fleur

You hobbled to the bathroom and threw on the overhead light as you reached behind yourself to push the door mostly shut. You winced at the brightness of the room, the light stinging your eyes as you felt your way to the toilet and sat down to go pee, hoping the rest of the blood could be disposed of into the toilet. Looking down at your sleep shorts around your knees, to your horror you found them soaked with blood, as though you hadn’t used any menstrual products at all. The patch was fresh, wet, and large, and as you stripped out of your shorts you had a terrible realization that with how closely Andrew had been snuggled against you, you must have bled on him.

Oh god you could have died from embarrassment.

You wadded up some toilet paper to wipe up the line of blood that had run down your leg and sighed to yourself in frustration over the whole situation. This had never happened before, and you’d definitely never bled so badly with your partner in your bed. Why did this have to happen in the middle of the night? Now you’d have to strip the bed and get new clothes to sleep in and if Andrew hadn’t completely awoken, you’d have the mortifying job of waking him to tell him what happened if he had blood on his boxers.

A soft knock on the mostly closed bathroom door startled you and you whipped your head towards it, surprise rattling through your chest. Andrew’s gruff but sympathetic voice came through the crack in the door.

“You okay?” You closed your eyes in mortification and doubled over on the toilet as though you could hide.

“Yeah,” You called out lamely, your tone flat. The fact Andrew was awake and had asked you that question meant he knew what happened. You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“Andrew I-” You sat up, starting to apologize, but Andrew cut you off.

“I hope these are okay.” Andrew said as his arm slipped through the crack in the door and you realized he was balancing a neatly folded pile of clothes on the palm of his hand, which he set on the corner of the bathroom counter right by the door. Only his arm entered the bathroom so you could maintain your privacy. You were stunned to a loss of words and left to stare at the kind gesture as Andrew retreated down the hallway without another word.

Other boyfriends in the past would turn their nose up at any mention of your time of the month or would make you feel shameful whenever the bleeding or symptoms got unmanageable. Andrew acted very logically instead, providing you with some clothes to change into in the privacy of the bathroom. Your embarrassment wasn’t totally gone but Andrew’s actions definitely soothed the pit in your stomach.

You spent the next few minutes focusing on cleaning up, getting out of your ruined clothes and wiping your skin with a warm, wet cloth to make sure your skin was as clean as you could get without taking a shower. You slipped on the new pyjamas Andrew brought you, including a new pair of underwear that you recognized as a stained pair you only wore during your time of the month. That small attention to detail had a grateful smile creeping its way onto your face. As you were getting cleaned and dressed, you could hear Andrew moving up and down the hallway periodically. Unsure of what he was doing, you replaced your menstrual products with fresh ones and finished getting dressed so you could investigate.

When you left the bathroom you noticed the light was on in the kitchen and you followed it down the hallway to find Andrew standing at the kitchen sink with the sheet from your bed. The sharp tang of vinegar reached your nose as you moved to stand next to him and you saw that Andrew was treating the stain on your sheet with white vinegar and cold water.

“Oh, Andrew you don’t need to do that. I could do that in the morning.” You said, your embarrassment rising back up into your stomach. Andrew shouldn’t have to deal with your mess. Andrew glanced at you, his hands dabbing at the stain with a paper towel.

“The stain is easier to clean if you get to it faster, it would have been tougher for you in the morning.” Andrew looked back down at the sheet and paused his patting to check his handiwork. He tilted his chin up in satisfaction and dropped the paper towel in the garbage before grabbing the stain remover spray off the counter. “You were busy with other stuff so I took care of it.” Andrew sprayed the sheet with good amount of the stain remover, completely oblivious to the gratitude that was soaring through your body. This was something you loved about Andrew, he just handled things without complaint or instruction because in his mind, it was the practical thing to do. Why would he leave things for you to do when he could just do it himself? Your mental load was practically nonexistent with Andrew.

“You can go back to bed if you want. I put new sheets on the bed and I already cleaned up the hallway.” Andrew said as he laid the sheet out on your dining room table to be dealt with in the morning. The last part of his sentence confused you and you took a step forward, following him to the table.

“Wait, what was wrong in the hallway?”

“There was blood on the floor.” Andrew stated simply. Your jaw dropped open as your mind went momentarily blank with shock. In your sleepy stumble to the bathroom you’d managed to leave a trail of blood that your boyfriend cleaned up for you. Oh god, what if he stepped in it in the dark? If you thought you felt shame before, this was tenfold.

“That-that’s never happened before, Andrew I’m so sorry you had to clean that up.” You dropped your face into your hands and groaned. You were too tired for all of this, it was 3am for goodness sake. You felt Andrew’s fingertips graze your elbows and you dropped your hands to find your boyfriend reaching for you gently, his eyebrows furrowed lightly in confusion.

“It isn’t a problem. You’re the one bleeding, you shouldn’t have to bend over to clean the floors or stand around removing the stain, you should be resting.” Andrew’s warm hands rubbed up and down your arms comfortingly and you let yourself fall forward into his embrace. You wrapped your arms around his torso and nuzzled your face against the bare skin of his chest as he pulled you close. Andrew was so thoughtful and caring and knew just what to say to make you feel better. His practically and calmness about the whole thing made you feel like you didn’t have to apologize for getting blood on his boxers, which you knew you did since he was wearing a new pair. Bleeding a few days every month was a part of your life and Andrew knew you didn’t have control over it, it wasn’t something to feel shame about.

You stayed in the hug for only a little longer before you decided that your bed was calling for you. You took Andrew’s hand and headed back to bed, shutting off the kitchen light as you passed it and declining Andrew’s offer of doing the stain treatment on your original pair of pyjamas. You could deal with it in the morning. Tucked into bed with Andrew, all snuggled up close to his chest, you released a sigh and tried to fall asleep. Unfortunately twinges of anxiety began to pull at your mind, disturbing your ability to drift off. Andrew could feel a slight tension in your body and he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Are you okay? Are you in pain? I can grab the hot water bottle and some meds.”

“No, no, it’s not that, I-” You paused, unsure of how to say how you were feeling. You knew what you needed but you’d already disturbed Andrew’s sleep, which was a precious commodity for him, you didn’t want to make the rest of his slumber unpleasant.

“What?” He prompted. “Are you worried you’ll bleed a lot again?” And just like that, he read your mind. You nodded and Andrew got up immediately, leaving the room and returning quickly with a towel. Your heart soared at the continued expressions of familiarity and love from your boyfriend, how he showed he knew you so well and that he wanted you to be comfortable. You scooted over so he could place the towel down on the bed for you to sleep on top of.

As you got situated again with Andrew tucked behind you, his arms wrapped securely around as he held you close, you let out a sigh of relief and relaxed into his embrace. Andrew truly felt that your time of the month was no big deal and he was concerned for you rather than annoyed or disgusted. You hadn’t realized you’d been doing so much alone in your previous relationships, making your needs smaller and allowing your own mental and physical discomfort to keep your partners comfortable. Andrew showed you how backwards that was and that your partner should be caring for you, not making you feel worse about a natural part of your life.

You fell back to sleep easily in Andrew’s embrace, all your stress nonexistent now that you knew there was nothing to worry about.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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Trust Craig and Deran to act like two teenagers and throw a party when Smurf was away on one of her trips. There were people everywhere, in the pool, on the patio, even on the other side of the couch. While everyone else seemed to actively seek out the chaos, you were more than content with being glued to Pope's side. Hiding in plain sight inside your own bubble was more exciting than playing stupid drinking games in front of everyone. His attention was the only one that mattered.

“Do you want another drink?” You asked as you sat with your legs nonchalantly across Pope's lap.

Pope tapped your leg, his way of asking you to move. “I’ll get them.” You shook your head as you pushed Pope back down and stood beside him. You ran your hand through his hair, tightening your grip as you made your way towards the nape of his neck. You pulled on his hair, forcing his head backwards and a growl to sound in his throat. “I’ll be right back, pretty boy.”

You placed your lips within touching distance of his, but kept enough space between you that the only contact was a fleeting brush as you walked away. He groaned in disappointment, always desperate for your affection.

He was extra clingy lately, and you couldn’t figure out why. Nothing had gone wrong with a job, at least not with your knowledge. Everything seemed perfect. The only thing that sprang to mind was the approaching one year anniversary of his release from prison.

The whole time Pope was locked up, you never missed a visit. Every time the phone rang, you jumped to answer it just in case he somehow earned extra phone privileges. The postman knew you by name due to the infinite letters you sent back and forth. He even somehow managed to send you origami flowers for special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries. He never forgot a single one. You kept everything. Every letter, every flower, every card.

For one visit, you decided to make it special by buying an expensive perfume you thought he would like. You made sure to spray it all over you, but one look at him and you knew something was wrong. He appreciated the gesture, and he didn’t want to hurt your feelings, especially when you did it all for him, but it wasn’t the same. He missed the smell of your old perfume. He missed the smell of you and the way it lingered on his skin after your visits. It was the same smell you made sure to spray all his letters with, the one that reminded him of home and what was waiting for him when he got out.  

When he was released, he became extra possessive, if that was even possible. In his mind, he was trying to make up for lost time, the time that was stolen from both of you. Neither one of you could keep your hands off the other. Whoever said the honeymoon phase didn’t last was a liar. Here you were, many years later and still insanely in love.

The search for more drinks had you gone for less than 30 seconds, and you already missed him. You tried to get back to him as fast as possible, dodging drunk couples dry humping in the kitchen to whatever music was playing from a speaker.

When you returned, the sight in front of you stopped you in your tracks. Pope had tensed up, his shoulders square and ridged. It was obvious he didn’t want to talk to the girl in front of him, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. It was the way she placed her claw like hand on his knee. She had her back to you, so she couldn’t see your slow approach, like a lion hunting prey.

Pope was intrigued to see what you would do. The anticipation of your next actions excited him, causing his jeans to grow tighter. The way you didn’t take lightly to someone else flirting with him, or showing him any romantic interest, always led to you being jealous.

Knowing your natural instinct to be territorial over him was one of the things he loved most about you. You always need to be within touching distance, and the way your hands ran all over him in search of bare skin set his body on fire. He played into your primal need for his attention and your obsession with reminding everyone he was yours. You wouldn’t let anyone, and especially not Pope, forget who he went home to every night.

“You're in my seat.” The tone in your voice was blunt and impolite. You didn’t want to leave any room for misinterpretation. She was in your way, and you made light work of letting her know.

The girl barely turned her head as she looked you up and down with a scowl etched on her face. “Excuse me?”

“You're excused.” When she still didn’t move, to either stand up or remove he hand from touching up on your man, whatever restraint you had left exited your body. “Move.”

The only moment she made was to shift closer towards Pope. The sickly sarcastic smirk on her face was giving you another reason to smack her and put her back in her place, but the lustful look on Pope's face stopped you. The fucker was enjoying this. You knew he loved you when you would stake your claim on him, but you really weren’t in the mood. This bitch was pissing you off beyond any desire to kiss Pope desperate and silly in front of everyone.

The grip you had on the two glass beer bottles was dangerous. Any harder and you were sure they would shatter. You placed both bottles down on the coffee table, but your eyes never left where her hand lingered. It was either that or you would smash one over this girls head. “I’d move if I were you. This is not a fight you will win.”

Before the girl could reply, Craig appeared. He could sense the tension from the far side of the pool, and being the good friend he is, he knew you were one more second from jumping on her and pushing her into the pool. That, and the fact he didn’t want anyone to call the cops. “Just a warning, she doesn't play about her man.”

The girl wrapped her fingers further around Pope's knee and pushed herself up from the couch. When she reached her full height, she made sure she was way too close to you. To Craig's credit, he got it spot on. You didn’t mess around when it came to Pope, and you didn’t take lightly to some random bitch trying to glare you down.

With a tilt of your head, you dared her to make a move. You knew she wouldn’t actually do anything, but you half hoped she was more stupid than she looked. Just as you thought, she backed off. She scoffed and mumbled something under her breath about you being a psycho. You blew a kiss at her to send her on her way as she walked towards the patio.

When he was certain you weren’t going to follow her, Pope pulled you back down to sit beside him by the wrist. “You need to relax, sweetheart. I'm all yours.” Once he was content with you snuggled back into his side, he kissed the palm of your hand in an attempt to calm you down. The reassuring gesture wasn’t meant to be sexual, but you would be lying if it didn’t turn you on.

You pouted at him. “I mean, I can't really blame her. You're so handsome.”

Pope shrugged his shoulders at your comment as if he thought you were lying. He looked away from you, suddenly finding something over your shoulder very interesting. You had to force him to look at you, taking his chin in between your fingers, demanding his full attention. You knew he had issues with his self-worth and made a point to remind him of how much he meant to you. “I'm serious, Andrew. You're beautiful.”

He wasn’t expecting you to straddle him, a thigh on either side of him. You trapped him beneath you as your hands returned to his hair. He stared at the delicate chain that lay against your dainty neck. The ‘A’ you so proudly wore every day, marking you as his. It let everyone who dared to look know that you were taken. It let them know that you were owned by someone else. They couldn’t have you.

You were Popes girl. Your heart, mind, body, and soul belonged to him. Every time he looked at it, it made him feel warm. You were willingly his. The person he loved willingly loved him back. You had given every inch of yourself to him. He had never been loved this good before, and certainly not unconditionally. No matter what he did or what he had done, there were no strings attached. Your devotion to him was something he never thought he would find, much less deserve.

Pope was just as equally devoted to you, if not more so. He worshipped the ground you walked on. In his eyes, you were a goddess, someone who deserved to be taken care of and adored beyond all human comprehension. Popes world didn’t just revolve around you, you were it. Your being was his reason for living. You were the reason he kept breathing.

If he anticipated that something would be an issue, it was sorted before it even popped into your pretty little head. He believed it was his mission to keep you safe and happy.

He tucked his pointer finger beneath the chain and tugged you closer to him. The sound of your voice catching in your throat sent sparks straight to his dick. He loved that he could coax sweet sounds from you. “You're the pretty one, angel.”

Once he said that name, you knew it was game on. Every time he called you that, it always ended the same way, with you on all fours and begging. He would do the dirtiest of things to you and have you say the most depraved things ever whispered, but to him, you always looked so innocent and sweet.

You crashed your mouth onto his while you grinded into him. Your hunger was evident in the way the tip of your tongue flicked at his top lip, demanding he open up. He gave you what you wanted, allowing your tongue to slide over his.

You might have orchestrated this, but Pope controlled it. Every one of your movements was sanctioned by him. Even when you thought something was your idea, it originated from Pope. He was always three steps ahead. He knew everything about you and your body. He knew how you would react if he touched you a certain way. He knew how to rile you up, how to push your buttons. The worst part was that he knew you knew. You were a puppet on a string, and he was the most masterful puppeteer to ever exist.

“Maybe you should remind me whose name I scream every night.” His hands controlled your movement in his lap, only allowing you to move the way he wanted. You fought back. You gripped the front of his shirt, attempting to pull him even closer to you.

Your words woke something within him. The reminder that he was needed, and that he was the only one who could give you what you wanted always twisted something inside him. It made him feel important, desired even. And if there was one thing you were sure of in this life, it was that you desired Pope above everything and anything else.

If you were being honest with yourself, your favourite part was when you caught him off guard. The groan he held in his throat or the breath that caught in his lungs were the most delicious of sounds. Yes, you followed the script he gave you, but you loved throwing in a plot twist every now and again. You couldn’t let him have all the fun all the time.

He slid his hands over your ass to the back of your thighs and stood up from the couch. You automatically wrapped your legs around his waist and giggled at the feeling of his hands squeezing at your soft skin. You giggled into his neck, nipping at the exposed skin just above the collar of his shirt.

He walked towards his room, taking the floor in long strides. He wanted to get there as quick as possible. Once inside, Pope took full advantage of the privacy the room provided and released his grip on your thighs to place you on the ground. It took a second for you to remind your brain how to stand and support yourself. You used Pope as something solid to ground yourself on, and once the memory returned, you could feel his rough hands tearing your clothes off.

He left you in your underwear before removing his hands. You knew he had a thing about seeing you like that. Not undressed in the sense you still had something covering you, but also not leaving much to the imagination.

As he took one step forward, you took one back. His eyes raked over your body, taking it all in as you increased the distance between you. You continued stepping back until you felt the bed behind you. There was nowhere for you to go, and Pope stood there on the other side of the room, just watching.

You slowly reached around your back to unclasp your bra, dragging the straps down your shoulders with the opposite hand. He groaned at all your teasing, palming himself through his jeans. When you finally removed your bra, freeing your tits, the sight made him want to wrap his mouth around each nipple and suck.

You next went to take off your panties, but before you could, he grabbed you by the throat. The quick movement of his hand caused whatever noise you had wanted to let out to get trapped and die in place. Pope loved being the one to take your panties off, and the idea of anyone else doing it, even you, killed him.

Pope pulled you towards him more gently and slowly than you had ever experienced. You were helpless as he controlled your every breath. He could end you right there and then if he wanted to, but you knew he wouldn’t. The way you gave him full authority over your entire being made Pope feel vulnerable. You were the only person on the planet who wasn’t afraid of him, not even when he held you with such roughness.

He squeezed the sides of your neck, restricting your ability to breathe. The mixture of possession and obsession displayed on his face as he stood over you at the foot of the bed should have scared you, but his actions had the opposite effect. You were turned on beyond comprehension. You squeezed your thighs together, noting the wetness pooled between them. You were almost sure Pope could hear the squelching sound they made as you desperately looked for friction to release the ache between your legs.

Your hands automatically went to his waist. The neediness in your trembling hands was something you couldn’t deny. You thought that if you undressed him quickly, he would stop teasing you and give you what you desired. You had only managed to pop the button of his jeans open before Pope turned you around, crashing your back to his chest so he could kiss the side of your cheek.

“Need something, Angel?” He didn’t expect an answer, he didn’t need one.

With his free hand, he pushed the flimsy fabric of your panties over your hips and down your legs agonisingly slow. You stepped out of them and, with one last squeeze, he released your neck, pushing you onto the bed face first.

Pope crawled over your limp body, trapping you beneath him on the mattress with his full weight. He used your positions to his advantage, pushing his ever growing bulge into your ass as he grinded against you. The roughness of his jeans against the back of the soft skin of your legs contrasted beautifully with the clean sheets under you.

Pope weaved his hand through the stands of your hair and tugged, forcing your head to fall back against his shoulder. The angle gave him full access to kiss up the side of your neck, grazing his teeth against your jaw. “On your knees.”

There was no pet name, nothing to suggest it was a suggestion. No, it was a raw demand. He was telling you, not asking. The speed at which you complied should have been embarrassing, but you knew what was waiting for you. If you weren’t so desperate for him to fuck you sore, you would have fought back. Any idea of teasing him and drawing this out wasn’t on the table.

You heard Pope make light work of undressing himself. The buttons of his shirt hitting the floor excited you. You needed him now. You needed him inside you.

The sound of him undoing his zipper made your hips buck against nothing but air. He noticed, of course he did. Pope knew every micromovement you made, and he was especially aware when it came to sex. He was always eager to pleasure you, even if he teased you first. “Look at you, begging to be filled.”

An audible sigh left your lips as you felt the bed dip under Pope's weight. He was right there, but so far away at the same time. You wished he would hurry up, but you knew this would all happen when he was right and ready to give it to you.

The feeling of his hands running over the back of your thighs and up your back made you shiver. Pope let his hand rest against your shoulder as he ran the head of his swollen dick through your folds, gathering your wetness. Once he was satisfied with how wet you were, making sure he would slide in with ease, he lined himself up with you.

You were more than enthusiastic, desperately pushing back against him, wanting to hurry him up. Pope pulled back and used his free hand to slap the full cheek of your ass. The sound of your scream echoed against all four walls of the room.

“Behave, sweet girl.” He tutted at you as he ran his rough hand over the hot mark he just made. Your skin felt tender, but the sweet sting made you wetter than you wanted to ever admit out loud. He had marked you, and the reminder would stay with you for days on end.

He stayed still, only moving his hand in soothing circles against the forming welt. His hips were hauntingly still. It took everything in you not to repeat your mistake and push yourself closer to him.

You were unsure what he wanted. You didn’t want to give him cause to drag out his teasing, but you didn’t know how to get him to hurry up either. Settling on seeking forgiveness as a way to placate him, you muttered an apology. “I'm sorry, Andrew.”

Your plan seemed to work. You turned your head back to look at him over your shoulder to find him already looking at you. The image of him touching you delicately contrasted beautifully with the primal look in his eye. He held you there in his stare, listening to your breathy whines. “Eyes on me.”

You nodded weakly, trying your hardest to keep your eyes open and focused on him. He gathered saliva in his mouth and spat it on you. It wasn’t like he needed the extra wetness; you had never been wetter in your life. He did it just because he could, because he knew you would take it and thank him for it later. He did it as a warning that you and your pussy were his. The feeling of it dripping down your ass and across your lips to where you wanted him was a symbol of possession.

He lined up again, and this time you didn’t dare move. You didn’t want to think about what he would do if you misbehaved again. He pushed just the tip in and stilled his hips. “Who is the one who screams my name?’

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you didn’t answer. You were too focused on the feeling of his wedging his cock into you. He pulled out slightly, a form of punishment you loved to hate. You were now further away from having him fully inside you, but it also meant you got to feel him push back in.

“I, fuck, I do.” You stuttered.

Happy with your breathless reply, he fully bottomed out inside you. You weren’t expecting him to push in all in one go, he normally went slow and gentle. This was something new for both of you. Pope grunted as the wide o expression on your face let the mewl you held escape you easily.

He didn’t still his hips for too long, but he still gave you a brief second to adjust to him. No matter how many times he fucked you, you always needed a moment to stretch yourself out on him. Before you fully realised he had moved, Pope pulled out of you and thrusted himself back in just as quick.

The rapid thrust of Pope's hips against yours was something you wished you would never have to go without again. That feeling alone was enough to satiate you for the rest of your life. Nothing could ever compare.

Pope knew you were lost in the feeling, and as much as he loved the fact you were cock drunk on him, you were enjoying it a little too much for his liking. He wanted your complete attention. He slapped your ass again, this time on the other cheek, causing you to moan his name.

“Who owns me?” The grin on his face was one that didn’t come naturally to him, but the image of you desperate to take his thick cock stirred something within him. He always knew you were the only one for him, but seeing you like this, bent over in front of him at his mercy, ready to give him everything, made him want to give you his whole being in return. “Who do I belong to?”

Normally, he would be asking you who you belonged to, but seeing you get jealous over some girl made him want to remind you that he was yours. He needed to remind you that you were the only one who could take him like this, that you were the only one who could give him everything he needed.

“Me.” Your voice was weak, not that he could hear you, even if your head wasn’t buried into a pillow.

He pulled on your hair again, making you let go of the pillow. He wanted to hear you, loud and clear. He hated it when you tried to hide yourself from him. Every sound you made belonged to him. He earned every single one of them, and he was determined to make sure you gave them to him. The sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your pornographic moans was his favourite thing in the world. “Sorry, I can't hear you, Angel.”

“You- you're m-mine.” You muttered in between thrusts, voice drawn out and scratching at the air for breath.

“That’s right. I'm yours.” Another tug to your hair caused you to arch your back. The new angle gave him more room to ruin you, if that was even possible. You could feel him deep in your lower abdomen. “And you will never forget it, will you?”

You hummed a response. Even if you wanted to, you never could, nor would, forget that Pope was wholly and completely yours. The feeling of him pulling fully out only to snap his hip back against you was hypnotising. How he hasn’t broken you in half, you will never know.

You reached a hand around to rub your clit. The lazy and rough circles you made, mixed with the feeling of his swollen tip opening you up each and every time, were slowly bringing you to the edge. Just as you were getting lost in the unavoidable wave of your impending orgasm, the sound of Pope howling a question in your ear brought you back to reality.

“You gonna let me cum in you? Give you my baby so I can never leave?”

Your knuckles were white under the grip you had on the sheets beneath you. You hadn’t expected him to say that. Pope wasn’t the most verbal in bed. He normally communicated through grunts and harsh whispers when you were being good for him or did something he liked. And yet, here he was asking to have his baby.

You had talked about it briefly, on and off, over the years, and you thought the right time would present itself whenever the universe thought it was right. Other things kept getting in the way. The jobs, his family, everything, but in that moment, there was only one answer you could give him. You weren’t even sure you had let him finish his question before you screamed your answer back at him. “Yes, Andrew. Fuck, cum in me, please.”

“You sure, Angel? There's no going back once I make you full with my kid.” In between filling you with his dick and giving you some of the best sex you have ever had, he was still giving you an out. He didn’t want to force you into something you weren’t fully committed to. If anything, it made you even more sure in your decision.

You wanted to scream out yes. Yes, yes, yes. The words wouldn’t come, caught in the bottom of your lungs. The idea of Pope being your baby daddy was the sexiest thing you could imagine.

“Better hurry up and decide, shit - ” His rhythm faltered slightly, as if he was holding himself back. He was close, so close that you knew it was now or never. You had to make sure he knew how serious you were. “I'm so close, sweetheart”

“Please, Andrew. Let me make you a daddy, please.”

That was all he needed to hear. The sound of your fucked out voice begging him to get you pregnant, to permanently tether your lives together, caused him to roll his eyes back with pleasure. Pope let the little restraint he had left go, and with whatever energy he had left, he went all out.

You had never been fucked so hard or so fast before. If it wasn’t for the grip of his hands on your hips, you were sure you would have fallen flat against the bed. You had no confidence in your legs or arms to hold you up.

The feeling of him rutting into you as he came was something you would never forget as long as you lived. His hot cum spurted into you, painting you white as he spasmed like a man possessed. His hands clawed at you with a bruising grip as he tried to keep you in place, making sure you took everything he had.

Pope opened his tightly shut eyes and released his grip on you, gently placing you down onto the bed, all while keeping himself inside you. He didn’t want to waste a single drop. You were caged beneath his warm body as you felt him soften inside you.

Pope rolled off of you with care, aware of how sensitive both of you were after what had just happened. He hissed, feeling your walls trapping him, not wanting him to pull out. The feeling of his cum dripping out of you made you giggle. Your legs trembled with pleasure. In that moment, you had fully accepted that there was no possibility of you leaving your bed anytime soon. You bit your lip, turning to look at him lying beside you, staring at the ceiling. He was still trying to regain a normal breathing rhythm as his heart audibly thumped against his chest.

Once he snapped back to reality and his breathing began to slow, he shifted onto his side. He was so proud of himself. Never did he think he would be able to make someone as happy as he made you. His hazel stared back at you with all the love he couldn’t verbally say to you out loud. And in that single look, there was no doubt for either of you. You had just been knocked up.

As Pope brushed his fingers against your smiling face, the ‘A’ of your necklace caught his attention. He brought his fingers down towards it, wiping the sweat of your neck away in the process. He placed the delicate letter in between his fingers, running his thumb over it.

You should’ve expected it, honestly. Thinking he’d stay. Letting yourself believe that maybe there was actually something between you beyond lingering looks and late-night conversations in empty hallways.

You felt stupid.

Waking up to Jack’s side of the bed—your bed—cold and untouched, with no note, no text, nothing to indicate he’d even been there after you’d finally fallen asleep.

Your stomach dropped so hard it made you nauseous.

For a few seconds, you just stared at the empty space beside you, blanket wrinkled where he’d been hours earlier. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to the sheets, stubborn and cruel. Your chest ached so suddenly your eyes burned.

Rolling onto your back, you looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard.

You should’ve seen this coming.

You should’ve known better than to read into it.

Jack was kind. Attentive. Easy to fall for if you weren’t careful. And you hadn’t been careful at all.

A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand over your face. God, this was humiliating.

You’d spent so long wanting him that somewhere along the line, your brain had started turning every small thing into something bigger. The lingering touches. The way his voice softened around you. The looks that lasted just a second too long.

And last night—

Last night had felt real.

Not rushed. Not careless. He’d touched you like you mattered. Like he wanted to memorize you. Afterwards, he’d stayed tangled up with you beneath the blankets, warm and half-asleep, his hand resting lazily against your waist while the early morning light spilled across your apartment.

You’d let yourself think maybe this meant something.

Maybe that had been your mistake.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit up. The apartment felt too quiet now, almost painfully so. Your eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway half-expecting him to appear somehow, apologetic and disheveled, explaining that he’d just gone to grab coffee or something equally stupid.

But the apartment stayed silent.

Of course it did.

You pushed yourself out of bed and grabbed some comfortable clothes before heading to the bathroom. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. Everything did.

The shower steamed quickly, fogging the mirror while you stood beneath the hot water longer than necessary, trying not to think about him.

It didn’t work.

Your mind replayed everything anyway.

The way he’d looked at you across the room for weeks now. The hesitant flirting. The tension that had built so slowly it almost felt inevitable. The way he’d kissed you last night—careful at first, like he was giving you the chance to stop him.

You’d liked Jack for God knows how long. Longer than you wanted to admit.

And stupidly, selfishly, you thought maybe he felt the same.

You thought last night had been some kind of turning point at the very least. That maybe things would be different now.

He’d been everything you imagined. Gentle when you needed him to be, teasing when he noticed you getting nervous, warm in a way that made you feel safe enough to forget yourself for a while.

Which honestly just made this hurt worse.

Maybe it was for the best that he wasn’t there.

Because if he had stayed only to tell you it didn’t mean anything, you weren’t sure you could’ve handled hearing it out loud.

As you stepped out of the shower, warm steam curling around the bathroom, you reached automatically for the towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around yourself. The fabric clung damply to your skin while you stood there for a moment, staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror.

God, you looked exhausted.

Maybe it was a good thing you had today off.

At least this way, you didn’t have to walk into work pretending everything was fine. You didn’t have to deal with knowing looks or questions or the possibility of running into Jack before you’d figured out how to act normal again.

The thought alone made your stomach twist.

You could stay home. Hide for a day. Nurse your wounded ego in private.

Because really, what had you expected?

That he’d stay the morning? Make coffee? Kiss your forehead before leaving? Maybe linger awkwardly in your kitchen while the two of you tried to navigate whatever this was supposed to become?

The more you thought about it, the more embarrassed you felt for ever imagining it in the first place.

Jack hadn’t promised you anything.

That was the worst part.

He hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated you. He’d just…left.

And somehow that hurt more.

You wiped a hand across the fogged mirror before looking away again almost immediately. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of disappointment you couldn’t even fully justify.

Because technically, nothing bad had happened.

Two adults slept together. That was it.

Except it hadn’t felt casual to you.

That was the problem.

Drying off slowly, you tried to focus on anything other than the memory of him in your bed. The warmth of his hand against your waist. His tired voice sometime in the middle of the night asking if you were okay. The way he’d looked at you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.

Your throat tightened.

You needed to stop replaying it before you drove yourself insane.

Today would be easy. Quiet. You’d clean the apartment, maybe order takeout, maybe sleep half the afternoon away. Anything to keep your mind occupied long enough for the ache in your chest to dull into something manageable.

You could get over one stupid night.

You had to.

* * *

Jack couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.

It sat there heavily as he drove, fingers tightening against the steering wheel every time his mind drifted back to the night before—which was constantly.

Your smile.

Your laugh.

The way you’d looked at him like you actually wanted him there.

And then the memory that followed immediately after: slipping out of your apartment while you slept peacefully in bed behind him, too much of a coward to stay long enough to face the morning after.

Jack Abbott wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself.

He did.

God, he did.

He was with you.

That alone had felt dangerous enough.

But sometime during the night, after the adrenaline and want had settled into something quieter, something softer, panic started creeping in beneath his ribs. Slow at first. Then all at once.

The intimacy. The closeness. The domesticity of it all.

Your head resting against his chest. Your sleepy voice mumbling his name. The way you’d curled closer to him in your sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It started to suffocate him.

Not because he didn’t want it.

Because he wanted it too much.

Jack liked you—a lot more than he should’ve allowed himself to. And that was exactly the problem.

There were too many things stacked against this from the beginning. The age difference. His leg. The baggage he carried around everywhere no matter how hard he tried to bury it.

And then there was the biggest thing of all.

His wife.

Even now, years later, the word still hollowed something out inside him.

When he lost her, it felt like losing entire pieces of himself alongside her. She’d been sick for so long that grief had settled into their home before death ever officially arrived. By the end, everything smelled like hospitals and medication and exhaustion.

He remembered sitting beside her hospital bed late one night, her hand frail and cool in his while machines hummed softly around them.

“You can’t hide behind me forever,” she’d said quietly.

Jack’s throat tightened painfully at the memory.

Her eyes had been glassy with exhaustion, but she’d still managed that stubborn little smile he used to love so much.

“You will find someone else,” she told him. “You will be happy. You will live. Do you hear me?”

He remembered shaking his head immediately. Like the idea itself offended him.

But she’d squeezed his hand with surprising strength.

“Jack.”

He’d tried.

He really had.

He went through the motions after she died. Learned how to exist again. Learned how to go to work and laugh at jokes and survive holidays and come home to an empty house without feeling like he was drowning every second of the day.

But moving on?

That part felt impossible.

Because every time he started wanting something again—wanting someone—guilt wrapped around his throat like a hand.

And with you, it was worse.

You made him feel calm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Less exhausted. Less haunted. You made him feel like himself again, or at least a version of himself he thought had died alongside her.

That terrified him more than anything.

So he ran.

Like a coward.

Jack grimaced, dragging a hand down his face as he stopped at a red light. He could already picture your reaction when you woke up. Confusion first. Then hurt.

Maybe embarrassment.

The thought made his chest ache.

You probably thought he regretted it.

Maybe part of him did—not because of you, never because of you—but because now there was no pretending this was harmless anymore.

He’d crossed a line emotionally long before last night. Sleeping with you had only made it impossible to ignore.

Jack would understand if you hated him after this. If you decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

He left without a word. Without an explanation. Without even giving you the chance to wake up beside him.

Who does that to someone they care about?

The answer came immediately.

Someone selfish.

Jack let out a humorless laugh under his breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.

Maybe being alone was just something he deserved.

* * *

By the time Jack’s shift rolled around, he still felt like shit.

Barely slept. Barely ate. Spent most of the morning replaying every stupid decision he’d made in the last twelve hours until his head hurt.

And somehow, walking into the hospital made it worse.

Because there was a very real chance he’d see you.

“You look awful,” Robby stated casually as he fell into step beside him toward the locker room.

Jack snorted dryly, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder. “How nice of you.”

“I’m serious,” Robby said, glancing over at him. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it too.”

Robby let out a quiet hum before smirking slightly. “What’s gotten you all pissed off? Didn’t you go home with Honey last night?”

Jack’s throat tightened instantly at the nickname.

You.

The memory hit him hard and fast—your laugh at the bar, your hand brushing his arm, the way you’d smiled against his mouth later that night like you couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.

His chest twisted painfully.

“Nothing happened,” Jack lied.

The words came too easily. Too practiced.

Robby shot him a look that practically screamed bullshit.

Jack avoided it, jaw tightening as he pushed through the locker room doors. He could already feel irritation prickling beneath his skin, sharp and restless. Mostly at himself.

“Really?” Robby followed after him, unconvinced. “Because at the bar, you guys were practically all over each other.”

Jack said nothing, yanking open his locker harder than necessary.

“Not to mention all the flirting before that,” Robby continued. “I mean, everyone’s been noticing it for—”

“Can we just drop this?” Jack snapped.

The harshness in his voice cut through the room immediately.

Robby blinked, caught off guard.

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting it, but the guilt and anxiety clawing around inside him had left him with almost no patience for this conversation.

For any conversation, honestly.

Robby studied him for a second longer, expression shifting from teasing to something more cautious.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face and looked away, shoulders tense. He could feel Robby still standing there beside him, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and now.

Jack wished he knew too.

Because last night had been good. More than good.

It had felt easy being with you. Natural in a way that scared the hell out of him. Somewhere between your apartment and waking up beside you this morning, something inside him had started spiraling.

And now he was here, exhausted and miserable and completely unraveling.

“Look,” Robby said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Whatever happened…you should probably talk to her.”

Jack’s stomach dropped.

He busied himself changing into his scrubs just to avoid reacting.

“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, though the word sounded hollow even to him.

Because he should.

But he had no idea what he’d even say.

* * *

You were sprawled across your couch by the time evening settled in, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside crumpled napkins and a glass of water you kept forgetting to drink.

The apartment was dim except for the television casting flickering light across the room.

You’d spent most of the day trying not to think.

It hadn’t worked.

Every distraction eventually circled back to Jack somehow. Folding laundry reminded you of him leaving his shirt on your bedroom floor. Making coffee reminded you that he hadn’t stayed long enough for morning coffee in the first place. Even the silence in your apartment felt wrong now, too big and empty after having him there the night before.

It was pathetic, honestly.

One night.

That was all it took to completely throw you off balance.

You flipped absently through channels, not really watching anything. Some sitcom laugh track filled the apartment for a few seconds before you changed it again with a grimace.

Nothing held your attention long enough.

Your chest still felt bruised.

When your phone buzzed loudly beside you, you startled slightly before grabbing it off the couch cushion. Trinity’s name lit up across the screen.

You let out a dramatic groan before answering.

“Hello?” you muttered, already exhausted.

“You sound like shit.”

Of course it was Trinity.

You closed your eyes briefly, sinking further into the couch. Her shift would be ending around now, which explained the call. Apparently your misery had become detectable through the phone.

“What do you want?” you sighed. “It’s late.”

“It’s seven.”

You groaned louder this time, dragging a hand over your face.

“Fine, whatever,” you mumbled. “What?”

“Just checking in on you.”

“Oh, I’m doing great,” you replied flatly, stabbing your takeout with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fantastic.”

Trinity hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I can tell.”

You shoved food into your mouth mostly to avoid talking.

For a second, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched just long enough to make your stomach tighten uneasily.

Then—

“Look,” Trinity started carefully, “I saw Abbot come in.”

Your grip tightened around the fork immediately.

“He looked awful.”

Something in your chest twisted painfully at that, equal parts concern and anger.

You hated that you still cared.

“Did something happen?” she asked gently.

You stared blankly at the muted television.

A couple on-screen laughed at some joke you couldn’t hear.

“I don’t really want to talk about him,” you said quietly.

Trinity paused.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “That bad?”

You let out a humorless laugh under your breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

The embarrassing part was that technically nothing catastrophic had even happened. No screaming fight. No betrayal. No cruel words exchanged.

Jack just left.

And somehow that hurt enough to hollow you out anyway.

“I overheard him talking to Robby earlier,” Trinity continued cautiously. “He told him nothing happened between you guys.”

Everything in you went still.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.

You stared down at your untouched food, throat tightening painfully as heat rushed to your face.

He said that?

For a second, you genuinely thought you might be sick.

“Is that true?” Trinity asked carefully.

The silence on your end probably answered for her.

You swallowed hard, trying to force your expression back into something neutral even though she couldn’t see you.

“Yeah,” you stammered finally, your voice sounding thinner than you intended. “Nothing happened.”

The lie scraped against your throat.

Trinity immediately caught it.

“Okay, no,” she said firmly. “I know that voice.”

You pressed your lips together hard enough for it to ache.

“Look, if he did something—”

“He didn’t,” you interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I promise. I’m fine, okay?”

Fine.

Right.

You were currently sitting alone in your apartment trying not to cry over a man who apparently told people nothing happened between you after spending the night in your bed.

Fine wasn’t exactly the word for it.

Trinity went quiet for a moment.

When she spoke again, her voice softened.

“I’m coming over.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin—”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m not in the mood,” you said quickly, sitting upright now. “Please don’t.”

“Huckleberry will survive one night without me.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly at the mention of Dennis.

It disappeared just as quickly.

“Trinity,” you sighed tiredly. “I really just want to be alone right now.”

“No,” she replied bluntly. “You think you do.”

You dropped your head back against the couch cushion with a frustrated groan.

“I’m coming into work tomorrow,” you muttered weakly, like that somehow fixed things.

“So am I.”

“I mean it,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your voice now. “Can you just leave me alone?”

The question came out quieter than you intended.

Smaller.

And that seemed to hit Trinity immediately.

Her tone gentled again.

“You’re in the middle of a crisis,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Your throat tightened so painfully you couldn’t respond.

Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it?

You felt ridiculous for hurting this much.

Nothing had happened.

Except everything had.

* * *

You didn’t even bother trying to look presentable by the time Trinity showed up.

There didn’t seem to be a point.

You were still wearing one of your oldest oversized shirts, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your eyes. The takeout containers were still scattered across the coffee table exactly where you’d left them, the television still playing quietly in the background more for noise than entertainment.

The knock at the door came sooner than you expected.

You opened it slowly, immediately spotting the duffel bag slung over Trinity’s shoulder and the look on her face.

A mixture of concern and irritation.

Your stomach twisted.

“You’re fine my ass,” she said the second she stepped inside.

You rolled your eyes weakly, stepping aside so she could enter.

Trinity brushed past you into the dining area like she owned the place, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the table before unzipping it with purpose.

“What’d he do anyway?”

You lingered awkwardly a few feet behind her, arms folding tightly across yourself. You still felt strangely numb from the phone call earlier. Numb from the entire day, honestly. Like your body had just decided to shut parts of itself down to keep from fully processing the embarrassment of all this.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled.

Even saying the words made heat crawl up your neck.

“You’ll think it’s stupid.”

Trinity stopped rummaging through the bag long enough to shoot you a dry look over her shoulder.

“It’s not stupid if it upset you this much.”

Your eyes dropped immediately.

That somehow made it worse.

Because you were upset. Mortifyingly upset. More upset than you had any right to be after one night together.

But it wasn’t really just one night, was it?

It was weeks—months—of tension and hope and carefully buried feelings finally bubbling over into something real. Or at least you thought it was real.

That was the humiliating part.

You’d let yourself believe it meant something more to him too.

Trinity turned back to the bag and started unloading supplies onto the table.

Two large bottles of alcohol.

A bag of chips.

More snacks.

You blinked. “Jesus.”

“I came prepared.”

Despite everything clawing at your chest, a weak laugh almost escaped you.

Almost.

You leaned heavily against the doorway instead, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

“Abbot and I hooked up,” you admitted finally.

The words came out flat. Hollow.

Trinity froze mid-motion.

A heavy silence filled the room as she slowly turned to look at you properly.

“…Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked carefully after a moment. “You’ve been thirsting over him for how long now?”

Normally, the comment would’ve embarrassed you enough to protest.

Now it just hurt.

You swallowed hard, staring somewhere over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes.

“He left before I woke up, Trinity,” you said quietly.

The room felt painfully still.

“And you told me he’s going around saying nothing happened.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.

You hated yourself for it immediately.

Trinity’s expression hardened almost instantly.

“Oh.”

You looked away quickly, jaw tightening as emotion surged hot and ugly in your chest again.

The worst part was how badly you wanted there to be some explanation. Some reasonable excuse for why he left like that.

An emergency call.

Panic.

Regret.

Anything.

Because the alternative—the possibility that last night genuinely meant more to you than it did to him—felt unbearable.

Trinity nodded slowly, crossing her arms.

“So he’s a dick.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because even now, even after the humiliation and hurt and confusion, some pathetic part of you still wanted to defend him.

Jack had been kind to you. Gentle. Careful with you in ways that didn’t feel fake.

People didn’t look at someone like that if they felt nothing…right?

Your chest tightened painfully.

Unless you imagined all of it.

Trinity stepped closer, her voice firmer this time.

“He’s a dick,” she repeated. “I don’t care what his reason was. You don’t do that to someone.”

You rubbed tiredly at your face.

“I don’t know if I want to be mad at him,” you admitted softly, “or myself.”

And there it was.

The awful truth sitting underneath all the hurt.

You missed him already.

Trinity’s expression softened immediately.

“Oh, Honey.”

The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you.

“I’ll help you get over him,” she said gently after a moment.

You let out a weak laugh. “That might take a while.”

“Not tonight,” she continued, ignoring that. “Tonight we’re drinking.”

She grabbed one of the bottles and held it up slightly.

“Tomorrow we can spiral. Only a little, though.”

Another reluctant laugh escaped you, watery around the edges.

“And once you’re in a good place,” Trinity added, finally smiling a little, “you’ll go guy hunting.”

You snorted quietly, shaking your head.

“That sounds horrific.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Trinity nudged your shoulder lightly as she passed.

“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got time.”

Something in your chest ached again at the casual warmth of it.

Because right now, with Jack pulling away and your pride lying in pieces somewhere beneath the weight of the last twenty-four hours, Trinity showing up anyway felt dangerously close to enough to make you cry.

* * *

By the time morning rolled around and your alarm started blaring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions, you were immediately aware of the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes.

You groaned quietly, squinting against the weak morning light filtering through the apartment windows.

Right.

You and Trinity had apparently decided that splitting an entire bottle of whiskey on a work night was a reasonable coping mechanism.

In your defense, it had briefly worked.

Somewhere between drunkenly ranting about emotionally unavailable men and Trinity threatening to fight Jack in the hospital parking lot, the ache in your chest had dulled enough for you to breathe again.

Unfortunately, now you just felt emotionally devastated and hungover.

Fantastic.

You fumbled for your phone, finally silencing the alarm before letting your head fall back against the couch cushion with a miserable sigh.

At least you weren’t sick.

You’d dealt with enough brutal hangovers in college to know this could’ve been much worse. Still, the headache pulsing through your skull and the sluggish heaviness dragging at your limbs told you pretty clearly that you weren’t exactly going to be operating at full capacity today.

Which was unfortunate considering you had to spend the next twelve hours pretending your life wasn’t actively imploding.

Fuck.

You slowly pushed yourself upright, wincing immediately at the stiffness in your neck from sleeping on the couch. The television was off now, but the aftermath of last night remained scattered across the coffee table—empty glasses, crumpled snack wrappers, half-open takeout containers.

The apartment smelled faintly like alcohol and regret.

Honestly fitting.

A quiet groan pulled your attention downward.

Trinity was sprawled out on the floor beside the couch, somehow still asleep despite your alarm going off for nearly a full minute. One of your couch cushions was shoved beneath her head at an awkward angle, and your throw blanket barely covered half her body.

You stared at her for a second.

“…You look dead.”

She responded with an incoherent mumble.

You nudged her lightly with your foot.

“We’re gonna be late for work,” you muttered, your own voice rough with sleep.

Trinity made a wounded noise into the cushion.

You scrubbed both hands over your face before grimacing immediately at the taste in your mouth.

Jesus.

Your expression twisted in disgust.

“I think my breath just violated several human rights.”

That finally got Trinity to crack an eye open.

“You’re so dramatic in the morning,” she mumbled.

“And you smell like whiskey.”

“So do you.”

Fair.

You sighed heavily, glancing toward the hallway. The thought of going into work today made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

Because Jack would be there.

The reality settled heavily over you again, chasing away the remaining haze of sleep almost instantly.

You’d have to see him.

Pretend things were normal.

Pretend hearing that he told people “nothing happened” hadn’t quietly shattered something inside you.

Your chest tightened.

God, this was going to suck.

“Did you bring a change of clothes?” you asked, forcing your thoughts elsewhere.

Trinity hummed vaguely in response, still half-buried in the floor.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, shuffling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman. Every part of your body felt sluggish and heavy, like sleep and alcohol still clung stubbornly to your skin.

“If you’re not ready when I’m done,” you added tiredly, “I’m leaving without you.”

Trinity slowly lifted her head from the cushion, squinting at you with narrowed, deeply offended eyes.

“You’re cruel,” she muttered.

You snorted weakly.

“No,” you corrected. “We’re stupid for drinking that much when we both had work the next day.”

“Worth it,” she grumbled immediately.

You paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.

And despite everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the dread already coiling in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jack—you felt something small in your chest loosen.

Because you hadn’t been alone last night.

Trinity noticed your expression soften slightly and pointed at you accusingly.

“Don’t get emotional,” she warned. “I’m too hungover to comfort you right now.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Small. Tired. Fragile.

But real.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Trinity mumbled, finally dragging herself upright with the energy of someone being forced out of a grave.

You shook your head faintly before disappearing into the bathroom.

The second the door shut behind you, though, your smile faded.

And there it was again.

That ache.

The one sitting quietly beneath everything else. Beneath the hangover and exhaustion and forced laughter.

Jack.

You leaned heavily against the sink for a moment, staring at your reflection.

Then, quietly—

“You need to get it together.”

Because in less than an hour, you’d have to look him in the eye like he hadn’t hurt you at all.

Trinity had been quick to kick you out of your own bathroom the second you finished getting ready.

“You’ve used up your allotted hot water privileges,” she’d informed you through the door while you were still brushing your teeth.

Now, dressed in clean scrubs and feeling only marginally more human, you leaned against the kitchen counter sipping weak coffee while waiting for her to finish.

The shower had helped a little.

At the very least, you no longer looked like you’d crawled out from the wreckage of an emotional catastrophe.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you felt much better.

Your body still carried the sluggish heaviness of too little sleep and too much alcohol, and somewhere beneath the lingering hangover sat the dull, constant ache of having to face Jack today.

Twelve hours.

Twelve whole hours of pretending you were fine.

You could do that.

Probably.

Hopefully.

The bathroom door finally opened, releasing a cloud of steam before Trinity sauntered out adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.

“You look less tragic now,” she announced.

“Thank you,” you deadpanned.

“You still look tragic,” she added after a beat. “Just…slightly moisturized.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag from beside the couch.

The walk to the bus stop was quiet at first. Morning air bit lightly against your skin while the city slowly woke around you, traffic humming in the distance. Your stomach twisted tighter the closer it got to shift change.

You kept thinking about walking through those hospital doors.

About seeing him.

About not knowing how he’d look at you after all this.

Would he act normal?

Awkward?

Distant?

Would he avoid you entirely?

The uncertainty was eating you alive.

“You sure you don’t want me fighting Abbot?” Trinity asked suddenly beside you, pulling her hair into a ponytail as the two of you stopped near the curb. “Because I’m not above a good fight.”

A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Don’t waste your time,” you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Besides, I’m trying to hype myself up for my man-hunting phase.”

Trinity let out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, that makes one of us.”

You glanced sideways at her.

“Oh?”

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, expression flattening.

“Garcia still icing you out?” you guessed.

Trinity scoffed softly.

“She’s more of a fuck-and-have-ramen-after kind of gal.”

The attempt at casualness didn’t quite land.

You caught the slight tightness in her voice immediately.

“She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything beyond casual.”

Something uncomfortable settled in your stomach at that.

At least Garcia told her.

At least Trinity wasn’t left waking up alone wondering whether any of it meant something at all.

Guilt bubbled low and sour in your chest almost instantly.

Not toward Trinity.

Toward yourself.

Because part of you still felt ridiculous for being this hurt over Jack. Like maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you’d built the whole thing up too much in your head.

But then you remembered him looking at you so softly the night before.

Remembered the warmth of his hand against your skin. The way he’d stayed tangled up with you afterward instead of leaving immediately.

And then you remembered waking up alone.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” you asked quietly, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling further.

Trinity shrugged.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

You hummed softly in acknowledgment just as the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes.

The doors folded open.

You followed Trinity inside, both of you moving sluggishly from exhaustion as you found seats near the back. The bus smelled faintly like coffee and damp jackets, morning commuters staring blankly ahead in silence.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You rested your head lightly against the cool window, watching the city blur past outside while anxiety churned steadily beneath your ribs.

The closer you got to work, the worse it became.

You hated this.

Hated that one person suddenly had this much power over your mood. Hated that the thought of seeing Jack again made your stomach knot with equal parts longing and dread.

Beside you, Trinity glanced over quietly.

“It’s probably for the best we’re on day shift,” she said after a moment.

You frowned faintly. “Why?”

“There’s more options on day shift anyway.”

You snorted softly, immediately understanding what she meant.

“Right,” you muttered. “The man-hunting thing.”

“Exactly.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging weakly at your mouth before fading almost instantly.

“If you say so.”

Because right now, the idea of looking at anyone that wasn’t Jack somehow felt impossible.

And that was probably the most pathetic part of all.

* * *

Once you arrived at the Pitt, you felt yourself tense almost immediately.

It was instinctive. Unconscious.

The second those familiar hospital doors slid open and the sharp scent of antiseptic hit your nose, your body seemed to remember before your mind fully caught up.

Jack would be here.

Morning handovers. Patient updates. Shift overlap.

There was no avoiding him.

Your stomach twisted painfully as you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, forcing yourself to keep walking beside Trinity.

You just had to act normal.

That was the goal.

Be professional. Be mature. Don’t let him see that he’d gotten under your skin this badly.

You could survive twelve hours.

Probably.

The emergency department buzzed around you the moment you stepped fully onto the floor. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Stretchers rolling past. Nurses moving quickly between stations while doctors rattled off orders over exhausted conversations.

Normally the chaos would stress you out.

Today, it almost felt comforting.

Familiar.

Grounding.

The Pitt had a way of swallowing personal problems whole if you let it. There was always another patient, another emergency, another crisis demanding your attention before you could spend too long drowning in your own thoughts.

You needed that today.

Needed something louder than your own heartbreak.

You followed Trinity deeper into the department, trying to focus on the movement around you instead of the nervous pounding in your chest.

Then you heard his voice.

Low. Rough with exhaustion.

Your entire body reacted before you even saw him.

You looked up automatically just as Jack exited one of the trauma rooms with Shen close behind him, the two of them discussing something quietly.

He looked terrible.

Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily across his features. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, posture rigid in that way people got when they were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.

Like he was holding himself together with tape and string.

Your chest ached immediately.

Which honestly just annoyed you at this point.

Because really? After everything, your heart still fluttered the second you saw him?

Pathetic.

Jack glanced up mid-conversation.

For one brief, terrible second, your eyes met.

And there it was.

That awful pull.

Something in his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you. Like surprise mixed with guilt mixed with something softer he couldn’t quite hide in time.

Your stomach flipped painfully.

You looked away so fast it almost made your neck hurt.

Before he could notice how affected you still were.

Before you could start hoping he’d stop you.

Say something.

Anything.

Beside him, Shen continued talking, oblivious, but Jack had stopped hearing almost every word coming out of his mouth.

Because you were here.

And you wouldn’t look at him.

The realization landed heavily in his chest.

He watched you turn away immediately after spotting him, watched your shoulders tense subtly as you kept walking beside Trinity like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours replaying your face in his head over and over again.

Guilt twisted viciously beneath his ribs.

Of course you were avoiding him.

What else did he expect after what he did?

Jack swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like follow after you.

Because the expression on your face just now—

You looked hurt.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Hurt.

And somehow that felt worse.

“Abbot?”

Shen’s voice snapped him back into the present.

Jack blinked once, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered roughly. “What were you saying?”

Meanwhile, you forced yourself to keep moving.

Professional.

Normal.

Fine.

You could do this.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dana called from the nurses’ station, dry amusement lacing her voice the second she spotted you approaching.

Beside you, Trinity snorted.

“Hey, Dana.”

You tried for a smile despite the way your pulse still hammered unevenly beneath your skin.

“Hope you had a nice day off, Honey,” Dana added casually, though the knowing glint in her eyes made heat immediately creep up your neck.

You wondered briefly if everyone at this hospital could smell emotional disaster on people.

“No different than any other day,” you said carefully.

The lie felt brittle.

Dana hummed softly, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t push.

She turned back toward the chart in front of her.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, grateful for the escape.

But even as you started settling into work mode, pulling yourself into the rhythm of the department, you could still feel it.

Jack’s presence somewhere behind you.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

And despite every effort not to, some awful part of you was still painfully aware of him.

——

He was nursing a bourbon he’d probably make last the entire night and he was half-listening to Langdon tell some story, his leg stretched out into the aisle, and he hadn’t seen you yet. You had a second. You could have turned around and texted Dana some bullshit excuse of getting the full eight hours and walked back to the parking lot to go home to your dog and half your bed.

You never did, though. You told yourself afterward it was because the leaving would’ve told the table something. But the truer thing, the one you didn’t want to look at directly, was that an evening without Jack had started to feel like a room with the bulb burned out. You’d gotten that bad. 

“There she is,” Dana said, twisting around in the booth, already sliding to make room. “Sit. I saved you the good side. It doesn’t wobble.”

You sat, and the good side put you diagonal from Jack, close enough that his stretched-out leg was a fact you had to arrange your own legs around under the table. He hadn’t acknowledged you yet. He was letting Langdon finish; Jack always let people finish, it was something that made patients trust him and made you, toward the end, want to put a plate through the wall because he’d let you get to the bottom of sentences you’d have killed to be interrupted out of.

But you watched the back of his neck change as his shoulders went from loose to aware. When he turned, his eyes found yours like a bad number on a monitor, faster than he could’ve chosen. For half-a-second, before his face caught up, he looked so completely undefended. Then it was gone and he looked at you like you were weather he'd been told about. 

“Huh,” he breathed, picking his bourbon back up. “They let your department fraternize with the help now, or are you slumming?”

“Dana kidnapped me.” You reached over and took the lime off his rim. He’d never once in his life used it—he hated citrus in bourbon—and only got it because Marlene behind the bar had been putting it in each time. Jack had decided somewhere around your wedding that debating her on it was more than what the lime was worth. 

You bit it and set the rind into his napkin where it went, where it had always gone. 

His eyes tracked you as you did it without any comment. The better half of five years of the lime and he’d never once said anything, only bought you the garnish on his own drink. 

“How was your floor?” you asked.

“Slow.” He turned the glass a quarter-turn on the table, an old tell, the thing his hands did when he was trying very hard to keep his words scarce. “Knock on something.” 

“But I like watching you suffer,” you drawled. 

He huffed at that. “I know.”

That was it. He was good at letting things sit, it was the worst of his habits, the way he could absorb a thing you said and just hold it instead of returning it. Half your sentences to him used to end in a silence you'd eventually have to fill yourself. You'd forgotten how much work it was. You'd forgotten you used to do all the talking and call it conversation.

“You got Kevin this week?” Dana asked from beside you. 

Jack, without a beat of hesitation, said, “She’s got Kilo this week.”

Javadi, the new and curious med student in the ER, looked between both of you with furrowed brows. “Sorry. Kevin or Kilo? Is that—are those two dogs?”

“One dog,” you said.

“Yup. One dog,” Jack agreed.

“Then why—” Javadi started.

“His name’s Kilo,” Jack said.

“No, his name’s Kevin.”

Javadi’s head went between you as though she was watching a tennis match. The table laughed because they’d heard this a hundred times and it never stopped being funny to them; the divorced two doing their oldest bit, the one argument that had outlived the marriage that spawned it.

“His papers say Kilo,” Jack said in Javadi’s direction.

Robby, who’d been completely invested in his own drink, said, “And your papers say divorced.”

“And we very much are, thank you,” you said, picking it up before the laugh had finished.

Jack stayed silent then. Robby, he’d have something for. But this was you saying it, easy and completely certain in front of everyone. The leg that had been stretched into your space this entire night drew back slowly, a small retreat nobody at the table except you could’ve felt. He turned the glass a quarter-turn. 

You’d done it on purpose. You’d felt the whole night immediately tilting into the warm dangerous fiction of it and you’d reached for the one sentence that would shut it, and you’d swung it at the only person who’d actually feel the blade. 

The facts of your divorce were no concern to anyone but the two of you at the table, but you could feel Jack flinch inwardly by the announcement that blanketed it all; that you now lived in separate homes, that the dog was scheduled like a custody hearing; that the word ‘we’ had a tense and it was past. None of it was news. He’d signed the same papers you had in the same flat conference room, with the same pen the mediator kept clicking until you'd wanted to scream. He knew the facts better than anyone. And still you'd watched him wince when you said it out loud.

He'd built a whole life on the difference between a thing being true and a thing being spoken; it was how he ran a trauma bay, how he told a family the worst news in the world in a voice that never broke, how he'd ended your marriage without ever once saying the words that would've made it real, just withdrawing by degrees until you were the one who had to say them for him. He'd made you do that too. He made you do all the saying. And now you'd said this, and he was sitting there absorbing it the way he absorbed everything, quietly, like he'd decided long ago that taking it without a sound was the least of what he had coming.

“Just fucking do it, Jack.”

And he did—finally, finally—push into you with a single long stroke that dragged a sound out of both of you, his coming out through his teeth, and yours into the pillow. His forehead came down between your shoulder blades. He stayed there for a second, breathing, one hand splayed wide over your hip and the other braced into the mattress beside your hips. His weight settled onto the left leg the way it always settled, a decision his body stopped having to make years ago. You could feel him shaking with the effort of not moving yet, of dragging it out, because he always did this, he always made you ask twice. 

“Christ,” he breathed into your spine. “You feel—” he started, and let the words die as his teeth gently pressed into the bone at the top of your shoulder. It was then he started to move.

He fucked like he did everything else with his hands; he was methodical, attentive, and so devastingly present. He went in believing there was always a correct rhythm, and he intended to find it just to ruin you with it. He’d learned by repetition until it stopped requiring thought, until he could play you without looking, and the worst part—the one you’d never say out loud—was that it worked. It always worked. He knew the exact angle that made you stop being a person with opinions about him. 

That long stroke dragged slow on the way out and snapped deep on the way back in, and your whole body misfired around him whether you’d given it permission to or not.

His palm slid up from your hip to flatten between your shoulder blades and pressed, folding you down into the mattress, taking the choice out of your spine. And the new angle had you gasping into the sheets because he’d done it on purpose; he always did everything on purpose, and now he was hitting that place that made your fingers curl and your thighs shake and a thin embarrassing whine climb out you that you’d have died before making it sober. 

Jack felt the exact second your control went and he leaned into it, hips grinding deep and unhurried, holding you right there on the edge of too-much like he was reading everything under your skin. 

“That’s it,” he drawled out, his voice low and even, the bastard, like he had all night, like he wasn’t already wrecked behind the voice. “Yeah, I’ve got you.” And he did. He had you exactly where he wanted you and you let him, because no one had ever taken you apart this precisely, this patiently, like your falling apart was the only thing on his list and he intended to do it right.

The dog tags swung forward and dragged close across your back when he leaned over you, then warm when they settled against your skin, and you thought—stupidly, with the part of your brain that should’ve been offline—that you used to fall asleep listening to that chain shift when he breathed. You thought there had been a version of this where afterward he stayed. You shoved that thought down. You arched your back into him instead and he made a punched-out noise, low in his chest, his grip going tight on you to leave the marks.

“Slow down,” he muttered more to himself than you, but he didn’t. His hips stuttered out of their careful rhythm because this was the one place his composure failed; it was the one place where the sealed-up, gallows humor, watching-you-over-the-glass version of him came apart at the seams. 

You’d figured this out over the months. This was the only place Jack was honest. He’d never say the things across a table, in daylight, with his clothes on. But here, with his cock buried inside of you and his composure shot, the truth leaked out of him in fragments he wouldn’t be accountable for later. 

“Missed this,” he got out, ragged, his mouth at the back of your neck now, words pressed into your hairline like he could bury them in there. “Missed you, fuck. You’ve got no idea, sweetheart, the things I—” 

“Don’t.” You didn’t want it. You wanted it so badly your chest ached and that was exactly why you didn’t want it, because you knew what it was worth in the morning, which was nothing, which was a text about whether you’d remembered to walk Kevin. “Jack. Don’t talk. You can’t—” You let out a gasp as he pressed his hips completely flush against yours, chasing you to the hilt, as if he could physically expel the words out of you. “Can’t fuck me into being with you again.”

You felt him falter at the words, just for a beat, the rhythm catching like you’d reached back and put a hand flat on his sternum. He slowed, dragged himself almost all the way out and held there, trembling, his whole weight coming down over your back so his mouth was now at your ear and you could feel everything against the shell of it.

“I know,” he said, words ragged. “I know I can’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

His hand moved around the dip of your waist, and he pulled out of you slow, the loss making you bite down on a sound. Then he was rolling you, one palm flat and insistent on your hip, turning you under him onto your back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“No—” You got an arm up, forearm against your own eyes, because you knew what he wanted, and you weren’t going to give it to him. The face, the looking. From behind, you could keep it what it was; turned over, you’d have to be there for it. “Jack, leave it. I don’t—”

“Hey.” He held your wrist, thumb working into the soft inside of it where your pulse was going stupid. “C’mon. Move the arm.”

“No.”

“You won’t even—” He let out a low laugh, disbelieving, almost wounded. “You’ll let me do every other thing but you won’t even look at me?”

“That’s different.”

“Yeah.” He went quiet for a moment, and his hand slid up the inside of your thigh, holding you open, patient as anything. He knew exactly what the looking was and exactly why you were hiding from it, and he was going to wait you out. “I know it is. Move the arm anyway.”

He braced over you on his arm, the other hand drawing slow idle circles high on your thigh, his cock notched against you and not pushing in, just there, the threat and promise of him, while he looked down at the arm over your face. You could feel him watching.

So you did move the arm, mostly just to spite him by giving him exactly what he wanted. His face was right there—jaw tight, eyes gone dark and fixed on you like you were the only lit thing in the room—and the second you met it, the slight smugness melted clean down the middle and there was just the wanting underneath, naked and his.

“Thank god,” he breathed before pushing back into you. His eyes tracked your face scrunch up at the familiar—too familiar—pleasure like he’d been starving for exactly this. His hand left your jaw and found your knee, hooking it up higher over his hip. He’d always known your left hip sat wrong, that this was the angle that didn’t ache after; the same way you knew, without ever being told, to take the weight off his right side, the two of you arranging yourselves around each other the way you always had. “Knew you were in there somewhere.”

“Don’t get sentimental, Jack” you said, breathless. “You’ll pull something.”

He huffed a laugh against your jaw. Your hand had gone to his left shoulder and you pressed your thumb into the knot that always sat under the blade after a long shift, working it slow while he moved in you. He groaned low and helpless at the unexpected mercy of it.

“Mouthy,” he managed to say. “Even now.”

“You’re so—so insufferable.”

His mouth found the corner of yours and his hand slid up your ribs so his thumb could catch the underside of your breast exactly where he knew; your back came up off the mattress for him. “You married me anyway. What’s that say about you?”

You got your fingers to his hair and scratched once at the base of his skull, the thing that used to put him to sleep in under five minutes, something you’d done about a thousand times in a bed you no longer shared. You watched his eyes go briefly unfocused with how much his body remembered it meant being safe. You hated that you’d done it. 

The easy heat in him went somewhere graver, and his hand came up to cover yours where it rested in his hair. He pinned it there, keeping the touch on him, like he couldn’t bear for you to take it back.

“Why’d you—” His hips stuttered. “Why’d you have to go, huh?”

“Don’t,” you said quickly, and your hand came out of his hair—you made it come down, fighting the pin of his fingers—and you planted your palm against his chest to put an inch back between the two of you. “Don’t talk. Just—shut up. Jack, shut up and—”

He took in a breath, lips still parted like he wanted to talk. You’d expected it. Jack was fabulous at saying everything important while inside you or when he was halfway asleep.

“Yeah.” He nodded shakily. “Yeah. Okay.”

He got an arm under the small of your back and hauled you up into him, and the next stroke was just deep and selfish, like he’d stopped trying to make his point and now was only trying to get somewhere. The slow ruinous tenderness burned off into something with no thought left in it, and your body surged up to meet it—God—yes, this, you could do, this didn’t ask you for anything you’d sworn off. This was just the white-hot animal fact of him and you could be all the way in without losing a single thing. 

“There,” he ground out, forehead dropped to yours, both of you breathing into the same inch of air. “There—fuck—there you go.”

Your mind went black. That was the mercy of getting it like this; the part of you that counted the times he’d said your name, that totted up what the morning had cost, went quiet, drowned clean in the simple overwhelming good of him. You grabbed at his back and pulled him in past where there was room and made a strangled noise.

His hand found yours where it was fisted in the sheet and laced through it, knuckles white, pinning it down beside your head—needing the anchor—and you gripped back just as hard. The bed was loud. Neither of you cared. You'd gone past the place where you could have stopped even if the smarter version of you had walked in and ordered it, both of you just chasing the finish now with a kind of grim mutual desperation, like if you got it done fast enough you wouldn't have to deal with what it was.

“Close,” you breathed. “Jack, I’m close—” 

“I know. C’mon, let me feel it—” His hand let go of yours and dropped between you, fingers finding you without a second of searching, the muscle-memory of you deathly absolute. “Been thinking about this all night.” 

He worked you up to the edge with his face buried in your throat and his hips snapping. The whole thing finally cresting into something neither of you could've talked through if you'd tried.

You went over first, the peak tearing through you with your nails dug into his back and your spine bowed clean off the mattress. He fucked you through every second of it, hips ramming, dragging it up past the point you could stand. And right at the end of yours his rhythm broke and went erratic, deep and grinding and graceless, and you felt the exact moment it caught him.

His arms hooked tighter under the small of your back and hauled you up into him so there was nowhere for him to go but deeper, like the thought of any distance between the two of you right now was a thing he couldn’t tolerate. Your legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs anyway, your heel pressed into the base of his spine.

“Gonna—” His voice came out shredded, into your throat. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna—fuck—”

With a low broken sound, his whole weight crushed down and his hips gave those last helpless grinding pushes, burying himself to the hilt, spilling into you with his face shoved into your neck and his hand fisted in your hair. He continued moving even then, small, greedy rolls of his hips, working himself deeper through the aftershocks, wringing every second out. 

“God.” He shuddered out the word against your pulse, hips still flush, seated as deep as he could get. His arms came around you completely—there wasn’t any inch he wasn’t holding—and he stayed there long after he finished, unwilling to give up the last of it. Greedy even now, especially now. Jack would take every second he was handed and a few he wasn’t.

His heart slammed against your ribs. His breath dragged itself slowly back down. For a moment, you let him have it. You let him stay heavy on and inside you, and you stared at the ceiling. 

After a minute—because that’s all you could grant him, a mere sixty seconds—you put your palm flat on his chest, over the spot where the dog tags had settled cold against his skin, and you pushed.

He came up on his forearms and he looked down at you. That was the hundredth mistake of the night, letting him be that close to your face with the lights of the street coming through the blinds in stripes across him. He looked at you the way he looked at you in the one place he ever did, like you were something he'd been allowed to hold and was already being asked to set back down, and the wanting in it was so total and so useless that you had to look at his collarbone instead.

Then his fingers came up to your chin, tilting your head up gently to meet his eyes again. “I wish you weren’t so cruel to me in front of people.” he said, voice coming out so rough. 

You knew exactly which part of the night he was talking about. He’d carried it the whole way here—through the parking lot, through the drive, through all of this, your body still humming with him—and he’d held onto it the entire time, only to let it out now because now was the only time he could.

“It’s not cruel if it’s true,” you said. “Nobody thought it was cruel.”

“No, nobody thought anything.” He caressed your jaw just slightly, and you stilled under the grazing touch. “I still felt it.” 

Maybe it was the hour, or the drinks still thinning in you, or just the unbearable fact of him looking at you. Regardless of what it was, the lid you kept on the old thing slipped, and you didn't get it back down in time.

“Don’t talk to me about cruelty, Jack,” you said quietly, holding his eyes even though you could feel your own burn. You could do it for once, because he was the one that looked like he needed a collarbone to fix his gaze on. “It was your cruelty that did this.”

His thumb stopped at your jaw. And then, instead of the stillness you’d expected, his hand slid back into your hair and his arm came around you and he pulled you in, the whole weight of him bearing down. His face went into your neck. 

You froze under him, suddenly hating him all over again for making this harder and harder each time.

“Go home,,” you said, and it came out lower than you’d wanted it to.

He let out a shaky breath against your skin. “I’d like to stay with you for one night. If you asked.” 

Your hands came up to his shoulders. You gently pushed. “I’m asking you to go.”

He came up off you slow, by degrees, and the cold rushed into every place he’d just been. He never argued; he only gave you offers where with the condition of you having to ask welded into them. He sat up on the edge of the bed with his back to you and reached for his shirt off the floor.

People at the hospital had a word for you and it was ‘difficult.’ You’d made peace with it years ago. What you didn’t have a word for was the tired. You’d been tired before; this had a different grain to it, bone-level and sitting-behind-your eyes. Twice this week the floor had gone soft and far away when you stood up too fast. You’d put a hand on the counter and waited it out and told no one.

You hadn't eaten, either. The granola bar was still in your bag. So when you stood up from the workstation to walk the corrected units down yourself, the room didn't gray at the edges this time. It dropped. The whole thing tilted bright then dim, your hand reached for the counter and missed it by an inch, and the next clear thing was the floor being closer than it should be and a hand hard around your arm.

“Okay—I’ve got you. Sit.” Dana, you recognized. Of course it was Dana; she had a sixth sense for the exact second a person stopped standing upright. She steered you down to a chair before you’d finished falling. “Head down. Between the knees. You’ve told a hundred people to do this—do it.”

“I’m fine,” you said, voice coming out depleted. “I just got up too—”

“Yeah, you’ve been getting up fast a couple times this week.” " Her hand was on the back of your neck, two fingers at your pulse, and she wasn't looking at your face, she was looking at her watch, counting, and the professionalism of it—the way she'd switched you from colleague to patient without asking your permission—made something cold go through you. “When’d you eat, hon?”

“I ate.”

“When?” When you stayed silent, she said, “That’s what I thought.”

She straightened up and you heard her turn. “Hey! Somebody grab Robby. No, he’s not—just grab him.” She turned back to you, and gentler than you wanted, in a way that told you exactly how bad you looked, she said, “We’re gonna put you in a room. Don’t make a face. We’re gonna put you in a room, run some fluids, check a couple things. If it’s nothing—thank god—then it’s nothing, and you can be insufferable about it for weeks. But you went down, sweetheart, and I’m not arguing with you about it.”

You wanted to argue; you wanted to refuse the chair and go back to work instead of occupying a bed at work. But you were so tired. You were tired, and some animal part of you had already known that for two weeks and had been waiting, with a patience that frightened you, for someone to make you stop.

So you let Dana walk you to the room. You let her pull the curtain. You sat on the edge of the gurney in a department you'd worked in for over a decade and let a colleague put a line in your arm, and you stared at the corner of the blood pressure cuff and did not let yourself think the one thought that had started, very quietly, somewhere underneath the tired, to assemble itself, and would not finish assembling until Robby came in twenty minutes later with your labs and a look on his face you couldn't read, and asked you, carefully, like a man stepping onto ice, when your last period was.

You’d seen him tell a people about death with more steadiness than he was managing right now, standing at the foot of your gurney with a tablet he wasn't looking at, asking you about your cycle like the answer was already on the screen and he was just giving you the courtesy of arriving at it yourself.

“Why?” you asked flatly.

“Just humor me. Tell me.”

You told him and he had no reaction, and that was how you knew. Robby’s face had gone completely neutral.

“Okay,” he said, setting the tablet down. “Your labs came back. Everything’s—the anemia’s mild. That’s the lightheadedness and not-eating. We’ll sort that out.” He paused, took a breath in, and the cold thing that had gone through you on the floor came back and sat down in your chest and stayed. “Your hCG’s elevated.”

You felt your body run cold then.

“That’s the pregnancy hormone,” he said gently. He was a teacher before anything, and that reflex was still on, even with you.

“I know what hCG is, Robby,” you said, the words coming out sharp, voice cracking the last word in half. You saw him nod sharply as he decided to ignore it. “I—I know what it is.”

“It’s early,” he said. “Numbers are consistent with early, which means you’ve got time. That’s what I’m saying. You’ve got time to think about whatever you need to think about.” He was being so careful. “I didn’t put it into anything yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

Early. You’ve got time. 

He picked the tablet up—done being a doctor about it now, the official part handled—and leaned a hip against the counter, and his voice changed, going off-duty.

“Hey,” he said. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, your mind already distant. 

“You gonna tell Jack?”

Your mind sharpened. For a second, you genuinely didn’t understand the sentence. Your brain refused it wholly, turned it over to look for the trick. There was no way Robby knew—there was no way anybody knew—because you’d been so careful, the whole thing happened in the dark precisely so it wouldn’t seep into the light, so nobody could say a sentence like that. Your stomach dropped through the gurney.

“Huh?” 

Robby looked at you, then shrugged. “I just figured, because you two still talk. He’d want to know. Big life thing.” Then, he added softer, misreading your face completely, “I guess it’s really over between the two of you then?”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat. That was what people would think when it got out, that the door has finally shut. They’d think you were getting clear, a baby with somebody new means the Jack-of-it-all was finally done, mercifully done. That you’d moved on and met someone, that you were building a thing past the divorce you survived. This was supposed to be proof of it. The sad civilized arrangement nobody named, ended at last by a life you were starting without him.

Robby had it exactly backwards and he had no way to know it. It was the furthest thing from over. It was likely the most permanent thing that had ever happened to you, and it had Jack’s name and only Jack’s name. The thing Robby believed to be your way out was the thing that could mean there’d never be a way out. Not anymore, if you chose to have this child. Not ever. You’d be tied to Jack Abbot. A year and a half of getting clear by inches.

You realized Robby was still standing there and that he’d asked you something. He was waiting for an answer you didn’t have the throat for.

“Can you give me a minute?” Your voice came out hoarse. “Just—a minute. Please. And don’t put it into anything yet. Just—don’t let anyone know.”

Robby nodded, probably thinking you needed a beat to let the good news settle, to feel something private and large before the world got its hands on it. “Course. I’ll hold the room, keep people out. Take your time.” 

His hand found your shoulder on the way past, squeezing, and then the curtain rings scraped along the rod and he was gone. 

It all came up at once, fast and without warning. Your hand was flat on the edge of the gurney and you watched it shake, and you made it stop. You could always make your hands stop. What you couldn’t do was make the rest of it stop. The rest of it was the thought you wouldn't think of, thinking itself anyway, and the worst part was the voice it came in, your own, flat, professional, the one you used to walk a frightened patient through their options without ever letting it shake. You could end it. It's early. Numbers consistent with early. You knew exactly how early early was. You knew the window, the way you knew the shelf life of a unit of platelets down to the day. You knew how clean it was, how legal, how completely nobody's business but your own. There was a door. Right now, there was still a door.

There was a door. There was, right now, still a door; it was the realest door, the one that actually led all the way out that would let you walk back into the life where you got clear of Jack Abbot for good and never had to share a child or a custody calendar or a name with him. He would give you Kevin, you knew that. Over would mean over, for good, where in five years you’d be a woman the hospital remembered being married once, to the ER’s night shift attending, you know the one.

You could take that door. It was yours to take. Nobody even had to know. 

You sat in the small bright room and made yourself look directly at the door and waited to feel the relief of it, yet it didn’t come. What came instead, rising up under the grief like a second tide, worse than the first, was a thing you had no word for and no right to and could not, would not, look at straight on, was that it was Jack’s.

You wished you could see it as a curse, and somewhere in the last thirty seconds it had turned over in you and come up as something else; a small, traitorous, and warm thing. It was the exact warmth that had locked your ankles around him, the same warmth that had opened the door for him every night. A piece of him you could get to keep, that no amount of divorce could put back in its box. The one version of forever you two were going to get. And a part of you, a part you despised with everything you had, wanted it. More than the baby in the abstract. His, specifically and unforgivably. 

You put your hand over your mouth as you felt it all come up, and you cried—the real way, the way you hadn’t since the lawyer’s office. You cried a cry that came up from the root and shook you apart, alone, in a place where you worked, with only a curtain covering you. 

You couldn’t have heard the shift change happen on the other side of the curtain. The hospital had kept turning around your little curtained box, that somewhere out there it had ticked over into evening and the day people were handing the floor to the night people. You hadn’t heard any of it. 

You hadn’t heard Dana catch him at the board, and she would have—you know she would have tried—put a hand flat on his chest the second she saw which way he was moving. You only heard the curtain rings scrape against the rod. 

You looked up—ruined, mid-breath, your hand still pressed over your own mouth with your face holding an expression no one had ever seen you do. And there was Jack with one hand still fisted in the curtain he'd thrown back, stopped dead in the gap of it.

He’d come in braced, almost with the same register he came in when there was a level 1 trauma, except this one was a case of lightheadedness. His sleeves were shoved to his elbow, jaw already set, and he’d walked in expecting to find blood or something else equal to that, a thing he’d be able to clean up and fix. He had a hand half-raised for it, and it stayed there, hovering, for it had nothing to fix. 

You knew his face better than your own; there’d never once been a thing he could’ve kept from you, not even when it felt like he was hardly your husband, especially then. You watched the readiness dissipate off of Jack’s face, watched the doctor leave him by degrees until what was left standing was just Jack. 

Just Jack had no protocol for this; there was nothing he’d been taught to do with his face when you were crying because you didn’t cry.

He of all people knew so. He’d sat at a conference table with you while a mediator clicked a pen and you signed your name with a hand that was too steady. He’d carried his own boxes down to the truck while you watched from the upstairs window, dry-eyed, because tears would have made it all real and you refused—out of spite, out of the last thing you had—to make it real where he could see. 

His mouth opened, and his throat worked around words, any word. When he finally spoke, it was just your name, and it came out cracked down the middle, like a plea and a prayer. 

He had no idea. It made you sob slightly louder than you would’ve liked, the realization that he was standing there gutted with fear for you, scared past the edge of himself, and he did not know. Jack could not have known that he was the answer, that you were the answer. If he’d asked you what had happened, the whole truth would have been his name and your own; it would have been the thing you’d done together in the dark a couple dozen times and called nothing. 

“I hate you,” you said, because the only thing you’d been capable of doing was throwing up a wall, driving him out with your own two hands. And it didn’t work, because the words had come out between sobs, wet and wrong, the cruelty falling apart on the way out. 

He didn’t argue it. He never argued the ones he thought were true. He just took it the same way he’d taken every other blow you’d ever landed, without ever lifting a hand to stop it, as though he’d decided a long time ago this was the least of what he had coming.

Still, something moved through him when the words hit, a flinch, a wince that started behind his eyes and pulled his whole face down with it. 

He came the rest of the way to you anyway, and your hand came up between you—far from a hit, there was nothing left in your arm to make one, just the heel of your palm landing against his chest, more sob turned outward than strike. It pushed against nothing. Jack didn’t even rock with it. And then your fingers were curling into the fabric over his sternum instead, gripping when you’d wanted to shove, the same failure of your hands as two weeks ago; pushing him away and hauling him in, your body unable to decide which.

“You—” Another blow, glancing off his chest. “Why did we have—”

“Okay.” He let you continue, letting the first ones land, face stricken and bewildered as he absorbed the blows for a crime he couldn’t name. “Okay. Okay, hey—”

You drew back, and when your hand closed in again, his own came up and closed around your wrist. You could’ve pulled free—he’d left you room for it—but you let him keep holding it there against his chest where you’d been striking him.

“What happened,” he said, words coming out quietly, not even a question. “Whatever it is. Talk to me. What happened?”

He started to move into you, closing the space between you by inches, his other hand coming up to your face, your shoulder, somewhere, anywhere, his whole self trying to fold into your orbit the way it always had. “Just tell me,” he said, closer now, voice dropped lower, into a register it stayed it when it was only the two of you. “Let me—”

“No.” You twisted your wrist in his hand and turned your face away from the one coming toward it. “You can’t just—I won’t let you—”

His forehead had dropped down to hover over your temple, the warmth of him crowding into every place you’d been trying to wall off. “I’m not. I’m not doing anything. I’m just here—let me be here.”

Here. He’d said the word so softly, with so much surety, like it was a small thing to ask, like it had been a place he’d ever once been. The wall you'd been holding with both hands didn't come down so much as it went out from under you, the way the floor had two weeks ago, all at once and without your permission.

You stopped twisting away. You felt him feel the fight going out of your wrist under his fingers and felt the new alertness move through him.

“You want to be here,” you said into his chest, where your fists were still knotted in his shirt, the words coming out muffled aimed at the fabric. Then, through a disbelieving laugh devoid of any humor, you said, “You want to be here?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Fucking—” The laugh that tore out of you was anything but one. “Congratulations, then.” Your forehead pressed down hard against his sternum, your eyes squeezed shut, because you couldn’t say it and knew you were going to anyway. At least you wouldn’t have to watch. “Fuck—You’re gonna be a father.”

Everything that had been moving stopped all at once; the hand at your jaw, the thumb that had been working slow along your wrist, the whole restless warmth of him trying to fold into you went motionless. For a second, he didn’t even breathe.

You forced yourself to look up. You wanted, somewhere mean and small and ten years old, to see it touch Jack. You wanted to finally watch something get all the way through. 

You got it, and it was worse than you’d let yourself imagine.

The first thing that fell of was the part that told you he was ready to fix this, fix you. It fell clean off, his brows furrowing in worry, a tell that looked too tiny for something this large. 

For a second—less than that, before he could pull the reins on it—something that had no business being there moved under the fear. You knew it because you’d felt the exact same thing only a few minutes ago, alone, the warm traitorous thing rising up under the grief. It was there, on his face—unguarded, naked, wanting—and you watched him catch it. You watched his whole face wilt as he understood, in real time, that he wasn't allowed to feel it, that the wanting was obscene standing next to your wreckage, and you watched him put it away. He got it back behind the wall fast, the way he got everything back behind the wall.

Only his hands gave him up. The one at your jaw had started to shake.

He let out a choked sound, like he was trying to lift the words out of his chest but they kept getting stuck halfway. 

“You’re—” He stopped himself and swallowed, not being able to get the back half of a sentence out of his own throat. “We’re—?”

“Yeah.”

His fingers around your wrist pulled it closer to his chest, as if he could press it through his body and into wherever the words wouldn’t come from. 

By the time you finally escaped into the ambulance bay, the Pitt had descended into the fog that made everyone vaguely mean and snappy to each other. 

A car had decided to plow through the front of a convenience store three blocks away just before noon, which somehow evolved into a gas leak, a grease fire from the kitchen next door, multiple smoke inhalations, and one man who’d managed to impale his own hand on a display rack while trying to “help.” The Pitt had been drowning ever since with no floaties in sight. Stretchers lined the hallways, Robby was barking orders over the chaos, and a med student was getting publicly destroyed for contaminating a sterile field. 

Your entire body ached with exhaustion, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. Your scrub top clung uncomfortably to your back, your ponytail was halfway falling out, and the iced coffee you’d brought six hours ago had long since melted into a watery disappointment sitting untouched at the nurses’ station under Dana’s watchful eye. 

You only stepped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody was actively bleeding near you. 

The bay smelled faintly like smoke and gasoline, engines rumbling low beneath the distant screams of sirens out in the city. Paramedics moved around in practiced patterns, unloading equipment while firefighters lingered near one of the firetrucks parked crookedly next to an ambulance. You barely paid attention at first, too busy rubbing at the ache gathering behind your eyes. 

You had started to walk back toward the Pitt but stopped entirely when you saw him; well—the back of him anyway with his broad shoulders and dark, soaked curls resting against his nape. Even if you couldn’t see his face, he somehow was able to stand out in a crowd even surrounded by firefighters in full turnout gear. One hand braced against the side of the engine while he spoke to someone beside him, his jacket stretched over his shoulders. 

No matter what, you’d always be able to spot Jack Abbot in a crowd. 

Your eyes dragged slowly over his newfound bright yellow firefighting gear, the reflective stripes glinting. The heavy boots and radio clipped to his chest had you pausing and staring for a solid three seconds, mind trying to process how exactly the man had apparently gone from night shift attending and SWAT medic to volunteer firefighter without mentioning it to anyone. 

But more importantly, mentioning it to you. 

Actually, when you thought about it, knowing Jack, the change tracked perfectly. The man already had a self-sacrificial streak a mile wide. Of course he’d look at one incredibly dangerous side quest and think You know what would make my life even better? Fire. 

A deeply offended laugh escaped your lips, and without thinking too hard about it, you started moving toward him. 

“Seriously, Abbot?” you called out over the noise of the bay. “You take one shift off and suddenly you’re fighting convivence store fires now?” 

The man beside him glanced over first, obviously confused, but Jack turned more slowly, still halfway shrugging out of his jacket as you continued your approach. 

“No, because SWAT clearly wasn’t stressful enough for you,” you continued, tired enough that the words just kept coming. “You looked at armed standoffs and thought, wow, my life is missing a little spontaneous combustion.” 

By the time you reached them, the stranger standing beside him was openly staring at you in amusement. Meanwhile, Jack had gone very still. 

That should have been your first warning. 

But against all self-preservation, you planted your hands on your hips and kept going. “Do you know how insane it is that this is how I’m finding out? I had to see you standing next to a fire engine like some kind of hot, emotionally unstable calendar shoot—” 

Jack finally turned fully toward you, and your brain stopped functioning completely.

Because the man in front of you was not Jack Abbot. 

In your defense, he was close enough to knock the air from your lungs for a second. He had the same dark, hazel eyes, the same rough kind of handsomeness that looked better the more exhausted and grimed up they got. They even had the same intimidating build that made people move out of their way without a second glance. 

But somehow, this man looked older that Jack, more self-assured in a way that only grew as he looked deeply entertained by your humiliation already unfolding in real time. The silence stretched until the firefighter next to him snorted loudly into his fist. 

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor. 

“I’m flattered you think I’m hot.” The not-Jack’s mouth twitched slightly. “But is it a bad time to mention my name’s not Jack?” 

Heat flooded your face so fast it physically hurt. “No,” you breathed, horrified out of your mind. “No, no, no.” 

Now the firefighter beside him was fully laughing, turning away entirely as though witnessing your embarrassment firsthand had become too much for him to handle. 

You covered your face with both hands. “I need someone to hit me with an ambulance immediately.” 

“That feels awfully dramatic,” the man said. 

Your eyes found him through the slats of your fingers. “You have my attending’s face.” 

“I’m starting to gather that.” 

“You even stand like him,” you accused, voice muffled by your palms. “Which is apparently enough for me to lose all critical thinking skills.” 

He laughed softly, low and rough enough to make the situation somehow worse. “Well,” he said, “in fairness, you seemed pretty confident.” 

You lowered your hands just enough to glare at him. “Because I really thought my friend had secretly joined the fire department.” 

The stranger folded his arms across his chest, turnout jacket hanging loosely from one hand while he studied you with open amusement. “So this Jack guy—he always gets yelled at like this by you?” 

“Only when he does something stupid.” 

“I’m starting to think I should meet him.” 

You shook your head, hands finally dropping back to your sides. “You abso-fucking-lutely should not. I think seeing both of you in the same room might kill me instantly.” 

He grinned wildly, quick but devastatingly effective enough it sent tingles up your spine.

Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. One Jack Abbot was hard enough to not stare at as is; having them both in the same room would actually cause a spontaneous combustion of your body. 

You sighed heavily, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay. Wonderful. I’m gonna go crawl into oncoming traffic now if you don’t mind.” 

Before you could make your great escape, he stuck out his hand toward you. “Captain Brett Richards.” 

You looked at it suspiciously for a second before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, and rough with callouses in all the right places. You gave over your name reluctantly, still unable to fully look him in the face without feeling embarrassed all over again. 

Unfortunately for you, he spoke again, timber all deep and ragged. “For the record, I was gonna let you keep going.” 

Your eyes snapped to his hazel ones. “What?” 

“I wanted to see how long it took you before you noticed.” 

“You are a bad person, Brett Richards.” 

“I’m a curious person. There’s a difference.” 

“You stood there and listened to me accuse you of having a hero complex.” 

“Seemed important to you.” 

“I’ve been publicly humiliated!” 

“Just humiliated between me and my friend. I don’t think that counts as the public.” 

You pointed at him accusingly. “You’re creepy.” 

“What?” 

“The tone you’re doing right now.” 

Brett blinked. “What tone?” 

“The exact same tone he uses when he thinks I’m being ridiculous.” 

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

“You sound exactly like him too.” 

Now he looked offended. “I do not.” 

“You absolutely do. You’re even doing the whole arms cross and puffing out your chest while simultaneously stretching your neck to look taller.” 

The other firefighter chimed in. “Honestly, Brett? She’s kinda right.” 

Brett looked over, absolute betrayal on his face. “Whose side are you on?” 

“Definitely not yours.” 

You laughed loudly, fatigue finally cracking enough to let something lighter through. At the same moment, your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket. You pulled it out, eyes widening at the incoming message. 

Jack:  Running late. Scene turned into a disaster. Save me a trauma room before some other resident does something stupid. 

“I bet you two text the same,” you grumbled, shoving your phone back into your pocket before looking back up at him. 

He laughed outright at that, shoulders shaking slightly. “Sounds like you know this man intimately. Do you possibly have a type? Or do you grumble at every silver fox in your area.” 

You glared at him as best you could. “I don’t have a type. Do not make this my problem.” 

“Feels like your problem already.” 

“Oh, we absolutely aren’t doing this today.” Still, a smile grew on your face before you started backing toward the ambulance bay doors again. “I’m leaving before this gets more psychologically damaging.” 

Brett called after you easily, “Tell Jack Abbot I’m apparently his hotter firefighter version!” 

You stepped dead in your tracks and slowly turned around. “. . .You know what?” you said thoughtfully. “I actually think saying that out loud near him might start a physical fight.” 

Brett’s grin widened. “Now I definitely want to meet him.” 

_______________________

The worst shifts always seem to end quietly and not anywhere close to peaceful. The Pitt, you liked to think, was incapable of achieving peace. Even now, close to midnight (almost five hours after your shift “officially ended”), you left behind blaring monitors, patients in needed of doctors, and exhausted coworkers who had just started to trade sarcastic insults at the station just to stay awake. But compared to the disaster the evening had started, the hospital had tasted almost manageable to where you believed they had everything handled. 

Your feet dragged as you stepped out through the ambulance bay doors, the night air cool against the lingering heat trapped beneath your scrub jacket. The city smelled faintly damp from rain earlier in the evening, asphalt still dark under the lights. 

You leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance for a second, closing your eyes briefly. 

Today had been brutal in the particular way only emergency medicine could manage. There had been too many patients, too many families crying in the halls, too many moments where things almost went wrong before somebody caught it at the last second. You’d spent more than twelve hours keeping yourself stitched together with caffeine and momentum, and now that things finally slowed down enough, your brain had apparently decided to stop all regular functions, effective immediately. 

Which was probably why, when you spotted a familiar figure standing near one of the patrol cars parked on the other side of the street, the pieces fell into place, your brain beaming Oh, Jack just left too? 

Jack stood with his back partially toward you, shoulders slumped slightly beneath a dark jacket while one hand rested against the roof of the cruiser. His head tilted down toward the coffee in his hand, dark curls shadowed in the lack of street lights. 

You didn’t even think before walking toward the warm, familiar build that held the same tired posture Jack adopted after a nasty shift, almost preparing his body to show up the next day anyway. 

“Please tell me,” you called out tiredly, “that your shift was somehow worse than mine so I can feel better about my life choices.” 

Jack glanced over at the sound of your voice, but you kept talking before fully seeing his face. 

“Because if I have to hear one more over pompous med student stay the words ‘technically speaking,’ I’m actually going to commit a felony.” 

A low huff of amusement answered you. “Long night?” 

“Long life is more like it,” you corrected, finally stepping slow enough to see him properly. 

You froze when he fully turned, because the universe apparently had a personal vendetta against you for probably your past life’s sins. Because once again, the man standing in front of you was not Jack Abbot. Yes, he was close enough to make your stomach drop for a second. His eyes glinted with the same sadness Jack’s did. He even had the same rough exhaustion written lines around his mouth. However, this man looked like someone who absorbed the weight of things instead of fighting against them. 

Also, now that he was turned to you, his officer badge and uniform stuck out like a sore thumb. 

And unlike Brett earlier in the week, this stranger didn’t look quite as amused by your mistake. He just looked tired. 

You stopped short of the cruiser, horror crawling slowly up your spine. “Oh.” 

He blinked once before taking a slow sip of coffee. “Bad start to the conversation?” 

“Fuck me; I did it again,” you muttered to yourself. 

“Again?” 

You covered your face briefly with one hand, humiliation already blatant on your face. “There’s apparently two other guys walking around Pittsburgh with your exact face.” 

“Well, that sound concerning.” 

“I’m very concerned for my mental status.” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle enough you almost missed it. 

You let out a defeated sigh, face turned toward the sky, before gesturing vaguely toward him. “You are not Jack Abbot.” 

“Nope.” 

“Perfect.”

“You wanna try my name instead?” There wasn’t even a hint of annoyance in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly curious about the situation unfolding in front of him. 

You laughed weakly, hands lightly tapping your thighs. “Honestly, I think I should just stop talking to strangers forever.” 

“You always this extreme when mistaking people for another?” 

“Only when I keep finding multiple emotionally exhausted men who all look exactly like my attending.” 

That earned you a slightly more noticeable smile as he pushed away from the patrol car, holding out one hand toward you. “Sammy Bryant.” 

You shook it, still staring at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Officer Bryant, but this is all still genuinely ridiculous to me.” 

Sammy glanced down at your hospital badge as you gave him your name. “You work inside?” 

“Unfortunately.”

“Late shift?” 

You shook your head. “You could say that. I started at seven this morning.” 

His eyebrows lifted. “And you’re still standing?” 

“Barely.” You looked down at your body. “I think my soul high tailed it out of there around hour nine and never came back.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, quieter than Brett’s hand been, but still holding the same warmth that made you feel comfortable. 

You mentally made a decision before leaning back against his patrol car beside him, rubbing at your eyes with one hand. For a moment, neither of you spoke and just listened to the faint noises of the night. 

Sammy took another sip of coffee before nodding toward the hospital. “Was it busy today?” 

A long, shuddering breath whistled through your lips. “One trauma after another. Half the city apparently decided today was a great day to make terrible healthcare decisions.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“And one student almost gave a patient the wrong dosage because he was trying to impress our boss.” 

Sammy grimaced, lips curling up. “How reassuring.” 

“We caught it before it happened, but still.” Your hair moved slowly across your forehead as you shook your head tiredly. “At some point though you just start wondering if everyone should stop touching things altogether or find some patience before they kill someone.” 

He hummed softly in agreement, hazel eyes drifting toward the street. “You probably already know, but that feeling really doesn’t ever go away.” 

You glanced over at him, taking in his face properly. Like your Jack, Sammy seemed to carry the same heaviness about him, like emergency services hadn’t been kind to either of them. 

“How long have you been on the force?” you asked quietly, taking his uniform details in as your eyes roamed. 

“Twelve years.” 

“Explains your expression.” 

At least he didn’t sound offended when he asked, “What expression?” 

“The one that says humanity was a big mistake.” 

He chuckled lowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You nailed that one perfectly.” 

A faint smile hooked onto your lips before your head tipped back against the cruiser window behind you. “Jack has that look too.” 

Sammy looked over. “The guy I apparently share a face with?” 

“Yep.” You looked down at your hands, fingers picking at the skin around your nails. “Him and this firefighter named Richards.” 

“What does Jack do?” 

“He’s the night shift attending, and he volunteers as a SWAT medic during his free days.”

Sammy nodded along, understanding settling across his face as he listened. “That tracks.” 

“You say that like you know him.” 

“Don’t need to.” He shrugged. “You can tell what kind of person someone is by the jobs they stay in too long.” 

For a second, you watched him quietly beneath the moonlight, struck again by how strange this whole thing felt. It wasn’t because he looked like Jack—though that continued to be deeply unsettling—but because talking to him felt easy in the same dangerous way talking to Jack always did; honesty dripping from their mouths the more tired they got. 

Similarly, Sammy studied you for a moment before speaking again. “Are you okay?” 

His question caught you off guard. Again, that genuine earnestness they both seemed to have bled through even if Sammy had only met you moments ago. 

Your eyes traveled back down to your hands for a second before a half laugh bubbled softly under your breath. “You ever have one of those days where you think maybe everyone should stop needing things from you for like . . . twenty-four hours?” 

“Yeah,” Sammy answered. “More than once. My ex-wife used to call me all the time, and I just begged for break.” 

It was now your turn to wince. “Logically, I know it’s a terrible mindset to have as someone working in healthcare, but after the fifth screaming family member and the third guy trying to leave with an IV still in his arm, I’m starting to reconsider my commitment to helping people.” 

“You’re tired,” he said simply. 

“I think cranky is a better term for what I’m feeling right now.” 

“You’re human.” 

You glanced back up at him. “You know, you’re both annoyingly and suspiciously good at this whole peptalk thing.” 

“Me and Jack?” 

“Yeah. You have this calm voice thing. It’s irritating.” 

Sammy smirked into his coffee cup. “Maybe you just trust guys who look too tired for life.” 

“Maybe I need therapy.” 

“That too.” 

You laughed a bit harder at that than the joke deserved, but exhaustion always made you a bit slaphappy. Once the sound subsided, the two of you fell back into a comfortable silence. Sammy stayed leaned beside the cruiser, quiet in a way that didn’t feel awkward, and you realized that the comfortableness was probably the strangest part of the whole ordeal. 

As a senior resident, most people demanded every ounce of energy from you. Conversation. Reassurance. Attention. They picked it all apart until a hollow shell of yourself went home to recharge for another day. But standing here with him felt easy in the same way standing beside Jack did after a nightmare shift. There wasn’t pressure to perform, zero expectation to be cheerful, just silent understanding between two people trying to survive difficult jobs. 

Sammy finally glanced toward you again. “Whoever this Jack guy is,” he said casually, “he must be worth confusing strangers over.” 

“That’s still up for debate.” 

“But you still like him.” 

You opened your mouth to argue before realizing you had no real defense against that, and Sammy absolutely noticed. A knowing sort of amusement flashed briefly across his face before he looked back out toward the street and the Pitt again, giving you an out without pressing further. 

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately I do. He’s annoyingly competent.” 

“Dangerous trait to have.” 

And he does this thing where he acts like indifferent while actively solving all the problems.” 

“Real terrible guy.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “He’s just the worst.” 

Sammy laughed quietly, and you smiled before finally pushing away from the cruiser. 

“I should probably head to my car before somebody sees I’m still here and decides they need me to pull a double.” 

His eyebrows rose. “Probably.” 

“It was nice to meet you, Sammy.” 

“Likewise.”

As you started in the direction of the parking lot, Sammy lifted his coffee slightly in farewell. 

“And hey,” he called out after a few steps. 

You paused and turned back toward him with a raised eyebrow. 

“If you run into another one of us,” he said dryly, “maybe lead with the name first!” 

Your laugh echoed across the bay as you flipped him the bird to which his boisterous laughter also joined in with yours all the way to the parking lot. 

_______________________

By the fifth twelve-hour shift in a row, the Pitt stopped feeling real. 

Time blurred through patient rooms. Daylight disappeared without warning. Meals became whatever you could hork down before another trauma alarm went off. Entire conversations slipped from your memory the second someone started coding. By three in the afternoon, the Pitt finally settled into a lapping wave instead of a tsunami, something easier to wade through instead of drown in. 

You’d be done in four hours. 

That’s all you could think as you found yourself wandering the full surprisingly empty area near radiology with a vending machine coffee clenched in one hand and your pager clipped crookedly to your scrub pants after catching another consult. 

The coffee tasted burnt enough to qualify as chemical warfare. 

You drank it down anyway. 

Your shoulders ached as you rounded the corner toward the quieter hallway leading to imagine, gravity pulled extra heavily at your limbs. Most of the overhead lights had dimmed this far from the trauma bays, leaving the corridor washed in soft blue-gray shadows only broken by the occasional flicker of a light lucky enough to have had its bulbs changed recently. 

That was when you spotted Jack sitting alone against the wall near the windows. 

Your steps slowed automatically. 

Even half-curled into one of the uncomfortable chairs that had been brought in from check-in, you found the familiar dark curls along his forehead and broad shoulders hunched beneath a black sweatshirt. His long legs stretched out in front of him while his hands rested loosely clasped together between his knees.

Your mind should have caught up by now that there was a 95 percent chance that the Jack in front of you was not actually Jack. The past two times, the odds had been against you. Even as you approached, you honestly weren’t sure if he actually was Jack. 

But his Jack-Abbot shape and Jack-Abbot demeanor mixed with your weighted exhaustion overrode every caution light fast enough you continued to walk steadily towards him. 

“You know handoff’s not for another four hours, right?” you asked tiredly. “Or are you here early again to save the day?” 

Jack’s neck twisted as he looked up at you, and for one brief second, your brain short-circuited again. 

Three and oh. 

You found yourself truly wondering if you had the most absurd luck in finding the men who shared unsettling similarities (hazel eyes, rugged kind of handsomeness, a stillness that carried respect that could command a room) or if you were just unfortunately a Jack-Abbot-doppelganger magnet. 

In this instance, you wished for neither because this one looked sad. 

Where Jack’s exhaustion usually kept him sharp and tightly wound, this stranger looked just as weighed down as you felt. His expression stayed completely unreadable as he stared at you, hazel eyes fixed so intently on your face that you had stopped walking altogether. 

You paused in front of him. “Oh no,” you whispered. “I did it again.” 

The man continued staring at you silently, and you stared back. After a beat, he slowly tilted his head just slightly to one side in a movement so subtle it almost felt animal-like. Your stomach dropped. 

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re name isn’t Jack.” 

Still, he said nothing; such a stark difference from Brett’s flirty amusement and Sammy’s conversational abilities. He just watched you. 

You laughed weakly into the silence. “Okay, statistically this is getting insane.” 

He blinked once before his gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in your hand before lifting back to your face. “Is that good?” 

His voice was the thing to catch you off guard. Where Jack could bark orders quicker than he could blink, this man spoke slowly, careful with his words like he though each one over before letting it leave his mouth. 

A startled exhale flew from your mouth. “No. But, I think I’m legally dead at this point, so what I put in my body really doesn’t matter.” 

Another long pause settled in the space between you, and he didn’t seem bothered at all by it. If anything, he seemed pretty comfortable inside it unlike everyone else you knew (including yourself). 

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Sorry. Again. I thought you were someone else.”

He methodically nodded once, already having figured that part out. “The same someone else?” 

“Damn, there’s enough resemblance now that people are starting to notice patterns.” You glanced toward an empty chair beside him before looking into his eyes with uncertainty. “Can I sit, or will I disturb the quiet zen you have going on back here?” 

Another pause. 

“You can sit.” 

You lowered yourself carefully into the chair beside him, fatigue instantly sinking deeper into your bones the second you stopped moving. The burnt-gas-tasting coffee warmed your palms while the quiet hallway stretched around you, distant hospital noises muffled enough to sound almost unreal this far away from the Pitt. 

Beside you, the stranger sat perfectly still like he was scared to breach an invisible wall of containment. After a few moments, you began to noticed the differences between him and Jack. He avoided looking directly at the lights. His fingers slowly rubbed against each other every few seconds like he needed the repetitive motion to stay grounded. He kept a careful distance between himself and you. 

“Are you waiting on somebody?” you asked gently. 

His eyes shifted toward you, intense enough that it almost felt like physical pressure. 

“My brother,” he answered after a second. “He got hurt.” 

 Concern softened through your exhaustion. “Is he okay?” 

He gave another small shrug. “He’s alive.” 

His words may have been flat, but you could sense the ache badly enough that you heard it anyway. 

You nodded. “That’s usually a good start around here. Can’t do much on a dead guy.”

A small almost-smile curled his lip. 

You took a small sip of your coffee and grimaced before the liquid even reached your throat. “Holy fuck that’s terrible.” 

His eyes looked down at the cup. 

“How can anyone call this coffee when it tastes like somebody filtered dirty water through cigarette ash,” you informed him. 

He stared at you for a half second longer than most people would have before asking unexpectedly, “Why are you still drinking it?” 

You giggled softly. “Because I still have a few patients to get through before handoffs.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. I feel the same way.” 

A silence settled again, soft and comfortable where you found yourself glancing sideways at him occasionally while you sat there. Up close, the resemblance to Jack somehow became even more unfair. However, you guessed this is how Jack looked around 10 years ago with brownish-red hair and fewer wrinkles. But yet, the same feeling that both men carried too much responsibility around like extra weight strapped to their shoulders pulled at your heartstrings. 

Also, where Jack’s emotions tended to sit close to the surface—irritation, protectiveness, frustration—this man kept everything buried so deeply you almost wondered if he realized that his expressions gave him away at all. Because despite how blank his face stayed while he either stared at the floor or stared at you, his eyes were devastatingly easy to read. 

Lonely, your brain supplied. 

You tore your eyes away. “So,” you said quietly after a while, “do you have a name, or should I keep mentally referring to you as Not Jack the Third?” 

He pursed his lips. “Andrew.” 

No nickname. 

Not even a last name. 

Just Andrew. 

You smiled faintly. “Well, Andrew, for what it’s worth, you’re significantly less judgmental about mistaken identity than the last two.” 

“The last two?” 

“Long story.” 

He nodded once like that answer satisfied him completely. Another few minutes passed quietly before your pager suddenly buzzed against your hip hard enough to make you jump. Andrew’s eyes tracked the movement carefully. 

“Do you need to go help people?” 

“Yep. Part of the job’s charm.” 

“You’re tired.” 

“There’s no rest for the wicked.” Your head tilted. “Or me for that matter.” 

He looked at you again with that same strange, steady focus. “You should sleep more.” 

“You sound like Jack.” 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “Is that good?” 

“Yeah,” you answered softly. “It’s very good.” 

His gaze lingered on your face for another long moment before he finally looked away first. You stood slowly from the chair, adjusting your pager against your waistband. 

“I should go save the hospital from itself,” you muttered sarcastically. 

Andrew nodded once. Then, just before you turned away completely, his voice stopped you again. “You looked happier when you talked about him . . . your Jack.” 

You blinked before slowly looking back at him. Andrew sat exactly where you’d left him, hands loosely clasped together, sad eyes fixed on you under the dim hallway lights. He wasn’t flirting or trying to charm you; he was just stating something he’d noticed. His honesty hit harder than it probably should have. 

You smiled warmly back at him. “Have a good rest of your day, Andrew.” 

His gaze followed you all the way down the hallway until you disappeared around the corner and back into the Pitt. 

_______________________

By now, you should have known better. 

Key words: should have. 

Three separate incidents should have been enough to teach your brain not to immediately trust broad shoulders and tired hazel eyes in low lighting, and yet apparently your never-ending exhaustion had burned away whatever survival instincts you normally possessed. At this point, the universe seemed committed to producing endless variations of the same emotionally damaged man just to see how many times you’d embarrassed yourself before learning. 

Unfortunately, tonight really wasn’t helping your judgment. 

Rain hammered steadily against your windshield as you pulled into the near-empty parking garage attached to the hospital, the concrete levels echoing faintly with the sound of tires and distant thunder. Your night shift was supposed to start soon, give or take an hour, but a last-minute emergency surgery had called you in early just in case Jack was held up or if the rain got too much for you to drive safely in. 

All you wanted was to get inside, get your Dunkin from Shen, and live through this shift so that your following two days off were nothing but pure paradise. 

Instead, you killed the engine and sat there for a second staring blankly through the rain-streaked windshield while tiredness settled heavy behind your eyes. 

The parking garage was mostly empty this late at night. Lights buzzed overhead, washing the concrete levels in pale gray while rainwater dripped steadily from the ceiling near the ramps. Somewhere farther down the row, a radio played faintly form another parked car. 

You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat with a tired sigh before climbing out into the cold damp air. The moment you were at full height, you spotted Jack leaning against one of the concrete support pillars a few rows over. You froze, hand still gripping your car door. 

At this point, his face shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, your stomach dropping every single time you got to lay eyes on him and his salt-and-pepper curls and sexy build partially hidden under a dark jacket while one hand rested causally in his pocket. 

The faintest hint of This is probably another horrifyingly convincing copy of him. And honestly, who even knew anymore. 

Jack glanced up at you as you started to walk; your footsteps echoed slightly. His face was partially shadowed by the buzzing lights. And before your brain could fully catch up, your own mouth betrayed you first. 

Et tu, Brute?

“If you turn out to be another stranger, I’m actually gonna lose my mind.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly before the corner of his mouth curled into something that looked far too pleased. 

“Well now,” he drawled, voice salted with a southern accent that instantly threw you off balance, “that ain’t usually how good-looking women start conversations with me.” 

You stopped short, because absolutely nothing about that voice sounded like Jack or confident Brett or sweet Sammy or quiet Andrew. This one was different with something slick underneath his drawl like he found the entire interaction entertaining before it had even properly started. 

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, arms wrapping around your middle to somehow protect you from his eyes. 

The now stranger pushed off the pillar slowly, watching you with open amusement as he stepped fully into the lights. And unfortunately, the resemblance to Jack got worse the closer he got. Same face shape? Check. Same hazel eyes? Check (but his sent the wrong kind of chill up your spine). 

However, unlike the others, this man looked at you like he already knew exactly how attractive he was, and that automatically made him the worst one to be around. 

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Gotta take a wild guess and say your name isn’t Jack Abbot.” 

A wild grin slowly spread across his face. “No, ma’am but sounds like I oughta thank him for the introduction.” 

You actually groaned aloud. “I cannot keep doing this.”  

“Doin’ what?” 

“Finding men who all have the same face.” 

“That so?”

“Yes, and frankly it’s getting psychologically damaging.” 

The stranger laughed softly, low and self-satisfied enough to make your skin prickle slightly. The same quiet internal warning that told you when patients were about to become aggressive before security even notices was sending a tingle up your arms. 

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay. Great. Nice meeting you, mysterious parking garage man, but I’m gonna go before this gets more embarrassing for me.” 

“Funny,” he said casually, “seems like you started this conversation pretty confident.” 

You paused. “That was before you spoke.” 

His grin widened somehow. “Little disappointed?” 

“Concerned, actually. Very concerned.” 

He laughed again, stepping away from the pillar entirely. “Damn, darlin’. You always this mean to strangers?”  

The nickname landed wrong in your chest. Just the way he said it felt off. It wasn’t flirty, it was possessive, almost like he’d skipped straight past normal conversation and decided familiarity for himself. It all felt wrong; he felt wrong. Caution slowly sharpened under your exhaustion. 

Still, you forced a polite smile. “Only the ones lurking dramatically in a hospital parking garage.” 

He pouted, bottom lip jutted out dramatically. “You hurt my feelings a little.” 

“You’ll survive.” 

“Oh, I think I will.” His hazel eyes trailed up and down your body while he spoke. 

Your stomach tightened faintly. This man felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with physical violence and everything to do with manipulation. Every work out of his mouth seemed like he’d already calculated it before he said it. The others had felt human and even awkward at times, but they had been grounded below it all. 

This one, you understood a bit too late, was that he’d realized you were uncomfortable almost immediately and was enjoying watching you squirm under eyes that normally made you feel safe. 

He tilted his head slightly, eyes moving over your face with unsettling ease. “So this Jack guy,” he said conversationally, “boyfriend?” 

You sneered. “That’s none of your business.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Do you ask invasive questions to every woman you meet in parking garages?”

“Only the pretty little ones.” 

You physically recoiled a little. “Ew.” 

Somehow that only amused him more. “Do you always look this suspicious, or am I special?” 

“You’re definitely something.” 

Another slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. You took a small step backward instinctively, and his gaze dropped to the movement. The awful feeling that he noticed everything tightened your chest. 

“You got a name?” he asked. 

Normally, under any other circumstance, you would’ve answered immediately. But something stopped you this time. The hesitation must have shown on your face because sick amusement flashed across his face and morphed into a look of interest. 

“Smart girl,” he murmured. 

Your spine stiffened. 

The man straightened slightly before offering you a lazy, sleazy half-smile. “Terry. Terry McCandless.” 

You nodded once carefully. “Okay . . . Terry. I’m gonna leave now.” 

“Before tellin’ me yours?” 

“Yes.” 

His eyebrows lifted slightly at your blunt answer before he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like you’d surprised him. “Well,” he drawled, “now I’m definitely curious.” 

You started backing slowly toward the Pitt, grip tightening around your bag’s strap. Terry noticed that too. For one long second, neither of you spoke. Rain echoed heavily through the garage, the entire level suddenly feeling far too empty. Terry tilted his head slightly again, studying you with blatant interest. 

“You know,” he said casually, “most women would’ve already left.” 

You forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Most women probably have better instincts than I do.” 

“Mm.” His gaze lingered on you another second too long, so unlike how Andrew had watched you with a quiet curiosity. Here, Terry looked at you like he was hungry. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

Suddenly, you understood with startling clarity exactly how dangerous his personality could become with the wrong person. 

You took another step backward. “Goodnight, Terry.” 

He smiled again, easy and handsome and entirely untrustworthy. “Night, darlin’.” 

You didn’t breathe properly again until you got through the doors leading to the Pitt. And even then, as you walked down the hall and took a glance back toward the concrete pillar where he’d been standing, Terry was watching you the whole time.

_______________________

You hated when Robby voluntold you to attend hospital fundraising events. 

The Pitt survived on donations almost as much as caffeine and trauma surgeons with superiority complexes. New equipment, expanded programs, research grants: all of it depended on wealthy people occasionally deciding to feel generous for tax purposes. However, that didn’t mean you wanted to spend your Friday night pretending to enjoy lukewarm champagne while hospital executives paraded donors around like show dogs ranked somewhere below “paperwork” and slightly above “food poisoning” on your list of favorite activities. 

The ballroom glittered obnoxiously around you, gold light reflecting off crystal chandeliers while a string quartet played softly near the stage. Doctors mingled through clusters of wealthy sponsors in expensive dresses and tailored tuxedos, all perfectly polished smiles and practiced networking. 

Meanwhile, you stood near the bar in horrifically high heel that you knew were actively trying to murder your feet and wondered if you could fake your own death before dessert was served. 

“You look positively thrilled to be here,” a familiar, deep voice sounded behind you, causing you to sigh in desperate relief. 

Without even turning around, you lifted your champagne flute toward him. “Jack, I swear if you’re actually not you and just another man with your face, I’m walking directly off the roof of this hotel.”  

“Well now I’m interested.” 

Your stomached dropped as you turned around slowly. 

At this point, it honestly felt biblical like a divine comedy staring you as the leading role. 

The resemblance hit just as hard as the others had: same hazel eyes, same shoulder width, same cutting-edge jawline, same good looks that apparently existed in endless horrifying variations across Pittsburgh. But where Brett had been charming and Sammy had been grounding and Andrew had carried that quiet sadness around him like a shadow and Terry had been intensely creepy, this man looked completely insane. 

Sure, he exuded a I’m probably the wealthiest mother fucker in this room attitude. His black tuxedo was tailored perfectly across his shoulders, curls styled to perfection away from his face, large ring-adorned hands holding a crystal whiskey glass. He was rich, polished, and handsome enough that half the women in the ballroom had probably already given him bedroom eyes twice. 

But there was something deeply unwell behind the hazel glint. 

He smiled slowly. “How many of us are there?” 

You stared at him in exhausted belief. “Enough that I’m considering neurological testing.”

“How funny it is that you’ve met them all.” 

“I wouldn’t say funny. One of your little clones in a parking garage looked like he might actually kill me to swing a jury.” 

Instead of reacting like a normal human being—wincing or flashing sympathy—the man had the audacity to laugh a rich, warm, delighted sound that absolutely did not match the deeply unsettling energy radiating off of him. 

“Oh, I already like you,” he announced. 

You took a cautious sip of champagne. “Somehow that made me less comfortable instead of more.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

You hummed. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” 

He stepped closer easily, like your personal space was more of a suggestion than a rule. “And what exactly did this Jackdo to earn so such a reaction?” 

“His face apparently exists just to humiliate me in public.” 

“Do you seek his face out often?” 

“Seems like it’s seeking me out more.” 

“Ah. One of those situations.” 

Your eyes narrowed questionably. “You say that like you know what I mean.” 

“I know what obsession looks like, little dove.” Before you could respond, he extended his whiskey glass slightly toward you in a mock toast. “Titus Danforth.” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

For the first time, you actually recognized the same; not personally, obviously, but the Danforth family practically owned half the city at this point. Generational wealth that seems sketchy with endless political influence and charities where people pretended billionaires cared about humanity because they funded pediatric wings occasionally. 

You straightened your shoulders and mused over his name in your mouth. “You’re that Danforth.” 

His grin widened. “Now, don’t sound too accusatory, or I might think you have a deep resentment towards me already.” 

“Who’s to say I haven’t always had a deep resentment.” 

“Good.” He took another sip from his glass without breaking eye contact. “Most people here are too scared to insult me directly.” 

“And that doesn’t concern you?” 

“It mostly entertains me.” 

You glanced toward the ballroom crowd again, briefly trying to find Robby and considering escape routes. However, Titus seemed to carry Terry’s unnaturally uncanny ability to notice things like that. 

“Relax,” he drawled lazily. “You look like I’m planning to sacrifice you to Satan or something.” 

A chill ran up your spine. “Are you?” 

He looked down at you over his nose. “I’m still deciding on that.” 

You blinked at hi, slowly. “I’m sorry. What?” 

Titus looked downright delighted by being one the receiving end of your scrunched up face. “Oh, come on. You’re at a billionaire fundraiser. You have to know at least half these people are one blood ritual away from immortality.” 

A look of horror washed over your face as your blood ran cold. He stared back, visibly trying not to laugh. 

“You’re joking,” you finally decided on with a small, uncomfortable laugh. 

“That’s the fun part.” He tilted his head slightly. “You really can never tell.” 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Every single alarm bell in your body started ringing simultaneously in a way that hadn’t happened yet. See, Terry hadn’t felt as dangerous as he was calculated and manipulative. Titus felt like mad chaos draped in designer fabric, like someone had handed a deeply unstable man unlimited money and simply hoped for the best. 

“You have the exact same face as someone I trust,” you informed him cautiously, “and you’re doing irreparable damage the longer this conversation continues.” 

“How will you ever recover?” 

“Hopefully the moment we go our separate ways.” 

Titus laughed softly again before gesturing out toward the ballroom. “So, what’s your role here? Underpaid attending? Morally exhausted nurse? One of those residents constantly on the verge of collapse?” 

“You guessed all of those so confidently it’s a bit concerning.” 

“I donate to hospitals constantly, and I’ve watched enough caffeine addictions develop in real time to identify the species.” 

Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped, to which Titus noticed instantly. And the look on his face afterward morphed into something even more dangerous. 

“So you are capable of laughing,” he murmured. “You look less miserable when you do that.” 

The words hit unexpectedly hard because Andrew had said almost the exact same thing days earlier. However, when Andrew said it, it sounded like he did out of a deep concern, but when Titus said it, it sounded like you were a small bug under a microscope. Apparently, this entire cursed lineup shared one collective personality trait, and it was psychoanalyzing you against your will. 

You pointed at him. “No. You don’t get to do that.” 

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “Do what?” 

“You are not allowed to suddenly become emotionally observant when you were just talking about devil sacrifice thirty seconds ago.” 

“Is it a sin to be attentive?” 

“It’s a sin to act like you care when obviously I’m merely just a game to you.” 

Titus grinned into his glass. “Oh, I definitely like you.” 

Before you could spit back another insult, another man suddenly appeared beside you with the kind of smooth interruption that felt almost rehearsed. You silently thanked everything that could hear you when the familiar height towered over you. 

“There’s my favorite resident,” Robby announced as he took your right side. 

You glanced over at him and tried not to melt at the sight of his navy suit that looked slightly less expensive than Titus’s but worn with significantly more exhaustion in the way Robby existed in. His expression softened as he looked down at you. You could have hugged him on sight. 

Robby’s brown eyes, normally filled with kindness, bore fiery into Titus’s. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, do you? I think one of our department heads was looking into speaking to us on behalf of our emergency department.” 

His lie was painfully obvious but deeply appreciated on your side. You started stepping away before Titus could start another conversation about ritual sacrifice, however, the sound of his voice made you pause and look back just as Titus was pulling out a sleek black checkbook from inside his tuxedo jacket. 

Double oh no. 

He scribbled something quickly before tearing the check free and holding it out toward you between two fingers. “For your hospital.” 

You stared down at the number and tried not to faint on the spot. 

“Titus—” 

“What?” He looked genuinely amused now. “You people keep fixing rich idiots after yacht accidents. Consider it gratitude.” 

“That is way too much money.” 

“Probably.”

“You cannot casually hand people checks equivalent to a small lakeside house in Italy.” 

“Sure I can.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Watch me.” 

You hesitated before slowly taking in. 

Robby clanged at the amount over your shoulder and physically winced. “Holy fuck. Gloria’s going to be floored.” 

Titus lifted his glass again with a lazy smile. “See? Devil worship pays well.” 

You backed away after that. “Okay. I’m going to leave before you buy me a cursed mansion that makes me blow up or something.”

“How did you know that was next on my list?” 

“It seemed very on brand.” 

Thankfully, Robby took the break in conversation to steer you safely toward the other side of the ballroom, champagne still in one hand and a horrifyingly large Danforth charity check in the other. 

Once the gap was large enough, Robby leaned down enough to whisper, “Tell me I’m not seeing things, and that he didn’t look exactly like Jack.” 

You let out a large, exasperated sigh. “Robby, you have no idea.” 

_______________________

At this point, you genuinely believed the universe was mocking you. There was no other sane explanation for the past few weeks. 

One doppelgänger had been weird coincidence territory. Two had been unsettling. Three had crossed into psychological combat. Four had nearly gotten you murdered in a parking lot. And the fifth had tried to recruit you into what might’ve been a satanic cult before handing you a charity donation large enough to make a hospital board cry (Gloria did indeed faint as well). 

You were simply done. 

Officially. Completely. Done. 

Which was exactly why, when you stepped out of the hospital just after sunrise (the result of a last-minute night-shift swap) and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a dark truck across the street, your immediate reaction wasn’t relief but unequivocal annoyance. 

The city still looked half-asleep around you, pale morning light stretching across damp pavement while your exhausted coworkers shuffled toward their cars clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Your overnight shift had run disastrously long, leaving you tired enough that your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. The added lack of a Jack Abbot didn’t do well to settle any wants of seeing the man again with your own two eyes. 

And standing there beneath the weak gold light of sunrise was yet another salt and pepper-curly-haired man with nice shoulders and light hazel eyes. 

Unbelievable.

You didn’t even break stride this time. 

“Nope,” you called out while crossing the sidewalk. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this again. You can’t pay me enough.” 

The Jack-a-like straightened at the sound of your voice. 

You pointed at him warningly before he could speak. “I don’t care if you’re emotionally repressed, weirdly observant, secretly corrupt, or involved in a ritual sacrifice. I’m done talking to Jack Abbot doppelgangers.” 

A long silence followed before he said one word. 

“What?” 

You frowned at his voice and the way it felt familiar in your ears. None of the others had ever quite managed to get Jack’s timber down correctly. Your steps slowed, and the man pushed away from the truck fully now, confusion pulling at his features while dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. 

Your chest tightened achingly so, because that—that was Jack Abbot, actually Jack Abbot. 

Your Jack. 

For one horrible second, your brain refused to process it properly. After weeks of running into twisted reflections of him everywhere, seeing the real thing suddenly felt almost unreal itself. It made you suspicious. 

You scoffed at him. “Okay. Which one are you?” 

Jack stared at you with somehow even more confusion, your name coming out oddly through his lips. “Excuse me?” 

“The firefighter was flirty. The cop was emotionally stable. The quiet one stared at me like a sad shelter dog in one of those ASPCA commercials. The southern one was definitely corrupt. And the rich one threatened me with devil worship.” You pointed accusingly at him. “So what’s your thing, and please make it quick because I obviously need more than six hours of sleep.” 

Jack stared at you in complete silence. 

“. . . You met a rich version of me?” 

“You have no idea how bad this has gotten.” 

“Sweetheart, what are you talking about?” 

The utter bewilderment in his face finally settled something inside you, because none of the others had ever looked at you like that. 

Brett had looked entertained. 

Sammy had looked understanding. 

Adnrew had looked curious and quietly lonely. 

Terry had looked scheming. 

Titus had looked delighted with a new play thing. 

But Jack? 

Jack looked at you like he’d been waiting long enough out here for you to start getting worried, like seeing you finally emerge from the Pitt had made him relax just enough. Suddenly, it all clicked at once. 

“Oh.” 

Jack’s brow furrowed deeper. “What?” 

“You’re actually him.” 

“Yeah?” He sounded almost offended. “Who else would I be?” 

A helpless laugh escaped you before you could stop it as you visibly deflated, exhaustion and pure relief tangling together so suddenly it made your eyes sting. 

Jack took a step closer, your name falling from his chest. “Hey. You okay?” 

His immediate instinct to take care of you was what did it. It wasn’t his face or his voice or his tired eyes or broad shoulders or any of the things that the other had shared. His concern for your wellbeing that had seemingly been stitched directly into his bloodstream no matter how tired he got. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

Jack’s expression softened as he moved closer. “What happened?” 

“You happened,” you informed him weakly. 

“That really didn’t explain anything.” 

“It does in my head.” 

“Which is terrifying.” 

You laughed again softly, rubbing tiredly at your face before looking back up at him. Now that the real Jack stood in front of you, the differences felt almost embarrassingly obvious. Brett had been warm but too easygoing; Sammy had been grounding in a way that felt comforting but oddly distant; Andrew had carried gentleness around him so openly it hurt to look at; Terry had weaponized familiarity until it felt dangerous; and Titus had turned charm into performance art. 

But above all, Jack felt safe. 

Even as he was standing there exhausted and grumpy in front of you sleep-deprived with yesterday’s hoodie thrown over a wrinkled scrub top, something about him always made your world quiet enough to where it felt manageable, like you could get anything done without worrying about the next moment. 

You stared at him for a long moment before realizing he was still waiting for an explanation. So, unfortunately, your exhausted brain chose honest-to-God honesty. 

“You know what the worst part was?” you asked softly. 

Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m scared to answer that.” 

“They all looked like you.” You voice quieted slightly. “But none of them were you.” You glanced away, trying to organize thoughts that had apparently been building for weeks now. “Brett was nice. Sammy was . . . easy to talk to. Andrew was sweet in this sad kind of way. Even the crazy rich one was weirdly funny.” You huffed out a tired laugh. “And every single time I kept thinking maybe that was why my brain kept confusing them for you.” 

He stayed quiet. 

“But each time, they failed horribly at being Jack Abbot for longer than a two-sentence introduction.” You looked back up at him with glassy eyes. “Because all they had was just your face. They didn’t have the way you make everything feel less awful when you walk into a room. They didn’t have the way you pay attention to people even when you pretend that you’re annoyed. They didn’t have the way I never have to wonder if I’m safe with you.” 

Jack looked caught off guard. 

“I kept meeting all these parallel versions of you,” you continued softly, exhaustion making everything spill easier than normal, “and every time something still felt missing.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “Turns out it was just . . . you.” 

He kept quiet for a long moment as the morning traffic hummed somewhere down the street while patients and employees alike trickled from the Pitt’s doors. You bit your bottom lip, waiting with anticipation for him to say something.  

Finally, very quietly, he spit out, “You compared me to a satanic billionaire before saying all that.” 

A tired giggled burst out so suddenly it nearly doubled you over. “You can’t believe how thankful I am that it’s actually you this time.” 

Jack shook his head slowly, but you caught the way his mouth softened slightly. “C’mere.” 

The words barely left his mouth before he was reaching for you, hand gripping your forearm lightly before pulling you forward against his chest with the kind of familiarity that made your entire body finally relax for the first time in days. 

That was another difference too. 

None of the others had ever felt like home. 

You buried your face against his chest with a tired groan. “If another man with your face talks to me this week, I’m filing a police report.” 

Jack’s chest shook slightly beneath your cheek. “Again me?” 

“Wouldn’t be entirely you,” you mumbled. “Just your face.” 

A quiet laugh rumbled through him before his hand settled against the back of your head. 

“C’mon,” he murmured. “I’m taking you home before you start hallucinating more versions of me.” 

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “You promise you’re the real one?”

Jack stared down at you for one long second. 

“Did any of them kiss you?” 

A blooming warmth covered your face. “What?” 

“The firefighter,” he said evenly. “The cop. Satan guy.” His jaw tightened. “Did any of them kiss you?” 

“No,” you admitted quietly. “Wouldn’t let them either because they weren’t you.” 

His hand slid gently against your jaw before he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it the entire conversation. His lips felt warm; the kiss careful and tired in the same way you both were but all the same steady. 

When he finally pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, nose brushing along the skin right under his eye, you smiled weakly. 

“Okay,” you said softly out of breath. “Yeah. Definitely the real one.” 

Jack laughed quietly against your mouth. “Are you 100 percent sure?” 

You pretended to think for a second before shaking your head. “Nope. Gotta kiss you again just to be sure.” 

He smirked before pulling you back into another soft kiss. 

Oh, yeah. This was the real one. 

It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off. 

So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning. 

You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.

So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around. 

You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.” 

Oh, you were wrong.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing. 

He opened your door. 

The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all. 

“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.

He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.” 

He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.” 

And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.” 

He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.

It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded. 

You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things. 

It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up. 

“What is it?” You spoke up. 

He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.” 

It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond. 

Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’” 

Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page. 

You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat. 

“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him. 

He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”

You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.” You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen. 

When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?” 

What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.” 

“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes. 

You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?” 

He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece. 

“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.” 

The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time. 

You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.  

When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side. 

When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet… 

You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages. 

“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.” 

“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000). 

And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.

You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible. 

Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf. 

You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can. 

You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–

“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”

The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?” 

“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink. 

“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.” 

Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.

He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.

You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”

“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”

“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor. 

He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”

You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”

The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.” 

You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.” 

“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.” 

“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest. 

You were certainly sharing air now. 

The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–

You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…

You shook your head, not the time. 

The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made. 

So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly. 

Now, you weren’t so sure. 

You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick. 

 “Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”

You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“

“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes. 

“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–” 

He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”

“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–” 

He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?” 

“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.” 

He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…” 

“Still, I–” 

“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in. 

“What?” 

“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”

You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.” 

He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”

It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours. 

It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.” 

You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing. 

Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all? 

All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating. 

He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.” 

You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves? 

The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it. 

“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?” 

Right. 

You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend,  moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…” 

He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.” 

You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.” 

“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”

You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”

He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”

“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?” 

His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–” 

Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. 

“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely. 

“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”

“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.” 

You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots. 

“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.” 

But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him. 

It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.

“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees. 

You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were. 

You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away. 

You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore. 

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne. 

It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it. 

You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you. 

But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out. 

Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room. 

You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”

His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here. 

And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down. 

Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat. 

“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair. 

You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.” 

Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end. 

You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too. 

You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table. 

It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile. 

Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?” 

You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon. 

He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?” 

“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them. 

Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.

In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you. 

That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves. 

You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.” 

It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal. 

But he was leaving. 

The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?

Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.” 

You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out. 

He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?” 

You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–” 

“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder. 

“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.” 

You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!” 

He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–” 

“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own. 

His brows furrowed, “Of what?” 

“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.” 

“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you. 

“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him. 

He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?” 

You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention. 

It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.” 

“Me?” 

“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?” 

Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say. 

Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated. 

But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.

When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”

It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel. 

The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage. 

And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind. 

He walked to the bookshelf. 

Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages. 

Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink: 

When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment. 

Oh. 

You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–” 

“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”

You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”

“You got scared.” He understood. 

You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?” 

The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.” 

You couldn’t breathe, “I—“

“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited. 

Only until you said: “I love you too.” 

Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right. 

You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?” 

His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”

“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper. 

The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love. 

He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?” 

You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–

Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.” 

“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.

He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.

He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.

"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.

Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.

He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.

You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.

Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.

"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."

"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.

You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."

He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."

The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.

You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"

You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.

He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."

"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"

"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"

You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.

"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.

"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.

He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.

His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.

He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"

You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.

He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.

He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"

You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.

But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."

It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.

"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"

"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."

The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.

"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"

You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"

"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."

You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.

You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.

"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.

He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.

You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"

He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."

You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."

He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.

"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.

"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."

You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅

note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)

“That’s what I said!” Jack points aggressively.

You laugh so hard you snort, and Robby stops walking entirely. Because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard that sound come out of you before. It’s awful, adorable, and hits him directly in the sternum.

Jack notices him immediately.

“Oh, hey Robby,” he says cheerfully. “Ducky just learned what a tracheostomy bong would technically look like.”

You nearly choke laughing.

Robby stares at both of you for a long moment. “I hate it here.”

Jack points immediately. “See? That right there? Jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re standing there like a divorced father outside a Panera.”

You burst into another fit of laughter, literally folding in half this time. Robby hates that he can feel himself smiling. Because, objectively, Jack is being a complete idiot. But you—God, you look happy.

Hospital-light happy. End-of-shift delirious happy. The kind that makes your eyes glassy with tears while you try to breathe through laughter.

And Robby would sit through ten thousand stupid Jack Abbot stories if it meant seeing you like this.

You finally straighten enough to point weakly at Jack. “You are the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“Yet you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Jack gasps dramatically. “Did you hear that, Robby? She admitted it before you did.”

Robby rolls his eyes so hard it physically pains him.

Later that night, around three in the morning, the ED finally settles into that strange lull between disasters.

Robby is helping you restock a cart in Trauma Two. (Which he didn't have to, but he wanted to, with you.)

It's quiet, easy, and completely comfortable. Robby hands you a packet of saline flushes. “Whoever stocked this before us committed a war crime.”

You glance inside the drawer, because everything is shoved together in chaotic clumps.

You grimace. “Oh, that’s actually upsetting.”

“I know. I’m considering reporting it to the Hague.”

That gets a laugh out of you. Not explosive like earlier with Jack, but softer and warmer, every bit real. Robby pauses mid-restock. “Interesting.”

You blink. “What?”

“You do laugh with me.”

You stare at him, then realization hits. “Oh, my God.” While Robby keeps stacking gauze with fake concentration.

“Are you competing with Jack for my attention?”

“No.”

A beat.

“Am I winning?”

You actually have to put the saline down because you’re laughing again. Somewhere behind you, unnoticed until now, Jack walks past Trauma Two, points at Robby, and loudly says, “OH MY GOD YOU ARE JEALOUS.”

2. Jack Accidentally Becomes Your Work Husband

It happens slowly enough that neither of you notices at first. Then suddenly—it becomes a thing.

“Where’s Ducky?”

“With Abbot.”

“Has anybody seen Jack?”

“He was literally just with Ducky.”

Nobody questions it anymore, not even a little. You and Jack move through the ED like two exhausted raccoons held together by caffeine and shared psychological damage.

He starts bringing you coffee during shift change. Not romantically, but because he knows your order now.

You steal fries off his tray during charting, while he steals your charger without asking.

You start carrying extra allergy medication in your scrub pocket because he once watched you forget it three shifts in a row and called you “medically concerning.”

One night Dana watches Jack toss you a granola bar from across Central without even looking.

You catch it one-handed.

Dana slowly turns toward Santos. “What the fuck is this relationship?”

Santos doesn’t even glance up from charting. “They’re basically divorced with joint custody of the ED.”

Unfortunately, Robby overhears this. He slowly lifts his head from his workstation. "Excuse me?”

Santos finally looks up. “You heard me.”

Robby looks genuinely offended.

As if he somehow got cheated on in this imaginary divorce. Then Jack walks into Central carrying food.

Without breaking stride, he tosses a protein bar onto your keyboard. “You forgot lunch again.”

You look down at it, “Oh.” Robby watches you unwrap it immediately. “…You forgot lunch?”

You look confused. “Um, yes?”

Jack passes by again. “No, she doesn’t.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

Robby points between the two of you. “I’m being tag-teamed.”

“You’re hallucinating things,” you tell him.

Jack nods solemnly. “It’s hard for him seeing a functional partnership.”

Robby looks seconds away from committing violence.

3. Jack and Ducky Have a Secret Language

Robby notices it during a trauma.

Jack looks up once from the patient. That’s it.

Just a look, and immediately, you hand him exactly what he needs.

Not after he asks.

Before.

Robby pauses beside the bed. “Did he say something?” You glance up and respond, “No?”

Jack already has the instrument in hand, shrugging, “She gets me.”

“Unfortunately,” Robby mutters.

But it keeps happening.

Constantly.

Jack sighs dramatically from across Central. Without looking up from charting, you immediately yell, “No.”

“What?” Jack says innocently.

“You are not ordering Taco Bell for the entire night shift again.”

“How did you even know that’s what I was thinking?”

You point at him vaguely, “Your face.”

Robby looks between both of you. “How the fuck did his face say Taco Bell.”

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

Another time, a patient insists they “accidentally” fell onto a shampoo bottle.

Jack glances at you once.

You both simultaneously: “Mmhm.”

The patient immediately folds under pressure.

Later, Robby corners you in the med room.

“What is happening between you and Abbot.”

You nearly drop syringes laughing. “What?”

“You two communicate like Victorian lesbians.”

You stare at him in complete shock before immediately doubling over laughing. Which, unfortunately, proves his point.

4. Jack Defends You and Robby Gets Emotional About It

It’s a bad shift. Overflowing waiting room, three holds, no beds upstairs, and a consultant is being difficult over imaging for your patient.

You try your best to stay professional anyway.

“The patient has guarding and rebound tenderness,” you explain carefully. “We need the CT.”

The consultant sighs over the speakerphone. “Well, maybe if nurses stopped panicking over every stomachache—”

Jack looks up instantly, and the room tenses up. Because Jack jokes constantly. But when his voice goes flat like that—people notice.

“Hey,” he says sharply. “Watch your tone.”

Silence.

You blink, and the consultant scoffs. “I’m talking about unnecessary scans.”

“No,” Jack says calmly. “You’re talking down to my nurse.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly, but Jack keeps going. “She said the patient needs imaging. So either order the scan or come downstairs and explain to me why you think she’s wrong.”

After that, the CT gets ordered immediately. Robby witnesses the entire exchange from across Central.

Instead of jealousy, something else hits him. It's warm and painful. Because Jack defended you the exact same way Robby would have. No hesitation or performance. Only pure instinct.

Later, after the shift change, Robby quietly says, “Thanks.”

Jack looks genuinely confused. “For what?”

“For having her back.”

Jack stares at him a moment, then shrugs simply. “She’s ours.”

That sentence nearly fucking kills Robby. Because Jack means it platonically, communally, and every bit protectively.

Because you belong to the strange little family they built in the ED.

5. The “Pick Me Up”

It’s hour fourteen.

The ED smells like burnt coffee and antiseptic.

Your feet hurt so badly you’re genuinely considering amputation.

You end up sitting on the floor in a hallway corner near the staff lockers with a vending machine coffee clenched in both hands.

Jack appears five minutes later looking equally destroyed.

He says absolutely nothing before sliding down the wall beside you with an exhausted groan.

The silence is immediate and deeply understood. Then, he asks you, “Think we can legally fistfight administration?”

You stare ahead blankly. “Only if we don’t chart it.”

“Good point.”

Another silence before you hear Jack comment, “I think I saw my soul leave my body during that GI bleed.”

“Mine left during triage.”

Jack nods. “Fair.”

Twenty minutes later Robby finds both of you still sitting there like abandoned cryptids.

“You two look like raccoons.”

Jack points weakly at you. “She started it.”

“No,” you mumble. “You sat down first.”

Robby sighs with the deep exhaustion of a single father before he silently hands both of you vending machine snacks.

Neither of you says thank you.

You just immediately open them.

Jack tears into peanut butter crackers like a war survivor and Robby looks at both of you sitting on the floor eating silently.

6. Jack Knowing You Makes Robby Feel Seen Too

It’s loud tonight. A Psych patient is screaming in South.

Overhead pages.

Monitor alarms.

Somebody dropped a metal tray somewhere nearby and the sharp crash made your shoulders jump violently.

You keep scratching at your arms absentmindedly, and the movement causes Robby to notice.

But before he can say anything—Jack appears beside you. “Hey Ducky,” he says casually. “Can you switch with Perlah and take North for a bit?”

You look up immediately, and understand instantly.

North is quieter.

Farther from the screaming patient and the noise.

Jack says it like it’s nothing— like it’s practical workflow. Never making you feel watched or fragile.

You nod once, “Yeah. Sure.”

As you walk away, Robby watches the entire interaction carefully. Later, during a brief lull, he quietly says to Jack, “You’re good with her.”

Jack shrugs like it’s obvious. “She takes care of everybody else.” A beat. “Somebody should take care of her too.”

And Jesus Christ—that wrecks Robby a little.

Because Jack sees you in an honest light too. He notices when you go quiet. When your hands shake slightly from overstimulation or when you stop eating. Especially when you scratch at your arms too much during flare-ups.

He notices because he cares, and somehow instead of making Robby jealous—it makes him unbearably grateful.

Even while he still occasionally wants to fistfight Jack over your attention.

in reality, you were curled up on the comfortable hotel bed. your knees were pulled close to your chest and with every blink, a tear rolled down your cheek and onto the pillow.

so cold.

it was winter and the temperature was low. you were certainly not clothed properly before you left the flat in a hurry and your body had yet to adjust to the warm room. it felt like you were in a pile of snow. a bleeding body left to rot, the ice turning red around you.

a knock on the door startled you, pulling you out of your trance. you sat up, brows furrowing. “yes?” you called out, cringing at the hoarseness of your voice.

“it’s me, baby. open up, please.” the familiar voice made you freeze and for a moment you thought that maybe you were hallucinating.

no, it couldn’t be him. john had abandoned you on the side of the road, relieved himself of the burden of a dog that’s too difficult to handle. your throat felt tight, like your collar didn’t fit anymore. you were a puppy when he first put it on you but now you’d grown and he didn’t want to deal with you anymore.

“swee’heart? come on, please open the door.” john begged, standing outside the hotel room door, his face full of fear and regret. he had taken some time to collect himself, beat himself up over how horribly he had treated you. when he came out of his office, he expected you had either gone to bed or were maybe watching a show in living room. to his horror, you were no where to be found.

he panicked immediately, ready to call up the team and search for you. thankfully he hadn’t lost his mind completely and checked his phone. you always had your location on for him. it was something he had asked you to do early in your relationship because he was terrified of anything happening to you.

reaching the hotel, he was sure he looked a little frantic. the lady at the reception was nice and when he showed her the picture of you and him on his lockscreen, she smiled and told him the number of your room. she wouldn’t have done this in most situations but the worry in the man’s eyes was so clear to her.

she was glad you had someone that cared about you. you weren't aware that someone existed anymore.

it took you a couple of minutes to gather the strength to get up and go to the door. the second you opened it, you were engulfed by the big arms that made you feel safe. caged between them, really.

john closed the door and pulled you so tightly in his arms as if he was trying to fuse himself with you. trying to make you a piece of him, give you a piece of himself as an offer to atone for his sins. how could he have spoken to you like that? treated you as if you were an enemy threatening his team instead of the love of his life. his whole world.

“i’m so sorry. so sorry, love. god, i’m sorry.” he kept repeating over and over, face buried in your shoulder and arms wrapped so tightly around you as if you’d disappear if he let go. taking risks was part of his job but that was one risk he refused to take. he couldn’t lose you. “didn’t mean it. swear, i didn’t. i love you so much.” his voice was shaky and he really couldn’t stop himself from crying.

he couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. but he would remind himself of this moment for the rest of his life so that he never hurt you again.

“i’m sorry.” he whispered and pressed a few kisses on your head, feeling your trembling form in his arms. you weren’t aware you were crying, he could feel it. you were just sobbing, fingers gripping his shirt. “i know. i know, love. i was terrible, i know. i’m sorry.” he apologised again and again, but it didn’t feel like it was enough. how could it be? treating your lover as an enemy should be a crime punishable by death, john thought.

“please forgive me, my love.” he didn’t dare speak louder than a whisper. not when he could risk overwhelming you. everything needed to go at your pace. “no bad day can excuse what i did.” his grip loosened only so he could kneel before you. his arms wrapped around your legs and he pressed his face against your thighs as if he was worshiping you. begging his god for forgiveness.

“you were really mean.” your voice was barely audible and your throat felt dry. but you fingers rested on his beanie, nonetheless, unable to stop yourself from touching him. “so mean.” it sounded a little childish. childlike. you were hurt, so terribly hurt that you couldn’t think properly. the ache in your chest had taken away your ability to function. that’s what it felt like.

“i know.” john whispered, his heart breaking over and over again. he didn’t deserve to feel bad after how he treated you. what he deserved was a slap and a kick to the balls. he wouldn’t blame you if you left him but he prayed to everything imaginable you wouldn’t. “the meanest, wasn’t i?”

you only hummed in agreement, pushing the knitted hat back and burying your fingers in his hair. “you could’ve told me you needed space.” you sniffled, one hand holding onto the beanie and the other one playing with his hair.

“i should’ve, my love. my reaction was uncalled for and so wrong.” he said softly, face still pressed against your skin. jesus, you had left the apartment wearing shorts in such a weather. “you’re freezing.” he murmured and looked up at you, meeting your gaze. “please come home.”

you paused, your heart skipping a beat. home. was it really still your home? you were so scared, terrified you’d lost the only safety you ever had in your life. “home? are you sure?”

john nodded and stood up, pulling you in his arms again. “of course, sweetheart. our home. i can’t live without you.” he hoped that you could hear the sincerity in his words. he’d never been more serious about anything else. and that coming from john price was a huge deal.

you hesitated, like a rescue dog who hides under the bed instead of sleeping on it. “you promise?”

a hum and a kiss on your forehead was enough to start warming your freezing heart. “i promise. i’ll do anything, alright? anything to make it up to you and show you how much i love you.” yes, he was serious. you could tell from his tone and the way he looked at you. he left no room for doubt, not even to your reluctant mind. his love was strong enough to stop the decomposing of your heart and mend it back together.

he vowed to himself that he’d never hurt you again.

it would take some time for you to truly heal after this. but he was prepared. he’d give you all the time you need until you felt safe with him again. he’d prove it to you time after time that his heart beat for you. he was already planning on texting kate and the team once you had managed to get some sleep, arranging a much needed leave for him. he'd talk about it with you tomorrow, ask you if you wanted to go on a vacation or preferred to stay home. anything for you. he'd bring the moon down for you if you wished for it, move mountains and cross oceans just to see your smile,

nothing mattered like you did, that's what he had realised. he hated himself for it, for taking so long to truly see what he had. losing you, even for an hour, was enough to scare him like he'd never had before. no bombs or snipers or stab wounds could instill fear in him like the thought of a life without his light could.

a/n: i think this is my favourite thing i’ve written so far so i hope you enjoy it as well:)! if anyone wants to request something please feel free to send me an ask ! oh also i might do another part and expand on the healing journey, learning to trust him again and a bit more pathetic john in love.

Sighing, you crumpled the bright green plastic up before binning it on your way to the sink, making an effort to not stare at him or his beautiful, Seiko-watched hand, wrapped around a mug and dwarfing it. “Don’t think I follow.”

He set the ceramic down, turning to look at you with his hip against the counter, toned arms folded. “I know your shift yesterday was rough. Find it admirable you're doing so great today.”

Your eyebrows rose, tone deadpan, “The Michael Robinavitch expressing empathy? I must be dreaming.”

“Ah, well.. it's the eighth wonder of the world. Next best thing after the Pyramids, for sure.”

You smiled softly, shaking your head and placing a hand on his bicep. Jeez, it was solid. “Flattery and a raise is the way to a woman's heart. Not just flattery.”

“Yeah?” he scoffed, cocking his head. “Do you want me knowing the way to your heart?”

You pushed on his arm before brushing past to hide your unbidden fluster. “You’re fucking lame.”

He shrugged. “Worth a try.”

It was unfairly attractive, the manner he held himself. As such were any of his mannerisms. His condescending nature sometimes rubbed med students and interns the wrong way, but once they'd warmed up to him a little, it was undeniably alluring.

Or maybe it was just you. 

You joined the PTMC’s ED as an R3 about a year ago after a couple years up in Portland, and somehow immediately captured the attention of your attending. He always called on you for traumas, letting you take control with a smidge of criticism here and there. 

Which should've been a good thing. But with how goddamn hot he was, it wasn't very easy to be on your best behaviour when he was so constantly around; during your laps, when you were striking up some conversation with a patient..

As you left the break room more than a little flushed, Perlah and Princess both cast knowing glances your way before murmuring something in Tagalog they knew you could hear but barely decipher.

“Sa tingin mo nagawa na nila ito?”

“Not yet,” you replied dryly, grabbing an iPad from the dock. 

—

Yet another long shift; one that consisted of a record high of 4 STEMIs. Which wasn't a good thing.. obviously. But all of them were currently stable. Being an ED doctor was exhausting, and that was a colossal understatement. 

On your days off, all you could bring yourself to do was drink a few shots of espresso and curl up with some Kristin Hannah, as pretentious as that sounded. Maybe cry a little. Either that, or you ended up doomscrolling with the book in your lap.

Part of night shift rolled in just as you were making your way to your locker after finally wrapping up your charting for the day, and you keenly observed Shen’s Dunkin coffee. Definitely miles better than whatever sludge they had in the break room.

A finger poked the side of your stomach, eliciting a humiliatingly high-pitched yelp.

Dr. Abbot.

You slung your bag over one shoulder, elbowing him as he rounded on you. 

SWAT uniform.

“Still don't know why I never hear you coming.”

He stared at your exasperation for a beat, a light smile gracing his handsome features. “Same reason I'm wearing this.”

“On that note,” you said, vaguely gesturing at him. “What's with the get-up?” 

You didn't catch the way his brows furrowed when you swiped at your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. He leant against the lockers and scrutinised your face like he was telepathic. “Drug raid. But no one got hurt.”

“Ah. Fent or cocaine?”

“Fent,” he declared, a little absentminded as he observed the pained wince as you shifted on your feet. “How’s my favourite day shifter doing?”

You let out an amused huff. “Fuck. Don't let Robby hear that. He's already on my ass for calling him lame.”

“When is he not?” 

He pursed his lips at your tired nod. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You moved to tilt your head back against the metal with a hollow thud, eyes fluttering shut. Yesterday was finally catching up to you, and today had not made it any easier. “They'll cost a whole lot more than that.”

“I'm willing to pay.” He took your forearm and squeezed it. The contact only made your eyes flick back open. “You alright?”

“Long day. Past two days, actually,” you sighed and straightened, grimacing again. “Ankle is killing me too.”

“Sit.” He guided you to the bench adjacent to the lockers; looked down at the tops of your shoes, concealed by the hem of your scrubs. “Which one?”

You never should've told him. “Abbot, I'm fine, really—”

He placed himself next to you. “Put your leg up here,” he insisted, no room for argument as he patted his lap.

You looked incredulously at the side of his face before reluctantly hauling your leg up, sucking in a sharp breath between your teeth when your heel scarcely grazed his prosthetic. 

“Shit. Sorry. You okay?”

He finally glanced at you, concern etched into his features despite the smirk that pulled his lips as he started folding your pant leg up. “Not like I can feel it.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Only you'd be able to say that.”

“Comes with being a veteran.” His attention diverted back to your leg, hand coming down closer to your—now you noticed—swollen, reddened ankle. “Tell me when it hurts.”

He began gently prodding at the tender area—from the bottom of your shin—with his index and middle, until he reached the top of your ankle; you cursed under your breath. Again. 

“Not your ACL,” he muttered, hand hovering. 

“This is humiliating. And I would know if it was.”

“Rule out the worst first, doctor,” his fingers wrapped around it, no pressure. “You’re one of our best, you don't know this?”

“Oh, shut your fucking mouth.”

“That's no way to talk to your attending,” he looked up at you. “I'm gonna squeeze it a little in three, two..”

“It is if he's being a—agh.. dick. Robby's really rubbed off on you.”

His eyes widened a fraction, a frown overtaking his amusement. “How much have you been running around this place?”

You shrugged. “Little more than usual.”

“Tib fib hairline,” he craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of someone. “Hey! Anyone, wheelchair over here please!”

“Abbot—” your mouth opened and closed, willing yourself to form something cohesive, the noise of a nurse rushing drowned out by your thoughts. “I— fracture?”

Princess came jogging with a wheelchair rolling in front of her, gaze falling on you. “Hey, what happened?”

“I’m fine! Abbot's full of sh—”

“Thanks. Tib fib stress fracture. Ice, elevate, and set her up in Central 13. I'll be there soon.”

Before you could protest, he was whispering ‘around my neck,’ and shifting you into the chair. The push across Central was like going batshit crazy in the middle of a pin-drop silent public library.

Princess leaned down, “Has that always been an option? Do I leave too early to know about this?”

You cast her a sidelong glance. “I could so hit you right now. Why’re you still here, anyway?”

“Oh,” she prompted, pushing the door open. “I finished Love Island last night and don't know what else to do with my life.”

—

It was a fracture. You really didn't want it to be, but the thin, nearly undistinguishable crack near the edge of both bones was definitely there. And that begged the question; did Abbot have X-ray vision?

Frankly, you felt guilty for taking up a bed during night shift of all times. Sure, it was nowhere near the time where things got really crazy, but you still could've gone home with a wrapped ankle and something for the pain to clear the bed up.

Abbot was at your bedside—now in a black shirt and his army pants—taking a history that was more a verbal interrogation than anything.

That was when you saw Robby jogging across the ER from Trauma 1.

“Shitshitshit,” you inched up the bed from what exactly, you didn't know, before Abbot held you down with a hand on your knee. 

He shouldered into the room, and you could see the vaguely irritated quality of his expression. “Brother,” he said, looking over the two of you. 

Actually, why was Abbot here? 

“Why didn't you come get me?” He placed a heavy hand on the other attending’s shoulder, now focusing on you and the injury propped up on a stack of pillows.

Your brows gathered as you stared at Robby disbelievingly. What was wrong with these people? “Robby—ow—you had a trauma.”

He moved to the foot of the bed, observing your white-clad ankle. “Shen and Ellis were in there. I'm not supposed to be here anyway,” he glanced up. “Neither are you.”

You groaned; slumped backwards and stared at the ceiling. “I was leaving!”

The two men exchanged a look you didn't see. 

“Can I fill out my own chart?” 

You could feel the disagreement start to bloom in the antiseptic air, and you were about one question away from launching a pair of medical scissors at them. “There are two attendings in a senior resident’s room for a stress fracture! Are you guys hearing how fucking ridiculous that is?”

Abbot got up steadily, a sly smile gracing his face as he traded another glance with Robby. They started backing out, not breaking your gaze.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

—

A week and a half of home rest was not your forte. It was a bit much, really. Yes, hairline fractures healed fully in six to eight weeks, but you were sure you could’ve started walking just fine in a week. On crutches.

You were grateful for the break, though. It was nice getting away from the countless calamities of the ED.

What wasn't, was the ED coming to you.

Following your usual day-off routine, you were laid out on the couch of your apartment with your leg elevated on a bunch of pillows and an ice pack strapped to it—actually—reading an old paperback when there were two quick raps on the door.

It’d been about 5 days so you’d had visitors before this; Trin and Whitaker, Samira, Cassie, Dana, and a few others who'd sent ‘get-well-soon’ packages, but those were after their shifts. It was two in the afternoon.

Placing your book page-down on the coffee table, you braced yourself and got up, hopping toward your crutches before heading for the door.

You'd barely opened it to Abbot and Robby before you slammed it back in their faces. Of all people to make an appearance, you expected less of them and more of Javadi or even Donnie.

You tugged the door back open cautiously as if willing them to be a hallucination, but nope, they were still there and as tangible as the ice pack around your ankle.

Jack wore that same black T-shirt he wore underneath his SWAT uniform and a pair of dark jeans; Robby in a grey hoodie and dark cargos, glasses hooked into his neckline.

Robby seemed like he was suppressing a laugh. Had he caught you ogling him? 

“Rude. Can we come in?”

Stepping aside best you could, you reluctantly showed them in. “You’re lucky I wasn't butt-ass naked.”

“You make a habit out of that?” Abbot gave you a once-over before heading to the kitchen.

Only then did you realise the fragrance of fresh bread and the big plastic bag labelled, ‘Primanti Bros’ in his hand, and a large iced Americano in Robby’s.

“Woah,” you mused, awestruck. “Thank you. You're not the first to bring me Primanti’s, though.”

“Oh, I know.” Robby strode over to you, hand hovering above the small of your back as he handed you your coffee and guided you back down onto the couch, taking your crutches. “We figured mostly everyone came after shift, so you'd have a shit ton of sandwiches and no space to stuff them after ten at night.”

You snorted, watching as he sunk into the creaky couch. “Eleven, actually. You'd be surprised. Barely have any leftovers.”

Abbot returned from the kitchen and placed himself on your other side, and there was suddenly a very real, very present sense of wrongness in what flashed across your mind.

You sipped cold bitterness to try dissipate the heat crawling up your neck. “Are you guys allowed to do this?”

“Why wouldn't we be?” Robby grunted as he tugged the coffee table closer for Abbot, who placed a pillow for your leg. 

“I mean.. you’re my superiors,” you muttered, reaching across Abbot for the TV remote.

He leaned back to make space for you, smiling as he watched your face. “So? You're our resident.”

Our resident. 

That didn't help your state at all.

You clicked the TV on, staring at the Property Brothers on mute. It felt like you'd turn to stone if you dared look at either of the two attendings next to you in the eye. This time you went around Robby to place your coffee on the end table.

A few dreamily uncomfortable beats of silence, before something struck you. 

“Robby, did you.. take a day off?”

“Don't let it go to your head,” he huffed lightheartedly, hesitantly gesturing to Abbot. “Once in a blue moon, I take a day or two to spend with him. Just so happened it was today.”

Your brows drew up, the new info giving you the courage to look at Robby. “What?”

He playfully leaned closer, holding your gaze. “Tell anyone, I'll put you in triage the moment you come back.”

“It’s adorable, really,” you teased.

You were immensely aware of the proximity of his face and yours; Abbot shifting behind you; the faint ache already ebbing between your legs. You caught yourself and flinched the slightest bit back, eyes involuntarily flicking down to his lips. 

“Also, you wouldn't do that,” you murmured, suddenly breathless. “You need me.”

His jaw flexed, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly and withdrew. He was unabashed in how he blatantly eyed your mouth. “Yeah? Why is that?”

You chewed on your lip, heat pooling low in your abdomen. Your mind had gone blank, any witty retort washed out by sheer need.

Need that was resolved when Robby's hand came up to the back of your head, yanking you forward and molding his lips to yours, groaning into your mouth at the way your touch seemed magnetised to the bulge in his cargos.

He coaxed your mouth open, and something in his restraint seemed to fissure; an arm snaked around your waist, the kiss turning all teeth and tongues lashing at the other, noses nudging as you moaned softly. He nipped at the plushness that was your bottom lip before soothing it over with a swipe of his tongue.

“Fuck,” he grunted, catching your lip between his teeth again before pulling away, panting. A flimsy string of saliva connected them, and he wasted no time in feeding it back to you with his thumb. 

“Haven't done that in a while.”

Your heated gaze landed on Abbot, who you did not notice had gotten up and was rounding on the both of you. His eyes lingered on yours; the creak of the couch as you stopped yourself from grinding down into it, before redirecting to Robby.

He'd begun kissing your neck, beard scratchy on your skin when he lightly sucked at your fluttering carotid pulse. “Want something?”

Abbot was devastatingly calm in the midst of the belligerent push-and-pull between you and Robby, moving forward and threading tender fingers into your hair. “Plan on sharing, brother?”

“Not exactly.”

But before you knew it, Abbot had taken the other man's place, the salt of Robby's finger altering the taste of him. It was a stark contrast, the manner in which he approached. He was tentative, almost reverent, apparent in his hands; pushing your hair back, cupping both sides of your neck.

Your fingers carded through his silver curls, one hand caressing his clothed stomach as you whimpered into his mouth and moved closer, “Abbot..”

He drew back, breathing hard and smiling when you seemed to chase after him. “Uh-uh,” his middle and index pressed into your lip, faintly pulling it down. His voice was hoarse and even sexier than usual. “Jack, sweetheart. Don't use my last name. Too professional.”

A knee knocking yours open distracted you from your lazy, affectionate make-out session with Jack. Robby loomed over you, lust—raw; in its absolute simplest form—engraved into the lines of his face.

“Oh, no,” he said in that all-too-familiar, patronising tone. “Keep going.”

Next thing you knew, he was knelt down in front of you, big, calloused hands rasping against your skin. He made some adjustments, discarding the ice pack and making sure your injured leg stayed static and comfortable on the coffee table, before urging your ass down and normal leg open, folding it over Jack's thigh.

It was an insane position, but you were somehow in no pain whatsoever. 

Your touch found the top of Robby's head, and you mussed up what you could of his hair. “Careful. Don't want you throwing your back out.”

He didn't even meet your eyes as he hummed a simple, “Won’t. But you can choose who blows yours out later.”

Slack-jawed and disbelieving, you decided to just.. not even try answering.

“Tell us if your ankle hurts,” Robby casually continued, glancing up at Jack; observing while abstractedly stroking your calf. Robby then placed a relatively chaste kiss on the inside of your knee, but it was Jack who asked, “You take your pain meds?”

You had to clear your throat pretty hard to get something to come out. “Yeah. After lunch. Doesn't hurt much.”

“Good girl,” Robby mumbled, lips trailing up your inner thigh. The mix of his beard and hot puffs of breath made you squirm; struggle to suppress a whine. 

Meanwhile, Jack’s fingers found either side of your jaw, turning you to face him. “Eyes on me, baby.”

Only then did it click. They were doctors. They knew every little thing about the biology of a human body just as well as you did; if not more. And they had decades of experience.

Shit.

Your mouth was occupied with messy kisses while Robby worked the same on his way up your thighs, mouthing and lapping at the saltiness. Jack kept a hand on your face and one trailing beneath your old T-shirt before flipping it up.

“You sensitive up here, baby?” he questioned, fingers brushing between the valley of your breasts to slip under your neckline and skim your jugular.

“Som—mmh..” your response dissolved into a moan as Robby cupped your clothed pussy, grounding the heel of his palm into your clit. 

He chuckled darkly. “She definitely is down here.”

A futile attempt at glaring down had Jack's grip tightening on your face, tongue clicking softly. “No. Answer me.”

Robby's finger hooked into the waistband of your shorts and you instinctively lifted your hips when he tugged. “S-sometimes.”

Jack began massaging your breast, bending to take it into his mouth while Robby yanked the garment down, draping the wounded leg over a broad shoulder. “Alright?”

You purred in preoccupied agreement, face buried in the side of Jack's head as he suckled on your taut nipple. “Mhm.. keep going,” you murmured to no one in particular.

“Cute panties,” Robby stated dryly, letting the lacy trim lightly snap against your skin. They were one of your most comfortable; dark red cotton with white lace. “I like the colour.”

You got to glare at him at last. Kicking him in the back with the heel of your good leg, you elicited a surprised laugh. “Fuck off.”

Jack abandoned your nipples in favour of kissing up your sternum and stripping your shirt fully off. “Sweetheart,” he uttered between the plethora of hickeys he was marring into your neck and collarbones. “Can I try something? Think you'd like it.”

Robby still hadn't gotten to where you wanted—his thumbs were merely kneading at the sides, barely even grazing your most sensitive. Yet, you were fairly sure you'd soaked through your underwear.

Jack straightened and tapped your cheek twice, harder than you expected from him. The silent command had you snapping out of your daze without a second thought.

His jaw tensed. “You listening? Stop getting distracted.”

You were perfectly capable of intubating someone while on the go, but how were you supposed to do that?

Robby finally dragged his thumb down your clothed slit, but it felt wrong to so blatantly whimper while staring into Jack's whirled, aggravated pupils. You opted for nodding frantically, grabbing his face and pressing an apologetic kiss to his lips. “Yes—yes. Whatever you want.”

He hummed into your mouth and licked into it, taking his time to make sure you felt how good he was with his tongue before withdrawing. His arm unfolded before you, the crook of his elbow settling directly under your chin.

You had to keep yourself from grinning. “Someone's been online.”

How many times had you caught yourself staring at those powerful, sun-freckled arms of his during an incision?

His other hand ran down your thigh, helping Robby in pushing your panties down. “I try.”

The giggle that tumbled out when he curled it was inevitable, squishing your face between his forearm and bicep—to which you clung and moaned into as Robby circled the pad of his thumb against your clit.  

“So fucking wet,” he groaned, wasting no time in leaning forward to flatten his tongue up your pussy, stopping to suckle on your puffy clit, gently swirling around the already throbbing nub. 

You whined, hands flying down to Robby's scalp, Jack's arm uncurling as your thighs tightened around his head. “Robby..”

“You like that?” he murmured condescendingly, not pulling back. His beard only added to the sensation of him eating you out; progressively insatiable; a thick finger easing inside of you, followed by another when you sucked him in with scarce friction. 

Jack traded an almost imperceptible glance with him, and you somehow caught it.

“It feels like—mmh—fuuuckk..” Robby started crooking and uncrooking his fingers, the callouses stimulating your G-spot in a way yours never could. Your hips bucked against his face, walls clamping down as he licked in expansive circles, letting his mouth envelop you. 

“Feels like what, sweetheart?” Jack cooed, lips brushing tantalisingly across your face, breath warm. You almost felt bad for him and the lack of stimulation he was receiving.

But it wasn't like you could do anything in this state.

“Like—oh.. you're plotting something. Wh-when you do that.”

Robby's fingers pumped faster, more precisely, adding a third with little resistance and burying his face further into you while shaking his head, tongue moving with single-minded focus. You cried out, grip falling to the back of his head.

“Shiiitt.. g-gonna come. Fuck—!”

The slurping between your legs reached its climax just as you did, white-hot stars bursting into fragments beneath your eyelids as your back bowed from the couch, feeling as Robby's beard rubbed your inner thighs to redness; as Jack placed a steadying palm on your stomach.

You didn't know how you came down or when it even happened. All you knew was that you suddenly weren't floating anymore, Robby's fingers had finally pulled out, and now he was staring straight at you with them dripping right in front of your face, elbows propped on your upper thighs. His beard was glistening.

Actually, both of them were staring at you.

Flames stoked up your neck. The neurotransmitters in your brain were fried and unable to give you a proper response, so all that came out was a meek, “..What?”

“What toys do you use?” Jack asked hoarsely, glancing at the mess you made.

“Uhm.. I don't.” Your face got hotter. “Never found the need for them.”

He exchanged another look with Robby. Something smugger. “Right. Okay.”

Robby moved your legs off his shoulders and got to his feet, placing his clean hand on the couch to stabilise himself. “Ankle okay?”

You nodded, regaining some sense of self and smirking up at him roguishly. “How're your knees?”

He reached out to run a thumb down your lip, coaxing your mouth open and dragging his wet fingers across your tongue. “Don't get smart with me.”

You moaned and took his fingers deeper, sucking them clean. He seemed entranced, watching the string of saliva dissolve when he pulled away. 

Jack stood abruptly; scooped you up with ease and kissed you again—rougher, deep groans into your mouth—tasting what the other attending had so much of. Your arms automatically encircled his neck. 

“Fuck,” he muttered between hungry pecks, making his way to your bedroom with Robby trailing behind him. “Greedy guy, keeping you all to himself.”

“Heard that,” came a gravelly voice. 

“You were meant to,” Jack retorted over his shoulder, toeing the door open.

He laid you out on your back parallel to the headboard, head almost dangling off the edge. Hands—palming at your breasts, tweaking your nipples—slowly made their way up, taking yours with him to place on his belt.

His tone was husky and cracked, almost desperate. “Can I fuck your throat, baby? Please?” 

You were already getting to work, letting the clink of his belt; the quiet mechanical rasp of his fly sliding down serve as an answer. How many times had you imagined tasting Jack Abbot?

You eagerly tugged at his pants, mouth already watering as you pressed your fingers to the imprint of his cock, squeezing in a way that had him gripping your wrist, but not to stop you. Your hands then trekked up, above the tantalising trail of grey leading downwards, under his shirt to scrape at his waist and along the ridges of his stomach.

“Take your shirt off.”

He huffed out his nose, reaching to yank the shirt off his back. “Yes, ma’am.”

You laughed lightly, humming a flat, “You should call me that at work,” before moving the waistband of his boxers down just enough to free his cock from its confines. 

All you could say was.. you hadn't expected any less from a man like him.

He was painfully hard and leaking, tip flushed a light red with a vein tracing up his shaft. A hand cupped the back of your head and pulled you nearer, the head of his cock brushing against your lips. 

“Smack me if you need a break, alright?”

You nodded absentmindedly, eyes landing on his leg. You sat up on your elbows and sheepishly turned to look up at him.

“Wait,” you paused, brows furrowed as you gestured at the prosthetic. “Do—do you need to, uh.. take it off?”

He pushed you back down with a hand on your chest. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Haven't been wearing it long. And I do not—” he supported your head again as he sunk into your mouth, a little deeper than before. “Want to miss this,” he grunted.

Your grip came up to his hips, eyes flickering shut at the heady—pun intended—and silken taste of him. You heard a strained “fuuckk..” from above you, feeling his length gradually sink deeper until the halfway point. By then, you knew it'd be a concerted effort to take him fully while.. well, upside down, but you'd be damned if you said you didn't want to.

The mattress dipped where your legs were; a big hand tracked up your bare thigh; coarse hair scratched up your torso and up your chest, leaving wet kisses along your stomach before liquid warmth closed around your nipple.

You whined, thighs pressing together underneath him, pushing your ass down into the bed in search of friction as Jack began thrusting into your mouth. 

You could feel Robby's eyes burning holes into the line of your throat, the way it contracted when you gagged and swallowed.

“Taking it like a fucking champ, huh?”

You could've come—untouched—right there. 

How were you ever gonna survive hearing that at work from now on?

His hand skated up your skin to just hold your neck, feeling Jack's cock slide in and out. “Ever gonna let me do this?”

Jack adjusted your head, scarcely picking up the pace, his tone low and strained, “You had your fun, brother. Don't get jealous now." His thumb joined Robby's hold on your throat, grazing the top of where your trachea was tangible.

“Just saying,” Robby muttered, retracting his touch in favour of kneading your breasts. He seemed to like off-putting what you really wanted, considering you could feel his knee between yours, just out of reach. 

“I feel like I deserve something in return for giving you the best head of your life.”

You moaned at the statement just as Jack tensed and pulled out, orgasm approaching faster than he liked. “Shit, baby,” he panted, squeezing his base to stave it off as he dragged his tip across your tongue, over your swollen lips. “Too fuckin’ good.”

A giggle tumbled out of you. “Is that a bad thing?”

His hold on your nape relented. “Anything but.” He mirrored your laugh at the pout you gave him when he urged you back up into a sitting position.

Robby's fingers immediately closed around your face, digging into your cheeks. His pupils were blown out and borderline scary, but so carnal, so hungry, you couldn't find yourself feeling anything but even more aroused. His nostrils flared, heavy breaths puffing out in quick bursts. 

You knew he wanted an answer.

And you were emboldened by the prospect of getting your brains fucked out.

“You won't get anything with that ego of yours, Robinavitch.”

His eyebrow quirked in challenge, heat licking up your spine at the danger in his gaze, the steadiness of his voice. 

“You think my ego is big?”

A smirk tugged on your mouth, revelling at how you could feel the sore muscles moving beneath his grip. “D’you plan on proving to me it's not the only thing that is?”

“Oh-ho,” he got out through gritted teeth, irritation apparent.

One moment you were in his iron grasp, the other you'd been manhandled and jostled; flipped onto your stomach and dragged to the opposite edge of the bed. He made sure your injured foot didn't hit the floor like the other, instead shoving it up, bent towards your chest to keep it from dangling.

As an added benefit, the position had your dripping pussy on full display for him.

A hand came down onto your ass with a resounding thwack. You yelped, jolted forward, fingers grappling at the sheets. 

“Do I?” He let it sting for longer than you would've liked, before massaging it to soothe the blooming heat.

The frantic clink of a belt, the shuffle of fabric being pushed down. He leant over you, forearms against the bed, chest hair peppering deliciously against your back.

Smack. Harder.

“Can you feel it, baby?” The tent in his boxers just barely ground into your pussy, making you whimper and clench around nothing. 

Smack.

“Do I still need to prove it?”

Smack—before the hand travelled up and into your hair, tangling in the locks to carelessly tug your head up.

Jack Abbot sat in your beige Ikea desk chair, a fist wrapped around his thick cock, languidly moving it up and down with a blissful yet smug expression on his face.

Robby bent lower, voice gravelly in your ear, “All for you, champ.”

One of your hands clutched at his bicep, trying to reach further down for the waistband of his boxers. His grip stopped yours, pinning both your wrists above your head.

“I was under the impression you didn't want me to fuck you?”

Your fight was definitely wavering, but not yet. Even if it did cost you more torture. “What makes you think I want you to?” you spat back.

The fingers in your hair moved to close around your throat, putting just enough pressure for you to choke back a gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

“You may be one of my brightest at work,” his grasp eased and withdrew, letting your head fall down into the mattress. “But rhetorics won't be of any use here, baby.”

He was pressed right up against your back, so you could feel when he pushed his boxers down, freeing his cock from its confines. 

His free hand appeared in front of your face again.

“Spit.”

You lifted your head from the sheets, catching a glimpse of Jack with his neck craned back, squeezing the base of his cock. You wanted to retort, but any more of this and you'd actually end up coming without any stimulation.

Reluctantly, you relaxed your jaw, letting saliva pool into your mouth, before opening it to let your spit drip onto his palm.

“Good girl,” he cooed, retracting his hand. You heard the telltale groan he let out as he spread it all over his cock; the wetness of him stroking himself. He let go of your wrists, reassuringly squeezing them briefly before pulling away.

His voice was more chaste. “Condoms?”

Fuck. 

You were too deep in your lust-filled haze to even think about not doing it.. raw. And you still were, because you barely registered how irrational it sounded when you stated—

“I-I have an implant.”

Silence. From the other side of the room too.

“I know, baby.” He cleared his throat, voice now strained. “You of all people should know why I'm asking.”

You whined, burying your face in the sheets as you pushed your ass back, grinding into his thickness. “Please, Robby.”

He let out a throaty groan, hand heavily landing somewhere beside you to stabilise himself. “Are you sure, sweetheart?”

He guided the head of his cock to gather your wetness and rub it into your throbbing clit. “Haa.. fuck—yes, please, Robby.” 

He groaned, tapping his cock against your pussy. “She's leaking, baby.”

You swore you felt the beginnings of an orgasm wash over you the moment he began inching into you, hands pressed into your waist, pushing you into the bed. 

“Look at me,” a further voice uttered.

Your head lifted again, bleary-eyed as you looked over at Jack. If you'd been enduring torture, what was he going through?

He really did have the willpower of a veteran.

Even with how soaked you were, you still felt the deliciously immense pressure of Robby's cock bullying its way past your walls. His hands skated down your back to knead your ass, spreading you apart.

“So fucking—” he buried himself to the hilt with a final drive in. “Tight.”

You cried out, tears seeping from the corners of your eyes as you pressed them shut. It didn't hurt, no, it was just.. a little uncomfortable. How could it not be when he was so deep you could almost feel it in your guts?

Two clicks of a tongue and you were looking back up at Jack with glassy eyes.

If you thought he enjoyed seeing you slowly losing your mind getting speared on the other attending’s cock, you could've only imagined what was added when he saw the shininess of your gaze.

Robby was panting, not moving, letting you acclimate to his size. The look on Jack's face couldn't have gotten any smugger. “Enjoying yourself?”

Robby slowly dragged himself out, leaving only the tip in before slamming into you with one stroke, forcing a whimper from your throat and a grunt from his. 

Your chin dug into the mattress as you tried to keep your eyes open and on Jack. He was glad you got the gist. “How—mmh.. are you—” you swallowed as Robby bracketed your torso with his forearms again. “Just.. watching?”

Robby's fingers wound across your jaw to pull you up, turning you so he could kiss you soft and sweet as he started to set a brutally slow pace that surged you forward with every thrust; that had him feeling every inch of you wrapped around him so warmly. 

“Safe word?” he mumbled against your lips, so close your breaths mingled. 

You were so deep in your sexual relief you once again forgot the small probability of this going south. 

“Uhm..” you spared a glance at Jack; patiently waiting for you to put your focus back on him. “Is it weird if I say hula hoop?”

He huffed incredulously, watching your dilated pupils like he would with a penlight. “Unless you want me thinking about this when our staff gets assaulted, then no.”

“You still will.” You whined, sensing his shift in speed. “But—fuck—uh.. watermelon?”

You took his smirk as acknowledgement. He placed a lingering kiss to your mouth before turning you to face Jack again, not letting go of your jaw. 

“I like to,” Jack continued, seemingly unfazed. Something flashed behind his eyes when Robby gave a particularly hard thrust, setting a more consistent, rough pace that had you moaning obscenely every jolt.

“And it helps me gauge what you like so I can fuck you better.”

You couldn't seem to process what he was saying anymore. 

Not with how your brain was short-circuiting, sparking like metal against metal at the knot latching into place in your stomach, at the sexiness of Jack's voice dirty-talking you. Robby let go of your jaw, and you buried your face into the sheets, suppressing your noises alongside every creak the mattress emitted.

He heaved against your back, grunting in time with each smack his pelvis gave to your ass. 

You couldn't help but imagine what Jack would do to you if Robby was already fucking you this good.

Lips trailed along the shell of your ear just as a strong arm wrapped around the circumference of your neck, putting you in a headlock and pulling you upright. The new angle had the head of his cock ramming into your G-spot with every pass. 

Sirens went off in your head when you felt something different but not unpleasurable, and you were just about to ask him to stop when—

“Have you squirted before?”

Oh.

“H-Huh?” you tried choking out; it merely ended up sounding like a moan you would hear in some low-budget porn. “No—Robby..”

His free hand trailed down your front, pressing his palm into your lower stomach. “Do you want to?”

He took your lack of a real answer as a yes. Four of his fingers tracked down, giving your clit a couple of hard pats that had you yelping before quickly starting to swipe them side-to-side, the lewd sounds of your arousal now echoing throughout the small room.

Was Jack still only watching?

Your own hands grappled at the arm around your neck, nails marring deep crescents where short red trails then followed. 

It was such an odd feeling, you instinctively tried to squirm away, thighs trembling when he went shallower, slamming directly into your G-spot. “Fuck, Robby.. wait, wait—”

He shook his head, beard scratching your shoulder as his teeth grazed over the clammy skin, all focus oriented on making you come like you literally never had before. His movements on your clit slowed into soft circles, but his hips were still relentless.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured condescendingly, putting pressure on your stomach with the heel of his hand. “Let go. Come for us.”

Us.

That was what had you soaking the sheets and his cock; liquid gushing from between your legs and running down your thighs as you tensed in his hold, stuffing your face in the crook of his elbow while he fucked you through it.

“Ffuuck, baby—” You could feel the smile against your skin. “Attagirl. Keep going—shiit..”

He gave you two deep, harsh thrusts that'd given you a glimpse of overstimulation before pulling out and fucking into his fist, teeth leaving marks in the meat of your shoulder as he groaned hoarsely, leaving stripes of white across your back.

His arm uncurled, lowering you until you collapsed onto the bed. You hauled your normal leg up to fold under the injured one—which you were surprised to find was not asleep—thoroughly spent but thoroughly satiated.

The abused mattress dipped on the opposite side, and you found yourself being guided by a panting and slightly sweaty Jack Abbot up to the head of the bed.

Your eyelids were heavy despite the scorching sun outside as you laid your cheek upon his rising and falling chest, relishing the difference in scent.

He stroked and gently untangled your knotted hair; massaged your scalp; brushed his lips over your perspirated forehead. “You did so good for us, sweetheart.”

You huffed softly, squinting up at him. “You should join sometime.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Did you even—”

Your eyes then deviated to the small pile of tissues on your nightstand. And also the prosthetic propped up against it.

“Oh. Nevermind.” 

You scooched up, nuzzling your face into his neck before Robby appeared out of nowhere, springs creaking in protest as he knelt beside you with a dampened towel. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek before sitting back to clean you up. 

He tossed the towel to the side, finally settling down on your other side; his front against your back, his palm running over the curve of your waist. 

“Do you own a caution wet floor sign by any chance?”

You elbowed him in the ribs as hard as you could.

“I’m never having sex with you ever again.”

Jack's shoulders shook beneath your chin as he laughed, and his arm moved from where it was in your hair.

What the fuck?

You lifted your head and looked between the two of them. “Did you guys just fucking fist bump?”

Jack smiled into your hair, briefly wrapping you up in his arms as consolation. “Are we not allowed to?”

You hit him too. In the solid wall of his chest. “I don't think it really comes with the customs of a threesome.”

“Sorry, boss.” Robby muttered flatly, pecking along the backs of your shoulders, thumbing the bite mark he left. 

He turned you over by the waist. He probably had enough of the back of you, and Jack was probably glad he finally got to feel your ass against him. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”

Your eyes softened as you reached out to feel his beard beneath your hands. “I'm okay. Are you?”

He nodded, leaning into your touch and looking at you with such affection it almost made you melt. “Ankle?”

“Kinda hurts. I have a spare ice pack in the freezer.” 

You glanced at Jack, suppressing a laugh.

“Not it,” you both said in unison.

Robby was already sitting up. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Your eyes lit up. “I was reading one of those, actually. Could you get that too?”

He stopped at the door with his back against it. The sight of him in only black boxers—silhouetted so largely against the white—almost made you want to pounce on him again. 

“I'll get you a glass of water and your coffee and take you to pee after too. Sound good, champ?”

You sidled back up into Jack, trying to stop yourself from grinning. “Thanks, chief.”

—

You woke up alone; groggy and disoriented and sore. You couldn't tell if the sun was rising or setting, if what happened was some really vivid, painkiller-induced wet dream.

The sun filtering through the blinds bathed your lower body in misshapen gold stripes, one of them falling precisely along your wounded ankle, illuminating the gel ice pack strapped to it and the pile of pillows underneath it.

So it wasn't a dream. And it wasn't morning.

All at once, it came rushing back to you as you sat up on your elbows. Your beige desk chair had been tucked back in, your hair towel draped along the back, a grey hoodie and a black T-shirt folded and stacked neatly upon the seat.

At your nightstand, Jack's prosthetic and pile of tissues were gone—replaced by your crutches and now watery Americano—but only now did you notice the tan-strapped Seiko wristwatch next to your lamp.

The painkillers had worn off, and the sharp pain was sorely apparent when you dragged yourself out of bed to hobble toward the door with the crutches carelessly tucked under your armpits.

As you softly pushed the door shut behind you, the familiar aroma of fresh bread wafted through the air, as if you lived in an obscure cottage in Montana and not in an overpriced apartment in downtown Pittsburgh.

You hopped to the kitchen. 

You were greeted by the sight of the PTMC’S day and night shift attendings; both shirtless and both now staring at you, sitting at your island.

You halted in your tracks, dumbstruck.

What the fuck?

There was no doubt in how comical your expression probably was when you spotted the pasta on the plates in front of them, the steaming pan with one more portion in it.

“Good evening,” Jack said breezily.

You shook your head and seriously considered going back to bed when you heard the old Bruce Springsteen song playing faintly from his phone.

“I didn't know Magic Mike did at-home performances.” 

You started toward them again, making your way to the oven. Robby stopped you and stood, taking your crutches and helping you sit instead. 

“It's more like Make-A-Wish. Since you're injured."

You watched as he bent to take your Primanti's out the oven and almost moaned when Jack began kneading your shoulders.

“That's weird. I just feel like I'm in a porn magazine.” Robby set the box in front of you, moving his plate out the way. You opened it and immediately dug in, groaning as the flavours hit your tongue.

“Please put your tits away,” you said, swallowing and pointedly glancing back at Jack. “Especially you. I'm very distracted.”

Robby blew smoke from the red-sauced pasta twirled around his fork before holding it in front of you. “Eat this first.”

You opened your mouth, letting him feed it to you and wipe some tomato off the corner of your lip. You cocked an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Fuck, that's good. Who made this?”

A kiss was pressed into your hair as Jack got up and headed for the bedroom. “I did.”

“I might have to blow you,” you replied, voice raised so he could hear you from the room.

He chuckled as he pulled his shirt on, tossing Robby his hoodie. “I'm definitely not opposed.”

You smiled lightly, trailing him as he took his place behind you again, melting into him when he resumed massaging you. Robby leaned in to kiss you tenderly, pushing hair from your face.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I need my meds,” you muttered, getting one last peck in before he pulled away. “Did you guys not sleep?”

Robby diverted his attention back to the food. “I did on the couch, for a bit.”

You frowned a little, unbidden disappointment twinging your throat, whether from the fact he slept separately, or the fact you passed out for so long. 

“And you woke up before me?”

He smirked. “Seems so.”

You briefly scrunched your nose. “That's embarrassing.”

Jack reached across the island for your painkillers, pushing you his half-full glass of water. “Eat.”

You eyed the rows of small, round pills. Both their eyes were on you too. You'd come full circle; both of them were in your space, expressing concern over the pain you were in.

The other pills in the foil rattled as you popped two out, casting a sidelong glance at Jack.

“Yes, chef.”