JUST A PEDRO LOVING GIRL

Warnings: Trauma/blood, emergency medicine chaos, overworked nurses, glasses agenda, Jack Abbot paying suspicious amounts of attention, workplace banter, medically accurate-ish procedures, praise from emotionally unavailable men, yogurt crimes, hand obsession escalating, mutual pining, and everyone except the main characters realizing what's happening. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Author's Note: Lord have mercy, this chapter took me FOREVER. 😭 Be nice to her, okay?

This is definitely one of the longest chapters I've written, and I feel like my writing has changed a lot since Chapter 1. At first, I was so focused on snippy dialogue, bickering, and that enemies-to-lovers tension. But now... we're getting into the real stuff. They're starting to figure each other out, learning each other's habits, and fighting every instinct telling them to keep their distance. It's still tense, don't worry but it's becoming something softer too. I'm honestly really proud of this chapter, and I hope you guys love it as much as I do.

Also... this series actually isn't going to be much longer. 😭 The end is getting close, which is both exciting and making me weirdly emotional. Y'all know me—I love giving my couples a happy ending (even in my dark fics... which, in hindsight, might not be so happy for reader?? Let's not unpack that💀)

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy! Love you guys. 🤍 ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

—

In fifteen frantic minutes, you had one overturned bathroom trash can, a new mess to clean, and several accusations directed at your sink.  

You’re going to lose your ever-loving mind.   

You’d been crouched on the cold bathroom tile with your phone's flashlight aimed at every corner, every crack, every possible hiding place where those stupid translucent discs of silicone might have slipped into.  

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Your knees ache, your back protests. 

Fine— You give up.  

If you spend another minute searching for the world’s most elusive contact lens, you’d be even later than you already were. 

Glasses it was.  

You drop to your knees in front of your dresser, defeated, now yanking open the neglected bottom drawer before digging beneath old receipts, mismatched socks, and a long-forgotten sweatshirt. 

"...Come on."  

Your fingers rake through the mess. Nothing. 

A tangled phone charger, an old birthday card. Three pens that definitely don't work. Seriously? 

Then the cool sensation of leather brushes your fingers. Your fingers finally close around the familiar glasses case. Bingo. 

You pop it open. Dust clings stubbornly to the hinges. 

You wipe them hastily against the hem of your Tshirt, accomplishing little more than smearing the fingerprints already there.  

They're fine. Objectively, fine. Black frames, nothing outrageous.

But you know who you work with.  

You know this will not be overlooked. 

Great, just fantastic. 

By the way your morning had started, you already knew this shift wasn’t going to cooperate.  

... 

The emergency department certainly did not disappoint.   

The shift is already in full swing when you arrive, breathless and flustered.  The automatic doors slide open as you walk in, hair still damp at the ends from the world's fastest shower. 

Maybe if you just sneak quickly by the nurses' station, 

You can grab your assignment, then run—

You made it exactly three steps 

...

"...No." Mateo looked up from the nurses' station. "No way." 

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Hello to you too..." 

The department is caught in its usual shift-change limbo. 

Day shift lingers, giving report while night shift filtered in with coffee cups and tired eyes. Nurses cluster around the station, finishing charting, passing off patients, squeezing in last-minute meds before clocking out. 

Across the counter, Dr. Shen and Dr. Ellis stand shoulder to shoulder over a chart. 

Robby waits patiently for Abbot to help with shift change. 

Dana stands midway through giving Lena report. 

Mateo had been staring at his computer- now staring at you. That grin spreads slowly across his face. 

God. Here we go. You want to sink into the floor. 

"Oh, this is incredible.” He points dramatically “Guys”

“...Holy shit." Ellis glances up first.  

Dr. Shen follows her gaze. "...Are those... glasses?" 

You stop walking. "I’ve had them on for exactly fourteen seconds." 

Every head at the nurses' station turns toward you. One smile, then another. Cheshire-wide grins grow around you. 

Oh— you were screwed.  

"FOUR EYES!" Mateo announces to the entire department. 

"Oh my God," Dana laughs immediately.  

"They're adorable, kid" Robby teases.  

"They're prescription," you deadpan, dropping your bag behind the desk and reaching for the assignment board. “My contacts are missing. Can we move on?” 

"Absolutely not." Shen leans against the counter with his arms crossed "This is the most interesting thing that's happened all evening." 

"No, seriously." Ellis leans over the counter, squinting at you. "They're actually really cute." 

Mateo frowns. "I liked making fun of her more." 

"You somehow look younger." Robby adds. 

"I don't know if that's a compliment..."  

“—It wasn’t!” Mateo answers before he could. You glare at him. 

"You look like you'd apologize after someone else hit your car." Shen chuckles 

“What...?” 

"I stand by it."  

... 

"And I'm leaving."   

"Nooo, wait." Ellis reached dramatically across the counter. “Don’t gooo—“

Mateo wasn't finished, "You definitely remind the teacher she forgot to assign homework." 

"Asshole." 

Lena is openly laughing now, still wearing an isolation gown she'd clearly forgotten to take off. "Aw, stop," she smiled. "You're cute, babe. I love 'em!" 

You point triumphantly toward her. "Thank you, Lena." You look around the station. "See? It's really not that hard to be nice." 

Dana chuckles, "I mean... They're kinda.... cute." 

"Don't encourage her," Mateo warns. 

Too late. You adjust the bridge of your glasses with exaggerated confidence.  

"You know what?" Your finger sweeps accusingly around the nurses' station— "I hate every single one of you." 

You now point directly at Mateo. "...Especially you." 

He looks absurdly proud. "I've never felt more seen."

You squint at Mateo, deciding your next words carefully.

"I hope every IV you start today blows." You vaguely threathen

Collective gasps. Shen winces. "...Too far." 

A laugh escapes you as you scoop your things back off the counter, your bag shifting up your shoulder. 

"Good." Shaking your head, you turn toward the lockers, weaving through the morning rush. 

The teasing follows you another few steps. 

"Don't forget your lunch, Four Eyes." 

"I hate you!" You call over your shoulder, not looking back. 

"You love me!" 

"That’s debatable." 

Another chorus of laughter. You roll your eyes, adjusting the bridge of your glasses again. 

God, maybe they weren't that bad. 

You continue down, passing room nine.  

Passing Lena. Passing the monitors.  

Passing Jack. 

- 

Jack.  

Perfect. Of course, he’s right there.  

Probably long enough to witness your public humiliation.  

He leans against the doorframe of room ten, one hand tucked into the pocket of his scrub pants, the other balancing a chart against his hip.  

Waiting on labs. Or pretending to be. 

His attention isn't on the patient anymore— it's on you. You feel it before you actually look. 

When your eyes finally lift, they're met with his immediately.  

Neither of you says anything, not at first. 

You hold the look for half a second, maybe a little longer than you should. Then you break it first, looking ahead again and continuing down the hallway. 

Absolutely not. You were not giving him another opportunity to join in with everyone else. 

... 

"...Glasses, huh?" 

The words stop you mid-step. Your close your eyes for the briefest second. Of course.  

Turning back, you find he hasn’t moved. Still leaning against the door frame, still watching 

Now, with one eyebrow raised just enough to make you suspicious.  

"...Yeah, yeah." You gesture vaguely toward your face— "I know—" 

The corner of his mouth threatens to move. 

"Well—" His fingers tighten around the chart, "...I didn't.” 

That makes you pause. Two words, that’s all. But the way he says them, almost fascinated, makes something flip in your chest. 

You exhale, steadying yourself.  

"Lost my contacts." 

"So I gathered." His eyes drift for another second. To the glasses, to your eyes, then your face again, scanning each detail.  

Not lingering anywhere inappropriate. Just long enough to make you strangely aware of the glasses sitting on your nose.  

Heat creeps up the back of your neck. Without thinking, your hand starts toward the bridge of your glasses. 

You catch yourself halfway there. 

He noticed. Of course he noticed. 

...

"...Whatever, Doc."  

You jerk a thumb toward the medication room. "I've got meds to pass." 

You turn before he can answer, shifting your bag higher onto your shoulder.  

"Bear—" 

You stop again. This time you don't turn right away, letting him wait for it. Only then do you glance back over your shoulder. 

He's still looking at you. His mouth parts... then nothing.  

For what feels like the first time since you've known him, Dr. Jack Abbot seems to have lose the ability to find the right words. 

His brow pinches almost imperceptibly, something flashing across his face. Uncertainty? 

It disappears before you can diagnose it—

"...Don't forget to chart them."  

You blink, "...Really?" 

"Hospital policy.” He shrugs. 

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you. "You're unbelievable." 

"So I've been told..." 

You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you disappear around the corner. 

Jack doesn't move. 

The hallway is empty now, you’d already turned the corner. 

Still, his eyes linger there. The chart beneath his arm suddenly feels a lot heavier than it did a minute ago. 

He exhales through his nose and shakes his head once. Then, forces himself back into the patient's room. 

Because that wasn't what he'd wanted to say—

------ 

As always, your intuition never fails you.  

This shift was a disaster.  

Not the exciting kind, or the "multiple traumas rolling through the bay" kind. 

No— Only relentless, and never allowing you to breathe. The kind that chewed through twelve hours, one call bell at a time. 

You move through it all on autopilot.

Room twelve wanted more ice. 

Room fourteen had somehow managed to disconnect himself from telemetry. Again. 

Pharmacy was late. Transport was later. 

Dietary had somehow lost two lunch trays. 

And every time you thought you'd finally caught up... 

Another call light. Another medication. 

Another problem waiting with your name on it.  

------ 

You shove your way out of room seventeen, already reaching into your scrub pocket for the next medication. 

Potassium. Right. 

Hang the potassium. Call pharmacy. Chart room twelve. Mrs. Harris still needs pain meds. Room eight is asking for blankets again. 

Your brain barely has time to finish the list before a familiar voice cuts through it—

"Bear." 

You stop. Shit. 

"...What." 

You don't need to look over to figure it out. You know that voice... and that tone all too well. 

You already know you’re about to be annoyed.   

Jack is waiting exactly where you don’t want him to be. Arms folded, chart tucked beneath one arm, with one shoulder resting against the patient’s door.  

His face wearing that look. The one that usually meant you’d forgotten something. 

God. Not now.  

Don’t have time for this shit...  

"You never hung the potassium." 

You blink. For a second, the words don’t register.  

Then they hit, causing your stomach to drop. 

"...Excuse me?" 

"The STAT potassium." His voice calm, almost too calm. "It was due thirty minutes ago." 

"I know." You sigh. 

"Apparently not." His eyebrows rise with an almost smug smile on his face. He’s not letting this slide.  

He closes the distance between you with two measured steps, close enough that this stops feeling like a casual conversation in the hallway.  

“Pretty sure if you knew, it would’ve been done.” 

You can practically feel the thread holding your patience together begin to fray. 

Your jaw clenches as something in you snaps, 

"Well, I'm a little busy, Abbot."  

The name leaves your mouth like an insult, landing harder than you intended.  

You hear it. So does he.  

He goes completely still. Even the chat tucked beneath his arm doesn’t move.  

For a second, he just looks at you. His face contorts, eyebrows knitting together.  

 "...Abbot?" He says it quietly. It isn’t anger that crosses his face, but something quieter. 

As if he’s trying to figure out why hearing his last name from you suddenly sounds wrong. 

"You heard me." 

Silence. 

You want him to bite back. 

Expect him to lecture you, tell you that patient safety comes first. 

Instead, all instinct to fight quietly leaves him. His expression falters. The lecture never comes.

Whatever edge had been sitting in his voice disappears.  

"Bear." 

You break eye contact first. You suddenly find the scuffed toes of his shoes infinitely more interesting than whatever expression is waiting for you above them.  

"What." 

"Go take a break." 

You let out a short, humorless laugh "Absolutely not." 

"I'm serious." 

"So am I." 

His eyes lock on yours, head cocking to the side. He’s not taking not for an answer.  

You stare back. You won't go down without a fight. 

You shake your head. "No." 

"No?" His brow furrows.  

"I'm not dumping my assignment because you suddenly decided to play charge nurse." 

Something shifts in his eyes, "I'm telling you to take fifteen minutes." 

"And I'm telling you I don't have fifteen minutes." You bite back.  

His eyes move over you with quiet efficiency, his gaze making you squirm.  

The loose hair escaping from your claw clip, the scribbled ink staining the back of your hand, cold coffee stain near the hem of your scrub top, the tiny sway shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 

He's done enough trauma assessments to know exhaustion when he sees it…

"When's the last time you ate?" 

The question catches you off guard. "What?" 

"Food," he clarifies, as if you might have forgotten what the word means. "When?" 

You blink. "I... I don't know. Dinner time- ish?" 

"That was nine hours ago." 

"I'm fine." 

"You're not." He says it gently, but there's no room for argument in his tone. "Take fifteen. Go to the break room. Eat something." 

You refuse to dignify that with a response. You shake your head and stare ahead aimlessly at the trauma bay across the room. Eyes linger to the nurses charting at their computers. Just anywhere else besides him. 

He won't budge, nor will you. He stands, arms crossed, immovable. His mind is made up.

The silence stretches on. Long enough that your irritation starts giving way to burnout. The grumble in your stomach grows louder with each second that passes.  

Damn it.

For the second time today, you give in.  

You hate yourself for asking, but you do anyway.  

"Who's hanging the potassium?" You sigh defeated 

"I'll get it fixed." 

"Room seventeen?" 

"Covered." 

"Mrs. Harris?" 

"Handled." 

You pause, watching as his jaw flexes. "...And what exactly are you going to do?" 

He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels smaller. The answer comes so easily, it almost sounds obvious 

"...I'm going to make sure my nurse eats." 

The words land with unexpected weight somewhere in your chest, causing it to tighten. My nurse.  

Rolling off his tongue so simply. So matter-of-fact. As though he'd merely commented on the weather. 

It wasn’t the answer you were expecting. You hate how it knocks every argument straight out of your head. 

Your mouth opens, but the words die on your tongue.  

You shake your head softly. Brain now scrambling for something sarcastic, some sort of defense, something. 

No, there's so much more to do.  

"...Bear." 

"What."  

"Look at me." 

You don't. You can’t.  

The hallway suddenly feels too bright. Too loud.  

Nurses and staff running around. Too full of people who definitely aren’t paying attention. Yet somehow, it feels like the only two people in it are you and him.  

"Bear." 

You sigh, lifting your head. He hasn’t looked away once, which somehow makes it much harder to meet his eyes.  

"You haven't stopped moving in three hours." 

"...Have you been timing me?" Your brows furrow 

He hesitates, then nods. "I've watched you pass this hallway six times." 

You pause. That shouldn't affect you. It does. 

You don’t know what to do with that information.  

 "... So you've been watching me?" Your eyes narrowing 

"I've been trying to get your attention." 

... 

"...Why?" 

He opens his mouth, then stops himself. 

Whatever answer he has, he keeps it.  

"Go eat." 

You sigh, the last of your willpower leaving.  

"...Fifteen minutes?" 

He nods once. "Just fifteen." 

Your eyes narrow, staring daggers at the man—

"You touch my patients while I'm gone and I'll report you." 

He blinks, "I already am touching your patients."  

 "...I hate you." you shake your head 

“No, you don’t.” The corner of his mouth twitches barely. Just enough to remind you that he actually knows how to smile.

He nods towards the break room—

"Go." 

------- 

You finally surrender.

Fifteen minutes, that's all he’d asked for- more like demanded.  

Your stomach growls the entire walk to the break room. Reluctantly, you shove the door open with your shoulder.

The smell hits you first: 

Soy sauce, orange chicken, and good old fried rice. 

“Panda Express, huh?”  

Lena looks from her styrofoam container, chopsticks halfway to her mouth, with feet propped up on a chair.  

“Hey kid!” She smiles. “Look who finally got cornered into taking a break.”  

You snort, “Don't remind me.”  You sigh as you move towards the staff refrigerator.

"So," she starts, too casual. "Abbot told you to take a break?" 

You pause. "How did you—" 

"He told me to cover your rooms for fifteen minutes." She grins. "Very specific. Very insistent." 

You roll your eyes, choosing to ignore her prodding.  

You tug your salad from the refrigerator before collapsing into the chair beside her. Your entire body protesting the movement. Shoulders sore, knees aching. Even sitting somehow feels like work.  

Lena notices. "...That bad, huh?"  

You stab at a cucumber. "I've had cleaner shifts during a full moon." 

"Oh?" She laughs.  

"You wanna trade?" Your eyes narrow, challenging her.  

"I had a twelve year old tell her father she hoped his truck exploded." She rattles off.  

"...Creative." you nod 

"I was trapped in there for twenty minutes!" she exclaims 

You point your fork at her. "Well, my kid's been shitting himself every ten minutes." 

Her eyebrows raise.  "...Less creative." 

"But arguably worse." Your lips flatten into a thin line. 

Lena laughs so hard she nearly drops her chopsticks. "Fair." 

Just normal healthcare humor. Outside these walls, people would've looked horrified. In here? Tuesday.  It barely qualifies as an interesting shift.  

The laughter fades as the break room settles into a comfortable quiet. Plastic forks scraping bowls, the vending machine humming. You chow down in silence, as if it’s your last meal. 

Lena looks like she’s about to explode. You side-eye her. 

You know that look— she's about to say something.  

“So...” Lena takes another bite, “how's Jack?”  

You glance up “...What?” 

“You know,” she shrugs, “—after last week.” 

Your eyebrows pinch together, “... After what?” 

“Wait... you don't know?” Lena slowly lowers her fork 

“Know what...?”  

She studies your face for a moment. “...Nobody told you?” 

“No...” 

“...Huh.”  

Silence. You hate when people say ‘huh’ 

“Well, what?”  

She shakes her head. “Nothing.” 

“Lena.”  

"I shouldn't—" 

"Lena." You demand. 

She sighs. "It was his wife's anniversary." 

Your fork stops halfway to your mouth. "...Oh." 

The doubles, sleeping at the hospital, the fall. 

It all makes sense now.  

"He always works doubles around this time." 

Your stomach sinks. Jesus.  

"...He thinks staying here is easier than going home." 

You stare at your salad. The room suddenly feels much quieter. 

"...I didn't know." 

"I figured." Lena smiles gently. 

"But..." She nudges your arm. "It was nice." 

You blink. "What was?" 

"Helping him." 

Heat creeps into your cheeks. "...How did you know?" 

Lena laughs. "Sweetheart, the entire department watched you bully Dr. Jack Abbot into a wheelchair." 

... "Fair." You shrug. 

"And then the two of you disappeared into the break room." 

"...Also fair." Your eyes narrow. What is she getting at here? 

You stab another tomato. "...He needed help."  

That’s all it was.  

"I know." She nods. 

The comfortable silence returns. You reach for your phone, trying to catch up on all the missed notifications. Then you feel it. 

Those eyes burning holes into your head.  

Lena is still looking at you. Oh, God.  

"Now what?" You sigh, feigning annoyance.  

She smiles to herself. "...Nothing." 

"Lena." 

"I just..." She laughs quietly, "I really thought you two were a thing." 

You nearly choke. "Lena!" 

"What?" 

"We are absolutely not—" 

"I know!”  

"...No, you don't." 

"I do." She grins mischievously, “But... I can also see.” 

You sigh, “See what?” 

"Well, he's different with you." Lena presses.  

You scoff, "He's meaner."  

Lena smiles. "Exactly." 

"...What?" 

"He argues with you." 

"So?" 

"He argues back."  

You blink. “...and that’s a good thing?” 

“No,” she laughs, "He doesn't waste that much energy on people he doesn't care about." 

Your fork stops moving. No. Absolutely not. 

Your brain is not doing this today. 

“Oh come on that’s ridicul—” 

“He listens to you.” She cuts you off.  

“What?” You look up.  

“Last week,” she points her chopsticks at you.

"You told him to sit." A grin spreads across her face. "And he sat." 

You think back to the wheelchair... The break room... His quiet ‘fine.’... 

"...Eventually." you say nonbelieving 

"Still sat." 

You roll your eyes. "It wasn't like that." 

"No?" 

"No." 

She hums. "Interesting..." 

"What, Lena?" Your head tilts 

"He was staring at you during shift change." 

Your stomach betrays you. You feel the heat on your face once again. 

"I think..." she chuckles, "..think he likes the glasses." 

"Lena—" 

The overhead speakers crackle to life:  

Trauma Team to Ambulance Bay.

Incoming Level One Trauma. ETA five minutes

Both of you are moving before the announcement finishes. 

Salad abandoned. Panda Express forgotten. 

Break over. 

----- 

The trauma bay erupts around you. 

The air smells of antiseptic, sweat, and fresh blood. Monitors shrieking in uneven rhythm that bursts your eardrums.

The room is crowded. Hot. Every square inch occupied by someone trying to keep another person alive. 

Someone calls for another unit of blood. The ventilator hisses steadily beneath the overlapping voices. Gloves snap, scissors hitting the floor. Someone shouts out a blood pressure. 

A respiratory therapist squeezes past your shoulder, nearly knocking your elbow as she adjusts the ventilator tubing. 

"Pressure's dropping!" 

"Got it." You don't even think anymore, just move with practiced ease. 

Gloves slick with blood. Another flush, a syringe being handed over. Blood-soaked dressing lands in the biohazard bin with a wet slap. 

"Bear," He calls 

"I know." The IV is already in your hand, not even looking to Jack anymore.  

You know where he'll be before your eyes ever find him.  

"Sixteen gauge." His eyes flick to you 

"It's in." You nod 

"Beautiful. Hang blood." He nods back.  

"Already there."  

The words fly back and forth without hesitation. No repeated instructions.

The flow goes uninterrupted between the two of you.  Someone watching would've thought you'd rehearsed it. You hadn't. 

Months in the trauma bay had simply taught you how the other worked. 

You anticipate him. He anticipates you.

Neither of you talks about it. 

You lean farther across the patient, reaching for the pressure bag. Your glasses slide an inch down your nose, creeping lower with every movement. You try to ignore it. 

You wrinkle your nose, trying to shove them back into place without taking your hands away from the patient. 

They slide again. Damn it. 

"Clamp." You call. Someone drops it into your waiting palm. 

The sweat gathering on your frames causes them to sink lower, blurring your vision at the edges.  

Annoying enough to notice. Not enough to stop. 

Not like you can.  

You blink around them, stubbornly refusing to let go of the line. 

Someone hands you more fresh gauze to pack with. You continue on. 

Maybe if you ignore it, it’ll stop. 

You feel them sliding again.  

Another adjustment with your nose. Nothing. Damn it.  

"Bear." 

"What?" 

"Stay still."  

You don’t. You barely register the words as the gloved hand appears in your peripheral vision. 

Then, two fingers settle lightly against the bridge of your glasses. They lift them with one smooth movement.  

Just enough to slide them back where they belong. 

So carefully, the touch feather-light against the bridge. It lasts less than a second.  

But in that second, you're acutely aware of everything 

The warmth of his hand, the careful way he doesn't disrupt your focus,

The fact that he noticed at all.  

Your breath stutters. 

"There." 

Jack's hand is already back at the patient's bedside as if nothing happened. 

Like reaching into your space hadn't required a second thought.  

You stare at him for half a heartbeat. He never even looks at you. 

"Pressure?" 

"Ninety over fifty-four." 

"Good."  

He's already issuing the next order, already moving. The trauma keeps going. 

But something inside your chest doesn't. It lingers. 

You swallow, "...Thanks." 

"Hm." 

That's all he gives you. 

The room never stopped moving, but somehow you had. 

 -- 

Twenty minutes later, the gurney disappears through the double doors toward surgery. 

The trauma bay is left looking like a battlefield. 

Blood-soaked gauze overflows from the biohazard bins. Torn wrappers and empty saline bags litter every counter, and a pair of trauma shears sits abandoned on the floor where someone dropped them fifteen minutes ago. 

The air is still thick with sweat, antiseptic, and adrenaline slowly bleeding out of everyone's system. 

For the first time since the patient rolled through the doors, the room is quiet. A collective breath passes through the team. 

"Nice work, everyone." Dr. Shen says, pulling off one bloodied glove before the other.  

The room begins to move again. Gowns peel away, and bloody gloves snap into the trash. Respiratory disconnects equipment while housekeeping waits just outside the doors with fresh linens and disinfectant. 

Another save.  

You finally pull your own gloves free, flexing sore fingers as blood rushes back into them. 

On instinct, you reach up automatically to your face, then pause.  

Your glasses are still perfectly in place. 

That’s right...  

A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it.  

"You always start your IVs there." Jack's voice pulls you from your thoughts. He's behind you, now heading over to the sink with you.

You glance over your shoulder. "...Where?" 

"The forearm." He nods toward the empty trauma bay. "You avoid the AC." 

You shrug, turning the faucet. "It's the best spot." 

Warm water rushes over your hands, washing diluted streaks of blood into the drain.  

"For you." 

A grin slips onto your face 

His head tilts, "What?"  

"You gonna tell me I've been doing it wrong this whole time? It's better placement than—" 

"No." The interruption catches you off guard. 

Jack is already at the sink beside you, sleeves pushed just above his wrists as crimson-tinted water disappears beneath his fingertips. 

He doesn't look at you. "No..." 

The room buzzes quietly around you. You wait for his words.  

Jack rinses the last traces of blood from his hands, dries them carefully. Only then does he glance over. 

"It's..." His brow furrows as he searches for the word. "...Good." 

Your eyebrows lift. Excuse me? 

"You've got a system." He continues, "You're consistent..." 

You finally look at him. He's watching you with that same steady attention from this morning.

He just complimented you. 

"...Doc," you call. He looks up, meeting your gaze.  

"You in there?" One eyebrow rises. "...Cause I'm pretty sure you just complimented me." 

"God." He quietly scoffs. The corner of his mouth betrays him. "You're impossible." 

You fold your arms, unable to stop smiling. 

"Yeah..." You nod thoughtfully, "...and you think my IVs are good." 

He sighs through his nose, like he's already regretting opening his mouth. 

"...Yeah." He hesitates before nodding— "Yeah, I do." 

Your smile falters, just enough for him to notice. Silence stretches comfortably between you and he doesn't rush to fill it.  

He simply looks at you, thoughtful in a way you've never quite seen before. 

Like he's only just realizing something.  

You feel heat creep up in your cheeks.  

He nods softly, expression shifting almost imperceptibly. 

"You moved quick in there." His voice is quieter now, "You always do." 

The words settle somewhere behind your ribs. Another compliment, Jesus.  

Praise from Jack Abbot wasn't something you knew how to carry.  

Before either of you can say another word— 

"Abbot !”  

Lena appears in the doorway carrying three charts and looking entirely too pleased with herself.  

"I need signatures." She says in a sing-songy tone.  

Jack closes his eyes briefly. "Of course you do." 

"Occupational hazard." She smiles innocently, holding the clipboard out. He takes it with a resigned sighed.  

You seize the opportunity. "...See you, Doc." 

He glances back toward you, "...Bear." 

You pause. Something in you doesn’t want to turn.  

You do anyway. His eyes find yours immediately, a small smile on his lips.  

"...Nice work." 

Just two words. Simple and professional. 

But somehow, they linger longer than they should. They follow you all the way out of the trauma bay. 

You duck your head, pretending to adjust your scrub top as you step into the hallway. 

Because if you looked at him another second, he might catch you smiling. 

--- 

Two hours left of this God-forsaken shift. Then freedom.  

You still have five precious minutes of break time waiting for you. Mateo had practically shoved you out of the hallway, promising he'd keep an eye on your patients until you got back. 

Well... he owes me after the bullshit he pulled earlier. 

You grab the yogurt from the break room fridge and head for the one place in the hospital you know can fix at least one of your problems. 

The stairwell is always cold. The perfect type of cold that makes stale hospital air give way to something clean the moment you step inside.  

Concrete walls, bright fluorescent lights, and the steady hum of the ventilation echoing through the empty flights. The air conditioning somehow always works better there than anywhere eyes in the hospital It’s exactly what you need.

Usually, it feels forgotten. Today, it feels like your saving grace.  

The heavy door groans shut behind you as a slow breath leaves your lungs. Cool air brushes against the back of your neck, instantly calming the heat that had been clinging to you since the start of shift. 

God, finally. 

You let your eyes drift closed for the briefest moment, savoring the relief. 

"...Rough shift?" 

Your eyes snap open. Jack. 

He sits a few steps above you, one forearm resting across his knee, the other absently turning his hospital ID badge between his fingers. 

His legs are stretched out, looking like he's been there for a while, with his pager discarded beside him on the step. His eyes are low, pointed to the floor, exhaustion pooling in them.

You blink, caught completely off guard. 

"...Oh." You breath letting out a small, awkward laugh. "Sorry... I didn't know this was your hiding spot." 

A smile tugs politely at your lips as you take a half-step backward toward the door. "I'll let you—" 

"Don't." The single word stops you. 

You glance back. 

Jack shifts against the concrete, making just enough room beside him before rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. 

"You don't have to leave."  

For the first time since you walked in, his eyes lift to yours. "...If you don't want to."  

He's watching you with that quiet, unreadable expression that makes your pulse kick up. 

You hesitate only a second, then you cross the few steps between you, lowering yourself onto the stair beside him.

Close enough that your shoulders almost share the same space, but not close enough to touch. 

The concrete is cool beneath you. The warmth radiating from him dispersing the cold. 

Neither of you looks at the other. 

Instead, your gazes settle somewhere down the endless flight of gray stairs disappearing below. Your unopened yogurt rests forgotten in your lap while your thumb absently worries at the foil lid, peeling one corner back before smoothing it flat again.  

Beside you, Jack leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped together. 

Your thumb finally peels back the foil lid with a soft crack, giving your hands something to do. 

Something other than fidget. 

You glance sideways without really meaning to. Jack hasn't moved much. His forearms still rest against his knees, his hands hanging loosely between them. 

... 

"...How's the leg?"  

 "Better." Jack’s answer comes immediately. Too quick. The word now echoing softly against the concrete walls.  

You nod once. 

"...You staying off it?" 

A quiet breath escapes through his nose. "To the best of my abilities…”

"For some reason..." you murmur, scooping up the first spoonful of yogurt. "...I seriously doubt that." 

That earns the smallest smile you've seen all day. "Yeah," he mutters. “Whatever.” it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

You finally take a bite. God. 

You hadn't realized how hungry you were until now. The spoon barely leaves your mouth before you feel it.

 His eyes. 

You look over. "...What?" 

Jack's gaze drifts from the yogurt cup back to your face. His eyes narrow, as if he's deep in thought.

"...That's not your usual one." 

You blink. "...Excuse me?" 

"You usually get Key Lime." He says it so casually, it almost doesn't register. His gaze doesn't leave the yogurt cup, now studying. A look of confusion on his face.

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth as you stare back at him. "...What?" 

"You don't eat Mixed Berry.” He nods toward the cup. "You always grab Key Lime Pie." 

Silence. Your spoon hangs suspended halfway to your mouth. 

"...You're a freak." 

His eyebrows lift. "What?" 

"I said you're a freak." A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "...You noticed my yogurt?" 

He studies you for a second, almost like he's trying to decide whether admitting it was a mistake. 

"It happens to be my favorite." His eyes narrow.  

"Oh?" You smile. "Too bad." 

You lift another spoonful. "This one's mine." 

He watches another spoonful disappear.  

"...Can I have one?" 

You stop mid-bite—

Surely he'd ask for literally anything else. 

A sane man would.  

A coffee? Granola bar? Even your stethoscope? But... 

 "...You want my yogurt?" 

He shrugs and gives a single nod. No shame whatsoever. 

You laugh. "And why, exactly, would I hand over my yogurt?" 

Jack pretends to think about it, the act going on longer than necessary. You sigh as he playfully taps his finger to his chin. 

"...Because I'm your attending." One shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug as if that explanation somehow made perfect sense. 

You snort. "Ohhh, is that how this works?" You nod thoughtfully 

"I do believe so." He nods with a smug grin, clearly proud of himself. 

"And what has that ever gotten me besides being scolded like a child?" 

His eyes squint, thinking. "It builds character." 

"No, it builds resentment." You retort 

That earns a huff of laughter from him.  

He glances down at the yogurt again. 

... 

"...What?" You narrow your eyes. 

His gaze flicks from you to the cup, then back again. 

His hand hovers over the yogurt for a second as you helplessly watch the decision happen in real time. 

“... Doc” His eyes flicker to yours. Too late. 

"Oh, don't you—" 

One finger disappears into the yogurt. He scoops up a small dollop with complete confidence before lifting it triumphantly between the two of you. 

You gasp. "...Abbot." 

He says nothing, just a cocky smile displayed on his face.

Without breaking eye contact, he brings his finger to his mouth slowly and wraps his lips around it. His cheeks hollow slightly as he draws the yogurt off with a soft sound that shouldn't be as distracting as it is.  

When he pulls his finger free, his lips part just enough that you catch the briefest glimpse of his tongue sweeping across his bottom lip. 

Now, humming thoughtfully as if he were judging the flavor. 

"...Hm." the sound vibrates low in his throat. "Still my favorite." 

He wipes the last bit of yogurt against his thumb before resting both hands loosely on his knees again. 

Like he hadn't just committed a felony. 

...  

You don't answer. 

Because your brain has suddenly become profoundly unhelpful. 

It isn't the yogurt. It's his hands. Again. 

Long fingers, disproportionately elegant for someone in his line of work. The kind that move with purpose.  

Broad knuckles that you’ve seen snap vinyl gloves time and time again.  

Prominent veins disappear beneath rolled sleeves that he seems to have pushed up deliberately. 

Hands strong enough to steady a trauma patient, yet gentle enough to push your glasses back into place. 

And you just watched one disappear between his lips. God. 

"...Seriously?" Warmth crawls steadily up your neck, red growing on your cheeks. You blink once, eyes betraying you before you can stop them.  

They flick back down to where his hand now rests loosely against his knee. Resting there casually as ever, as if they hadn't become a recurring problem in your life.  

Then forcing your eyes back to his face. 

Just a quick look.  

Too late. He's already noticed. 

One corner of his mouth lifting. "...You that upset?" 

You clear your throat. “Yeah." 

Unfortunately, your voice comes out half an octave higher than intended. 

"You just stuck your gross finger in my yogurt." 

... 

His eyes drop, a small smile playing at his mouth.  

"...You're doing it again." 

Your heart stops. "What?" 

"My hands." He looks almost amused now. "...You're looking at them." 

You scoff. "No, I'm not." 

"You are." 

"I'm literally not." 

"Liar." 

You open your mouth to argue. To call him impossible. Insufferable. Something. 

"Jack." 

The name leaves your mouth before you can catch it. The realization hits a heartbeat later.  Shit. 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly as your lips part, as if you might be able to snatch the word back before it reaches him. You can't.  

Silence settles over the stairwell. 

Even the distant sounds of the emergency department seem impossibly far away.

Jack stills. His fingers stop where they'd been absently tracing the edge of his ID badge, shoulders lifting with a slow breath before easing again.  

His eyes find yours. "...Thought it was Abbot." The words are quiet, almost careful. 

Your throat tightens. You hadn't meant to say it. 

Not out loud. Not like that. 

You stare at him, your mouth opening to respond, but nothing comes out.  

For the first time since you'd met him,

He wasn't Dr. Abbot. 

And you weren't just Bear. 

Neither of you seems to know what happens after someone crosses a line that neither of you realized had been there.  

... 

The shrill chirp of a pager shattered the moment.  

Jack's eyes close. "...Of course."  

He glances down, his expression shifting from relaxed to professional in an instant. 

He reached for the pager, now clipping it to his waistband. He glanced down at the screen before letting out a quiet breath through his nose. 

"Duty calls." 

You smiled despite yourself. "Guess they're done letting you hide." 

"Hm."  

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust from the front of his scrub pants before reaching for the heavy stairwell door. 

His hand settled on the push bar. Then, he paused. 

For a moment, you thought he was just listening to the page again. 

He slowly looks back. "...Bear." 

You lift your head. 

He was already halfway into the hallway, fluorescent light spilling through the cracked doorway behind him. 

Something uncertain flickered across his face, like he was debating whether to say it at all. 

"...Keep the glasses." He says quietly. “...They suit you." 

Before you could answer, he was gone. 

The heavy door swung shut behind him with a dull metallic thud, silence returning to the stairwell. 

You sat there for another moment, yogurt forgotten in your lap. 

Your fingertips drifted unconsciously to the bridge of your glasses. The memory of his touch, so gentle and careful, sends a shiver through you. 

Keep the glasses. They suit you. 

You can’t help the pink that creeps across your cheeks. You let out a slow breath, closing your eyes.  

"You're such an asshole." You mutter to absolutely nobody. 

The stairwell doesn't answer. Neither does the smile slowly spreading across your face. 

You groan, dropping your head back against the concrete wall. 

"...This is gonna be a problem." The words came out barely louder than a whisper. 

Because somewhere between the prosthetic, the text messages, him pushing your glasses back into place, and stealing your yogurt... 

Disliking him had quietly stopped being an option.  

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

@liviemalfoy @poweristhebest

@amacphet

“Okay.” You pull the phone back, just far enough that she won’t hear your shaky exhale. Just for a second. “Okay, Lena. I’m coming over, ‘kay?” You’re already in your car. Already praying that the engine will catch as it turns over.

“Kay.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“I dunno.”

You grit your teeth. Turn the key again. Keep your voice light. “Okay. Where’s your uncle Pope?”

“I dunno.”

You might break your jaw if you clench it any harder. The engine catches. You breathe. “Okay. That’s okay. Can you go to the back room?”

She’s silent for a moment, and you whip around a curb so hard you think it might dent your front bumper.

“Uncle Jay wants his phone back.”

“Will you do me a favor? Will you tell your uncle Jay to fuck off, and have him put you to bed?”

She giggles, and you feel just a little bit better.

“You said a bad word.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You’re eight minutes away.

You get there in four.

-

The party is fucking insane, and Lena should not be here, let alone have been wandering around unsupervised.

You nearly leave your car running in the driveway with how quickly you dart out of it. You pass beer bottles. Liquor bottles. Drunk strangers littering the yard and shouting loudly enough to wake people on the fucking moon.

And then you see a toy car, just big enough for a little girl to fit in, crushed and broken in a mess of pink plastic, and your vision swims with red.

As you push through the house, pass lines of cocaine and screaming drunks, hear someone shout expletives and swallow them with a swig from a bottle of tequila, and even glimpse a couple going at it in the corner, the rage builds inside of you like a cresting wave.

“Hey, the nanny’s here!” Craig shouts from the kitchen, standing before a counter littered with lines of white powder. “You finally come to party with us?”

You ignore him, and storm past.

When you reach the back room, you pause outside the door. Take a deep breath. Force a gentle expression. You have to stay calm. The last thing she needs is to see you freak out.

Lena is buried under blankets, and you think she might be shaking.

You’re by her side in a second, smoothing her hair back and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Hey, cutie.” A bottle breaks outside. Someone shouts. Lena keeps shaking.

When she catches your hand, and her own hand is so small and still trembling in your own, you finally break.

You are about to be so, so fucking fired.

“Hey,” you whisper, “can you do ear muffs for me? It’s gonna get louder in a second, and then I’ll be right back.”

“How much louder?” She asks, small and nervous, and you squeeze her hand.

“I’m just gonna yell a little bit. Other people might yell too. You might hear a pop or two. No biggie.”

Lena nods. You pull your hand back, and cover your ears in demonstration.

“Ear muffs.” You remind her, and she mimics your movement with a nod.

-

It takes you forty five seconds to find the shotgun in the fireplace, and eight more seconds for people to start noticing that you’re holding it. You rip the cords out of the speaker hard enough that you might break it, and the music cuts off with a near-deafening whine of static.

“Out! Everybody get the fuck out!”

They listen. They scatter. Craig and Darren shout as everyone bolts from the house, and when someone in the pool calls you a ‘crazy bitch’, you respond by cocking the shotgun. All you can see is that broken, pink plastic car in the driveway. All those pieces it was crushed into. How easily that could have been Lena.

Craig is moving towards you, one large hand outstretched to snatch the weapon away from your unpracticed grip, when an arm suddenly wraps around your waist from behind and hoists you clean off of your feet.

“I’ve got her.” Pope’s voice is low and firm by your ear, so close that the feeling of his breath on your skin makes something warm curl in your stomach. Craig stops. The gun is pulled from your hands, and he doesn’t even bother to put you down as he places it on a nearby pool chair.

You squirm as he carries you over to the side of the house, uselessly kicking your feet, and you realize that you never even tied your shoes in your hurry to get here as he finally sets you down on the grass, pulling back just far enough to look you over in that intense way he has. Silent. Assessing. Taking in your sweatshirt, rumpled jeans, and untied shoes. You realize, suddenly, that you probably still have a hell of a case of bedhead. No wonder everyone scattered so quickly at the sight of you.

Well, that and the gun. Probably mostly the gun.

“What was that?” He doesn't sound angry. Just…concerned. Guilty, even.

“Where were you?” You hiss back, still so unbelievably furious. “Where the fuck were you, Andrew? Why is Lena even here?” It’s a rare occasion when you use his actual name, and you’re too angry to notice how his eyes soften a little. How his hand lifts by his side, like he’s about to reach for you, before dropping back down.

“I don’t know.” His rough voice is steady, like always, and you don’t fail to notice that he’s only answering your last question. His face is still blank. It’s his eyes that always hold all of his emotions. Those eyes are fixed right on you, with an intensity that locks your muscles more than your anger ever could. “I thought she was with Baz.”

“Well, where is Baz?”

“I don’t know.”

You run a hand through your hair, and blow out a puff of incredulous, furious laughter. “Unfuckingbelievable.”

“You were about to fire that gun. To protect her.” Still, no anger. Barely even a hint of surprise. His tone holds an entirely different emotion. One you can’t place. His eyes are still on you.

You barrel on. “Look, I miss Cath too. And I don’t give a shit what you all get up to when you have your cryptic family meetings or whatever, okay? That’s not my problem. But Lena is scared and confused and you can’t just fucking forget about her like-“

The feeling of Pope’s lips against yours is so sudden, such an absolute shock, that you stumble back a little. You don’t fall far before his arm wraps around your waist, catching you and pulling you upright against his broad chest so smoothly that you squeak in surprise. His free hand comes up to your cheek, rough and calloused and yet so oddly warm and soft that it makes you shiver.

Your eyes, having flown wide in surprise, flutter shut. The moment you begin to kiss him back, he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and pulls you closer. Gentle - always gentle, always careful - but hungry. He parts your lips with his own, curls his fingers in your hair, and tugs you impossibly tighter against him until you can’t think of anything other than the solid warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the bone-melting feeling of them moving expertly against yours.

“Hey, I’m- oh, what the fuck.”

You break the kiss at the sound of Baz’s voice, but Pope doesn’t let you go. In fact, his eyes remain locked on your mouth, thumb still tracing over your cheek like he hasn’t even noticed that his brother is there. Or, more likely, like he couldn’t give half of a shit.

“Shit, who had Pope fucking the hot nanny? One of you owes me twenty bucks.” And there’s Craig’s voice. Fuck. You are so, so fired.

“You owe me twenty, dumbass.” Darren grumbles behind him.

“No fuckin’ way. I called this shit forever ago.”

“Are you okay?” Pope asks, never taking his eyes off of your face, like you’re the only people in the yard.

You just nod, and pull back. He hesitates, but releases you.

“M’gonna…go check on Lena.” You mumble, and make your way back into the house with the ghost of Andrew Cody’s kiss still lingering on your lips.

-

You fall asleep with Lena curled into your side, the impossibly soft bed knocking you out within minutes.

When you wake, morning sunlight is streaming in through the windows. You turn your face into the pillow for a moment, exhaustion pushing the memories from the night before into the back of your mind, before clarity hits you like a freight train and your eyes fly open.

Lena. The party. The crushed plastic car in the driveway. Pope Cody kissing you like he was drowning and you were air.

You blink yourself awake, carefully sitting up without jostling the little girl in your arms.

And you nearly jump out of your fucking skin, because Pope is sitting at the end of the bed, watching you. It should be creepy. Watching you sleep is creepy, definitely, and yet you don’t feel the slightest bit afraid. You wonder if your survival instincts might be broken, after working for this family for so long.

“Hi.” You whisper.

“Hi.” He whispers back.

You look pointedly down to the sleeping child, then back up at him.

He nods, and holds out his hand. You take it, and wiggle carefully off of the bed as he leads you out of the bedroom and into an adjacent one. You’re pretty sure it’s Pope’s old room. You know he doesn’t live here, and yet you’re still surprised by how clean and sparse everything is when compared to the other bedrooms that his brothers tend to crash in sometimes. You suppose, with how obsessively he cleans, with how neat he likes to keep things, that it’s always looked this way.

“Are you okay?” He asks, with that lowered brow and intense gaze that makes your heart stop beating correctly.

“I…yeah.” The feeling of his lips against yours. The way he crushed you to his chest and kissed you so deeply you felt like you’d never be able to breathe again. His fingers in your hair. His arm around your waist. “Yeah, I’m fine. Am I fired?”

He looks genuinely confused by the question. “Why would you be fired?”

“I figure firing a gun in your house violates some kind of verbal contract.”

“You didn’t fire it.”

“I would have. I think I was about to.”

“You didn’t. You were protecting Lena. Why would you be-“

“Why did you kiss me?”

Again, surprise. His eyes dart around the room, shoulders hunching a little like they tend to do when he gets overwhelmed. When he can’t find the words he’s looking for.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while. Since…four minutes after I met you.”

Now, it’s your turn to pause. “Four minutes, huh?”

“Yeah.” At your curious look, he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck, nervous. “You…smiled at me.”

“That’s all it took?”

“For me to want to kiss you, yeah.” You raise an eyebrow, and he frowns. “You’re not afraid of me, like everyone else is. You talk to me like a…person.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t quit.”

“What?”

“Don’t quit. Lena likes you. You take good care of her. I’ll leave you alone, if you want me to-“

This time, you kiss him. You barely even register that you’re moving until your hand comes up to the back of his head, pulling him down to you until his lips are covering your own. He grunts with surprise, but wastes no time gathering you into his arms, lifting you against him and pulling you closer like any distance between your bodies might kill him.

He doesn’t kiss you like he’s trying to devour you. Like the kissing is some kind of foreplay, some introduction into what might come after. Just like he did last night, he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. Like every movement of your lips against his is more than he could ever ask for. He takes his time trailing his fingers over your face, arm tightening around you, tongue tracing the seam of your lips like he’s tasting a fine wine.

You’re breathless when you finally pull back, and he’s no better. His forehead drops against yours, noses brushing and chests rising and falling together in a staccato rhythm.

“I think I’m gonna let Lena sleep in.” You murmur, and Pope nods as his face tilts a little closer to yours, lips brushing your own like his entire body is screaming to just close the barely-there distance between you. “She had a rough night. She can be a little late for school.”

He nods again, nose skating over your jaw, to the hollow of your throat. “Okay.”

“Maybe we can take her to breakfast.” His lips are on your neck. His hands are sliding beneath your shirt - not pushing, not demanding, just feeling you - “but she should sleep for an hour or two.”

You gasp when he tugs you to him, moving you backwards to lay you down on his bed. You smile against his lips as they find yours, and reach down to drag his shirt up and over his head.

“So an hour, you think?”

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding. 

And your patio?

A grill that could maybe handle…four sausages. Five if they’re prepared to be very close. 

You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise you’ve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of… grilled meat tetris.

You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for food…People expect to wait for food.” 

Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.

And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know it’s Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night. 

Now it’s feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show. 

You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, he’ll go away.

He doesn’t. He just knocks again.

You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. It’ll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together. 

You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in it—like tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. You’d take two of those right now. 

“Hey,” you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation. 

“Hi.” There’s a slight raise in his brow, like he’s already caught on that something here is…off. 

“Come in.” You move to the side, gesturing him in.

He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time he’s ever been inside. 

Momentarily, you feel like you’re under an imaginary microscope, like you’ve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except there’s no microscope, no audience. 

Just Abbot. 

And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than you’d like. 

You’re not sure what he’s going to think of your home. It’s smaller than his, you know that much without asking. It’s cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. You’d love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the time…or if you were sure he wanted to hear them. 

 He probably doesn’t. 

And you definitely don’t have time.

“Cute place.”

“Cute?” you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. “Is that your way of dressing up the word small?”

“No.” His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like he’s actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. “It’s cute. Very you.”

That annoyingly lands somewhere you weren’t prepared for. 

You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. “Right. Well I’m glad my personality translates into…square footage.” 

There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what I heard.” 

He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.

You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because you’ve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you won’t be needing his help at all. 

Unless he’s particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway. 

“Anyways,” you say briskly, turning to the back door. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You’re absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brain’s decided now’s a good time to develop new problems. 

You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he does—close enough to be mildly distracting—you gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. “There she is.” 

He looks. 

There’s a faint pause. 

“She’s, um—”

“Cute?” you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow. 

“I was going to say compact.”

“It’s second hand,” you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldn’t you? You’d much rather spend your money on something you’ll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.

It is now very clearly the opposite of that.

“It looked bigger before I picked it up,” you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. “Please say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.”

“I’m thinking.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, right? I’ll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. It’s hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?”

He finally meets your gaze.

“...No.”

You blink. “No?”

“No.”

You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. “Wow. Okay. That was…very immediate.”

“You’ll have people waiting too long between rounds,” he says calmly. “Half of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.”

“Great.” You throw your hands up. “Just kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I will never hear the end of this,” you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. “They don’t take me seriously enough as it is—” you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what you’re about to admit, “—and they’re constantly expecting me to mess things up before I’ve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypes”

You glance at the grill, then back at him. “And this will absolutely prove them right.”

“Have it at my house,” he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.

“Sorry?”

“It’ll be easier,” he explains, like he’s just suggesting you move a chair. “More space. Proper grill.”

“That would mean my entire family going to your house.”

“Yes.”

“And you being there.”

“I live there.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think you realise what you’re suggesting. It’s not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and I’m fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.”

“And you couldn’t say no?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.”

He doesn’t even look slightly concerned. “I’m not saying no.”

“Why not?”

“Because it solves your problem.”

“We’re not at work.” You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. “You don’t have to solve my problems.”

He tilts his head like he’s considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like there’s still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.

It does not. 

“Well,” he says, almost absently, “if it makes you feel any better, you’re rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.”

You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. “But don’t you think it’d be weird? What am I meant to say to them?”

“That we work together. That I’ve got the space and offered to host. That’s it.”

“You’re making this sound so simple,” you scoff, shaking your head. 

“Because it is simple. I’m offering a solution. Take it. We’ll load up my truck with what you need and go.”

“And you don’t think they’ll assume things?” You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you should’ve outgrown years ago. 

“Assume what?” he presses, and you don’t know if he’s genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasn’t seen nor reciprocated. 

“Nothing!” you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. “I’m being stupid and I’m out of options so I guess we can have it at your house—if you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Great. Amazing. Perfect.” You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, you’re not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQ—or your next shift with Abbot—without saying something you absolutely cannot take back. 

You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative. 

Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, it’s your family. 

Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.

Your boss.

Who you might be slightly crushing on. 

And your earlier exchange?

Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming that’s very much a one sided situation. 

“You’re sure you don’t need me to drop by the store first?” he asks.

You’re not sure if he’s looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.

It hasn’t been working. 

If anything, it’s considerably worse, because you’re now hyperaware of everything you’re trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way he’s driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off. 

“No.” You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. “I pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.”

He hums like that checks out. “Alright.”

“You still haven’t changed your mind?”

He glances at you again. “About?”

You stare at him. 

You’re not sure if he’s doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like he’s deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences. 

It’s incredibly annoying. 

Because it has your mind drifting to…other situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way he’d look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him. 

Like he’d make you tell him exactly what you want. 

Exactly how you want it. 

And look at him while you do it. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.

“Everything okay?”

“No. No—” you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. “I think we need to stop by the store.”

“You just said you had everything.”

“Why are you asking so many questions today?” You turn to face him, and you’re pretty sure you’re glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve. 

“That wasn’t a question.”

You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesn’t deserve you snapping at him, but he’s also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. “My mistake.” You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. “I’m not sure I’ve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the store, that’d be great.” 

He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. “I love the customer service voice.”

“I’m not doing a customer service voice.”

“You are. It’s very polite.”

You blink at him, lips parting like you’re about to argue it, then stopping when you realise there’s probably no winning this.

“Can you stop by the store or not?” you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest. 

“Of course,” he answers easily. “You’re the boss today.”

You don’t dignify that with a response, mostly because you’re too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have it—it does—but he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity. 

You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Going to the store? What’s with all the questions?”

“No you’re not,” you reply, pointing at him. “You’re staying here.”

“Am I?

“Yes.”

“And why’s that?” he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.

“Because I’m the boss today.” You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual. 

You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air. 

This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you don’t usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse. 

Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to be…that. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbot’s house. 

And now, just to round things up nicely, you can’t even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings. 

You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesn’t even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again. 

With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients you’re missing. 

By the time you’re paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that there’s a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown. 

You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbot’s car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier. 

“Got everything?” 

“Mhm.” You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal. 

When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening today—you’ve never been to his house before either. 

You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking it’ll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of  room to spare. 

The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. It’s dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used. 

You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like he’s got nowhere else to be.

You’re already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that you’re almost certain the back will look even better. 

That’s your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. You’d have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself you’d replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if it’s just herbs you’d forget to use anyway. 

You think about hosting without overthinking it. People just…spreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isn’t enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave. 

Or just to soak up the sun on days like this. 

“Ready to go?”

Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like you’ve ended up somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. “Beautiful house.”

He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like he’s seeing it through your eyes. “It does the job.”

“Does it very well.”

You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.  

You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What it’d feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill. 

You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe you’d end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesn’t really matter because you’d be doing it with him. 

These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because that’s all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that you’ve inconveniently grown attached to. There’s nothing real or solid behind them. 

“Where do you want everything?” you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat. 

Abbot doesn’t answer straight away. 

You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision that’s led him here. 

Your stomach continues to drop. 

“Kitchen?” you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.

He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. “Yeah. Through there.”

You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the door’s not even unlocked. 

You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest. 

“Shit—” The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling. 

“Got you,” he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. It’s a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something they’re not. 

“Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Should’ve given you the keys.”

You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasn’t quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly. 

“It’s fine.” Which is both true and very much not.

His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again. 

“Kitchen’s just straight ahead,” he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open. 

Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. It’s less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. You’re not sure when you’ll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around. 

When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.

Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. There’s even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, there’s a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably. 

So this is where he disappears to when he’s not at work.

“Is it okay?”

You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbot’s voice, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. Your brows pull together, because you’re not entirely sure what he’s asking is okay.

“The house,” he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like he’s suddenly aware of how that sounded. “For tonight.”

“Oh.” You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. “Yeah. No, it’s—” you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, “—more than okay.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before he’s going out again.

You’re almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. It’s so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like that’s the only medical training you’ve managed to retain. 

There’s already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than you’d like, making you wince. 

“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly it’s not being put to any practical use. 

And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in. 

Great. 

You immediately turn your back to him because he doesn’t need any more reasons to think you’re incompetent. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Mhm,” you hum, because you still haven’t spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like that’s a reasonable long-term solution. 

“Grill’s coming along,” he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. “Got it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.” 

“Mm, that’s good. Thank you.” You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadn’t realised how close he was. “Could I have one of those?”

You reach for the roll but he doesn’t hand it over.

“You’ve cut yourself.”

“Yes. I’ve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. It’s fine. Very minor.”

“Give me your hand.”

You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something you’ve just described as very minor.

“It’s really no big—”

“Give me your hand,” he repeats, reaching for your wrist. 

You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light. 

He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. “Here, hold that. I’ll get you a plaster,” he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor. 

You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again. 

You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and you’re instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure it’s properly stuck down. 

“Thank you.” 

He meets your eyes. “You have—” he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin “—a little blood there.” 

Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, but isn’t stopping himself from finding out. 

It’s nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chin—he’s just being kind. 

But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it. 

“There.” He retracts his hand, and once again you’re mourning the loss of contact. 

You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. “So, is the grill behaving?” you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldn’t care less about the grill right now.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Heat’s holding. I’ll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they don’t dry out.” 

“Love a man with a plan,” you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought. 

Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe he’s just giving you a second to realise what you’ve said. 

“Good to know.”

Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and you’ve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.

Dad: We’re running late, honey. Hotel’s messed up our rooms…long story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when we’re on our way…

“They’re running late,” you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out. 

“I’ll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.” You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir. 

“You’re putting them up in a hotel?”

“Well, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?”

He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time. 

“I’m all done with the prep on my side, and since they’ll probably be a little while…would it be absurd if I used your shower?”

“Yes. It would be absolutely absurd.”

He’s mocking you. Funny.

“Right. I’ll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?”

“No complaints on my side.”

Now he’s…flirting?

“Sure. Let me just get out of these clothes—” You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.

“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he cuts in quickly. 

You grin at him. “Thank you.”

“Spare towels are in the cabinet.” His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.

“Thanks,” you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway. 

“Mm.”

The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again you’re stuck dissecting every interaction you’ve had with him today. It’s enough to give you whiplash. One minute he’s distant, the next he’s standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like it’s nothing. You don’t know where you stand with him, and moments like this don’t exactly help. 

You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.

What was that?

Does he even realise he’s doing it?

You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because that’s easier than thinking but that doesn’t seem to last long. 

Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. It’s walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. There’s an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which you’re immediately grateful for because you definitely don’t have time to deal with washing your hair. 

After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once you’re under the water, you realise you’re stuck using his shower products because you’d only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset. 

Now you get to smell like him even when you’re not near him.

You’re hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You don’t entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless. 

On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyone’s on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work. 

Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How he’s gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice. 

You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside. 

The humidity hasn’t let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane task—just by existing. 

You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing. 

You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your body’s decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that there’s something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like they’re running laps all at the same time. 

There’s probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain that’s confused admiration with something far less convenient. 

He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep. 

“Thought you could do with something cold,” you say, holding out the beer to him. 

“Perfect timing,” he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. “How was the shower?”

“Necessary,” you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. It’s probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.

He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like it’s something he has to consciously pull away from. 

“You look nice,” is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill. 

“Thank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. You’ve gone through so much trouble and I don’t even know where to begin in repaying you.”

He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. “You don’t need to repay me.”

“Mm,” you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. “I’d like to.”

“Yeah?”

You tilt your head, watching him the way he’s been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. “Yeah.”

“You always like having the last word?”

You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”

“Thought you had a problem with those today.”

You grin at him. “Think I’m over it now.”

“Is that so?”

You nod, taking another sip. 

“Okay,” he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. “You want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?”

“I can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but you’d have to tell me something first.” You’re not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.

He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where you’re perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. “Go on. I did say you’re the boss today.”

“Why go through all this trouble?” 

He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where he’s standing.

“I don’t want the same answer as earlier,” you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. “Because it’s bullshit.”

For a moment he doesn’t respond, but you’re not panicking. It's probably because you can tell you’ve nudged something, pressed a spot he’d probably rather you didn’t find.

He takes a step closer. 

You feel the plate before you register what he’s doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but that’s not what holds your attention.

It’s his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.

“Bullshit?”  

You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadn’t planned on that being noticeable. You gather what’s left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. “Yeah.”

“Then ask properly.” 

Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but it’s harder than it should be with him this close.  

“Ask properly,” he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer. 

You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.

“Why,” you start, your voice wavering, “are you doing all of this…for me?”

He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.

“You think I do things I don’t want to do?”

You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “No.”

“Then that’s your answer.”

“That’s not an answer,” you push, a little breathless now. “You can’t answer my question with a question.”

“You want me to answer it properly?”

You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point. 

“I did it because I wanted you here.”

You don’t quite know where to file that information. 

There’s no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word. 

It’s not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, and that’s the problem. You’ve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt. 

Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way you’ve been imagining everything else. 

He’s still there, looking at you like there’s absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back. 

“Not the answer you were hoping for?” 

“No.” You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. “It’s exactly the answer I was hoping for.”

Abbot’s grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, not arguing it. “But I haven’t even told you what I was thinking of in the car.”

“Jesus,” he hisses under his breath. “You should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.”

“You want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?” you press smugly.

“I need you to go inside,” he replies, more firmly now. His hands don’t leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees. 

Then he lets go, taking a step back like that’s going to fix anything. 

Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter. 

You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.”

“We’re outside, honey.”

“Okay,” you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbot—more specifically at his very evident hard on—before you’re tuning away. “Now coming.”

“That went well, don’t you think?” Abbot’s voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses. 

He’s right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And you’re not entirely sure whether you’re glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, it’s a good thing. In practice, it’s…inconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.

You’re tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You could’ve gone out there, hovered and earwigged—you’d even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine. 

Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going boss…that you’ve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.

You nod, switching the tap off. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Didn’t notice one.” 

“That’s because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.” 

You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, you’re back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like there’s some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not. 

You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.

Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug casually, “it’s the least I can do. You’ll finally be able to have your place to yourself.” You turn to reach for your phone. “I’ll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.”

There’s a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app. 

“Out of my hair?”

His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder. 

He seems…tense.

“Well, yes Abbot. I’m not planning to crash at your place, you’ve done enough for me today.”

“Right.” He nods, but there’s an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow. 

“You told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?” You tilt your head. “You know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.”

He stays silent.

“What do you want?” 

Nothing.

“Huh?”

Still nothing.

You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because you’ve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something you’re adding to the list. 

You’re halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.

“What the hell?” You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.

“I can’t tell you what I want, because then I won’t be able to take it back.”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone. 

He takes a step back.

“Give it back.”

“No.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely insane.”

“And you’re not listening to me.”

“Oh, I’m listening. Loud and clear. You don’t know what you want, you won’t say what you want, and apparently now I’m being held hostage because of it.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Okay,” you scoff. “Well, enjoy whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I’ll just walk home.”

His expression shifts, like he doesn’t believe you, like you’ve just told him something mildly ridiculous…which you have…because there’s no chance in hell you’re actually walking back.

“You’re not walking.”

“Watch me.” 

You turn away from him, but you don’t even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before he’s pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.

“Quit being such a brat,” he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.

You buck into him out of instinct. “I am not—”

One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him. 

You don’t. Obviously. 

“You are,” he repeats, voice threading through you. “Threatening to walk out just to see if I’ll stop you.”

You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. “I don’t need you to stop me.”

His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like he’s testing the truth of that. “No?”

“No.”

His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if that’s even possible. “Then go.” His words don’t match what he’s doing.

You don’t move. 

Not even an inch. 

His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs. 

“Funny. Could’ve sworn you were in a rush.”

You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like they’re waiting for instructions you’re not giving. “I was.”

“Yeah?” His nose brushes along your jaw. “What happened?”

“Y-you’re in the way.”

“Am I?” His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.

Your head tips back before you can stop it.

“That doesn’t look like I’m in your way,” he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.

You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. “You’re very confident for someone who didn’t even know what he wanted five minutes ago.”

“I know what I want,” he assures you. “I just don’t think we’d be able to go back from it.”

“So let’s not,” you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. “This is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.”

“Is that something you can do? Because I don’t think I can.” 

“Yes, you can,” you breathe, pressing your ass into him. “I can,” you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You don’t think you can ever come back from this, not really—but you’d try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.

“Yeah?” he murmurs into your neck. 

“Yes—please. I’ll even move to the day shift,” you say, half-delirious, as though that’s a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. “We’ll never speak of this again.”

“Don’t do that,” he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. “I need you on the night shift.” His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric. 

“Okay—okay, sorry—I’m sorry—” The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent. 

He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response. 

“One off?” he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin. 

“One off.”

His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you are—actually hear it—and feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm. 

“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, the words half a laugh. “Have you been this worked up the whole day?” 

You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.

“Whole day,” he repeats, like he’s piecing it all together. “Walking around like that…talking to me like nothing’s wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?”

You nod—once, then again, and again—your body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out. 

It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.

You’re that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you don’t manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesn’t quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like you’ve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.

Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it then—how saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.

It's humiliating. 

“Did you touch yourself in the shower?”

“N—” you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.

“Liars don’t get to come,” he warns. “Did you touch yourself in there?”

“Yes.”

He tuts. “Dirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.”

You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers you’re trying to swallow down. 

“Did it feel as good as this?”

“No—fuck,” you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesn’t let that happen for long. 

His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. “Don’t go shy on me now, baby. You still haven’t told me what you were thinking about in the car.” 

Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of it—or the shower—but he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.

“Jack, please—” you beg, for what, you’re not sure.

“Say that again,” he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.

“Jack,” you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, “I’m so c-close.”

“Yeah,” he pants, fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah, I can feel that.” 

Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.

“M’gonna—fuck—Jack—”

“There you go. Just like that.”

He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesn’t know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbot’s heavy breathing in your ear.

“Shit–” he exhales, his hand slowing against you, “—fuck.”

For a second, neither of you move. 

Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you don’t trust your legs to do their job just yet. 

“Shit.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that,” you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.

There’s a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.

Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because there’s a knock at the door. 

You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.

“Who is that?” you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.

“I don’t know—can you—” He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. “Can you get that?”

You turn to look at him, brows lifting. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not answering the door like this.”

“Like what?” 

He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like you’re trying very hard not to smile. 

“…Right,” you concede, softer this time.

“Thank you,” he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.

You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.

“Hey man—” the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises who’s opened it. “Abbot around? My car won’t start and I’m late for my night shift—” he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.

“Uh yeah, he’s…”

You don’t even need to turn to know he’s there now.

“Yeah,” Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “What’s up?”

“Oh man—I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.

And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.

He’s now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“Think the battery’s dead,” the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. “It just won’t turn over.”

“Alright,” Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like he’s just remembered. “Give me a second.”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. I’ll wait outside.”

You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears. 

“...I’ll book that Uber now… if I can have my phone?” You hold your hand out expectantly. 

There’s a pause.

“...Right.”

You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.

“You could stay,” he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.

Your fingers close around the device. “That’s not what we agreed on, remember?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s a one off.”

Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like something’s been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared. 

“Yeah…One off.”

You nod like that’s the end of it, pretending you’re not feeling a little hollow.  “Take your time,” you add, stepping back. “I’ll let myself out.”

He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.

And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesn’t feel like a ‘one off.’ Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when you’re still standing here in his space—thinking about how easily he asked you to stay.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to. 

He doesn’t, though.

Which is its own kind of pathetic.

Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.

He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking. 

His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs. 

For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.

You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least. 

Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.

The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.

And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention. 

And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly. 

Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once. 

His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.

His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting  that you touched yourself in there. 

He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.

“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”

Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”

Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern? 

“BP?” Abbot asks.

“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”

He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”

Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on. 

Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful. 

Not tonight though. 

Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly. 

And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you. 

The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.

“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better. 

His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.

He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you. 

“You got a sec?” he calls out. 

You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”

He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”

“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse. 

A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you. 

Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.

“Bathroom?” 

You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”

He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.

You don’t.

That alone feels like a small victory. 

He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock. 

Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.

He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride. 

“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh. 

“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”

“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively. 

“Are you going to answer my first question?”

He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.

“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”

“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”

“And you think this is the best solution?”

“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”

It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh. 

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”

“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”

Clearly can’t happen again.

You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.

He knows that. Of course he knows that.

Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.

Can’t.

Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.

Your only regret is that you can’t do it again. 

Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you. 

“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks.  “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”

Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.

“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”

“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”

“Clearly you missed it.”

There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it. 

“Maybe.”

You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Why not?”

He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”

“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”

His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?” 

“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”

He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.” 

Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?

When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong. 

Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.

In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up. 

It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour. 

He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.

Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there. 

He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.

You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.

And he just…watches. 

Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room. 

Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately. 

He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one. 

“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.” 

Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”

Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”

He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time. 

“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”

“What, now you’re encouraging me?” 

Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”

“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating. 

“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”

Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you. 

You’re wearing a sundress again. 

And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.

This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.

“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”

“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”

Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”

There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.

“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”

Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”

“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”

He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.

“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”

Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.

Which should be what he’s focusing on.

It isn’t.

Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.

And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else. 

Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball. 

He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash. 

“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.

“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”

Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.

He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”

“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”

“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted. 

You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball. 

“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”

“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side. 

“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.

She freezes mid-aim. “What?”

“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”

“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.

The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”

“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.

“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”

“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”

Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me. 

Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”

“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I prefer to win fairly.”

“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”

“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”

“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest. 

“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.

You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about. 

“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”

He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”

“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”

“Right. That definitely makes it better.” 

“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.

He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.

“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”

Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off. 

“There you go.”

He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”

“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”

It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.

He should get out.

But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave. 

“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.

“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”

“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it. 

A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row. 

He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”

 “What?”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”

You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”

“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”

“Bra?” you supply for him.

“Yes.”

“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”

“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.

Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.

“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”

“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel. 

“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”

Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”

“You’re manipulative.”

“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”

“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”

Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”

“Then what did you say?”

“That it couldn’t happen again.”

“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”

You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up. 

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”

And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.

There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance. 

He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.

He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction. 

“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.

Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.

“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe. 

“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”

“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.

He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you. 

“You’re fucking joking.” 

You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.

“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”

You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.

“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.

“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”

A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.

“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons. 

“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”

You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.

Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.

“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”

He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you. 

“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”

Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.” 

You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.

“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.

Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.

But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.

And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead. 

His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.

Because then his mouth is on you instead.

Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.

He finds what he’s looking for.

Hooks his fingers into it.

Then pulls.

It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space. 

“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”

“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”

You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“How am I meant to drive home?”

That—apparently—is the wrong question.

He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.

“Drive home?” he repeats.

There’s a beat.

“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”

Another kiss. Slower this time.

“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”

You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.

He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.

He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”

“M’not—”

“You are.”

You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”

You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.

“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.

Interesting. 

There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.

“That feel good?”

You nod. 

“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.

“Stop arguing with me.”

There’s a pause.

Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.

He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.

“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.

You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it. 

“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”

You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state. 

“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.

“Too much?”

“Mhm.”

“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”

His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.

“Yeah… there you go.”

You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.

“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift,  then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”

His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.

“Tell me when,” you whisper. 

That nearly undoes him more than anything else.

There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it. 

He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.

It changes things.

Makes it heavier.

He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now. 

You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you. 

Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit. 

Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.

It’s fucking euphoric. 

You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.

“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.

His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.

“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.

Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.

“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased. 

You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.

“Christ—”

“M’close, Jack—so close.”

His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” 

Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.

You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you. 

It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.

There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.

He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.

“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst. 

He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you. 

You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Hey—it’s fine.”

You look unconvinced.

“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”

“I know. I was there.”

That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”

“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”

There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”

“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”

Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.

“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”

You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”

“I could,” you mutter.

He raises a brow.

“…I could try.”

He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.

Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?