionable in the moment,” he continued, that gruff humorous lilt coming back, “but if we’ve learned anything from the bananas, you have your reasons.”

You rolled your eyes, lifting your head to look at him. He had a self-satisfied look on his face, giving you a sweet smile and a quick peck on the lips when you shook your head at him. 

“You haven’t had, like, a super terrible day, right?” You would kick yourself later if you didn’t ask. Some days he came home barely able to do anything but shrug and mumble responses, the ED bleeding him dry of any semblance of emotional energy.

Jack smiled softly. “No, sweetheart. Just regular terrible.” His hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Not so terrible I can’t hear about yours.”

You gave him a small but appreciative smile, returning the squeeze of his hand. 

“I ran into one of your coworkers before I could find Lena,” you began, voice coming out slightly quieter than usual. Even with his reassurance, you felt silly acting like it was a real problem. “She was nice. New, I think. I’d never met her before, anyway, and I don’t think you’ve mentioned her.” Jack hummed, his broad hand slowly rubbing your back, urging you gently when you paused. “I was going to ask if you were around, but she didn’t really give me a chance. She was talking about you, how great you are and how much she loves being around you.” Jack kept his expression neutral, his brow still furrowed as he nodded along, not letting the praise get to him or stroke his ego.

“Obviously she’s right to think all that and say all that,” you add, giving your husband a shy smile to say that it was okay to smile or joke about it. “Honestly, you deserve way more than anything she or I could ever say, but…I don’t know. Something about it felt off.” Jack frowned. “Off how?” he prompted.

You shook your head, trying to guide the pieces together in your sleepless mind. 

“It felt personal to her,” you settle on. “Almost intimate.” You scowled before you could help yourself. “She called herself your work wife. Said you spent more time with her than the others, that you were always looking at her and hovering around her.” You shook your head again, trying in vain to dislodge the ill feelings that were blooming in your chest again. 

“And I know you’re a diligent teacher,” you added, looking up at Jack’s concentrated frown. “I know you stare when you don’t mean to, and you have more of a presence than you know-” “This is starting to feel like an attack,” Jack interrupted, soft grin spreading across his tired face. 

You scoffed, hand moving up to cup his cheek, already prickly with the ghost of morning stubble. 

“I love your staring and your presence,” you said, firm enough for him to know you meant it, but soft enough to still be teasing. You kissed him once for good measure, enjoying the humorous glint in his eye when you pulled back. 

“But they’re for you,” he supplied, putting together the threads between your ramblings. “Not her.”

You gave a small nod, gaze dropping again as a wave of guilt washed over you. You didn’t want to be the person movies and books had trained you to hate for so long, the jealous woman who lashed out when someone looked at her man too long. You didn’t want to be possessive, or read into things that weren’t there, or even worse, punish Jack, your dear Jack, just because you couldn’t get a grip on your own insecurities.

“I don’t want to be crazy,” you all but whispered, hand finding the draw string on his scrubs again and spinning the knot idly between your fingers. “But I didn’t like it. She looked at me like decided she had me all figured out. And it felt like she thought she really had a chance with you, and…I don’t know. Maybe I still don’t feel like I deserve you. Maybe I’ve just been missing you more with all the doubles you’ve had to pull. And I know that’s not fair-”

Jack cut you off with one finger held to your lips, shushing you like a child in a way that had your eyes narrowing and looking up to find his. When you did, you found an endearingly soft smile on his lips, looking just as in love with you as he did the day he’d proposed. 

“First off,” he said, speaking like he was instructing a new medical student, using only objective facts, “your feelings are always fair. They’re never crazy, or overblown. They always have their reasons, even if you can’t see them right away. Reactions are what matter, and you’re reacting perfectly normally by telling me this so I can help. Alright?” He looked at you, corner of his lip quirking up when you gave a reluctant nod, but raised his eyebrows, giving you a cocky look that you knew meant he wanted a verbal answer. You huffed dramatically, but gave him what he was looking for. 

“Yeah.”

He gave you a real smile, hand squeezing your upper arm as a reward. 

“Second, you’re not crazy. No one should be talking about me like that at work, even if I was single. And certainly not when I have a foxy wife at home.” His broad hands gripped you as you scoffed out a laugh, dragging you onto his lap so he could wrap his arms around you, smiling smugly at the genuine laugh he’d earned. 

“Don’t you dare laugh at that,” he’d added, poking you gently in the ribs. “No one laughs at my woman, not even my woman.” You grin stupidly wide, arms circling around his neck in a show of surrender. 

“Your woman?” you question, clicking your tongue scoldingly. “Guess I’m not the only possessive one then.” Jack shook his head, his even gaze never leaving yours. “Far from it.” His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face where it had fallen from his manhandling. They lingered on the apple of your cheek, gently holding you as you leaned into the touch.

“I’ll say no to any more doubles for a while,” he said, barely above a whisper. Your brow furrows, but you don’t interrupt as he continues. “I didn’t realize how long it had been since we’ve gotten time for us. I’m sorry about that.” You could see that he meant it, his face serious as a ghost.  You leaned forward, kissing the tip of his nose.

“Okay,” you agreed. “I think you need the break, if I’m honest. You’ve been stiffer recently, and I’ve been worried about you.”

Jack let out an exaggerated groan, stretching his legs underneath you. 

“God, you’re right,” he sighed, settling a little lower on the couch, and pulling you down with him. 

You grinned. “I’m always right.”

He nodded. “That’s why I married you.”

“And my baking skills,” you added, holding up a finger defiantly.

Jack shrugged, pretending to think about it.

“You’ve developed skills,” he settled on.

You gasped drastically, mustering up as much betrayal as you could in your fatigue, clutching your chest as if he’d wounded you.

“Developed?”

“Yeah. You’ve gotten better.”

You scoffed. “You don’t deserve my muffins.” His voice was low. “Hey now-” “Next time I’ll make a sign, For anyone but Jack,” you pretended to write across the air, voice trembling with laughter at the way his jaw dropped open.

“That has to be a violation of your wedding vows.” You smirked. “No sirree, Jack-ass.” He groaned at the nickname usually reserved for when he was being extra pestering. He slumped his head forward, burying his face in your neck as you continued. “Sickness and health, richer or poorer, but nothing about when your husband doesn’t appreciate homemade muffins made with very resourceful banana preservation tactics.” The side of your neck warmed from the sudden laugh he let out, muscled arms tugging you tighter to his chest.

“Robby will even get to take home the leftovers.” Jack feigned a cry at that, raising his head and giving you the most betrayed look he could.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

You paused, trying to find it in you to continue the bit when he looked at you so sweetly, eyebrows knit together like his best friend stealing the muffins his wife made would wound his heart beyond repair.

You deflated with a small sigh. 

“No,” you admitted, a smile pulling at your lips at how quickly he brightened. “But I might leave a note saying Cheryl doesn’t get any if you don’t get a work divorce.” 

Jack’s eyes widened. “Oh, it was Cheryl?”

You nodded, giving him a confused smile. “That change things?” He hummed in thought. “Doesn’t change them, but it does explain them. She’s new to the Pitt. Doesn’t have a lot of friends, it seems. Don’t remember where she transferred from, but they had different practices, so we’ve been watching her pretty closely to make sure she follows proper procedure.” You nodded slowly, putting together the pieces in your mind. The feeling like he was watching her, the hovering and checking in, it all made sense. Not that you had doubted his intentions for even a moment. Even if she was the most beautiful woman on the planet, Jack was a man with a strict moral code, and adultery lay far outside the scope of his rules. 

“Is it going to be weird working with her? Now that you know everything she said about you?”

Jack frowned. “Nah. I’ll go to HR at the start of next shift, file an anonymous report. They’ll sort things out with her, not make a scene or embarrass her. WIth any luck the whole thing will blow over.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll make sure the work marriage is annulled, sweetheart. Can’t be a workplace bigamist, can I?” 

You sighed wearily. “You can try, but if you open that door, every woman, man, and person in between is going to try to jump your bones, doc.” You gave him an overly concerned look. “You think your old joints can handle all of that at once?”

He had the good grace to look offended at that, giving you only a moment to look pleased with yourself before his hands were on your hips, giving you a great heave to flip you both so you were pinned beneath him on your back. You yelped at the sudden motion, but one of his hands made its way behind you, bracing you to cushion your fall on the already soft couch. His full weight trapped you, pressing you firmly into the cushions.

“What was that you were saying?” he teased, the tip of his nose grazing yours.

You could feel your cheeks warm. 

“If you think I’m able to think at all like this, you don’t know me very well, Jack.”

His lips twitched again, too busy taking in your expression to give a proper reaction of his own.

The night was quiet, the noises of the city fading into the background. The breeze carried a chill and you shoved your hands into the pockets of your jacket to keep them warm. Then you felt it. A presence intruding on the perimeter you’d set in your mind. Behind you, moving closer. A steady, silent approach. But no sense of danger came with it.

You didn’t look right away. If magic had taught you anything, it was patience. You sat perfectly still, tracking the movement until a huff of breath came from directly behind the bench. Only then did you turn.

The wolf was enormous, easily twice the size of any natural animal. His coat was dark with flecks of gray scattered throughout. His shoulders were broad and muscled, his head massive. He stared for a moment before moving around the bench to stand in front of you. His ears were forward, his tail low and swinging in a slow, measured rhythm. Not aggressive. Not even cautious. If you had to pinpoint the behavior, you’d call it attentive.

You kept your hands in your lap now instead of your pockets and watched him. He stood close enough you could feel the heat radiating off of him, could smell the clean, wild scent of him. He held your gaze. His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the moonlight and full of awareness and assessment that told you this was no mere animal. There was no threat, simply…recognition.

You stared at one another for one beat, then two. Then he lowered his head and laid the full weight of it in your lap. He was solid, warm. The whine that accompanied the action was a low, plaintive sound that vibrated through you. He watched you with those soft brown eyes. Waiting.

Your hands hovered for a moment before sinking in the thick fur. In that second, you felt something slide into place inside of you with a deep, instinctive knowing. You shifted your hold and began to scratch behind his ears.

He exhaled, a full body release that softened every line of his body. His weight settled more firmly against your legs, his eyes half closing. As your attention continued, he made a small satisfied noise in the back of his throat. His eyes held a human quality in them that was unmistakable. Intelligence and a focus that didn’t belong on anything living solely on instinct.

He had been looking for you, you were almost certain. He’d crossed the park with a single-minded determination and had found you sitting on the bench. Then he’d put his head in your lap like he was coming home.

You knew what this was. Felt it the moment you touched him and the universe suddenly seemed right, complete. You tilted your head. “You’re my mate.”

The wolf lifted his head from your lap. For a moment he just looked at you, his dark eyes steady and intent. And then he whined again, louder this time, with a hint of desperation that wasn’t there before. Before you had time to attempt to figure out what he wanted, he lowered his muzzle and closed his teeth around your wrist.

Your breath caught. His jaws were enormous, capable of crushing bone. But his teeth didn’t press, settling against you with extraordinary gentleness. The pressure was so light it was almost absent. It was just the faint weight of his mouth and the light scrape of a canine against your pulse. Then he tugged.

Not hard. Just enough to say come with me.

“Okay, okay,” you said as you stood.

He released you immediately, leaving not a mark behind. He turned away from the bench and took three steps before he stopped and looked over his shoulder, those dark eyes finding yours. Checking.

You followed.

He led you out of the park and into the city. He moved with purpose, keeping a steady pace that had you taking wide strides to match it. Every half-block or so he would glance back, making sure you were still there. Still following. At crosswalks he paused, waiting for the light even when the street was empty. His nose constantly twitched as he picked up scents from the air. He stopped at lampposts and fire hydrants, sniffing, tracing whatever trail led him on.

You walked past closed storefronts with their security gates pulled down, past a bar with sound spilling from inside. A man stood just past the door nodded at you as you passed, did a double-take at the wolf, then shrugged and went back to his cigarette.

The wolf led you through blocks you didn’t know, turning corners and leading you down questionable alleyways, though you didn’t fear. Between your own abilities and your wolf tour guide, you figured you were safe enough. Then, suddenly, the hospital rose into the night sky in front of you.

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The building was massive. The wolf led you around to the ambulance bay. He stopped at the edge of the pavement, right where driveway turns to walkway and turned to you.

The he shoved his head hard against your hip. The push was insistent, not rough as he nudged you toward the glass doors of the ambulance bay. You put a hand flat on top of his head. “Do you know someone here?”

He let out a frustrated whine and shoved harder. His entire weight leaned into your hip now, steering you toward the doors.

“We can’t just walk into the hospital. I’m pretty sure there are rules about wolves roaming the halls.”

The wolf sat down and stared up at you. His dark eyes were unblinking. You looked down at him. He looked up at you. The standoff lasted a good minute.

“Fine,” you said, finally.

You walked up to the doors and they slid open. A man in black scrubs with a Dunkin cup in one hand glanced over at the sound. He frowned as he saw you standing there. He moved closer. “Can I help you?”

You pointed at your companion, who was still sitting on the concrete right where you’d left him, watching the exchange with what you would have sworn was amusement.

“Does anyone here belong to him?” you asked.

The man’s brows raised and he grinned as he looked at the wolf. “This is fantastic. Just hold on one second.” And with that, the man who never introduced himself disappeared into the halls of the hospital.

You turned back to the wolf. He was still watching you, his tail wagging in slow arcs.

“Well, that was not helpful in the least.”

He blinked at you and you could have sworn he was laughing.

A low concrete wall ran along the edge of the ambulance bay, keeping the minimal landscaping at bay. You settled onto it, the cold seeping through your jeans and the wolf was there before you even fully found your balance. His head dropped into your lap with the certainty of a creature that had decided your lap belonged to him now. You didn’t question it as one hand found the soft fur under his chin and began to scratch.

A low, rumbling vibration of contentment came from him. One of his massive paws joined his head in your lap. You scratched under his chin and waited. The night had grown colder and the warmth of the wolf against your legs was welcome. “Would you like to see a trick?” you asked after a moment.

His ears flicked forward and his gaze met yours. You held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with running through his fur and produced a small ball of blue light you ran over fingers and back again. His tail wagged enthusiastically as he huffed out a breath. High praise, you were sure.

The door slid open and a man in scrubs stepped outside. His gaze found you and you waved a hand through the air to dismiss the light. He took in the scene before him. You on the wall, the enormous wolf with his head in your lap, your hand scratching under the chin before occasionally drifting up to get the spot behind his ears. His face split into a grin wide enough to show teeth and crinkle the skin by his eyes. The laugh that came from him was part surprise and part pure delight.

He walked over to stand in front of you and the wolf lifted his head from your lap just enough to look at the man who reached out and ruffled the fur between his ears with a casual affection.

“Hey, brother,” he said to the wolf. Then he looked at you, still grinning and extended a hand. “Jack Abbot. Night shift attending.” You shook his hand and he said, “Might I ask who you are and how you know our friend here?”

You told him your name before you explained everything. The park. The moon. The wolf finding you on that bench and declaring you were his in the most fundamental way possible. Then you explained about the bond between the two of you.

Jack’s grin grew impossibly wider with every sentence. By the time you finished, he was practically vibrating, his eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like triumph.

“He led you here?” Jack asked. “Just…follow me human, we’re going to the hospital?”

“Basically.”

Jack looked the wolf. The wolf looked back at Jack and you could have sworn they were silently communicating about something. “This is incredible,” Jack said, and he wasn’t talking to you. He was talking to the wolf who lowered his head back into your lap with what could only be described as smug satisfaction. “Absolutely incredible. I’ve been working with this man for years and I never—” He stopped, shook his head, and the grin came back full force. “Never mind. This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect.”

He watched you for another moment before leaning forward and dropping his voice. “So, you up for a little fun?”

The wolf in your lap made a small curious sound, his ears flicking forward.

Jack’s grin didn’t waver as he waited for your answer. The anticipation on his face was infectious and entirely terrifying.

Robby walked through the doors of the ED at ten the next morning, three hours into day shift as was the routine when he was scheduled the night after a full moon. Jack always covering the extra time without complaint. Robby was exhausted as he always was after a run, but he felt oddly invigorated.

Jack was at the nurses’ station, sitting as he typed at the computer. He looked up as Robby dropped his bag beside him and a grin spread across his face.

“Morning,” Robby said with a lifted brow. “You seem in oddly good spirits. How was the shift?”

Jack’s grin didn’t budge as he shrugged one shoulder. “Same as always. Nothing remarkable.” He paused, his head tilting slightly, the amusement in his expression increasing. “How was your run?”

Robby ran a hand through his hair, feeling the residual stiffness in his shoulders, the soreness in his muscles that came from a night spent as something other than human. “Good. Really good, I think.”

He remembered fragments. The park. A rabbit. Moving through the city. The feeling of something pressing, urgent. He tapped his temple with one finger. “Nothing. The usual black hole. But I feel like…something happened. Something important but I can’t fucking place it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched, his eyes crinkling at the corners as that grin somehow got wider. He reached out and clapped Robby on the shoulder. “Langdon’s been holding down the fort. Have a fantastic day, brother. I’m out.” Jack grabbed the bag that Robby hadn’t noticed at his feet and headed toward the doors without a backward glance.

Robby frowned after him. That was…odd. Jack Abbot was many things. Subtle was not one of them. Whatever had that expression on his face was something he was savoring and Robby was almost certain it was going to somehow bite him in the ass.

You arrived at PTMC just before noon, checking in at the front and giving your name before being let through. A blonde glanced up as you moved through the chaos toward the central hub. “Dana?” you asked, making an educated guess based on what Jack had told you.

Her gaze flicked over you from head to toe and one side of her mouth curled up as she said your name. With a nod, you confirmed your identity and she smiled wide. “Jack filled me in, said you’re here as part of Gloria’s new initiative to increase the presence of magical healing in the hospital, right?”

You nodded again. It was Jack’s idea. The program was real enough and you actually were a witch trained in healing magic. He’d submitted your name himself this morning and texted you when he got approval. The best cover stories were the most truthful ones, after all.

Jack convinced you to spend a day with Robby as a human before telling him who you were to him. Something about driving his best friend crazy before letting him in on the secret. He’d seemed so giddy at the idea you’d agreed without much argument. It was unlikely Robby would remember anything about the night before, anyway. Getting to know him this way seemed infinitely preferable to just showing up with a wave and saying, “Hey, I’m your mate. How are you doing?”

Robby stood in North Four with a med student and a third-year resident, watching as the student conducted a neuro exam. His arms were crossed over his chest as he observed. The resident was correcting a small error the student had made when Robby’s spine straightened.

A scent drifted to him. Warm and layered and completely out of place in an emergency department. Something rich and complex that smelled like rain, the earth and a note he couldn’t name but that pulled at him all the same.

His chin lifted and his nostrils flared. His focus narrowed to a single point, that scent and the direction it had come from. “Finish the assessment. Let me know if you have any questions,” he announced to the room in general.

He didn’t wait for a response. He was already moving, following the scent through the department before he had fully processed what he was doing. The scent led him past staff and countless patients until finally, there you were.

You stood beside Dana, one hip leaning against the counter. You were saying something while Dana listened intently.

Robby stopped when he was maybe fifteen feet from you. Close enough his eyes registered little details about your appearance, about the way you held your hands. Close enough that the scent swamped him.

He knew you.

The certainty was bone deep and inexplicable. He had never seen you before in his life, yet every instinct he possessed insisted that he knew you as well as he knew his own name. There was no memory attached to the recognition, just the raw, incontrovertible fact that he knew you.

Dana glanced over and saw him standing there. Her eyebrow lifted along with the corner of her lips. “Robby.” He stepped closer and she introduced you by a name that meant nothing to him. “She’s part of Gloria’s new program. Here to observe only today.”

You turned to fully face him and your eyes met. “Hi.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Hi.”

He was still trying to figure this out, this familiarity, this pull when you lifted your left hand. A flick of your fingers and a small ball of blue light appeared. You let it run over your fingers and back again before another flick had it vanishing from sight. It was the kind of thing a witch did without thinking, the magical equivalent of clicking a pen.

For a moment, Robby was completely lost to you. A feeling of security that he didn’t understand at all flowed through him. He was all the more certain that he knew you. That you were important. This was driving him insane.

Realizing that he’d been staring in silence for far too long, he cleared his throat.  “I should…Patients. I have patients.”

He made himself turn around. Made himself walk through the halls and find another resident to observe, another med student with a question. Anything he could focus on besides you.

He failed miserably.

For the rest of the afternoon, he found reasons to be wherever you were. When you were at the hub, he appeared with a question for Dana he already knew the answer to. Each time, his eyes found you, watching you make notes or talk to some of the staff. He slowed his pace as he passed a bay where you were holding the hand of a small fae child that was awaiting the arrival of her parents. When you were in the break room, he had a sudden need for coffee despite the four cups he’d already had that day. When work pulled him away, he immediately sought you out when he finished, needing to know where you were and if you were safe.

The department continued around the two of you. Traumas came in. Labs were ordered. Consults were called for. Students were taught. And through it all, that scent pulled at him. It was mouth watering and maddeningly familiar. But every moment spent in your presence brought him no closer to understanding.

Jack arrived ten minutes before his shift was due to start. The rest of the night shift was filtering in as well, day shift starting their handoffs. He found Robby at the hub, a tablet laying on the counter in front of him that he was absolutely ignoring. In fact, he hadn’t looked at it in ten minutes. He leaned against he counter, arms crossed as he watched you talk with one of the nurses, hands moving. Perlah was laughing and you were smiling, the expression making Robby’s chest feel tight.

Jack stopped beside him. He looked at you, then to Robby and back to you. Then he laughed, the sound drawing Robby’s attention away from his staring. “You are so far gone,” Jack said. He still had that stupid grin on his face.

Robby shook his head and huffed in irritation. “I can’t focus. I feel like I know her from somewhere. I’ve been like this all day. It doesn’t make any sense.” He ran a hand over his beard, smoothing it down. “I should introduce the two of you. Maybe you can place her.”

Jack’s grin turned smug. “Oh, I already met her. You introduced us.”

Robby turned to look at him, the movement slow and deliberate. His body orienting with the same focused intent his wolf used when tracking a scent. “What?”

“Last night.” Jack leaned against the counter, mirroring Robby’s posture. “Found her in the ambulance bay just before midnight. Sitting on the wall with a very large wolf’s head in her lap.”

Robby went perfectly, utterly still.

“She was scratching under his chin, behind his ears. Like she’d known him for years. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And he was letting her. Head right there in her lap, eyes half-closed, making these little content noises. You know the ones.” His voice had dropped to a lower register, almost gentle though the mischief was still present.

Robby knew the sounds he was referring to, the satisfied rumbling sounds his wolf made at his happiest. When he felt safe.

“He led her all the way here from some park downtown. Said he put his head in her lap then whined at her until she got up and followed him here.” Jack paused, searching his friend’s face. “He brought her right to the doors and then sat down until she got Shen’s attention. He got me and there you have it.”

Robby’s mouth had gone dry. The pieces assembled themselves in his head with a slow certainty. The scent that had pulled him across the department, the recognition with no context.

“I’d only go to someone like that if…” he trailed off, the words hanging there for a beat before he said, “Oh.”

His gaze shifted back to where your conversation with Perlah had been joined by Princess. A warmth settled over him as he realized the scent he had been chasing all day had been following him first. From a park through the city under a full moon to the feet of his best friend.

You looked up, your eyes meeting across an emergency department filled with a scent he could finally, definitively name. Your gaze flicked to Jack and back to Robby and you smiled, warm and welcoming.

He did not look away.

They finished handoff in under ten minutes. Robby gathered his things and headed for the doors. Jack followed. That was…unusual. Typically, he jumped right into his shift but tonight, he fell into step beside Robby, hands in his pockets.

The air outside was cool as he caught Robby’s elbow and pulled him off to the side and out of the way.

“She met me for breakfast this morning.”

“Did you tell her?” Robby’s voice came out rough, broken. “About how sorry I am? That I’ve started seeing Gemmill again? That I’m…Jesus, Jack, did you tell her I’m falling apart without her?”

Jack crossed his arms over his chest and nodded once. “I told her.”

“And?”

“She was going to walk out until I promised to stop talking about you.”

Robby stared at him. “What?”

“She says you have to make the effort on your own, without me being in the middle.” Jack’s voice was quiet, steady. “I won’t risk losing her, Mike. Not even for you.”

Robby felt something inside of him just collapse. A slow, inward crumpling of the little bit of hope he’d held that Jack could help him fix this. He dragged a hand over his beard. His hand was shaking and he stuffed it into the pocket of his hoodie.

“So, what do I do, Jack? How do I fix this?” The question came out small, pleading. He’d fucked up, lost his way, and he needed Jack to help him find the way out.

Jack huffed out a breath. “Well, first you need to quit trying to buy her affections.”

Pure white-hot panic shot through Robby. “I’m not…that’s not what I’m doing. Is that what she thinks I’m doing?”

Jack nodded. “You accused her of using us for our money and now you’re…well, you’re using our money to try to get her to forgive you. That’s not going to work, babe.”

“I just need her to talk to me,” Robby said, the words sounding pathetic even to his own ears. Pathetic but true.

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, try something else, because that’s not working.”

Then he was gone, heading back into the depths of the Pitt, leaving Robby alone in the ambulance bay. He walked home in the dark, and he didn’t cry. He was too tired for tears. He was tired and alone and the silence in his head was louder than any trauma bay had ever been.

A knock came at four in the afternoon when you were working on a spreadsheet for your grandfather’s foundation. You paused, saved and set your laptop aside. You knew what it was before you opened the door. Another delivery with no communication, no heart behind it. You sighed.

When you opened the door, you were surprised to be met with a wrapped bouquet on the doorstep rather than a careful display. It was the kind of arrangement that looked like someone had had gone into a field and picked whatever was in bloom. They were beautiful in an unrefined way, nothing like the formal bouquets that preceded them. You carried them into the kitchen, setting them on the counter while you filled a vase with water.

The note was tucked between two stems, folded in half. Your fingers found it as you started to arrange the flowers. Robby’s handwriting was unmistakable, a hurried slanting script that always looked like he’d been rushed through whatever he was writing.

I’m sorry.

Two words. Nothing else.

But it was enough to cause the slightest lift of the corner of your mouth. He was learning. The flowers had a personal touch finally and he’d written a note. A stupid, short note but it was a start. You set the note on the counter beside the vase and went back to work.

The next day, the knock came around lunch time. A teenager handed you a delivery of soup from the deli near the hospital that Robby favored. You opened it and inhaled the aroma of your favorite offering from there. You ate it standing at the counter, spoon scraping the bottom of the container. When you went to throw the bag away, you found the note in the bottom.

I miss you.

You set it with the first note and went on about your day.

The third delivery arrived the following afternoon. Pastries from your favorite bakery. Three of your favorite treats nestled inside the bag. This note contained only one word. Please.

You rolled your eyes and set the note with the others. The anger had burned itself out. The pain less sharp than it had been. You’d cried it away on your couch. Shouted it into your pillow. Let it run through you until there was nothing left but remnants. Jack had told you Robby was back in therapy. You’d turned the information over in your head for days. It changed the shape of things. Just a bit. Enough for you to acknowledge that he was aware that what he’d done was inexcusable. And that he was attempting to make certain it never happened again.

Understanding didn’t mean forgiveness. It was merely the first step toward a conversation you weren’t ready to have just yet.

Notes accumulated on your counter. I’m sorry. I miss you. Please. I’m thinking of you. I was wrong. Short. Unpolished. All written by Robby’s own hand. You’d read them all precisely once before adding them to the pile on the counter and returning to whatever task you’d been working at when they arrived. You appreciated the thought behind every bouquet, every meal, every cup of coffee. But thought wasn’t enough.

Not responding had nothing to do with punishment. It was about respecting yourself. You loved him. God, you loved that stupid, broken, beautiful man. But you loved yourself enough to wait for something real. The brief notes weren’t it. The flowers weren’t it. The rent most definitely wasn’t it. You were waiting for words that hadn’t come yet. The words that acknowledged not just that he was sorry but why. The understanding of what he’d done and how fundamentally it had hurt you. Of the damage he had done. You needed something deeper than a couple of words tucked amongst the flower stems.

He had broken you. He’d taken away the trust you had, the feeling of safety and security. The home you had with him and Jack. Until he recognized all of that, there was no room for him in your life.

The Luck of the Draw hummed with activity even on a Tuesday night. Sam’s endeavor was a success and you couldn’t be prouder of him. The customers had only increased since your livestream of Chelsea’s humiliation. Word spread fast that the owner was your bestie and he was enjoying the rewards. He’d begged you to pick up a few shifts until he could get another permanent bartender on board.

You moved behind the bar with the ease of many long nights working in the same spot, reaching for bottles without really looking. You mixed drinks and carried on conversations with the customers. Sam worked beside you, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he shook a cocktail vigorously.

“Take it easy, Reynolds.”

“Gotta put on a show for the ladies.”

You blinked at him. “No one is impressed by you shaking the hell out of a whiskey sour.”

Sam shrugged. “A man can dream.”

“Idiot,” you said, affectionately. All of your best friends were idiots, but they were your idiots.

The door opened and you glanced up only to freeze for a beat as your gaze landed on Robby.

He was still in his clothes from the hospital. His beard had gotten a little longer, or maybe he just hadn’t groomed it. You usually did it for him. He looked tired. No, he looked like a man who hadn’t properly slept in weeks. He took a seat on a stool at the far end of the bar, as far from you as he could, and set his elbows on the polished wood. Your eyes met his. One second, then two. And then you looked away and didn’t look back.

Sam’s gaze flicked from Robby to you and back again. His back straightened and you recognized that flash of protective instinct he’d carried for you since high school. The one that had gotten him suspended when he punched your junior prom date for trying to feel you up. He moved to you and leaned in.

“You want him gone?”

You shook your head. “No, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“It’s fine, Sam.” You poured two fingers of whiskey and handed it to him. “That’ll be his order.”

Sam studied you for a beat, then nodded and went to deliver the drink without a word to Robby. And you worked. You opened beers and made drinks and laughed at bad jokes from the regulars. Through it all you felt the weight of Robby’s eyes on you. You knew without turning exactly how he was sitting. Elbows on the bar, one hand around the glass he wasn’t drinking from while he watched you move through your world.

An hour passed, the customers changed out. Robby’s drink was still mostly full, he’d barely sipped at it. He’d just sat there, watching you. When he finally stood, you didn’t turn. You heard the stool slide back, watched from the corner of your eye as he left too much money on the bar top. Your gaze followed him as he left and you sighed as tension flowed from your shoulders.

As you were walking home just after midnight, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You waited until you got to your building to check it.

I’m sorry. I just needed to see you. I miss you. I love you.

You stared at the words as you rode the elevator up, too tired for the stairs. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard before you typed a response.

Laying in the bed that was too big without you or Jack, Robby stared at the ceiling. His phone vibrated on his chest and he grabbed it, fingers fumbling in his hurry.

I miss you too

His mouth curved just slightly. He read it again. And again. Elation rose in his chest. This was the first contact he’d had from you and it wasn’t telling him to fuck off.

But he was just as aware of what you didn’t say. Not I love you too. Not I forgive you. Just I miss you too. But it was a start. An opening he wasn’t going to mar with what wasn’t said.

He sent a message to Jack asking him to call if he had a minute.

The phone rang almost immediately. “What’s up?” Jack greeted when Robby answered.

“I went to the bar. I needed to see her.” He needed Jack to know but he worried the other man would be angry.

Jack’s voice was completely normal however when he asked, “Did you speak to her?”

Robby shook his head though Jack couldn’t see it. “No. I just…watched. Sent her a message after I left.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I’m sorry and that I miss her and love her.” The words were rough around the edges. “She told me she missed me too.”

“That’s good. She didn’t shut you down, not completely.”

Robby swallowed the lump in his throat. “Do you think she still loves me? She didn’t say it.”

“I know she does.” Jack’s voice was quiet. “But I’m pretty sure you haven’t earned her saying it yet, baby.”

There was a long stretch of silence. “Yeah. Thank you, Jack. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Get some sleep.”

Robby disconnected the call and looked at your message one more time before putting the phone on the nightstand. He went back to staring at the ceiling, hot tears leaking from his eyes.

He was back the next time you worked. Same stool, same tired eyes and hunched shoulders. Another glass of whiskey sat in front of him barely touched. He watched you for an hour before shuffling out the door to go home to an empty house. When he left, your phone buzzed with another message.

I miss you. I love you. I’m so fucking sorry.

This time you didn’t respond.

The third night, Sam came over, leaning against the counter beside you. “Should I be concerned that he always seems to know when you’re here?” He tilted his head toward Robby who was sitting in his usual spot, staring into his untouched drink. “He’s not stalking you, is he?”

That pulled a laugh from you. “Pretty sure he has more important things to do with his time.” You shrugged. “I shared my location with him and Jack months ago. Never changed it.”

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just. It’s a very easy thing to fix. Couple of seconds on your phone and no more sharing if you were so inclined.”

You huffed in annoyance. “Well, I’m not so inclined so drop it.”

He raised his hands and backed away. “Understood.”

Robby had been sitting there for forty minutes, looking more forlorn than the last time he’d been in. You set down the glass you’d been drying, squared your shoulders and walked the length of the bar. He didn’t see you coming at first, staring at his drink, one finger tracing the lines of the glass. And then he did.

His head came up. His face changed. The tired lines around his eyes smoothed. His mouth opened, just slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know what. Finally, he settled on, “Hi.” His voice was rough and he cleared his throat. “Hi.”

“You have to stop this, Robby.” He flinched at the name. You kept your voice low so only he could hear you. “You can’t keep coming here. Watching me. It’s…I miss you and this is too hard on me. Do you understand that?”

He nodded once, quick. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…” He stopped, swallowed. “It’s the only way I can see you.”

You started to turn away. His hand came down to rest on yours where it sat on the bar top. His palm was warm, his skin dry and rough from the endless amount of sanitizer he used all day long. You looked at his hand on yours and then up to his face.

“I’m off tomorrow. Let me take you out to breakfast. Or lunch. Coffee. I just want to talk to you. Please.” The words spilled from his lips like he was incapable of holding them back, desperate to be heard.

You studied him. The gray in his beard. The shadows under his eyes. The desperate hope in his gaze. You could feel your resolve cracking, not because of the flowers or the notes or the rent money, but because of this. Because of the man sitting in front of you asking for a conversation, his hand on yours like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I’ll think about you,” you finally said. “I’ll let you know.”

He nodded. Didn’t push. Didn’t say another word. His hand left yours, the absence leaving you cold. He stood, dropped too much cash on the bar as usual and walked out, pausing at the door to look back once. With a nod he stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind him.

A couple of hours after Robby left, you were moving constantly, serving a steady flow of customers. You didn’t see the fight start. One minute a table by the dancefloor was just a table. Four guys drinking and laughing about whatever. The next, there was shouting, the scrape of chairs and the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. A pint glass shattered on the floor in a spray of amber liquid and sharp edges.

“Hey!” Sam’s voice cut through the noise. “Knock it off!”

The two men, both large and at least slightly drunk, shoved each other, chest to chest, voices raised. You couldn’t make out the words, but you supposed it didn’t really matter. Another man soon joined the fray and then another. One of the tables fell over with a crash and people moved out of the way. Some headed for the door, others just the edges of the room.

Sam vaulted the bar in one smooth motion. “Stay put!” he yelled in your direction without looking back.

You ignored him completely, moving out from behind the bar intent on bringing up the lights and shutting down the music. The brawl spilled sideways as four guys became five which became seven as a couple of the regulars jumped in to help Sam break it up. You reached the switches and cut the music while you brought the lights up to full intensity. As you turned to check on the chaos behind you, a bottle arched through the air from somewhere in the melee.

You saw it coming. You registered it was going to hit you and you should get the hell out of the way. Unfortunately, your body was about half a second behind. The bottle hit you square on the head, just at the edge of your hairline above your left eyebrow. The crack was immediate and stunning, a sound you felt more than heard, followed by a sharp flare of pain that radiated out from the point of impact. “Motherfucker,” you shouted as your vision blurred.

Hands grasped your arm and tugged you back behind the bar. Kira, one of the waitresses, pressed a folded bar towel against the wound. Her hold was firm, insistent. “Hold this. Press. Hard. I’m gonna help Sam clear the bar.”

You did as she said. The towel was immediately warm and wet against your skin. Fuck. You could feel blood running down the side of your face.

On the floor, Sam had one of the fighters in a headlock and was dragging him toward the door. Two of the regulars followed behind with two other assholes. The remaining customers were closing tabs and gathering their things before heading for the exit. It took less than ten minutes for the bar to clear after that until it was just you, Sam and Kira left with the broken glass on the floor and the blood running from your head.

Sam came straight to you once the last patron was out the door. His face was flushed and he was disheveled from the fight. His hands were steady as he lifted the towel from your forehead.

His expression did the talking. His mouth tightened and his eyes shone with worry. “Sorry, beautiful,” he said, pressing the towel back firmly. His thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away a streak of blood. “Looks like a trip to see your boyfriend at the hospital.”