mrs bob floyd

But more than that, you had a crush on Pope. You were pretty sure he knew what you were doing when you always came over, but he never called you out on it.

You slowly slid the terrace door open, careful not to make too much noise, and you slipped inside. You could already spot Pope, standing at the kitchen counter with his back to you. You bit your lip when you saw his choice of dark button up. You always did like his button ups.

You were about to announce yourself, let him know you were there, when you saw him stare at his palm. He hadn't even noticed you from his peripheral vision, which was saying something because Pope was usually so aware of everything around him.

You stepped closer, about to say something, when you noticed that his hand was scorching red. Red, like he'd just touched the pan next to him while it was still hot and burned his entire palm, red.

"Andrew?" you said carefully, despite your raging worry, you tried to remain calm because he seemed completely out of it. The burn looked really bad.

His head snapped up toward you, and for a second, his eyes looked blank, but then he blinked, and his gaze focused on you.

He quickly turned his back to you, reaching for a cloth and wrapping it around his hand. "Lena's in her room. Pretending to sleep," he said, his tone flat, as he lowered the temperature under the pan.

You dropped the plushies onto the table and walked toward him before you could stop yourself. He was already wiping down the counter, obsessively cleaning and trying to keep himself busy.

He turned just as you finally approached him, and for a moment, you both just stood there staring at each other, neither of you saying anything. And then you looked down at his palm, reaching for it.

You saw him flinch back for a second, but then he stopped, and he let you touch his arm. Your fingers wrapped around his elbow and you raised his arm toward you, bringing his hand closer so you could see it better. Your other hand came up to carefully unwrap the cloth he had put around it.

You bit your tongue when you saw the burn. It was worse than you'd expected. The burn covered his entire palm, spreading up his fingers and down toward his wrist. You could tell it hurt just by looking at it. And you knew, deep down in your gut, that he'd done it on purpose.

You looked up and met his hazel eyes, which were already staring down at you with that intense gaze he always had. You knew exactly what he was doing by staring at you like this. Testing you. He knew what he'd done and he knew you knew, and he was waiting to see if you'd call him out on it.

You decided against saying anything. It wouldn't help anyway.

"I'll help you take care of this," you mumbled quietly.

Pope didn't say anything. He just let you do it, his hand compliant in yours as you gently set the cloth away.

You reached for the sink, turning on the cold water and waiting for it to get properly cool. The sound of the water filled the quiet kitchen. "You'll have to stay like this for at least ten minutes," you said quietly. "Running cold water over it for ten to fifteen minutes helps reduce the swelling and keeps the burn from getting worse."

You paused, tilting your head slightly to catch his eye, waiting to see if he was ready for you to put his hand under the water. He just looked at you for a moment and then he did it wordlessly.

You kept your fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Don't use ice, by the way," you said, your voice casual, like you were just making conversation. "Ice is bad for burns. It restricts the blood vessels and can actually make the damage worse." You kept talking, explaining why water was important, why ice was bad and all the while, Pope just stared at you.

It was late, and he'd been hoping for you to finally show up. He'd been telling himself you weren't going to come, that you had better things to do than spend your evenings with him and that maybe you'd finally gotten tired of him.

He'd missed you a lot, more than he could ever say out loud. You tried to show up at least three times a week at night, and you were the highlight of his day. You were the reason he got through his days, the reason he managed to drag himself out of bed in the morning, knowing that at the end of the day, he'd see you, was what kept him going.

And you looked as pretty as ever as you softly turned his hand under the water. You had your hair free, no braids or anything, just falling around your shoulders. It was cold today, which was why he was rather concerned about your outfit. You didn't have a jacket on you, just some thin shirt that couldn't possibly be keeping you warm. He could see the goosebumps on your arms and the way you shivered slightly every now and then.

"Where's your jacket?" he spoke over the sound of the water.

You brushed a finger gently over his fingertips, checking the temperature of his skin. "Home," you mumbled distracted, squinting at his fingers. It was still red, but the water was helping. "Does it hurt?" you asked, your eyes still fixed on his palm, but you didn't get an answer right away. You glanced up and were met with Pope's naked stare, so you turned away again.

He didn't like that worried look on you. It made him feel guilty, made him wish he could take back whatever he had done that had put that expression on your face. So he forced himself to speak.

"Doesn't hurt."

It had hurt earlier, when he'd forced himself to keep pressing his hand on the hot pot. He'd needed it to hurt.

You glanced at his hand before glancing at the clock on the oven. "I'll be right back," you said quietly. "Keep it under water." You glanced at him, and he could see the worry still lingering in your eyes. You seemed reluctant to leave him alone, but you let go of his hand anyway, and Pope dropped his eyes back to the water, watching the water flow over his damaged skin.

You quickly grabbed the plushies from the table, and Pope couldn't help but notice how you'd put a bow around them, clearly made by you. You'd clearly put in the effort to make it look like a fun present for Lena.

In the process, you started taking off your shoes, hopping on one foot awkwardly as you balanced the plushies against your chest. At that, you shot him an apologetic look. You knew he hated dirt and you'd been, so caught up in the sight of his burn that you'd just walked in with your shoes on. But he didn't say anything, he just followed you with his eyes silently until you disappeared into Lena's room.

He didn't hear you say anything, so he figured Lena had finally fallen asleep. She'd insisted she wasn't tired for hours, that she wanted to stay up and watch cartoons. He was glad to know that she was finally resting.

He stayed the way you wanted him to. He stared at his red hand, watching the water cascade over his damaged skin. It was getting better.

He wasn't sure he liked the pain of his palm getting milder. That was the whole point, wasn't it? He'd done it for the pain and now he had nothing? The emptiness was already starting to creep back in and he could feel himself slipping.

When you came back, you had aloe vera gel and some small bandages with you. "Don't know why Baz has this, but it'll help," you said quietly as you finally turned off the water. The sudden silence was relieving and Pope felt his shoulders fall down finally now that the noise was gone.

You seemed relieved he'd listened to you, a soft exhale escaping your lips as you turned to face him fully. You tilted his hand gently with a concentrated look on your face.

Meanwhile, Pope stared at you again. You looked really pretty.

He hated how there wasn't a smile on your face, usually there always was. Every time you hung out with Lena, you'd help him clean up the kitchen afterward, and he'd listen to you chatter on about your day. He'd occasionally say something, but now there was nothing. It felt wrong and Pope felt uncomfortable in his skin.

But at least you were touching him. Your fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, and he could feel the warmth and softness of your skin against his.

"Let's sit on the couch," you mumbled. You grabbed his other hand and pulled him with you, and he let you lead him there.

He settled down and you sat down there right beside him. The proximity was almost too much. Your thigh pressed against his and your shoulder brushed his. He wanted to stay like this forever.

You grabbed his injured hand and put it on your thigh and he had to look away for a moment to compose himself.

You stared at his palm for a long moment before looking at him, a slightly embarrassed expression on your face. "Any idea how much of this gel I'm supposed to use?" you smiled softly. There it was.

He glanced down at his red palm. "Should be just one thin layer," he said quietly. He noticed how much you were leaning in to see his palm your face so close to his that he could practically see his reflection in your eyes. "Just enough to cover the burn. Any more and it won't absorb properly."

"Okay," you mumbled, and then you grabbed the gel and applied it gently to your fingertip. Pope tilted his head, wondering how on earth you were able to see with your hair in the way. It kept falling forward and you kept having to push it back behind your ear only for it to fall forward again.

So he just reached for your hair. His fingers brushed against the soft strands and you lifted your head immediately, staring at him in confusion. But he didn't say anything, he just grabbed it gently, managing to gather it all with one hand and hold it away from your face.

"So you can see," he said, staring back at you as his fingers brushed against the nape of your neck.

You opened your mouth to say something before closing it again. "Right. Thank you," you mumbled, looking away flustered.

He then watched you as you applied a thin layer over his palm. The gel was cool and you were right. It felt so much better and with your hair in his hand and your shoulder touching his, better didn't feel so bad right now.

If feeling better included you, he might not fear it so much anymore.

Once you were done, you set the bottle aside on the coffee table. Pope dropped his hand, watching as your hair fell all over your shoulders again. His fingers tingled slightly from where he'd been holding it, and he flexed them, already missing the feel of those soft strands between his fingers.

You grabbed tissues and cleaned your fingertip, wiping away the excess gel before tossing the tissue onto the table, missing Pope's slight frown. Then you glanced at his hand again.

"Good?" you asked softly and he nodded in response.

You then grabbed the bandage you had already gotten earlier and quickly wrapped it around his hand. You did it oh so perfectly, it was the same way he'd done it to his brothers so many times over the years.

"Tight?" you asked, your eyes still fixed on his hand, and he shook his head.

You set everything away and leaned back on the couch, staring at nothing in front of you. Pope took back his palm to his lap, resting it on his thigh. He glanced outside, at the dark sky through the window, and then back at you.

"It's late. You shouldn't drive back," he said quietly.

You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm. "Yeah. Long work day."

Pope's eyebrows furrowed. He hated when you talked about work, and you knew he hated it. He hated the way you'd come home with tired eyes and the way you'd talk about bosses who didn't appreciate you.

"You don't have to work. I can give you the money for everything you need." He'd said this before, more times than he could count. It was a conversation you've had almost every single day. He had more money than he knew what to do with and the thought of you slaving away at some job that didn't appreciate you made him want to burn the whole place down.

"Andrew," you said quietly, and that single word was enough. He pressed his lips tight together as he leaned back too, his eyes fixed on the way you pressed your knees tight together. It wasn't like the usual times, where you'd watch something on TV together and you'd softly clink your knee against his.

"Baz won't be here the entire week," he wasn't sure why he was telling you this, but he wanted you to know that you could come over without worrying about running into him.

You glanced at him, leaning your head against the couch behind you as you turned your head toward him. "Good," you said, and Pope felt his mouth twitch at that.

You were such a sweet girl, but you never quite hid your dislike for his brother. He found it entertaining. He knew why, and he knew it stemmed from a good and caring place, so he never felt the need to defend his brother to you. You weren't mean to Baz either, just a tad hostile, and Pope secretly appreciated that you had the guts to stand your ground.

Pope looked down at his bandage, closing his hand and opening it again. It hurt, and he knew it wasn't a good idea, but he did it anyway. There had to be some purpose to why he'd burned his hand. He couldn't just have it stop. But obviously you didn't let that happen.

Wordlessly, you put your hand into his. You lifted it gently from his lap and placed it in yours. He stopped moving it immediately, letting it rest there as you brushed a fingertip over the bandage.

He watched you, not bothering to hide his stare whatsoever. One of the small lights was shining on you and he could see how spaced out you were. It reminded him of himself and of all the times he'd stared at nothing. And he didn't like that. He hated hated hated it.

So he spoke the words that had been desperate to escape all night. "No one will ever have a kid with me," he said, his voice emotionless, like he was talking about the weather.

Your head snapped up at that, your eyes widening as they darted across his face. "What?" you said sounding genuinely confused. But there was also genuine terror in your voice because what a horrible thing to say about yourself and believe.

"Baz said it," was all he said, his voice still flat as he stared at you to know what you actually thought. He didn't want empty platitudes or meaningless reassurances. He wanted the truth and he would only get that by looking at your face.

You opened your mouth and closed it again, your brain scrambling for the right words. Your hand tightened on his palm, almost giving him the pain he'd been craving earlier but then you realized what you were doing and you loosened your grip.

"Your brother might be the biggest jerk I've ever known in my life," you finally said, and Pope couldn't help the small smile that formed on his face. You'd never been this direct about your hatred towards Baz. "He sucks," you added and the bluntness of it made the small smile on his face twitch wider. "He's a terrible person and he says terrible things, and none of them are true."

And then you met his eyes properly. "And he's a liar. Every word that comes out of his mouth is a lie, and you know it. You know he just says things to tear them down and to make himself feel better."

Pope stared at you, his hazel eyes studying yours, trying to find the lie he believed was there. He didn't let much emotion show on his face, but you didn't look away. It was Pope who finally looked away first, which didn't happen very often.

You stared at his side profile and then tapped his bandaged hand lightly, drawing his attention back to you. "Hey, i'm here with you, aren't I?"

He met your eyes again, not saying anything.

"You're here taking care of Lena. Not Baz. You're here making her food. Not Baz. You're the one who picked her up from school. Not Baz," you said quietly as you held his stare. "You're the one who stays up with her when she has nightmares. You're the one who plays with her and makes her laugh and reads her bedtime stories. Not Baz."

You paused, swallowing hard, your hand still resting gently over his bandaged one. "You're a better dad to Lena than Baz will ever be," your voice cracking slightly.

As he kept looking at you, you pushed yourself to hold eye contact. "You start taking Lena to the park more regularly and the moms will start throwing themselves at you when they see how good you are to her," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They'll be lining up to get your attention. You'll have to fight them off with Lena."

His lips twitched at that and it made your heart flutter.

"Don't listen to him," you said, and there was so much contempt for his brother, that he found it endearing. "Don't listen to a single word that comes out of his mouth. You're too good for that."

Pope stayed quiet as his eyes drifted to the coffee table. He stared at your tissue for a while before looking back at you. "You think someone would want me?" he would never dream of asking a vulnerable question like this to anyone else, but you.

You didn't even hesitate. "I know someone would want you."

You watched him as he fixed himself again against the back of the couch. His eyes wandered far away and you could see him trying to decide if he believed any of it. You brushed a finger over his hand, as you waited for any reaction whatsoever.

"Thank you," he finally said quietly.

You looked at him and smiled softly. "You don't have to thank me for pointing out the obvious," you said softly, leaning back so your shoulder pressed hard against his. You knocked your knees against his. "Any kid would be lucky to have you as their dad, and any woman would be lucky to have you as the father of her kids."

You said that part quietly and then you looked away. You could feel your cheeks warming and you focused on the bandage on his hand. Pope watched you for a long moment, drinking in the sight of you, and then his fingers lightly reached upward until he tapped the back of your hand.

You looked up, your eyes meeting his and he didn't say anything. He just stared at you and you stared back, and you knew what he wanted to see. His nose twitched at what he saw. He was great at reading facial expressions, too good sometimes.

You let him see that you'd be one of those people who would consider themselves lucky to have him as the father to her kids. You watched the realization flash across his face and you dropped your eyes immediately.

When you dropped your head to his shoulder, you felt his sigh of relief and you smiled to yourself.

Eventually, you felt his arm shift, and then his hand came up to rest on your shoulder, his fingers curling gently around the curve of it. You leaned into it, letting him know it was okay, and his fingers tightened slightly, pulling you just a little bit closer.

"You should get some sleep," he murmured. "I'll get you some blankets."

His therapist told him he needed a routine. He needed structure, he needed stability. So that’s what he’s been doing, day after day. Structure.

Wake up, breakfast, work out, work. Then he’d come home, make dinner, shower, read, listen to his tape and then sleep if he could.

Today on his day off though, he realized he needed more food for the week. He made a list, grabbed his wallet, keys and headed out.

He put on his fake persona, smiled at people when needed.

He was done with almost everything, all that was left was the produce. It was the one thing he hated, he always felt like he was bad at picking the better options. Always feeling like he picked the worst ones.

Dex stood there for a second looking at the avocados wondering which ones he should get. Wondering which were ripe enough, was it the firm ones? Or were they the soft ones? No not that one. Those are too soft right? He couldn’t remember which.

Just as he was about to reach for another one someone bumped into him.

He felt irritation creeping up on him. He turned to look at the ass who touched him. Who disturbed his peace, who interrupted his thoughts. His focus.

His eyes glaring down before they reached your eyes. Eyes that were wide, eyes that were soft. Your eyebrows frowned as your mouth moved. Words he could not hear as he was focused on your face. But the words slowly came through.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. My friend bumped into and I tried to avoid her. I didn’t realize my ankle would give out for a moment. I’m really sorry.”

What he didn’t know while he watched you ramble on and on was how you had been eyeing him. Whispering to your friend how hot he was. He didn’t see how they nudged you closer to him, accidentally pushing you a little harder than expected that resulted in this interaction.

Even if he knew that, it wouldn’t stop the switch that flipped within him. He didn’t know what it was, god, but maybe it was the way your eyes looked up at him in worry. How they had the sweetest apologetic look to them. So doe like.

So innocent. So pure. So good. Good.

You were good. You had to be good. Could you be his good? Could you be his North Star?

You had to have been, just look at you. Look at how much you worried about him. If he ever could show empathy, well he’d hope it was as well as you.

How he watched how you made a look at your friend as they giggled and made their way far from the both of you.

“I really am sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you or anything.”

Dex chuckled lightly, his lip lifting just slightly in a half smile.

“You’re good. Don’t worry about it, it takes a lot more to hurt me than a love tap.”

His gaze shifted between your eyes to your lips and then back up. He watched how you tried hiding your smile, but it reached your eyes. Oh how he felt like he could get lost in them.

“Oh a love tap? Is that right? That’s a good one.” You then raised a hand hesitantly but decided to push forward. Your hand touched his bicep just lightly.

Oh how he felt electricity shoot through his body. It coursed through him as if he were a live wire. Even if your skin didn’t touch his, he could feel the heat radiating off onto his body. It was intoxicating.

He watched you, how you checked for him to pull back. For him to reject you. But how could he. No. No not you. It was all he wanted now. A little taste that he now desperately craved for more.

“But you’re right. With arms like these I doubt I’d do much damage to you.”

But you have. Somewhere in his sick twisted mind you did. Just the simple fact that you touched him, looked at him, spoke to him. You peaked his interest, and he felt himself wanting more.

“Hey uh-” his eyes shifting, your eyes, your lips, your hand. Eyes, lips, hand. Eyes, lips, hand. Eyes, lips, hands. He felt his mind racing, trying to find the right words. “Would you like to go get-”

Ring-ring

He felt himself holding back, feeling a whimper almost slip through his lips when your hand retracted.

You smiled at him and pointed to his pocket, “Aren’t you gonna get that?”

“No.” His response was too quick for his liking.

Vrrrr-vrrrr

“You sure? It seems like it’s really important.”

He pulled out his phone reluctantly, he looked at the called id before giving you a fake apologetic look. If he could he would give you an irritated one. But he didn’t want to scare you away.

He turned away slightly, answering the call with professionalism.

Dex shifted again just slightly, trying to get a peak at you.

But his heart dropped, you disappeared. Slipped from his line of sight. He fought the urge to yell at his colleague.

No no no no. He just found you. He just found his star.

His eyes scanned around, but you were no where near. Now how was he going to find you? How was he going to take you out? To let you be the one that helps him be the good person he desperately wanted to be.

He felt his irritation growing. He wanted nothing more than to yell over the phone and then hang up. Better yet he’d make sure to punch the man over the phone the next time he saw him.

His body tensed slightly, feeling a presence beside him again.

But it was you. Looking down at you he watched you smirk up at him. Focused intensely on your eyes, your hands. The pen that was in your perfect carved hands.

Hands that were sculpted for him. Hands that were sculptured to mold him. Mold him into becoming a better person.

He memorized your movements, memorized the sweet scent of your perfume as you stepped closer to him. Much closer than you had before. Your shoulder almost bumping into his chest as you grabbed his arm.

His gaze burned into your skin as he watched you in silence. Phone still to his ear as he let you do whatever you wanted. Let you pull up the sleeve of his quarter zip sweater. Letting you press the pen against his skin, letting you mark him with your number. As if it belonged engraved on his skin.

He felt himself smile when you looked back up at him. You softly pulled down his sleeve before waving goodbye.

He tried looking for you after his phone call. He really did. But to his dismay you were long gone. Just as sudden as you appeared in his life you were gone. He was glad he at least had your number right?

His day was ruined when he got home. Just as it began it quickly left. As he looked down at the last two numbers smudged he began to feel himself spiral.

No. Now he wouldn’t let this ruin it. No he had ways. He’s figure it out.

And he did.

How? Well working for the fbi had its perks.

He jumped through hoops for it. But he’d do anything for you. Anything to see you again. Anything to see you smile again.

Anything. Anything to feel your warmth, to be the kind of person you were. Good.

And he knew you were good. So good, he saw it in how you kept your apartment. Clean and organized. It felt like home, it felt like it could be his home. It invited him.

It felt like it wanted him to be there.

He could still remember the first time he watched you. He watched your routine just before you left. Watched how long it took for you to shower, to get ready, eat breakfast. How you closed the curtains, walked out the door, walked to work.

He wanted to see how you lived. In your own little world, but he noticed on occasion you’d look back. How sometimes you’d be on guard.

That was enough for him. He knew he had to keep doing this. He’d walk you to work. He’d keep you save from this distance. He’d be your protector.

Even if a man looked at you wrong in the slightest. He’d take care of it. It’s a dangerous world, he can’t have his North Star hurt. He couldn’t handle that.

And after, after he’d walk you to work he’d go back. Back to your apartment, back to his safe space. Your warmth. He’d always look how warm it felt after you felt.

How your cat had gotten accustomed to him. Always rubbing up against him.

Always lingering when he’d always go through your apartment. Looking at your bookshelf to see what book you were reading this week.

Looking through your fridge to see what meals you were eating this week. Sometimes he’d match his fridge to yours, wanting to taste the same foods you were eating. As if you cooked them together.

And some days. Some days he’d feel his temptation growing. He’d go through your drawers.

There it was. Calling his name. Screaming Dex Dex Dex Dex Dex over and over. Wondering how you’d sound screaming his name.

They were the prettiest panties he’d ever seen. He could just imagine you in them. Oh all the ways he’d want to have you in them. He stashed the black pair into his pants, knowing that later he’d use them. He’d rub them against his pink pretty tip until he cums on them. Until he’s groaning your name like a mantra.

When he’s feeling bold. He’ll do it in your apartment. He grabs your pillow, presses it against his face. Smelling your sweet shampoo lingering, the smell of your delicious lotion. Just you. All of you. He’s surrounded by you while he’s fisting his cock so hard.

He shakes, feeling himself rutting against his palm. Making sure he cums against his stomach so he doesn’t dirty your pretty sheets.

That day. That day in particular, was the day he felt like you’d know. All because he left at the wrong time. He didn’t time it correctly. That and because you changed your routine.

Just two minutes after he left your apartment. You found him. If you had come any sooner you’d see him walking out of your apartment complex. But this was easier, easier to explain that he just so happened that to be outside of your complex.

“Hey.” You smiled up at him. Oh he hadn’t felt that smile directly at him in months.

But there was something in your eyes. He could see it. What was it?

He smiled back, “Hey.”

Still panicking. He tried masking it, he hoped he’d do it well. He couldn’t lose you, he couldn’t have you find out.

“You never called.”

There it was. Disappointment.

You were disappointed in him. Oh he desperately wanted to tell you the truth. That he was there, the whole time. For months, watching you, protecting you. He just had to make sure, that you’d love him. Want him, want the good man he was molding himself to be.

So he lied as best he could. Really it was half lie.

“I know. I’m sorry. When I got home the number was smudged. So I couldn’t really call even if I wanted to.”

You hummed, as if you didn’t believe him.

“Let me make it up to you. Let me take you out to dinner.”

“I’ll have to see. I might be busy this week.”

Oh he knew weren’t. But he’d let you flirt, let you think you weren’t desperate for him. He’d indulge in your antics.

“What about next week?”

“Maybe.” He could see the smile you were trying to force down. “Here, give me your phone. I’ll put it in there this time. This way you don’t lose it.”

And he does. He’ll do anything you tell him.

You want him to kill somebody? He’ll do it. You want him to fix something? Say less. You want him to fuck you? Don’t need to ask him twice.

After that day he had to pretend. Pretend like he didn’t know where everything was in your apartment. Like he didn’t know your cat. A cat that wasn’t particularly warm to strangers at all.

And you’d pretend too. Pretend that that day you found him outside of your apartment complex you didn’t notice the tissue in the trash. The white substance that wasn’t there when you left. That your sheets were freshly washed, the strong fabric softener giving it away.

Pretend that your favorite pair of panties weren’t missing. Pretend that your pillows weren’t out of place by just centimeters.

That when you’d invited him in that same night, your all man hating cat was in love with him after seeing him once.

Pretend like your controller wasn’t just a few places off. Or how your room door was closed just slightly. You hadn’t left it that way.

Or how the book you were currently reading was sticking out just slightly. Not noticeable by anyone other than you.

You’d keep it a secret from him, even after a couple years of dating. You wouldn’t tell him that you knew. How you had an inkling the moment you’d found him that day.

How the scent suddenly showed up in your apartment. A hint of something.

Of him. The day of the supermarket it was there. And it lingers in your home. It lingered of him. Of musk, sandalwood and amber.

Something in you told you to be scared. The right part of you told you to run. But how could you.

You felt safe.

He made you feel safe, like home.

So you’d keep it a secret. Because you’d forgive this man, how could you not? He loved you. So so so so much. And you loved him.

How could you ever be mad at him? No not him. Not your sweet Dex.

like refilling the ice bucket. the refill bucket held about ten scoops of ice, each weighing about five pounds. that meant that it ended up being fifty if you filled it up all the way, which you couldn't carry from the backroom to the bartop.

so, you had to make trips there and back. at least three times a night, you found yourself walking back and forth, carrying half-full ice buckets to and from the backroom.

when andrew showed up to organize, he didn't realize he'd see you.

"'scuse me, sorry," you say sweetly, despite the heavy ice bin you're holding on your hip as you wait for him to step aside.

instead, he takes the bucket from you with one hand.

"oh! thank you, andrew!" you beam up at him.

"where are you taking it?" he asks, no smile of his own.

"to the ice bin on the bar top." you lead the way, holding the door open for him to bring it out. he dumps it into your empty cooler and then frowns, deep lines pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"you need way more than this." he faces you. "why'd you only fill it up halfway?"

heat rises to your face, and you wipe a bead of sweat from your temple.

"i can't carry the full bucket. have to make small trips with it," you explain.

"oh." is all he say before he walks away with your ice bucket.

you're about to follow him, to tell him that you need that because you need to make another trip, but a customer catches your attention first. a minute later, as you're mixing their drink, someone comes up beside you.

it's andrew. he's carrying the entire full refill bucket in one arm while he opens the ice bin with his free hand. he dumps it in carefully, not a piece lost in the process.

then, he lowers his head next to yours, placing a large cold hand on your spine.

"come get me next time it needs to be filled," he says softly against the shell of your ear, and then he leaves without another word.

---

he helps you close, too.

one night, he was still around after the rest of the customers and staff were long gone.

"andrew?" you poke your head into the kitchen to find him inspecting something in the fryer. he looks over his shoulder, meeting your gaze. "you sticking around? i'm about to lock the doors while i close."

"you don't usually close by yourself, do you?" he narrows his eyes at you.

"most nights, yeah. why?" the soft smile that's always on your lips kills him. he wishes you'd quit being so damn friendly. he hums, like he's considering your admission.

"i'll be here." he wipes his hands on a dish rag and turns his whole body to face you. the fryer can wait until tomorrow.

"ok! i'll come find you before i leave for the night." you turn to leave the kitchen and resume your job of wiping down tables in the dining room. andrew follows you out, grabbing the mop bucket on his way, and begins mopping the floors better than anyone else has ever managed.

you stack clean glasses and restock the fridges while he does. him helping you cut a solid half hour off your usual closing time.

"thank you so much, andrew!" you grin brightly. "you did a great job. i really appreciate you helping."

you sling an arm around his torso in a hug like it's no big deal. and when he stays stiff, unrelenting to your hug, you don't seem bothered.

"how are you getting home?" he asks when you pull away.

"i drove here." you twirl your keys around your finger.

andrew nods toward the door.

"i'll walk you to your car."

first, you check that all the lights are off, doors are locked, and then you let andrew cody hold the door open for you. he stands next to you while you lock it, checking to make sure it doesn't budge. he feels sort of like a guard dog, standing at attention, eyes sweeping the area for any threats.

"i'm glad you started working here," you say softly as you start walking toward your car. "you're nice to have around."

his hand grips your forearm, pulling you to a stop in the empty parking lot. when you meet his eyes, they're searching your entire face. heat rises to your face as you contemplate everything he could possibly be thinking in this moment.

"what?" he asks, quiet and stern. "what do you mean?"

"i just-- you're good company. i- um, like getting to spend time with you on the days we both work together." you sound small, anxious.

andrew nods slowly, thumb rubbing against the skin of your forearm before he lets you go.

"i like working with you, too." he only says it once you're both walking to your car again. when you reach the vehicle, you stop, trying to work up the courage to say something.

"goodnight," you whisper, because it's what feels right. and then, you press yourself to your toes and press a soft kiss to andrew's cheek. he stills, but you don't let yourself notice.

you're too busy opening your car door and driving off, waving goodbye to andrew.

---

he helps you with the unexpected, too.

the knife slipped from your grip while you were cutting limes between rushes.

"fuck!" you hiss, immediately wrapping a bar towel around your hand and excusing yourself to the backroom.

andrew there, reading some manual to help him try and fix a broken fridge. he's been around more often lately. when you come in, tears running down your face, he hurries to your side.

"what happened?" he tries to peel back at the towel on your hand, but you're holding it too tightly. he doesn't want to hurt you.

"i-i cut my hand with the paring knife." your voice is whiny and so startled.

it goes straight to andrew's dick.

he swallows, forcing himself to meet your wide, wet eyes.

fuck, you look so pretty.

"can i see?" he asks softly, letting his hand rest atop yours. you sniffle, looking from his face to where your hands are joined, then back to his face. softly, you nod.

"be careful please, andrew," you plead as he begins to unwrap the towel. a groan leaves his throat at your words. he imagines you bent over the workbench, saying the same thing as he lines himself up with your entrance. you take it the wrong way. "is it that bad?"

"no, sweetheart, no," he lets the endearment tumble from his lips before he can think twice. you exhale shakily as he inspects the cut on your hand. when he's done, he stand up and clears his throat. "it needs stitches. you got yourself pretty good."

you bring your uninjured hand to your face, wiping at the tears that fall faster now. andrew stands there, unsure of what to do.

reluctantly, he brings a hand to the side of your shoulder, running a soothing thumb against your skin. you throw your arms around him in a full hug, crying into his black shirt because not only does your hand hurt, but now you have to get stitches.

andrew presses a hesitant kiss to the top of your head, hoping you can't feel the semi he's sporting under these jeans. he holds you close, closer than he's ever held another person. so close that he can smell your shampoo and feels a stray hair from your head tickling his cheek.

"have you had stitches before?" you ask, face still buried into his chest.

"more times than i can count." he runs a hand down your back. "i can do them for you, if you want. it wouldn't be my first time."

"it's my first time," you say sheepishly as you grip the back of his shirt. another pang of arousal to his crotch as he imagines your words in a different light. "will it hurt?"

"a little. i can take you to the doctor, instead. they will give you a numbing shot," he offers. you shake your head quickly, pulling away to look him in the eyes.

"no, no." you still have your hold on his shirt. "i want you to do it. you'll be gentle, right?"

he nods, unable to speak. you nod back. the both of you stay there for a moment, gazing into each other, his hand on your back and yours wound into his shirt.

just as he pulls away, deran rushes into the back.

"what happened?" his eyes scan over your body, stopping when they see the bloodied towel in your hand. "shit."

"i cut myself on accident." embarrassed, you look away. "i'm so sorry. andrew's gonna patch me up and then i can work the rest of my shift."

"andrew's-- what?" he looks to pope for the first time, noticing the wet patch on the front of his shirt and the way he's holding that fridge manual very conveniently in front of his groin.

"i'm gonna fix up her cut." andrew squares his shoulders off.

"yeah, no." deran scoffs, taking a step forward. "i can help her. you go serve drinks, pope."

"she needs stitches," he explains, nudging you behind him only slightly. "i got it, deran."

deran looks between the both of you. once, twice, then he shakes his head angrily and storms back into the dining area.

"is he mad at me?" andrew revels in the way you gaze up at him with those wide eyes. he shakes his head and moves a piece of hair from where it's stuck to your damp cheek. "are you sure?"

"i'm sure. are you ready to go? i have a suture kit at my house. i can help you there, sweetheart." he places a hand on your shoulders and guides you out the back exit.

"thank you, andrew," you say as he hands you your purse from the coat rack.

the ride to his house is short, quiet, and tense. andrew tries to keep his dick from throbbing everytime a little whimper or sniffle comes from you in the passenger's seat.

when he pulls into the driveway, he rounds the cab of his truck quickly to get your door.

"thank you," you say softly, letting him grab you by the waist to hoist you out of the seat. it's not necessary, but neither of you says anything about it.

much to his dismay, he sets you back on your feet.

"wow," you murmur. "you live here? right on the water?"

it's baz's old place-- he's been staying here since he passed.

"i do." he leads the way up the drive. "do you live near the water?"

you laugh in amusement.

"no. i wish." he opens the door into the home. the space is clean, of course. it always is.

"come sit." andrew pulls out a chair at his kitchen table. "i'll grab the suture kit."

you sit exactly where he tells you to, and you wait so patiently while he excuses himself to another room to grab what he needs. which includes a new shirt for you, because there is a drop of blood on the one you're wearing.

he carries it all out to you, pleased to see you sitting pretty right where he left you.

"you have a nice house." he notices your eyes lingering on lena's bedroom. "i didn't know you had kids."

"i don't." he pulls a chair right in front of you, so close that your legs interlock. "this was my brother's house, he had a daughter."

you hum, and he looks up to see that you're now fixated on the suture kit that he is opening. the needle. he lifts it just to see what you'll do.

your uninjured hand grips his knee tightly, eyes going wide.

"do we have to?" you wince when he threads the silk through the hole.

"i can take you to the hospital," he offers again. "but they'll use a needle for the numbing shot."

if you decided to take him up on the offer, he'd slash his own tires to keep you stuck here, with him. he wants to be the only person who helps you.

you swallow, shaking your head as if trying to clear it of the fearful thoughts that are creeping in.

"no, no. i want you to do it." he catches your face in his free hand, tilting your chin so that you meet his intense stare. feeling closer than ever, you whisper, "just promise you'll be gentle, andrew."

and he tries not to finish in his jeans.

"always, i promise." his voice is low and rough and wouldn't be comforting from anyone else, but it's so different than what you've heard from him before.

slowly, you nod, giving him the ok to start.

he punctures your skin for the first time and you sniffle, a silent tear rolling down your cheek. it does hurt. you can't watch what he's doing, so you look at him instead.

you watch his face work as he threads the silk through your wound. it stings, and you can't help the hot tears that fall down your face. his eyebrows are pinched together in concentration.

"how do you know how to do this?" you sniffle. his eyes are laser-focused on your hand, not looking up as he answers.

"i've had to do it on myself a couple of times. skateboarding accidents, mostly." he even sounds concentrated. "i'm sorry that i have to do it on you, pretty girl. i know it hurts."

"no, no, it's ok. it doesn't hurt." you sound anything but convincing.

his gaze flicks up to your face, as if he's proving a point by staring at your glistening cheeks. there's a small, endeared grin tilting up one side of his mouth. you've never seen it before.

you watch as he thinks for a moment, eyes moving across your face slowly. then, he carefully leans his head forward and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

a gasp leaves you at the contact, and you find yourself craving more of it. his lips are so soft, so warm.

"almost done," he says, "last one."

you nod, though his face is angled back down toward your hand again. a pained moan falls from your lips as he pokes you for the final time. then, he's using his own finger to lather the stitches in an ointment before wrapping a bandage around them.

the whole time, he's nothing but delicate with you, taking his time to make sure you aren't bumped or poked the wrong way.

"how does that feel?" he asks about the wrapping. you nod, unable to think as you stare at his mouth. "sweetheart? what's wrong?"

"n-nothing. i just-- thank you, andrew. you're the sweetest man i've ever met." your heart is racing in your chest. "you didn't have to do this."

"i'm glad i did." he sets the wrap on the table and rubs a thumb over your face, wiping the remnants of your tears.

"me too," you whisper, tilting your head to press a kiss to his palm. he swallows hard.

"i don't think you should go back to work today." he trails his fingers down your neck. "you shouldn't get your cut wet for a few days."

a frown tugs at your lips that he wants to kiss away.

"really? i need the money-- is there anything you think i could do there? maybe clean instead of serving drinks?" you stare at him like he holds all the answers in the world, and he relishes in the feeling of having earned that trust from you.

"i'll take care of money." it's so simple, like it means nothing to him at all. "you should go change your shirt. i'll tell deran you're not coming in."

he hands you the white button-up that he brought out from his bedroom. he knows it's probably not the most comfortable for you, but he only has a few options here, and that was the best one.

nodding, you take it from him and move to stand. he's watching you as you nurse your hand carefully, holding it close to your body. then, his eyes trail to the gap in your shirt as you bend down in front of him to press a kiss to his cheek.

"thank you, andrew." you pad quietly to his bedroom.

deran picks up on the second ring.

"pope, where is-"

"she's not coming in today." he hangs up the phone.

The first few weren’t kind. 

Go to hell. 

You deserve to rot. 

What’s the matter with you? Seriously. You have issues. 

They didn’t know or understand him. He was a good guy. He was trying to help. 

What right did they have to judge him?

And then your letter came. 

Dear Dex,

I hope it’s okay that I’m writing to you. I also hope it’s okay that I’m calling you Dex. I was told you prefer that over Benjamin, and I wanted to be respectful of that. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

I’m part of a volunteer letter writing program. Believe it or not, this is my first letter! I’m sure it’s obvious. I even wrote this introduction three times. I guess I’m a little nervous. 

Not because of you though. 

I just didn’t want this to sound insincere or weird. 

I know we’re strangers, but I imagine some days aren’t very kind to you. Is that presumptuous of me? I’m sorry if it is. Regardless, I hope this letter brings a little brightness to your day. Even if it’s only for a few minutes.

Is it silly to want that for someone I’ve never met?

You don’t have to write back if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure to do so. But if you’d like, I’d love to hear from you.

Until then, I hope you’re doing well. 

He read your name at the bottom of the letter out loud. 

Something settled deep in his chest. 

He traced your signature with his finger. Nobody wanted to hear from him. No one cared about how his days were or showed him kindness. 

But you did. 

He’d write you back. 

And he’d count the days until he got your next letter. 

Eagerly waiting. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

Andrew’s walkie-talkie crackles at his belt. “Security desk to Cody. We’ve got a 62-12 in the west lawn headed your direction. Team alpha deployed. Secure the asset. Over.”

Adrenaline spikes in his chest. Armed and dangerous intruder -- coming directly for you. Striding quickly through the pool complex, he clicks his own walkie and confirms, “Cody to all units. Copy 62-12. Securing asset now. Over.”

Andrew follows the loud music thumping through the indoor/outdoor space, cursing whatever architect decided that a series of different temperature curvy pools divided by columns and glass walls and oversized tropical plants was a good idea. An intruder could hide around so many of the features, perving on you in your string bikini or aiming a gun at you without being spotted. Andrew’s worked for your family long enough to see the whole range of threats, hired years back when you became an adult and needed your own security team. Now that you're his…whatever it's been between you the last few months…the stakes feel so much higher. You aren't just the spoiled brat he has to stop paparazzi from photographing. You're everything.

He spots you by one of the hot tubs, wrapping yourself in a fluffy white robe, completely unaware of your surroundings as you drown your thoughts in loud music and steam.

At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, Andrew sees the movement of the intruder through the floor-to-ceiling windows out on the nearest lawn, quickly moving from place to place trying to stay out of view. There’s no way of knowing if he’s got eyes on you yet, so Andrew has no choice but to grab you. He snaps one hand over your mouth, hoists you up with his strong arm, and hauls you toward the first locking door he finds.

Thankfully, you don’t try to fight him off as fear spills through your body. You know it’s Andrew from the broadness of his chest, the certainty in his touch, the bite of his sharp masculine cologne, so you don’t try to get away. As soon as he became your personal bodyguard, Andrew taught you to stay calm and go limp when it’s him and to fight like hell when it’s anyone else. He wouldn’t grab you like this if it weren’t serious.

Within seconds, Andrew’s manhandled you through the locker room and into one of the private shower stalls, two locked doors between you and danger. Nearly silent, he breathes against your ear, “I’m gonna let you go now, sweetheart, but don’t make any noise.”

You nod into his skin, tasting the salt of his palm, and feel your body relax as you get balanced on your feet. Andrew’s presence is the one thing that’s always been able to keep you calm. As you catch your breath, trying to keep them slow and steady, he instinctively checks you over for any signs of injury or major distress even though he knows you're fine, breathing heavily with his strong hands on your shoulders. He flicks a button on his walkie to silently alert the team that you've been secured in a safe location.

Satisfied that you’re calming down and safe, he whispers urgently, hazel eyes wide, “You need to wait here, okay? Just sit tight and be quiet until I get back. I have to get the intruder off the property.”

You grab his hand and hold it tight, shaking your head. Tears slip down your cheeks. He’s done enough training with you that you’re able to stay silent despite the terror wracking around your ribcage. You lean forward in the small space, press your lips to his ear, and beg, “Don’t leave, Andrew.” Your whole body shakes and he can hear your teeth chattering with your faces so close together. Even though you're whispering, your throat is so thick with tears that little whimpering sounds come through. “Stay with me; I'm scared."

Andrew’s heart shatters. Fuck. A war rages in his mind. It’s his job to keep you safe. To protect you from harm. To neutralize threats. Your parents cut him a fat paycheck for that reason, trusting him to take the shot on anyone who threatens their baby girl.

But here you are.

Soft, small, vulnerable.

Asking him not to do his job but to follow the nagging voice deep in the back of his mind and the base of his gut that tells him that keeping you safe means holding you close. That protecting you from harm means drying your tears.

The residence is crawling with security. Someone besides him can and will handle the intruder. Andrew knows that if he left you right now, he might be able to catch the guy early and stop some property damage.

But you’d be alone.

And you’d be scared

So Andrew wraps his arms around you. He kisses the top of your head, cradles you with strong hands, and breathes deeply, encouraging you to do the time. And he says, “I’ve got you. I'm right here.”

You nestle into his chest and nod. For a few minutes, he holds you while you cry, pressing soothing kisses to your temple and rubbing your back. You're so gentle; it's one of the things he loves most about you. For many people in your position, this would just be an annoyance, a frustrating blip in your day, but to you it's worth crying over. Andrew needs more of that -- sensitivity, sweetness, fragility -- in his life.

Andrew's walkie crackles to life again. "Security to all units. 62-12 has been neutralized without fire. Surveying property for damage now. Cody provide status on the asset. Over."

Andrew lets out a relieved sigh. Still holding you with one arm, he grabs the radio from its clip and says, voice low and quick, "Cody to security. Copy. Asset is safe and unharmed. Over and out."

After a few moments of silence, both of you breathing in tandem, you pull back from him as much as the cramped stall allows. His arms are still around you and it doesn't seem he has any plans to change that. You press your lips softly to his stubbly cheek -- you secretly love when he forgets to shave in the morning -- and murmur, "Thanks for saving me, Andy."

He lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh. "I should've been closer. Shouldn't have taken so long to get to you."

"You went to the bathroom," you point out. "You're allowed to pee on the clock."

"I know, I know." He shakes his head, running antsy fingers through his curls. "Just…Fuck, if anything happened to you."

"But nothing did," you remind him. "It was probably just another creep trying to get pictures of my tits, anyway."

That makes him hum in annoyance. "That's not better."

"What?" You poke his firm pec and tease, "All grumpy at the thought of someone else seeing my boobs?"

With a conspiratorial sort of smile, he admits, "Maybe. A little."

You raise an eyebrow, drop your hand to the tie of your robe, and tug hard. The soft garment falls to the tile floor, leaving in your very, very small bikini. Then, before he can protest, you've undone the hook behind your back and let the top join it. As he stares at your bare chest, immediately getting hard from the sight and the lingering adrenaline, you gesture dramatically and ask, "All better?"

Andrew sighs contentedly. "You're fucking perfect." He lowers his head and kisses across the tops of your breasts, gentle and reassuring. "Never gonna let anyone hurt you."

"I know," you reply breathlessly as he wraps his lips around one of your nipples. "You always keep me safe. That's why I'm yours."

He gazes up at you from between your tits, smiling boyishly, and confirms, "All mine?"

Your cheeks warm up from the unabashed adoration in his eyes and you give him an embarrassed, bashful nod. "Yours."

"All this for me," he breathes out, giving a low whistle. He mouths down the center of your chest and along your stomach, his tongue memorizing the familiar shapes and curves. He wraps his arms around you again and drags his hands up the backs of your legs, lighting up every nerve. When they finally settle on your ass, Andrew shakes his head in disbelief. "I'm the luckiest son of a bitch in the world."

It's not your dream job — far from it, actually — but the pay is decent, and if you manage to flash a sweet smile convincingly enough to the right clients, the tips can be pretty consistent.

After a relatively long drive from the secluded ranch you managed to buy from a man who didn't ask many questions when you asked to pay upfront with cash, you park your beat-up sedan in front of the diner.

As you walk in you flash a smile to the few regulars you recognize, and you great your coworker behind the counter — a young girl too sweet for her own good.

"Morning!" she replies with a smile of her own, despite the fact that's way to early for someone to look this joyous.

After exchanging a few niceties, you tie your apron and officially begin your shift. It's the same routine as usual: go up to tables, take orders, and refill cups with coffee that you know for sure tastes like shit.

But then, just like clockwork, at exactly the same time as every day you work the morning shift, your favorite costumer walks in.

He's older and unfairly attractive, with his broad shoulders and graying blond hair. Like usual, he sits at a booth far from the windows and he picks up the menu, carefully studying it, despite always ordering the same thing.

"Good morning, Tony! What can I get you today?"

You take out your notepad from the pocket of your apron, and let the pen hover over the blank page, waiting for his answer.

"I'll have a banana milkshake," he replies, looking up at you with a controlled smile, making a shiver run down your spine.

There's nothing unusual about him. He's polite, always thanks you when you get him his order, and tips way too much considering he always gets the same banana milkshake.

But there's something in the way you feel his eyes following you whenever he's in the diner that makes you feel naked — like he knows what you're so desperately trying to hide.

Still, you keep on the facade you use whenever you're interacting with other people, especially costumers, and leave to make his banana milkshake.

His gaze burns on the back of your head, and your hands tremble slightly as you pour the milk in the blender. You try to sneak a glance in his general direction, but when your eyes land on his figure, he's already looking somewhere else.

After, the routine resumes as usual. He drinks his milkshake, you give him his check, and he leaves a generous tip before walking out of the diner.

In the past, you tried imagining what his life outside might look like. Where does he work? Does he live nearby? Does he have someone waiting for him at home?

Questions like this usually leave you feeling uneasy and unsatisfied when you realize that you'll probably never know the answer.

Later that night, desperately trying to push further away any thoughts about Tony, you decide to call Chris over.

He's a nice guy. Definitely not the love of your life, but a pleasant enough distraction from your previous life.

You met him a few weeks ago at the diner, and when he shyly asked for your number — after pushing the initial instinct to give him the wrong one — you left it written on his check.

After that first encounter, he brought you on many dates, but still, you never got past first base, and he, like a gentleman, never pushed further.

Tonight, though, things are going to change.

At 8 pm sharp, you hear the doorbell ring, and when you open your door, you find him still in uniform, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

"Sorry, I just got off work. I would have changed, but I didn't want to be late, and-" you press your lips against his, muffling the rest of his apology.

Truth be told, at first the fact that he's a cop made you nervous. You worried he would look into your past and find out what made you run away. Instead, he seemingly believed every word that came out of your mouth when you told him your made-up background story, and it made you more inclined to keep seeing him. At least, until he realizes that everything you told him, even your name, is a lie.

"Don't worry about it," you mumble against his lips. "I'm pretty sure I've got some clothes that could fit you. Now, come in."

You take his free hand in yours and drag him past the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Then, after putting the bouquet in a vase, you walk towards your bedroom, looking at him over your shoulder, silently inviting him to follow you. Like a siren luring in an unfortunate mariner.

He seems to take the bait, and gladly follows you. Men are so predictable.

"Here, let me see if I can find some sweats," you say, looking inside your closet.

In the meantime, Chris stands awkwardly near the door, looking so out of place in your bedroom.

As you rummage through the few clothes that you brought with you, he takes off his holster and places it on your nightstand, making it land on the wooden surface with a loud thud.

The cold night air enters the room through your open window, moving the blinds in an almost hypnotic way, catching Chris' attention.

Then, he freezes.

You turn around in that exact moment, holding a pair of oversized sweats in your hands, and furrow your brows when you see him looking attentively at a distant point outside your window.

"What is it?"

"I think I saw something."

You let out a giggle, taking a step closer to his unmoving body.

"I live near the woods. It was probably just an animal."

You can see it in his eyes that he's not convinced, so you lay the sweats on your bed and place your hands on his chest.

"Come on. Let's get you out of this uniform, officer," you whisper near his ear, before placing a languid kiss on his jaw.

It turns out to be a good enough distraction. His gaze shifts in your direction, and his hands immediately find your hips, pulling you closer to his body.

You push him on the bed, and then straddle him, before moving your hands on his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck.

His back is pressed near the window, making it possible for you to see some movement near a couple of trees outside your house.

Before you can think about your next move, a knife slices the air, landing on the opposite wall. You let out a scream, as Chris moves your body and lunges towards the gun on your nightstand. He then fires two shoots in the general direction of the attacker. But it's too late. He's gone.

Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you're pretty sure Chris can hear it as well. He has something more urgent to think about though.

Blood is running down his left arm, soaking his uniform. The wound is pretty close to the spot where your hand was just a few moments ago, and yet, you're unharmed.

Did the attacker miss, or were you never the target?

"Shit," Chris says, as he tries to apply some pressure on the cut.

"Wait, let me help you."

You raise from the bed and run to your bathroom, where you keep your first aid kit. Once you're back in the bedroom, you help him take off his uniform, and as you begin to disinfect the wound, Chris breaks the silence.

"Who the fuck was that? He had a fucking- A fucking mask, and he-" his tone is understandably panicked, and his mind was clearly running a hundred miles an hour.

"Was that one of your exes?"

The question sounds so absurd you almost laugh, but decide that now is probably not the right moment.

"If that's your ex you should probably own a pistol, you know that?"

You blame his rambling on the adrenaline that's probably running through his veins right now, and keep cleaning him up.

It doesn't take you long to stop the bleeding. The cut is actually not that deep, but it doesn't seem to ease his mind. On the contrary.

As soon as you finish securing the sterile gauze over the wound, he grabs his things and almost runs to the door, mumbling something about calling you tomorrow.

He does offer you to spend the night at his apartment, but when you decline he doesn't try too hard to change your mind, instead getting in his car and driving away as if someone were chasing him.

When you go back to your room, for some reason unknown to you, you don't feel scared or threatened.

Your eyes land on the knife, still plugged in the drywall. You walk closer and pull it out, the weight feeling oddly comforting in your hands.

There's some of Chris' blood on it, so you wipe it on your sleep shorts, before hiding it in your underwear drawer.

And in that moment you think: it was never meant for you. It was meant for him only.

The next morning, when you check your phone, you don't find any missed calls from Chris. You think that what happened last night must have scared him away for good, and, weirdly enough, it gives you a strange sense of relief.

Throughout the rest of the day you keep occasionally checking your phone, mostly because it feels like the right think to do, not because you're actually concerned.

You should be worried. Maybe you should try to reach out. Go to his apartment, even. But you never do.

Instead, you go back to your house and slip in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of fried bacon and burned coffee that always lingers on you after you leave the diner.

Once you're done, you realize you've forgotten your towel, leaving you no option but to walk completely naked to your bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floorboards.

The blinds in your bedroom are open — as they usually are — but now, for the first time since you moved in this house, you feel a pair of eyes on you.

A shiver runs down your spine, but you do nothing to cover yourself or close the curtains, because there's something familiar about this feeling.

You brush it off, instead applying lotion over your damp body, before finally putting on your clean pj's and going to bed.

Next time you're at the diner, something strange happens.

Tony walks in at the same time as usual, he sits at his usual booth, and he orders the same banana milkshake.

Nothing is out of the ordinary. Except this time the way his gaze follows you feels warmer than usual, and just as you're about to pour the drink inside the glass, the realization suddenly dawns on you.

Tony's the one who has been looking at you through your window. And he's probably the one who threw that knife at Chris.

You remain frozen on your spot until another waitress squeezes past you, reminding you that you're still in a public place. And he's in the same room as you.

You swallow hard enough to make noise, before pouring some whipped cream over the milkshake, grabbing a straw and walking up to Tony's table.

"Here you go," you said placing the glass down on the table, praying he didn't notice the way your voice wavered.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replies, reaching for his milkshake and accidentally brushing your fingers with his.

You immediately move your hand as if you got burned, and without saying anything else you walk away, busying yourself with other costumers.

His gaze, though, weights heavier than it ever has today, and you can't breath properly until he leaves.

The drive home after your shift is silent — you don't even turn on the radio — but that's fine, because your thoughts make enough noise on their own.

The road that usually seems never ending, today feels uncharacteristically short. Even after turning off the engine, you remain seated inside your car.

Your skin is prickling with a feeling similar to anxiety, but not quite.

Excitement, that's what it it.

Despite the rational part of your brain telling you that you should feel scared, that you might be in danger, and that Chris' radio silence might have been caused by something quiet dark, you can't help but hope Tony will be outside your window, watching you.

So you walk inside your home.

Everything's silent. The only sound that can be heard is the low buzz of your fridge. Despite that, you have a feeling you're not alone.

"Tony? Is that you?" and after a moment. "Is that even your real name?"

Then, from a dark corner, a broad figure emerges. Despite the tactical gear and the mask covering everything beside his eyes, you know immediately that the figure that has been inhabiting the shadows near you for longer than you might expect is none other than your favorite costumer.

"Hi, Tony," you great him, your voice just above a whisper. "Or you wanna tell me your real name?"

For a moment you're met with silence, so long that you begin to wonder whether you got it all wrong and there's an actual stranger in your house. Your heartbeat begins to raise, until he speak.

"Benjamin."

"Hi, Benjamin."

You stand there, staring at each other, until you take a step forward in his direction.

"So it was you, uh? How long have you been watching me?" you ask, but there's no real malice, or anger in your voice. Just plain curiosity.

"Ever since I first met you."

It's weird, you would have expected him to be unwavering, sure of himself. Terrifying, even.

Instead, he sounds almost ashamed, making it difficult for you to believe that he's the same man that threw a knife at your date the other night.

You take another step forward, never moving your gaze from his masked face.

"Are you going to show me you pretty face or not?"

He lets out a sharp exhale, sounding like he just got punched. Experiencing first hand the power your words have over him makes you feel almost high.

When he doesn't make a move to take off his mask, you raise your hands to his neck and do it yourself.

The moonlight shines over his messy locks, and the scar on his cheek catches the light just right, making you want to lick it.

Instead, you let the mask drop on the floor, and begin lightly scratching his chest over his suit, your touch featherlight, almost imperceptible.

"So, you watched me for weeks. What was I doing?"

The way his expression shifts and the tips of his ears redden slightly make your lips curl into a smug smile.

You can see his gloved hands clenching at his sides, almost like he's making an active effort not to reach out. Like he's waiting for your permission.

"You were reading, mostly. Sometimes you would watch a movie, if you were not too tired. Most of the times you were too exhausted to do anything. Other times-" and he stops, his face burning.

You tilt your head, confused by what he might be referring to, until you realize.

"What? What was I doing?"

Silence.

"Touching yourself."

Your grin widens, and your hands shift from his chest to his hair.

"Hm, and how did that make you feel, uh? Did it turn you on? Did you wish you could replace my fingers with yours?"

As you ask him these filthy questions, you tug his hair. Hard.

In response, he lets out a low moan, and his hands fly to your hips, mostly trying to ground himself.

"P-Please..."

The word comes out almost uncertain from his mouth, making your lips curl in amusement.

How the tables have turned. How did he go from being your stalker to begging you to let him touch you?

"Please, what?"

"Let me make you feel good."

His voice is strained, almost as if he were in physical pain.

"You really think you can do that?" you ask mockingly.

He nods, looking so eager to please.

You don't offer him a response. Instead you start walking to your bedroom — the same bedroom he has been spying for weeks — and you don't have to look back to know he's following you.

The mattress sinks under your weight as your sit on it. Benjamin doesn't hesitate before falling on his knees, right in front of you.

He starts soft, gently kissing your knuckles. Then he starts traveling higher, his lips caressing the soft skin of your arms, making your eyes flutter closed.

He then places his hands on either side of your body, steadying himself as he kisses your neck. He keeps getting closer to his final destination, grazing your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.

At first the kiss is soft and tender, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. This seems to be enough of an invitation for him.

The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. You can feel the weight of his body over yours as he lays you down on the bed. But you don't stay in this position for long.

Taking him by surprise, you flip him over — but you have the suspicion he's right where he wants to be, underneath you.

His hands begin exploring your body, and your own move back to his hair, burying your fingers in his graying locks.

Underneath the layers of his tactical gear, you can feel him getting progressively harder. All it takes is you grinding your hips over his bulge to get another moan out of him.

You keep moving, chasing friction with his clothed cock, trying to ease the heath between your legs.

Surprisingly, he's the first one to break the kiss.

"Please, can I taste you?"

He sounds so desperate you can feel your panties getting even more wet than before.

In response, you take off your pants and your underwear in one go, but when you move to lay on the bed, he stops you. Instead, he moves your hips higher up, near his face.

Without a warning, he pushes you down on his face. Your hands immediately travel back to his hair, tugging them as you let out a high pitched moan.

At first, he drags his tongue from you needy hole to your clit, before laying a kiss on the bundle of nerves.

His movements are unsure at first, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when you start grinding on his face, he seems to gain more confidence, and begins to eat you out like a man starved.

Even though you're completely lost in your pleasure, you can feel him moaning and whispering praises into your cunt.

Things like "you taste so good," and, "you're so perfect."

But the closer you get to your release, the darker his words get.

"Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom except for me," or, "he couldn't have made you feel this good," or simply, "you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice is enough to make you reach your orgasm, holding onto him like an anchor.

The sound of your release paired with the way to keep pulling his hair — hard enough to sting — is enough make him cum untouched in his pants.

After catching your breath, you move from Benjamin's face and roll over, laying by his side.

He moves as well, resting his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you so tight that you think he might be afraid that you're going to disappear at any moment.

A moment of silence passes between the two of you.

"Benjamin?"

"Mhm?"

"What happened to Chris?"

"I killed him."

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

You wake up hazily, feeling like you’re being rocked by warm ocean waves. When you stir slightly more, you realize you’re in Andrew’s arms, cradled between them, as he climbs the stairs to your bedroom. You make some kind of content humming sound, rest your forehead against his chest, and ask, “Home safe?”

“Home safe,” he confirms. When the two of you are in the bedroom, he guides you to your feet and stays sturdy when you fold into his arms. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.

Eyes closed as you breathe in his sweat and musk, tainted slightly by the iron he's coated in, you tell him softly, “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m okay.”

His hazel eyes search yours, writing worries all over your face, as he replies, “You’re literally covered in blood, angel. You don’t have to say that for my sake.”

You look down at the both of you for the first time. Andrew is absolutely splattered, both his bare skin and his clothes saturated in dried blood. You mostly have freckles of it, a few streaks, some bruises in different spots. You’re sore from being jostled around but, all things considered, you’re not much worse for wear.

“Most of the blood isn’t mine.” You give a light shrug and take his hand. “C’mon, help me get cleaned up and you’ll see.”

In the adjacent bathroom, with its luxurious oversized features you’d gotten to choose by hand when he bought you a new construction, Andrew helps you take what little clothes you have off, tossing them into the hamper. He’s borderline growling under his breath as he gives you a more thorough inspection, taking note of the rug burn underneath your ass, the bruises from their hands, and every single other scrape and mark.

Voice low, he murmurs, “Let’s get you in the tub.”

“I’m fine to just take a shower with you, Andrew, I’m not-”

He shakes his head. “You’re having a bath. I don’t want you on your feet. You need to relax.”

You pout. “Then get in with me.”

“I can just rub your feet like usual.”

“Andrew, please.” You reach down to tug up his shirt, wanting nothing more than to feel his bare skin. “I need you to hold me.”

He gives a firm nod. Andrew isn’t the best at verbally expressing his feelings – in fact, he’s probably one of the worst – but he’s learned that physically showing his love for you works just as well as words. So if you say you need something, you get it. He kisses your forehead and says, “I’ll rinse off first.”

You smirk happily. “And I’ll watch you strip.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. Secretly, he loves how into him you are, how you watch him take his clothes off without fail even after years together, how you’ll spend hours just absently touching him everywhere during a movie. He’s never felt even remotely desirable in his life – until you.

So he indulges you. He faces you and unbuttons his shirt, shrugging out of it, revealing those toned pecs of his, the slopes of his hips, his broad shoulders. He can practically see your mouth watering as he undoes his belt, patting it against his palm a few times because he knows it’ll drive you nuts. Kicking out of his jeans and his boxers, his half-hard cock draws your eyes immediately. When he’s fully naked, you give him a catcall whistle that makes him laugh, which makes your heart stammer.

Stepping forward to run your hands greedily over his torso, careful to avoid the new bruises that came from the job and the fight, you mutter, “It’s really unfair how hot you are when I feel like a bloated mess all the time.”

Andrew cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing because he’s honest to god befuddled by the remark. “This is the most beautiful you’ve ever been.”

Tears sting at your eyes because you know he means it. You know he’s really, actually confused by the idea that his pregnant wife wouldn’t absolutely love her body because he loves it so much. You take a deep breath and wipe the tears before they can fall down your cheeks.

Trying to process your reaction, Andrew tries, “I’m sorry; should I have said something differently or-”

“Happy tears,” you clarify with a short laugh. “You’re making me feel very loved.”

“Oh. Good.” He brushes a tear from your cheek. “Well, you are very loved.

You sniffle and point to the shower. “Go and have your rinse so I can get my snuggle.”

He kisses the tip of your nose. “Yes, ma’am.”

Shaking your head at how loved and lucky you feel because of him, you draw the bath while he rinses off. Having an oversized soaking tub has been one of your dreams since you were a kid, and Andrew has insisted on fulfilling as many of your dreams as possible. Waterfront view, chef’s kitchen, bathroom suites with double sinks and vanities and tubs with jets.

By the time he gets out of the shower, you’re crying again just looking at the water filling the tub. Before he can ask or worry, you assure him, “Endorphin rush and hormones. All good.”

When you turn the faucet off, Andrew pours a cupful of Epsom salts in, stirs the water around with his hand until it’s dissolved, and then grabs the thermometer from one of the drawers. He checks to make sure it’s not too hot (you’d loved absolutely boiling baths before pregnancy, but he read something about raising your core temperature being bad for baby) and then steps into the water.

He offers up his hand and helps you step over the ledge, acting like he’s spotting you at a gym in case you topple over. Hands firm and guiding, he sits you down in the water and then slides in behind you.

Finally, breathing in the smell of your favorite herbal bath oil while your husband holds you close, you feel completely safe again. Between his legs and his arms, feeling as much of him as possible, your body relaxes. 

Andrew picks up the handle of the telephone style faucet (another dream of yours), turns the water on, waits a minute to check the temperature, and then says, “Lean your head back so I can wash your hair.”

There’s never any point in protesting with him or insisting you can do things yourself. He wants to do it for you, which means he will, so you dangle your hair back in front of him. He’s so careful it makes you ache, using his other hand to stop the water from falling down your face as he wets it. When he works in the shampoo, he massages your scalp, rough fingers magical, until you’re sleepy and basically purring beneath his touch. It’s the same routine with the conditioner, thorough and kind, his hands an extension of the love he’ll always struggle to put into words.

Then he lathers body wash and spreads it over you, cupping the fullness of your breasts, rubbing your stomach, massaging knots from your shoulders. He nuzzles into the smell of your shampoo and murmurs, “ I’m sorry I didn’t keep you safe.”

Eyes closed, completely at peace, you reply, “C’mon, you were working. You can’t be with me all the time.”

“We’ll see about that,” he rumbles. “I don’t want you going out alone anymore.”

You snort at the idea. “Ever again? What, you’re gonna employ J to tail me all the time? You’re never gonna do a job again?”

His arms tighten around you. “I’m going to do whatever I have to so you’re safe.”

“You worry too much.”

He scoffs, “I think I’m entitled to worry about my pregnant wife being kidnapped.”

“Not if it stops you from doing what you need to do,” you chastise. “If I weren’t pregnant, I would’ve just shot the guy in the kneecaps like you showed me.”

He grins into your back. “Mmm. My badass girl.” Then he kisses across the top ridge of your shoulders and offers, “Let’s compromise; I won’t leave you alone until you give birth, and then I won’t leave either of you alone until she’s 25.”

“You can’t be in two places at once,” you giggle. “And what about when we have our next three babies? You’re gonna start splitting like a cell so you can be all over the place?”

“Didn’t realize we have four kids all of a sudden.” You feel him smiling against your skin. “Maybe I’ll just hire a whole team of bodyguards.”

“You know I want a big family.”

“I can’t wait.”

You settle back deeper, closing your eyes and resting your head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. In this position, he can kiss the side of your head and hold your bump, thumbs stroking your soft skin and feeling your restless baby finally starting to settle down.

Andrew keeps talking, but it’s low and vibrating and you’ve had an absolutely exhausting day, so the sound quickly becomes a white noise machine. Some guys might be offended, but Andrew doesn’t mind when you fall asleep like this, soothed into dreams and comfort by his voice. He feels the baby calming down, too, so he keeps talking, letting both of you rest against him.

When the water turns cold and his skin is pruny, he wakes you up by massaging the back of your neck and murmuring, “You need to eat something before bed, angel.”

“Mmm.”

You’re in a cozy pliant state as he guides you out of the tub, gently towels off your hair, and wraps you up in your fluffy white bathrobe. He’s beyond happy to see you back in the homey state he'd prefer you always occupy. The fresh linens make the perfect cloud for you to perch on.

Sitting in bed, you look up at him with big eyes and ask, “Will you get something for me from downstairs?”

“I was planning on it, sweetheart.” His lips press to the top of your head. “What do you want?”

“At this point? Anything.” You sigh and tell him, “I don’t wanna choose. My brain is mush.”

“I’ll come up with something. Give me one minute.”

You page through TV channels until you find some easy, light cooking show, just wanting the noise to keep your mind occupied until your husband’s back with you.

After less than five minutes, Andrew comes up holding a large tray loaded with your latest cravings: Slices of cheese, sour cream and cheddar chips, squares of milk chocolate. Sour gummy worms. He’s even sorted them so the bowl is only blue/pinks and red/yellows, your favorites. All accompanied by a diet coke poured over crushed ice.

“This doesn’t look like a Baby Daddy Andrew Cody approved meal,” you tease, greedily taking the tray from him, “no protein, no vegetables. What’s gotten into you?”

“You get a free pass tonight.” He climbs into bed, once again sitting behind you so that he can keep you tight to his body. “I’ll make you one of those green smoothies with breakfast to make up for it.”

Your nose wrinkles. “Pass.”

“Fruit, then. Lots and lots of fruit.”

“See? Compromise.”

As you eat, making borderline orgasmic sounds at all the sugar and fat, Andrew pulls your hair back into two French braids, tying them off with hairbands. It’s a skill he taught himself as soon as he learned that’s what you did after a shower; he didn’t like the idea that you were straining your arms reaching behind your head. His fingers soothing over your scalp with gentle tugging and pressure are magical.

You polish off the snack spread at record speed and hum contentedly, “Much better. Thank you.”

The two of you sit there a while, half-watching the show. His hands massage your shoulders, pushing the robe aside, turning you into jelly. With your whole body warm and relaxed and loved, you can’t help getting turned on and sleepy at once. The robe tickles your sensitive thighs and Andrew smells like his bright aftershave and you can feel the damp curls of his hair as he kisses your spine and upper back. “Anything else can I do for you or are you ready for bed now?”

You bite your lower lip and shake your head no, unsure if it would be ridiculous to ask him to take care of the undeniable pulse between your thighs after the evening you’ve shared. Craig’s joke about your fucked up foreplay rings in your ears.

Andrew slides his one hand up to your neck, thumb brushing over your pumping carotid, knowing it makes you absolutely crazy, and mutters, “Don’t hold back on me. You know I’ll give you anything.” Pointedly, knowingly, he adds, “Any time.” His other hand goes to the tie of your robe, tugging one side until it falls open, and then pulls one of your thighs, spreading your legs. His two middle fingers hover agonizingly close to your clit and you can’t help the tiny gasp you draw in. “This what you need?”

You nod fervently and open your legs fully for him. With a low groan, he parts your folds, collects your wetness, and circles your clit, nice and slow, firm and confident. The touch of a lover you’ve had nearly a decade, who knows every single inch of your body. You gasp out, head falling back, mouth opening. His other hand snakes around your body to cup your breast, making you groan loud.

Andrew massages your breast, paying more attention to the fullness than the nipple, and kisses the side of your head. “You pretty tender here again?”

You whine as you nod, his hands loosening every tension in your body, even ones you didn’t know about. The sweet sighs you let out, long and easy, are better for Andrew than almost anything else. It doesn’t take long for tight heat to start building. Your hips roll greedily against his fingers. Usually, he stills your movements with his large hand on your hip, keeps total control, but tonight he lets you take. He lets you chase the pleasure only he can give you.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low, making your spine tingle. “I can’t believe you’re giving me a family. You’re my angel - really. I love you so much.”

That makes your pussy clench hard, a high moan parting your lips. Andrew rarely says ‘I love you,’ especially not first, preferring to show you every second of every day. He didn’t grow up in a family that talked about their feelings; no matter how deeply and intensely he experiences them, Andrew is usually quiet. Reserved. But not for you. Not right now.

“Say that again,” you plead. “Talk to me, Andrew. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Knowing it’s important to you even if he doesn’t understand why, he speeds up his fingers, presses his lips to your ear, and lets his thoughts stream out. “I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have you. How I can’t believe you chose me. How grateful I am.”

You smile and tease as your voice goes breathy, “You’re being sweet.”

“I don’t have to be sweet if you don’t want me to,” he chuckles darkly, thumb and forefinger going to roll your nipple. He adds more and more pressure until you whimper, the pain and pleasure mixing deliciously, just how you need. When he gets out the harsh, needy breath he wants from low in your throat, he urges, “That’s right; let me hear how good it feels. God, I love your pussy. So fucking wet for me.” He speeds up to just the right pace, the pressure and rhythm perfect, and your thighs begin to shake. “There you go. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Just like that,” you gasp in agreement. “Please. Please please please.”

He bites his tongue, resisting the urge to mock you for it. A lot of the time, your sex is rough and teasing, both of you going at each other, unrelenting. But, tonight, all he wants is to make you feel good. So he keeps his hand steady, not caring about his forearm getting sore from the repetitive motion, and says, more like he’s begging than ordering, “Go on, sweetheart. Cum for me. Need to make you feel good. Need to hear it.”

You’re powerless to resist. Another few seconds of his expert fingers on your clit and you’re trapping his hand between your legs as your thighs tighten up, walls beginning to spasm. He pulls your legs apart with his, pinning your knees back, keeping you spread wide and at his mercy while he pushes you off the ledge. When you cum, eyes fluttering shut and toes curling, Andrew bites your ear just hard enough to make your head spin, heightening the pleasure of it all.

He works you through every moment, fingers slowing to milk every drop of pleasure he can, paying complete attention until the fluttery aftershocks end. Your breaths are heavy and fast and exhaustion puddles in your limbs. Still, though, you want to make Andrew feel good, too, so you begin to turn around, to try to reach his cock, to do anything, but he catches your hand and says, “You need to sleep now, love.”

“I can feel how hard you are.”

“So?” He reties your robe and tugs the comforter up around your chest. “That doesn’t mean I have to get off.”

Beneath the blanket, his arms go beneath your bump, cradling it with a breathtaking sweetness his family would never believe he’s capable of. You have to admit it’s becoming impossible to keep your eyes open as his hands rub over your stomach. “You sure? I can rally.”

He assures you softly, honestly, “I want you to fall asleep in my arms and let me hold you until you wake up. That’ll be even better for me, I swear.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s my angel.” His nose nuzzles into the nape of your neck as your breaths slow down and even out, savoring your clean scent and warmth and weight. His hands splay over your bump, protective, possessive. All-consuming and adoring. “My girls. All mine.”

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