Woven into your conversations were also his general check-ins, how you were doing, and how things progressed with the injury. When you reached the point where the pain dulled into something consistent but never sharp, complaints —masked as jokes— slipped through every now and then as you messaged. ‘Running a business from the confines of your home is hard’. Jack’s mocking replies. ‘Like to change places?’

And, of course, the planning of today’s activity.

You’d set out the basics during a call you had two days ago, all while Jack prepared for work. Despite his past and present jobs, you were surprised by how he managed to multitask as a man. You’d even pointed it out, all wrapped in a teasing chide. He’d scoffed, and you laughed at the mock offence he took.

In all honesty, it would be much more justified if Jack made that comment towards you. Because while he seamlessly set out the date and time, you froze the second he gave you the heads up that he put you on the bed.

Even if you knew he talked about the phone-you, your heart lurched in your chest, all the way up until it got stuck in your throat.

With more effort than should be required, you focused on his raised voice rather than the rustle of clothes and the huffs interrupting his sentence as he got dressed. Emphasis on tried because what could you do when your imagination ran rampant.

And, just like then, you try not to make yourself appear like an absolute moron when you climb into his car.

Jack without his scrubs is something you’ll never quite get used to. The sage-green t-shirt brings out the hazel in his eyes, which the black doesn’t. Not to mention how his shirt stops halfway down his bicep, fitting just as snuggly around the muscle there as it does around his shoulders and chest. A definition that you certainly cannot see as clearly through his commonly looser-fitted scrub-top.

And with him sitting like that, one arm on the middle console and the other hooked relaxedly on top of the wheel, you could practically melt through the seat.

”Hi,” you flash a smile before you look down, playing off the hurriedness by appearing as if you check your purse. Not because he looked too much like a hunk of a man. No. Not at all. ”Got everything?” When you look at Jack, you notice it’s not out of amusement or suspicion that he hums the question, so you nod as you buckle yourself in. ”Yeah, show me this secret spot now.” He tries to beat down the quirk on his lip, telling you your excitement isn’t one-sided.

As expected on any day in Pittsburgh, there’s traffic all the way from the moment you turn onto the main street until you take the turn towards Heritage Park. Once you do, you shoot Jack a look, one he doesn’t acknowledge with more than a, ‘Wait and see.’

So that’s what you do. From the second he finds a parking spot —giving him a curious glance when he beckons you with him and towards the park— to the moment you start walking along the Three Rivers Heritage Trail.

The weather is good despite it being early evening. It’s warm, and the sun is just warm enough to be cosy and not hot. But the steady breeze from the water licks your skin and has taken on a certain chill.

”Here we are,” Jack finally announces when you’re close enough to the Fort Pitt bridge without standing directly beneath it.

You have to just blink, turning your head to take it in for a second, before you breathe out a, ”Wow.”

When you turn to Jack again, he’s already sitting on the stone wall that runs along the straight walkway. The wind ruffles his curls, and you find yourself thinking he looks awfully good with the smirk he sends your way. 

”Better than your spot?”

Better? Your spot is not even comparable.

You hum, giving him a shrug as you move to join him on the wall. ”I’ll let you have it.” ”Oh, you’ll let me?”

You chuckle and nudge his shoulder with yours once you sit beside him, pointedly avoiding looking at him because Jack knows, just like you, that he won the friendly competition.

The lushness of the park behind you makes the river look even more vibrant. The gentle movement of the water makes it gulp against the pier’s stone walls, the air coming in gusts as it forces it to repeat the movement. It almost feels like you’re somewhere else, far in the countryside or abroad. However, the bridge to your left and the constant traffic atop it remind you that you’re still in the middle of the city.

It’s far from loud this far below, but the honks from cars or sirens still reach you, albeit more muted. Somehow, you find the view even more beautiful because of it, reminded that such serenity can be found even in the heart of a city.

”How did you find this?” You finally ask, turning to Jack. Not taken aback to find him already watching you, more so the way he does.

It could just be how the sun reflects in his eyes, a play of the light which highlights the green hues that lighten the brown into hazel. But there’s a softness in his gaze that a sharpening of his eye colour shouldn’t yield.

”I don’t live too far away, so it was a happy accident.” ”With your preference for not-so-silent places, I would’ve thought you preferred standing atop the bridge.” Jack scoffs, angling his head upwards, eyeing the bridge. ”People wouldn’t leave me alone if I did. They would assume I’m planning to jump.”

You’re not even surprised by his comment, used to his humour nowadays. So your laugh is genuine, which earns you that dampened smile of Jack’s you get whenever one of his jokes lands.

”You’re impossible,” you say, and you shove his shoulder gently.

Jack turns back to watch you, only to squint slightly with one eye to block the sun that hits him directly in the face again. Besides his eyes, it highlights the freckles speckling his skin, ones you’ve noticed getting more prominent the further into summer you get. It’s as he trades the furrowed brow for a hand blocking the sun, all the while shooting you a smile, that the thought rises. 

Again, looking ridiculously handsome.

You have to shake your head and let your eyes glide over the view again, hoping Jack doesn’t realise your smile carries more than amusement.

You’ve found yourself with that thought more and more nowadays. Ever since Jack has stayed for dinner.

The feelings you tried to ignore —tried not to blow too much out of proportion by over-analysing every interaction— seemed to bloom of themselves. Pretty and colourful enough that they were impossible to ignore for the past week, when something changed in your interactions. Messaging became routine. Calls that didn’t have an aim were added to the mix.

But after meeting Jack again today, after what felt like too long, while being less than a week, the relief and joy it came with? Yeah, it was fruitless to ignore your feelings now.

You liked Jack as something more than a friend.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you focus on the sky. It’s slowly turning from bright yellow to darkening orange, speckles of pink intertwined where it’s still blue in the east.

You know you still have some time to spend with Jack, even if he slept well past midday after his shift. But with the check-in you have to do at the café and the looming knowledge that the sun will set at 9 P.M., you’re already counting the minutes until you’ll have to part ways.

You don’t even notice it yourself, but your fingers start playing with the rolled-up edge of the gauze on your forearm. It’s when a slight ache, nothing brought on by your fiddling compared to just the ever-present sensation, you look down with a sigh.

”Does it hurt?” You glance up at Jack. ”How did you know?”

”When being surrounded by people in pain, you learn to tell,” he says with a shrug. You scrunch your nose, not knowing if it’s a skill you would like to have or not. ”It doesn’t hurt like before, it stings occasionally, but it’s much better,” you admit on another soft sigh.

Unexpectedly, Jack raises his hand and hovers it above your injury. He doesn’t touch it, simply traces ever so lightly outside the affected area with his thumb when your hand falls away. At the top and bottom, the pad of his finger brushes your skin, the sensation sending goosebumps rippling along your forearm.

”So-” he begins, nodding towards you, ”-why the sigh?” It’s your turn to shrug. ”You know, life.” ”Weeks have been hectic?” You can’t help the scoff that escapes, thinking back on the last week and a half, you haven’t been able to work. ”Yeah, you could say that.” ”Didn’t mention anything about it when we talked.” ”I did say it’s hard running a business remotely when you’re not used to it.”

Jack is silent for a second, thumb still stroking your bandage. But now only in one corner, alternating back and forth between your skin and the gauze. Just like yours, his eyes are cast downward, following the movement.

”Talk to me about it.” You automatically scoff, ”I know, ER doctor and all-” ”No, talk to me about it,” he interrupts you. You switch to watch him in surprise, only to find Jack has already turned towards you. ”What?” There’s a twitch at the side of his mouth. ”Tell me about your week. I want to hear something other than who came in with what, which is the usual summary of my work-weeks.” ”I don’t want you to listen to more complaining than you do on a daily basis.” ”I don’t mind your whining.” You curl your lips in on themselves at his wink, dipping your head so your eyes escape his to settle straight ahead.

Jack’s comment is as sweet as it is debauched. For you, at least. He could mean it in an entirely friendly let-you-borrow-my-ear-to-vent-type-of-way. But of course, your mind has to play tricks, imagining things it shouldn’t while your body betrays you, that softness awakened once again to bleed into the cavities of your chest, wrapping around your heart.

You focus on the water and another pedestrian who walks by. The movement of cars on the other side of the river. All to distract yourself from the path your mind is stumbling down.

”It’s just been one of those weeks, you know? A lot to do that I really should be there to help with, but can’t.” ”Like what?” Your eyes finally return to Jack. ”We’ve signed with a new supplier that came around for a meeting, which my assistant store manager had to hold, then report back to me. We’ve also got another two new hires for the summer who need to be trained.” ”Sounds like it’s for the better you’re off for another week then.”

You laugh, which turns into a snort when your forehead thumps against Jack’s shoulder. His low chuckle reaches you a second after you feel it.

”Maybe,” you say as you twist your head, temple now resting on his shoulder. ”But I have to go there tonight anyway, check in with the bakers for the new pastry drop.”

Jack’s fingers twitch before they still, and he rests his hand on his thigh again, stopping his aimless tracing. Not because he wants to, your sun-warmed skin is soft beneath his touch. But sooner or later, you would feel how hard his heart is beating through his fingertips. The weight of your head on his shoulder makes it rush too fast for him not to be running.

”When are they scheduled to release?” ”In about two weeks,” you answer, adding, ”Maybe less if we feel like we got it right with them at the first try.” ”Looking forward to it.” You raise your head from Jack’s shoulder to look at him. ”You know, the offer of being a guinea-pig still stands, if you want to taste them before the general public?” Jack faces you, a tug in the corner of his mouth. ”And you’re not going to poison me?” You bump his shoulder with yours as you chuckle. ”When are you free?” ”I’ve got four days off that start on Saturday.” ”What about Sunday then?”

Jack can’t help but let a soft smile form. You know he always starts his off days by sleeping for almost a whole day. Or if he can’t, which is most of the time, he at the very least does absolutely nothing to let his body recoup.

”Sunday it is.” ”Go-” you’re interrupted by a yawn, finishing the sentence only after you’ve shaken your head, and it has subsided, “Good.” Jack shuffles off the wall, and once standing before you, he nods sideways the same way you came. “Should we get going?” 

You eye Jack when he stretches his hand towards you. “I’m not tired.” More like you want to spend more time with him.

He simply cocks his head, not believing you. At that moment, your body betrays you again, the tension starting in your jaws, spreading until you have to turn away and shield another yawn behind your hand.

”Your body is still healing.” Your eyes cut back to Jack, who tries to beat down a smirk as he reaches his hand towards you. ”You could just have said I told you so without the doctor’s flare,” you mutter, nonetheless taking his offered hand and sliding from your seat. “Not as fun,” he smiles, which makes you roll your eyes in return. He huffs something amused through his nose as he moves you along with him through a tug at your hand.

You let him steer you, for a moment imagining how it would feel if his hand enveloped yours, fingers intertwining, as you walk side by side. But rather than act on the so tempting idea to feel his hand wrap around yours, you run your thumb across his knuckles, commenting, ”Your hands are dry.” ”It’s the antiseptic.” You glance at Jack, catching the end of a one-shouldered shrug. ”You should use some moisturiser.” 

Your eyes flicker back to his hand. They’re not flaking, nor are his knuckles red, but his skin feels tight beneath your touch. 

”Don’t think cracked and bleeding knuckles are hygienic either.” You switch to look back at him with a small smile, finally letting go of his hand. Jack looks towards the water briefly. ”Give me some recommendations, and I might just try again.” You beam at him, ”You might regret that when you go around smelling like caramelised macadamia.”

Jack shakes his head. You don’t know that he wouldn't have a problem smelling with that.

The days between your visit to the park and the day of the taste-testing go quickly. Quicker than you thought. Especially whilst counting down every single one with a silent, vibrating excitement.

It’s not only because you’re meeting up with Jack again so soon after the last time. Though it very well could be enough. But no, you’ve decided to make the taste-testing into a whole thing. Cooking dinner, shopping for said dinner because Jack had nothing in his fridge, according to himself. The taste-testing acting as the dessert to wrap up the evening.

The planning had happened through a series of quick back-and-forths. You suggested a time. He proposed dinner. You’d countered with cooking it together. He’d said yes if you were okay to tag along on his weekly shopping. You’d questioned if he really wanted to show you his frat-boy fridge.

At the moment, you didn’t consider the meaning behind your words. Not until he called a few hours later, his voice somewhat hushed but still a bit too amused, did he agree to host, set a time, and give you an address. 

With Jack’s hastily given goodbye, mentioning an incoming trauma, did you realise he’d called you in the middle of his shift. When the call ended, you also realised you’d practically invited yourself to his home.

The realisation came with the instant re-entry into the chat, quickly writing a message to Jack, saying he didn’t need to host the dinner. But you stopped yourself as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. 

He was a grown man; if he didn’t want to or couldn’t, he would’ve told you so.

So you bit your lip, left the chat, and shut your phone off. Accepting the plan you’d established with a building glee.

Whether it was the same glee or something else entirely that gave you away when you entered the café, you don’t know. But something was apparently clear as fucking day, considering the double-take Alice did, barely able to contain her smile whilst helping her customer.

You didn’t wait for her to finish before slipping into the back, greeting the pastry chefs and having them direct you to the fridge. In what usually only acted as an ingredients fridge, two white boxes stood amongst canisters of milk and butter.

Whilst you’d been surprised Alice hadn’t followed you, you realise she was just biding her time to ambush you.

”And who are you bringing those to?”

Your eyes move sideways, finding the young woman with her arms crossed and leaning against the tabletop closest to the door. Her eyes glitter, her smile making it no less obvious she already knew the answer to her own question.

When she quirks her brows, you relent, ”You know who.” ”Mhm.” She nods, tongue poking her cheek as she walks towards the till. Without a doubt quelling the smartest of her remarks. ”I’m starting to feel like I have competition to be your favourite, letting him taste the pastries before me?” She tsks as she unfolds a bag for you to deposit the cartons in. ”Don’t worry, you’re still my second favourite.” ”Oh-,” her eyes flicker to you, and you know you’ve said too much, ”-so something has happened while you’ve been on holiday?” ”I wouldn’t call sick leave a holiday.”

She waves her hand dismissively, the bag she helped you with pushed aside, so she can lean closer to you over the counter.

In a lowered voice and mischievous glint in her eyes, she asks, ”Did Mr Handsome ask you to be his girlfriend after playing doctor?”

You choke on your spit. 

“No,” you hiss, making her break into a grin. “Nothing of the sort. And, for the record, he didn’t role-play a doctor.” ”How could I forget he doesn’t need to,” she winks with a giggle. ”So, spill, what’s happened and why this?” She points to the bag beside you two.

You sigh, rubbing your face with one hand.

A small part of you wished you hadn’t told Alice about how out of his way Jack helped you the day you got hurt. It had given her enough fuel to never step pestering you about him ever since you started your leave. As if she didn’t have enough already. The worst thing, however, was that her incessant teasing, the questions, and her excitement, in turn, spurred yours.

”Nothing’s happened.” You try to act nonchalant, continuing to explain it with what you hoped would come across as a dismissive shrug. ”We met up last week. I’m on my way to his now.” The blonde presses her lips together, nodding seriously as she hums along with you. Until she cracks and breaks into a grin. ”Mhm, that definitely doesn’t sound like nothing.” ”But it’s not whatever you’re thinking about.” ”I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” she feigns innocence, trying to drive it home with a sugar-sweet smile. You scoff, ”sure,” taking the bag from the counter. ”I have to get going, or I will be late.” ”Can’t have you be late for your date.” You give her a look. ”It’s not a date.” ”Of course not, just two adults who enjoy spending time together whenever their schedules free up.”

You don’t bother replying, knowing very well you’re fighting a losing battle. How her giggles carry all the way over to the exit is enough proof that she knows it as well.

The drive from the café to Jack’s place isn’t far, you realise. And you also realise that whatever neighbourhood you’d thought he lived in wouldn’t be this central.

You’d done a double-take when your GPS said you were about three minutes away just as you crossed the Sixteenth Street bridge. Glanced around in silent confusion when you turned onto one of the side streets in the Strip District. And once you finally parked outside his supposed home, you leaned over the middle console to look out of the passenger-side window.

That Jack Abbot would live in a brownstone did indeed take you off guard.

As you wait on the doorstep, you glance down the street again. The trees lining the pavement, a middle-aged woman walking her dog. 

What finally ripped your eyes away from the calm, pristine surroundings was the front door opening.

”So I weren’t lost,” you exhale a sigh of relief when you’re met by Jack. The side of his mouth jumps. ”Why would you? I gave you the address?” He steps aside to let you in. Letting out a somewhat awkward chuckle, you explain, ”I just didn’t expect this.”

His eyes are on you as you motion to your surroundings.

”A bit too much for a bachelor,” he agrees as he closes the door, inviting you further into his home by walking ahead himself. “But my late wife and I bought it, haven’t bothered to sell,” he explains with an accompanying shrug.

”It’s nice, though, your wife had great taste,” you note as you glance around the room whilst following Jack towards the kitchen.

Compared to the almost strictly perfect road and neighbourhood outside, the inside isn’t a hue of white and greys. If anything, it reflects the brownstone facade. Warm neutral colours, dark wooden surfaces, everything softened by small yellowish lights rather than any bright overheads.

”Who says I didn’t choose something?”

Your eyes cut back to Jack, who’s putting away the cake boxes in his fridge. ”I’m not doubting that all the books and journals are yours.”

You’d spotted them in somewhat neat stacks on his coffee table. Others, like the ones on the kitchen island before you, lay open and haphazardly strewn in front of one of the barstools.

Jack turns his head your direction, one hand on his hip as the other remains on the handle he used to close the fridge. ”Very funny.” ”I think you have other strengths.” You chuckle at the pointed huff he directs at you. ”Shouldn’t guests be nice?” You cock your head. ”Shouldn’t former soldiers be tidy?” His eyebrows shoot up, arms crossing over his chest as he turns to face you fully. ”Oh?” ”I think the word you’re looking for is touché.” Your smile widens at the way he shakes his head. ”We’ll call it a ceasefire for now,” Jack moves towards you, your smile not faltering in the slightest as you angle it up towards him. His facade cracks just enough for a small smile to twitch his mouth upwards. ” We'd better get going before it gets too dark.”

You and Jack walk to the supermarket, no car needed for the short distance.

On the way there, you note the many international stores along The Strip, with everything from Asian to Middle Eastern, and South American to African names adorning the spaces above their entrances. Jack noticed your curiosity and explained that those stores are among the few reasons he settled here. ’My wife always complained that she never found what she needed at Costco.’

At the store, rather than split up, you and Jack walked together. He pushes the cart while you gather the things for your shared dinner, and you do the same when he begins going through his shopping list.

It was while you were leaning on the cart’s handlebars, looking at your phone to double-check you had everything for the recipe, that you heard a low, sharp whistle meant to get your attention.

You look up, finding Jack a few steps away. Shooting him a questioning look, he gently rattles the package he’s holding. When you look down, you quickly realise he’s holding a pair of very generic store-cakes.

The purse of your lips is followed by raised brows, before they narrow and you send him a silent look.

His attention momentarily falls to the ready-to-eat desserts he holds out. ”Why not?” ”You’re going to have to cook your own food now.” ”Don’t tell Robby that I actually can.” 

You scoff, debating on turning the cart around and heading in the opposite direction. What makes you hesitate is the small cock of his head. 

The seemingly small move pairs dangerously with the amused look he sports, the growing smirk, and the leisurely way his other hand finds its way into the pocket of his cargo pants.

”You sure we shouldn’t?” He rattles the box once more. ”Fuck you too, Jack.” He chuckles, but for good measure, you tack on, ”Now I will poison you.”

He finally puts down the box. Once he turns, Jack sports an entertained look. If anything, that makes you more stubborn about maintaining the unimpressed look you’re giving him as he leans on the cart's front.

”If you didn’t know, I have contacts on the inside.” ”You do now?” Jack gives you a slow nod. ”The owner, in fact. I can always talk to her.” ”What makes you so sure she’ll listen?” You cross your arms. His chin tips upwards before he dips it, pursed smile reaching his eyes. ”She will.”

You shake your head, trying to dampen your smile. Having Jack watch you like that, with hazel eyes filled with something you can’t place– fuck if it didn’t make your stomach flutter and send heat down your spine. Not to mention how his voice had dipped, a hushed assurance that was both cocky and soft.

”Sure thing, Abbot.” Jack lets go of the cart when you steer it around him, but his head follows you with just as much amusement when you brush past him.

Once you get back to Jack’s, multiple bags of groceries shared between your shoulders are finally deposited onto his kitchen island. While you attempt to help him unpack them, you’re shooed away, urged to start the dinner if, in his words, you wouldn’t eat by midnight.

While he isn’t as insistent about you taking it easy now, his concern is still there, offering to help chop onions or wash the rice so you won’t overwork your injured arm. Remembering what Jack told you that day, you let him, though not without reminding him you managed fine carrying two of the grocery bags.

You feel it slowly bleed into the air as you move around in the kitchen together. 

One part is the domesticity, not all too different from when you were at yours, even if the setting has changed. But the other part of the feeling is hard to put your finger on. It resides in the way your arm brushes Jack’s when reaching for the knife he’d used, or how he alerts you of his presence outside of your field of vision with a hand on your lower back.

Up until the point when the vegetables are roasting in the oven, and the rice is a handful of minutes from being done, it’s easy not to overthink the feeling. And as long as you occupy yourself with the dinner, it’s easy not to overthink it. Even easier to do once Jack leaves your side after you inform him that pouring the chicken into the sauce to simmer is a one-man job. 

But the second you turn, the axis tilts.

He’s sitting on the other end of the kitchen island, attention pointed down at the papers before him, in a pair of glasses.

A fluttering mix of surprise and something far less light stuns you as you stare at the picture Jack paints. How he sits in jeans, a well-worn t-shirt and those black-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, with a relaxed slouch to his back and shoulders as his elbows rest on the granite countertop.

You thank whoever answered your prayer that he wouldn’t look up in that second. If he did, he would without a doubt have found you with your mouth agape. 

Even if he senses you staring a second later, you have at least managed to collect yourself when his eyes shift to you.

”What? I had to occupy myself with something while you conquered the kitchen.” ”I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

There’s a familiar waver in your chest when Jack momentarily glances over the frame of his glasses. 

”I don’t,” he declares, eyes flickering down again when he turns the page.

You send him a look even if he doesn’t see it, only for your eyes to trail sideways.

You reach for your phone, set aside on the kitchen counter. You enter the camera, fitting Jack in the centre of the frame. While there’s no flash nor sound,  he must’ve caught your movement as his head tilts up to face you after you take a picture.

You don’t hide it, instead you turn your screen his way with a burgeoning smile. ”I have photo evidence that you do now.” It forces a sigh out of him. ”I occasionally wear them at home in the evenings.” ”Not at work?” ”It’s always bright,” he shrugs. ”And Robby would have a go at me.” You can’t help but laugh. ”What, for your old man glasses? He would never.” He sends you a look. Your attempt to conceal your teasing smile is poor at best. ”Don’t start.” His voice is low, and it makes something warm run down your spine, especially with the look he sends you.

It’s hard not to admit he looks good. Nowadays, you never really have a hard time admitting it.

”Don’t pout.” You return through lips pursed in a smile. Jack scoffs as he goes back to reading. It’s with a silent laugh that you leave the sauce to continue cooking and walk over to him.

Even if you walk around the kitchen island, Jack doesn’t look up. You know he sees you do it even if his attention isn’t noticeably on you. And even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t be able to ignore your presence when you stopped beside him, back against the counter, standing close enough you felt his thigh brush your hip.

Craning your neck to the side and down, you catch what looks like a long word belonging in a medical chart. One you probably wouldn’t even pronounce correctly if you read it letter for letter.

”What are you reading?” 

Jack’s eyes flicker to you. You meet his gaze a moment later. He studies you. But you meet it with a small smile.

Without looking away, he dog-ears the page he’s on before flipping the stack of paper to the first page. He tilts it your way, letting you read the title. It feels like a garbled mess of words to you, ones you can’t even begin to comprehend what they mean.

”You read medical journals for fun?” ”Comes with the job.” ”So not only old, but a nerd as well.” You nod seriously. Jack cocks his head, and you redirect your attention to him. ”Sorry, you’re not old.”

His attention remains on you as he crosses his arms. You swallow as he straightens his spine, sitting nearly as tall as you stand. ”Never said I was.” ”No, no, you’re right.” You dip your head, giving him a feigned nod of consensus. You truly have to fight down the smile when you meet his eyes again. ”You’re just old-fashioned, aged, seasoned,” you rattle off the synonyms, smile growing for each one. ”Seasoned?” He questions with a sideways nod, mouth remaining parted as he watches you closely. ”I know you didn’t just call me that.” There’s a fully fledged grin on your face, speaking volumes about your entertainment. ”You’ve got the greys, so I think it’s fitting,” you rub it in just a little more.

Jack slowly tilts his head, arms dropping.

You’re already moving when he stands from his seat.

With a gleeful sound slipping out, you look behind you and find Jack following with slow but purposeful steps. You round the kitchen island, gripping the edge to move more quickly. But you don’t get far before your laugh is interrupted by a gasp, pulled backwards with a swift tug by your shirt.

Jack drags you against the counter, and you snicker as your hands find the edge. He’s not cornering you, not really. It’s only one hand resting beside your body on the counter, the other on his hip. Even so, he stands close, leaving only enough space not to touch you, but the way he tilts his chin and pins you with his gaze still makes you feel like he’s towering over you.

”This old man is still quicker than you with half a leg.” ”That’s not fair, you’re a vet.”He tilts his head, arching his eyebrows. ”And how many years your senior?” ”Counting with or without the glasses?” ”Very funny.” He says, voice unnervingly uniform. ”Right?” You giggle, meeting his gaze.

The air softens after that, your dying laughter breathed out in short puffs before evening out completely. Meanwhile, Jack’s expression softens until a small smile of entertainment lifts the corner of his mouth.

Despite not moving, your heart rushes as you keep looking at the man before you. It feels like you’re back in your kitchen, when he admitted he didn’t care for you because he had to.

You swallow, take a deep breath, and move your eyes across his face. His glasses have slid down slightly, not much, but they rest a bit lower on the bridge of his nose. Enough so that he barely has to angle his head to look over them to watch you.

With a twitch, like starting an old engine with a yank, you raise your hand, tapping the corner of his glasses.

”They look good on you.” The touch is light, barely more than brushing the pad of your finger against it, but enough to push them slightly more in place. ”Maybe you just have to wear them more often.” ”Maybe,” Jack hums, but he takes them off while he says it, looking at them as he pinches the frame. When he switches back to you, it’s his time to chuckle, ”Don’t pout, makes me think I look better with them on.”

If you only knew.

”Couldn’t have that, could we?” Your smile is slow as it develops into something different. You hope Jack doesn’t notice. ”Besides, you can’t go about challenging Robby for the ER’s elder.” He chuckles, shaking his head. ”He’s got to have something,” he agrees.

Jack’s attention strays for a moment as he discards the glasses beside you.

”How’s the dinner getting on?”

You cast a quick look at the saucepan, noticing the sauce had thickened just to the degree you wanted. Reaching for the stove, you turn off the heat but still need to move to set the skillet aside on one of the cold stovetops.

”When the timer’s up-” You don’t even manage to finish the sentence before you’re cut off by the generic alarm on your phone. “Perfect timing.” You send Jack a quick smile.

When you turn around, you don’t catch how Jack’s eyes follow you. It’s been a long time since anyone but him —Robby, on the odd occasion he comes over for a beer or watches a game when their days off align— stood in his kitchen. No less, whilst cooking a meal that wasn’t solely for one person.

And yet, you had been none the wiser.

The sheets still held the warmth of the previous night, eager touches from skin on skin, the complimentary burning of citrus perfume and incense still decorating the air. And in the bed, your hands braced comfortably on the plush of your pillow, and just tangled behind you, your husband. The pair of you softly snoring as Maekar pressed his bare chest into your back, few scars of combat and training still graced and raised over years of experience. His arm placed over you protectively, fingers dipping just over your belly button. Only the sweetest dreams guarded by the man at your rear, chest rumbling with every breath.

Though such peace did not last long, nor did it ever in the realm’s tendency to break it.

The glinting of armour, polished and shined to perfection had replaced where the sun would peek through the curtains, practiced frames standing rigid and expectant in the doorway.

“My Prince.. your father calls on you. There has been news from The Reach.”

You mumbled, voices murmuring faintly through your dreams, but you did not wake. Maekar stirred however beside you, tugging you closer upon the company, head rising as his eyes squinted in annoyance.

“Why the fuck are you here?” He called out confused, smoothing the sheets over your sleeping form, covering you from wandering eyes. The two Goldcloaks stood there, faces plain and stoic, bowing as their Prince gestured, grumbling and hair perfectly mussed. He was in a different state to how they usually saw him, all properly dressed and stoned-eyes, instead he was taken aback, unguarded and curled into his wife’s side like a tamed house cat.

They remained their gazes on him, not daring to sneak a look to your form, even in your splendour and beauty, the Prince’s vulnerability had not shaken them, his stare still just as, if not more dangerous. They repeated their words at the command, sleep muffling them the first time, and that’s when the dreaded news came.

“Daemon Blackfyre has declared war on the King and your house.” One of them announced, the declaration ringing in his head louder than the horns had shifted him moments earlier.

He shot up, hands bracing the sheets. He had heard every worry of the council, standing at his father and brother’s side as it had been warned, feared to happen for months to come.

Though now couldn’t have been worse time. The kingdom was at last in some kind of peace, though seemingly it was swept beneath the dusty castles of the Keep.

He waved them off, still offended but understanding of their urgency, and he made no mistake of it, sighing as the door closed with a heavy thud. He fought with the idea of going back to bed entirely, cuddling closer to you until he was just above, elbow propped onto the edge of your pillow as he took you in. Still warm, still curled into his side, still blissfully unaware.

And had he had time, he’d have taken all of the time left in the world, but there was none, and his restraint was far weaker than he would ever admit.

Especially with you.

“My love..” He called out to you, and for the first time your body reacted, recognising the voice, deep and ragged from sleep, and something else beneath it.

Though your slumber couldn’t tell.

He moved downward, craning his neck down to yours, fingers patting softly through your hair, taking in the strands that fell across the pillow. He wasted no time, his free hand reaching beneath the blanket and smoothing over your side, tracing up and down the curve of your waist and thighs, inching.

You rocked back against him instinctively, feeling the warmth of the growing heat as you blinked your eyes open. He was already pressing kisses all over. Your shoulder, the nape of your neck, arms wrapping tighter around you as he rolled you to your back, the sheets curling around you both as he rose, caging you in.

“Maekar..” You slurred, wiping your clenched palm over your eyes meaning to clear them, flicking up to him. He gave a small smile, nudging your nose with his, silver hairs falling mussed and swept, replying by pressing another kiss to your jaw. His knees were either side of you, balancing as his arm slowly pulled your hand away, uncovering you.

“Let me see you..” He whispered, sucking a mark onto your neck that made you whine, raising his head just above yours, meeting your quizzical look. Your hands linked around his neck as sleep escaped you, waking fully with the press of his body.

“And what is this..” He contemplated telling you right away, or keeping it secret, his brows furrowing, only looking to you, memorising. He decided against it, knowing how you’ll react, probably scold him, unhappily chasing him away.

“I must go..” You went rigid against him. You were no stranger to that, that one comment that made you freeze. Early rising and leaving with hardly much word to be had until you saw him late into the night. But this was different, his voice was softer, wanting, a farewell not to be taken for granted.

“Go where..?” You quizzed, shifting under him, allowing your body to rise.

His kisses carried, moving along your body, meeting the skin of your breast the sensitive bud grazed by his teeth

“Far enough away that I want to savour you..” You moaned as his lips made there way to your abdomen. “Have to..” The sheets pulled down with every inch he sunk down your body, his teeth grazing over you, testing a bite at your sternum, right over your heart.

You had not known exactly what he was talking about, nor where it had come from, but the haze from the dawn and the touch of his fingers sinking into your folds, and with his mouth delicately across your body, you were torn. His silver strands tickled down your skin, the pads of his hand cupping at your breast.

“Let me have you, wife.” He mumbled through his own haze, driven by desire and longing, the unknown of when or if this would be the last, and how he wasn’t going to waste another moment waiting for another interruption.

His gaze watched over you, waiting as he settled himself at the end of the bed, hunched over as he withdrew the sheets entirely, bearing himself as well as you. The pale plans of his chest, carved down to his abdomen and the sharp trace to his cock. He was hard, aching, hands firming at your hips as you shifted them wide. You responded only with a whine, pressing your fingers to his shoulder.

Take me.

And he did. Sinking down into you as your knees bent up, his palms parting them with a single slide of his fingers. His face pressed into you with no hesitation, tongue dipping into your core with an eager desire. You arched into him, the night’s soreness still aching your cunt, but his mouth a teasing soothing to the pain as he lapped you up, shoving, licking and tasting with all he could.

Your hands moved to his hair, taking the strands between your fingers and pulling impossibly close. He groaned into you, the vibrations sending jolts through your cunt as he rubbed his nose at your clit, steadying himself into your heat further. He loved you like this, these moments, no matter the time or need, there was never a time when he didn’t long for it. You blissfully whining and moaning beneath him, like nothing else could come close, only his touch, taking what you wanted. Titles did not matter, nor even your status, just the two of you, with only the sweet call of your names through the air.

And he did not want it to end. He firmed himself up onto his knees, scooping his one palm around your thigh, sliding it over his shoulder, the other finding its way to the mattress, lifting you by a slight to cup your arse cheek, dragging you into him.

“Maekar..” You whined out at the angle, his nose bumping into you as his tongue thrusted into your entrance, curling into your wetness as your arousal coated him. Your one hand fisted the sheet, giving you more leverage to rock back against him, the coil in your belly tightening.

“That’s it, my love.” He mumbled with his mouth full, never truly knowing manners, not that he cared. You were the only thing he cared for, and right now it was getting you to come undone onto him, driving his tongue in deeper with every movement of your hips. He sucked down, lips latching over your clit as his chin found its way through your folds messily. You fisted his hair tighter, head lolling back onto the end of your pillow, pushed up from your body being tugged down.

You came with a languid cry, whining into the side of silk, body convulsing through your high as he fucked you through it, lapping up your juices in a lewd motion, taking you into his mouth. And he did not rise, even as you hips bucked with overstimulation, only doing so after pressing a kiss to your cunt, right over your pearl, passionate and delicate. He parted from you, a string of his spit and your arousal from his lips, dripping down his chin shamelessly as he smirked, ghosting his way back above you as you chanced to look up through lidded eyes.

“The beauty you are..” He noted, rubbing up into you.

He crawled his way back over you, kissing your hip bone, to your breast, sucking lightly over it as you pulled him up, his hands bracing either side of your head on the bed.

“Must you go..” His eyes met yours, properly for the first time, his face mere inches in front of your own. Violet hues raked over your face, taking in everything, as if to memorise you, burning you into his brain indefinitely as if he hadn’t don’t so many times over. He pressed a sharp kiss to your lips, almost bruising, sharp and adoring as if he knew the words he were about to speak were going to shatter you.

He lets you feel him first instead, the hard length of his cock pressing into your thigh, the taste of yourself on his tongue, your hands finding there way around his forearms biting back a moan, encouraging him on for an answer.

He bit, “My father’s bastard kin has inundated a call to war.“

“How..” Your eyes widened, following his as they dropped to your body.

“Fled arrest, and now he makes means to call himself King.” He mentioned plainly, unimpressed and reasonably agitated, though that was the last thing he had on his mind. His stare fully fixated al over you.

“But that means..” You reasoned, the words sinking in. You weren’t unaware of the battle your father in law had been going through for quite some time, since many years ago his very own father had decided to legitimise his bastard children, the realm had been in a quiet upheaval. One that had been under the heavy lock and key of High Council and lords until now. And the realisation, the final breaking point, now a rebellion.. you felt a pang of panic, your heart beginning to thunder in your chest.

“I know..” His voice snaps you from your racing thoughts, those blown wide pupils searching for yours as tears begin to brim your eyes. Your palms move to the side of his face, mouth falling open for words that don’t come. He only nodded, pressing his forehead to yours, pursing his lip for a short kiss to the bridge of your nose.

“You have me..” A silent assurance that all would be okay, though neither of you knew that. He pressed his body to you once more, the heat and growing need of him a heavy weight over you, and yet the feel of his hands around you felt weightless. You whined, desperate and upset.. all at once, and he felt it, with every bone in his body he felt it to. That want, that pain. His hands reaching down to hook your legs around him, and you let them fall, your calves rested onto his lower back, as his arms found their way under your back, scooping you up. Your back settled between your pillow and his palms, your arse braced firm into the sheets where he held you.

“Just let me have you..” He slid his face against you, near pleading against your ear as his throat tore open, voice straining where it threatened to break. “Please..” He breathed, the sting beneath your skin creeping up around your eyelids with all emotion at once, a sense of overwhelm driving you forward. You nodded, kissing at his jaw as your hands held him in place, your gazes locked together.

You couldn’t find words to speak, the only noise from you were the ones he pulled from you, his cock pushing through your folds as he lined himself up with your entrance, his lengthy curve settling its way inside. You both gasped, his breath stuttering deep against you as he pushed himself in inch by inch, both of you relishing in every second that wasn’t to waste, the weight of him inside of you pulsing with every clench.

“Please.. move.” You moaned, and his hips steadied, rocking into you at your command, breathing deeply with an exhale through his nose. Your fingers gripped at his neck, pulling him back down into yours as he thrusted, every pull of his cock sending you jolting into his palms. And he kept you there, firming you down, fingertips gracing your back as his nose pressed into your hair, grunting with every drag that connected you.

And he did not stop, neither of you did until you were spent and aching, inching you back down to lay properly on the mattress, his knees firming to the plush bed, driving into you harshly, reverently with his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, take me..” Your vision blurred, from the tears of pleasure and the pain that crept into your chest, wanting to tug him down with you and never let him leave. And by the Gods he cursed, wanting the same, wanting to stay inside of you, holding you that way as your mouth fell agape, utterly entranced.

“Perhaps I’ll fuck another babe into you for you to keep while I’am gone..” You moaned as he grunted, thrusting with promise, his hips stuttering as his thumb moved to your swollen pearl. Your breath shook, every motion too much, your back arching back into him as your breasts bounced, his palms capturing them roughly.

“Come..” He commanded gruffly, head falling at your side onto the pillow, lips pressing at your collarbone as he felt you tense. “Come for me and I’ll give it to you..” He bunched up against you, angling into your sweet spot, your clit vibrating with the rough of hisfingers, a silent begging that he was close too, and he wasnt going to last with you like this.

And you obeyed, your body faltering before you could. You came undone around him with a harsh clench, whining into the thick skin of his neck, muscle flexing under your touch with your fingers tugging at the loose strands of hair at the back of his head.

He followed not long after, groaning into your skin as he came, spilling inside of you in short, heated bursts, hips rolling into yours, with skin burning hot onto yours.

And as the horns sounded one more time, he grabbed your face, kissing you all over, his tongue sliding over yours like a vow. The sweat of your bodies colliding with where he still sat inside of you, not yet wanting to move.

“I don’t want you to go..” He shushed you with another kiss, passionate and meaning this time, one unhurried, and you knew there was no escaping that, not this time.

His eyes read everything he could not say.

I don’t want to leave.

“I must, I will come back to you.” He pulled from you as the shouting grew louder, men readying armour, distant calls for his presence.

The last chance.

His hands ran over you once more, dragging the sheets up to protect what warmth was left in the bed. You pulled his face back down as he hesitated to rise, fighting himself against all honour and duty, against his love that was so much stronger than it all combined.

More than many knew, but you did.

He groaned into you, his voice breaking without speaking, tears threatening his own eyes as yours did.

“I will come back to you..” He repeated, convincing you both of it, before pushing himself off of the bed, bare and naked, your scent and touch still clinging to him. His clothes were thrown on in a rush, undershirt and the thick of his breeches enough to protect from chainmail and armour to be placed on him by the squires. He gave you one last look then, the way you sat up in the bed, alone and lost, just as he had been. The sternness burned in his eyes, forcing himself away with a bowed head as he slipped out of the door.

——

It had been months since then.

That morning you’d spent tangled up in eachother, touching as if it were the last time, and as months passed, you wondered if it would be. Months of longing, waiting, worrying. Ravens had been sent but they had been lost on you, short words and no promise. You had taken care of the children, Daeron only five and Aerion now passed his second name day, you tended to their every care and need, even as their eyes searched for a certain absence.

Maekar.

Their father, your husband, who had spent far too long fighting, battling god knows whatever was left of a bastard army alongside his brother and their men. You had busied yourself with your ladies, passing the High Council chambers at every called meeting, in order to overhear the King and his court. It would have been frowned upon, punished scene, but the few prying eyes of squires and serving girls had paid no mind, knowing better than to test your fear and agitation.

Even your mother in law, Myriah, anxiously awaited her sons’ return at your side, finding what little comfort there was to be had in the privacy of her solar. In desperate attempt to escape the endless humdrum of reminders.

Death, duty, honour.

That’s all it was, not the fact many lives, amongst the ones you cared for most were put on the line. Though it was necessary, the slight of a King was no appraised declaration, and the realm would be safer this way, it did not help the fact your days were filled with fear. You oft sent reluctant curses to the Gods that had bestowed such a mess onto you all. And yet even despite your disrespect, though unwilling, by prayer and some grace by the hands of the Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar, had led the charge that ended the rebellion as it stood.

Daemon Blackfyre had been killed, his rebel army crushed and ambushed between your husband and his brother as a team, ending their father’s war in a battle what would be known for years to come.

The fanfare of their triumph had come first.

The Hammer and The Anvil they had called them, a thoroughfare of horses and celebration awaiting their return. Whispers had begun in the court of their return, and something had stirred in you. For the days that followed, soon to bring them home again, you had prepared, feeling at a loss. An uncertainty of what to do and how to act in your new present. You were frantic, excited, and nervous.

How would he be..? Has he longed for you as you had him..? Would this be the new norm..?

Those questions were surely answered upon the dawn they arrived, the sun peeking through your curtains, blinding and welcoming, the brightest it had been for some time. Your maids did not have time to wake you before you were up and pacing the room in your small clothes, feet padding the floor as they tenderly dressed you.

A light gown of crimson, adorned as it usually was to fit the house colours, lined in black, though understated, by your own request as not to strangle your aching heart with the tight lace of a bodice. Your children tumbled in soon after, afternoon soon gracing the day, in the hands of their nurse and chambermaid, clambering to your side.

You had smiled for once, not the brave one you put on for them or tight lipped for lords and ladies, but a bright, a true grin as Daeron hugged your skirts. The gaps in his smile shone just as wide in a mess of silver gold curls, raising Aerion onto your hip, as his small fists bunched in a familiar scowl, one he’d inherited from his father.

“Is papa home..?” You cupped Daeron’s chubby cheek, smiling down, your eyes flickered to the maid who had finished combing your hair, the first few to hear the news. Her eyes flashed you a bright agreement, nodding.

“I suppose we shall find out.” You urged him on, sinking down from the stool with babe on your hip, following after your son as he started for the door, through the corridors and into the great hall.

You had rounded the corner in a sharp breath before it escaped you entirely.

There he stood.

In a swarm of people, with nobles greeting, their King welcoming, and an exhaustion of soldiers proudly smiling. He stood tall amongst the rest, clad in dirtied black armour, chipped and broken along the plates of his chest. You paused for a moment, taking in the sight before you.

His distant eyes scanned the crowd much like yours did, your feet absentmindedly moving down the steps and into the expanse of hall.

“Papa..” Daeron called ahead of you, his small frame near tripping on the way to his father, who scooped him into the side of his leg careful of the jagged pieces in one arm, placing a steady hand to his back. He smiled, unabashed for once, gazing down at his eldest son with a unique softness. Baelor stood beside with his family, content and in a small circle as he held his eldest in his arm protectively and proud, accepting the well wishes of their return.

Aerion babbled on your hip, only just beginning to speak, mumbling only syllables that you could make out were coos of excitement, and you wiggled your finger at his chest, nearing the congregation. He was a sight to be seen.

A different one than what you expected.

War and battle had aged him in the soon to be year he had been gone.

It had aged him, not disgracefully, but handsomely. The weak stubble of his jaw had turned white in its growth of hair, thick and rugged. His hair neatly smoothed in preparation but the sternness of his brow furrowed deeper, his features striking prominent.

Though in your own staring, you were the sight that truly took his breath. He had searched for you the whole ride back from far in the countryside, watching every woman who passed, only seeing your face. Even as they pulled to the gatehouse, Baelor had to stop him from bolting right then and there, having to deal with the welcome party gratefully, as if they hadn’t just fought for them and were entitled to their own needs.

So he remained tight lipped, nodding where necessary, but his mind only belonged one place. There was duty to be done, but the worst had been over, the bastard was dead, and the war had been finished, waiting for another attack to brew no doubt, but right now in front of him stood the only important thing.

You, your family.

He had taken a stride forward with Daeron in his wake, clinging to his father’s steel leg as he held him tightly.

“Maekar..” His head snapped up, taking you in all at once. The most beautiful and only welcoming comfort he had been given since he had left. No proclamation of courage, or the walls of the keep could change it. The lightness of your gown gifted your radiance, your young son in your arms, the other in his grasp, eyes finding his so sweetly, it tugged something deep into his chest.

You closed the distance, giving all you could not to topple over him then and there, but uncaring of the stares, his arms wrapped around you so tightly as if you were to break. Aerion squeezed between you, hitting at the steel plate of Maekar’s chest in small, futile punches. “Careful.” His voice was gruff, gesturing to the point of his armour, resting the words on his lips, gaze lowering only to look at you.

“I do not care..” You managed as you cried a sigh of relief, falling into his frame as his other hand hugged your son to his side, his lips finding their way to the crown of your head.

——

An hour had passed since then, with you and Maekar seated beside eachother at the feast table that had beenextravagantly set up in the Great Hall. All had been well, celebrations were rife, the children gorging and smiling, cousins playing with each other as the adults drank graciously.

You were the most content you had remembered being in far too long, your hand not leaving Maekar’s even as you moved. And your husband had felt the same, resting his back into the height of the wooden chair, now shed of his armour, comfortably dressed in his crimson-black doublet.

Though one thing ailed him; how much he wanted you.

He had for every night spent in the encampment, trapped in the barracks amid dirt, unwashed men and the strong scent of blood and death. And all he could think of, could see, was you. You smiling, laying in the same bed that he left you in, playing with your boys, you in his arms. His stare became overwhelming as he fell into thought, so much so you attempted to do your best to ignore it, distracting yourself through your own want, though it burned into your skull. Every glance, every fleeting look that met yours, the tightening of his fingers around your knuckles, it grew too much.

And with the grown look of him, you wouldn’t have cared if he’d have taken you right then and there, on the table, for anyone and everyone to see. He hadn’t been against it himself, though he preferred you to himself. And instead rose, the chair scraping behind him, muffled by the cacophonous joy in the room, his hand tugging yours firmly.

He hadn’t looked at you, only sighting your children once who were already giving hell to their maids who attempted to feed them, blissfully oblivious. He had led you both through the wind of hallways to the very door of your chambers before he was on you, kissing you with a tender harshness.

“I wont bear any more of this..” He managed to breathe with his mouth against yours, turning the lock behind you as his hand braced around the small of your back, catching you as the door opened and closed with a rapid movement. You moaned into the kiss as he slid his tongue inside, groaning.

“I have waited far too long.” He admitted.

“You have kept me waiting..” He shrugged his doublet off, tossing it to where it landed on the armchair, the dim light catching his shadow as it met yours.

“A surprise our Prince did not take another while he was away and in need.” It was harmless, a useless jest meant to tease, though it would be a lie if the thought had not crossed your mind. He was loyal beyond belief, even as the women that attempted to compare to you in court had tried, his eyes had never nor wanted to stray. Though even you knew, war made men driven to do mad things, kill, take, lust.

“What?” Maekar snapped, pulling from your mouth only by an inch, still breathing in your space, like yours was the air he needed. His eyes squinted at you, dark and dangerous, but his hands did not move, only tightening around your waist, pinching just enough to make you gasp.

“You think I would dare?” He continued, backing you into the bed, step by step until the backs of your knees knocked onto the oak bedframe. He braced you from falling, his undershirt peeking the lining of his chest, deep, fresh scars etching the skin. “When you are the only one, when this body is the one I have thought of.” He leaned down, lips ghosting yours with an offended reverence, taking the words as a personal insult he sought to deny, and he had reason to.

For it was the only truth, you were the only one.

“You are what I came back for, what I fought for, and you think I mean to fuck a whore..?” He shook you firmly in his hold, breath stuttering with anger and desire. “Maekar I..” You reasoned but he did not relent, kissing you harshly as he laid you down onto the bed, your back falling as he followed, collapsing over you. “Enough. I have been without you for far too long, denied you.. and I wont take another fucking moment of it, not like this.”

His hands roamed your body, his fingers making quick work of the lace at the back of your gown, the lack of boning making it easy to tug off, stitching close to ripping with how he folded it over your head, your chemise bunching with its removal.

“I need you..” He whispered against your lips, purely vulnerable, more than he wanted to allow himself, but it slipped free anyway in a shaky breath, his breeches tightening with restraint he could no longer hold back.

“You have me..” You called back, palm raising to slide against his face, rubbing your fingers through the length of his beard, the feeling unusual, but you smiled through glazed eyes. His eyes flashed with recognition, anger dissipating in your hold, with intent bright in them.

It was not of telling, it was of showing, of proving you were his, as he was yours.

His palms moved the silk of your garment, revealing your breasts and body to him, the curve of your hips complimented in the soft candlelight, for once feeling the comfort of home. You. The tough callouses of his skin ran up yours, smoothing over your body as he cupped your breast.

“Mine.. my heart.” His lips dipped to yours, passionate and remembering, savouring you on his tongue, with the reverence of a man left longing could allow. He worked his way down then, sucking marks at your jaw and into your neck, licking a stripe along your collarbone as his fingers traced along your body. Moving across the stroke of your stomach, touching with the most tenderness he was able to give in months, finding their way to your core.

The heat was unbearable, a tingling etching your spine enough to make your toes curl, you too had been denied far too long, and the first touch of him had sent wetness pooling to your heat, his fingers collecting your arousal on his fingers, he groaned at the feeling, humming at your shoulder.

“Please..” You called out, wanting no more time to wait as your core ached.

“Where..” He paused at your skin, thumbing over your clit in languid strokes working you up further.

“Inside of me.. all of you.” He looked up at you then, gaze lingering on you as if to check, to make sure, and you only nodded, whining as you rocked back into his hand. And he could not deny you any longer, straining against you through the rough material of his trouser.

He found his way back to your neck, casting over your pulse as if to ground himself there, unsheathing himself with one hand and caressing your cheek with the other. A softness he had not let out until that moment, though eager to prove.

He eased into you, sinking in like he did the last time, worshipping and finding, filling you inch by inch as both of you panted. You stretched around him, cunt pulsing with the pleasurable burn his length gave, hips bumping into yours.

“Do not cease to know how I want you, no fucking other, only you, do you understand..?” He gave one last snap, eyes boring deadly into yours accepting no other protest, beginning to rock his hips. And you understood, you understood it well, his body reclaiming yours, as yours did his.

His breeches were shoved to his thighs, scraping the insides of your legs with every thrust as he set the rhythm, unyielding and merciless, snapping into you with a fervor not meant to remember, only to remind. To find what was and to stay there. His fingers teased along your throat, curling around the nape of your neck, holding you up to him as his chest shoved into yours, braced so tightly you could mould.

His cock thrust inside of you deeply, barely inching out of you as he rolled, hitting the spot that kissed your sweetest spot, and you moaned, gutturally and carnal, one that had your thigh curling around him and dragging him into you.

“Fuck, my girl..” He grunted, beard scratching across your face as he captured you once more, dominating your mouth with tongue as he took you.

There was no telling how much time had passed, the sheets tangled and pillows casted to the floor as the bed rocked, creaking with every movement you two remembered just how it was. Never once did you leave each other’s arms, even as your face shoved into the mattress as he rutted into you from behind, grasping your ass tightly with firm smacks. Or as you rode him, rising and falling down onto his cock as he gripped you in place, your clit teased with the light hairs at his base.

Even as you slowly fell into a lulled sleep, pleasured and blissed out, he kept himself inside of you, pressed right into your back as he moved slowly, languidly until you were left warming his cock, swallowing him with unconscious pulses that were leaving promise for the morrow.

His hand splayed over your lower stomach, draping his whole arm over you, as it reached for your fingers, curling them and intertwining them with his own. You hummed, whispering ‘I love you’s’ into the night and into each other, letting it to hang above you and into the air.

“I trust you’ll keep the beard..” You chuckled as he grunted back, pressing a final kiss to your neck that contrasted his hidden eye roll.

“If I must..”

(*) indicates smut

jealousy. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. lyonel

first meeting. ⊹ baelor/lady stark (baelor's pov)

a cooling hand. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

"you choose them. you always do." ⊹ aerion/lady stark

protection. ⊹ baelor/lady stark/maekar

just friends. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

blackwind. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. blackwind

family. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. maekarlings + papa maekar

the bronze fury. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. verminthor (dragons survived the dance!au)

a hug. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

in another life. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark/baelor

always for you. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

a hedge knight. ⊹ dunk/lady stark (platonic)

meaning in death. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

the baby test. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft. verminthor (dragons survived the dance!au)

a sick day. ⊹ baelor/lady stark/maekar

"your man." ⊹ lady stark ft dunk, baelor, lyonel, aerion, maekar.

hair. ⊹ maekar/lady stark

'come to bed.' ⊹ baelor/lady stark/lyonel

'come to bed.' ⊹ aerion/lady stark

house colours. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

'may i have this dance?' ⊹ aerion/lady stark

kiss goodnight ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

today with you. ⊹ aerion/lady stark

forever undone. ⊹ baelor/lady stark

stop before i kiss you. ⊹ lyonel/lady stark

where is my wife? ⊹ maekar/lady stark

modern!aerion ⊹ aerion/lady stark

the kidnapping. ⊹ daemon blackfyre/lady stark

wolf's wrath. ⊹ aerion/lady stark ft egg

beach day. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft valarr && matarys

'i do not want it.' ⊹ maekar/lady stark (*)

can you put that out on me? / explicit version ⊹ aerion/lady stark (modern au)

cracks and pieces. ⊹ baelor/lady stark ft aerion && maekar

currently accepting headcanon/drabble requests and discussions for this series, feel free to send something in!

It’s an old northern trick. Head down, shoulders steady, move like a shadow along the wall, a wolf on the prowl unseen but ever watchful. Your father has gone on ahead with the king and his council, leaving you to find your own way back to your chambers. Winterfell’s halls never felt like this. Here, the Red Keep seems to breathe and move around you, full of hot blood and sharper teeth than any wolf. Someone’s sleeve catches on the edge of your own; a jewelled clasp scrapes your wrist, and you jerk back on instinct. You murmur an apology, the words swallowed by the noise, and edge closer to the wall, feeling the rush of bodies pressing past.

That’s when the crowd surges.

The doors behind you open again with a thud, and a fresh crush of courtiers spills out, seemingly all at once. A tall knight in a gilded plate cuts across your path; a lady with a fan like a small battle shield sways into you, chuckling too loudly, flushed from wine. Your shoulder hits stone, and you almost bare your teeth in irritation. The air leaves your lungs in a soft, muffled sound that no one hears. You’re not used to this many people in your space, breathing down your neck, and your neck prickles. 

You don’t see him at first, but you do feel him.

A warm pressure closes around your elbow, steadying you before you can stumble. The grip is sure but careful, fingers splayed so as not to bruise. Before you can turn, that touch slides—down, in, claiming a span of you that no one at court has dared to yet.

His hand finds your waist.

Not a greedy clutch or a drag. But a quiet, decisive claim, palm fitting to the narrowest part of you as if it was always meant to rest there. He doesn’t pull; he guides, the way one might guide a skittish mare out of a tight pen. The heat of his body is at your back, a wall as solid as any of Winterfell’s stones, and suddenly the crowd is no longer pressing you into the wall; he is moving you through it.

“Forgive me, my lady,” a low voice murmurs just behind your ear. “There’s more room this way.”

He steps forward, and you find yourself moving with him, his hand a firm point of balance against your waist. People part without thinking; even in the crush, bodies turn, shoulders dip, conversations falter for half a heartbeat as they register who is passing among them.

Prince Baelor.

You’ve seen him from afar, of course.

At the high table during the welcoming feast, back when you first arrived, where the firelight turned his dark hair copper at the edges. In the training yard, in passing, long-limbed and lethal with a spear, moving with the unhurried grace of someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is and has no need to prove it. Beside the king in council, broad shoulders bent over a table of maps, the Hand pin gleaming across his breast. He carries all three faces with him now—the warrior, the prince, the Hand—as he clears a path for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The southern ladies watch you pass with wide, speculative eyes. Their whispers press in around you like heat, and you know full well what they’re thinking.

A northern wolf on the Crown Prince’s arm.

Not his arm, you think desperately, bones quaking beneath your skin. His hand. His hand is on your—

You barely catch yourself before your feet tangle in the hem of your gown. Baelor’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, fingers curving more securely into the fabric at your waist. Gentle, still, but not in the least uncertain. The contact steals the rest of your breath. You have been shoved and jostled and knocked sideways plenty of times in the past, but this is something different. 

This is a man who knows the weight of his own body, of his own strength, and chooses—deliberately—to make you feel safe beneath his touch.

It is ridiculous how your bones seem to melt around that realisation.

By the time your thoughts catch up, he has manoeuvred you into a small side gallery off the main corridor—a little alcove open to the night, its stone balustrade looking out over the black curve of Blackwater Bay. The noise of the court drops away like a curtain falling. Only a few stragglers pass the archway, casting you quick, curious looks before hurrying on.

Baelor steps back. His hand leaves your waist, the loss of it sharp as stepping out of a hot bath into cold air. Your skin remembers the shape of his fingers even as his touch fades, phantom-strong still.

“My apologies,” he says, giving you space, and Gods be good, he even bows a little, as if he hasn’t just steadied and steered you through the throng like you weighed less than a sword. “The crowd was… overzealous.”

You swallow, trying to coax your voice back into existence. You have faced down freezing storms and hungry wolves. You have stood before your lord father’s council and spoken on matters of grain and garrison. None of that prepared you for Baelor Breakspear looking at you as if you are the only person in all of King’s Landing who matters at this exact moment.

“It was…” You clear your throat, the words scraping on their way out. “Thank you, Your Grace. I was managing well enough.”

One dark brow lifts, visibly amused. “Were you?”

Sensation of heat creeps up your neck, and you’re unsure if it’s embarrassment or anger, or both. 

He does not resemble the Targaryens of the old songs. No otherworldly silver hair, no jittering violet gaze. Baelor is all warm gold skin and midnight hair already catching a few strands of grey, Dornish sun softened by the formidable Valyrian bone structure. The dragon is in the tilt of his nose, the high cut of his cheekbones, the fine line of his mouth and the steely gleam in his dark eyes.

He looks at you steadily, and you have the unpleasant suspicion he can read more in your silence than you’d like.

“I am not accustomed to so many people,” you manage at last, clasping your hands in front of you so he cannot see them fidget. “Winterfell’s halls are quieter.”

“And colder, I imagine.” His mouth curves, but there is no mockery in it, only curiosity. “Your father has told me tales of snows higher than a man’s head, of wolves the size of ponies.”

“They’re only that big when you’re very small,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Or when the men telling stories have had too much wine.”

He laughs. It’s not loud, not like some of the booming, performative mirth you’ve heard at the feast. It’s low and genuine, like the rumble of distant thunder rolling across the fields in high summer.

“So there are no monstrous beasts lurking in your forests?” he asks.

“Oh, there are,” you say quietly. “They just don’t always have four legs.”

His eyes sharpen on your face. You regret the words as soon as they’re out, but you steel your spine and hold his gaze. The north teaches you to stand firm from a young age; the south seems to require it even more.

“Court can be… trying,” he says after a beat, gentling the subject with care. “Even for those born to it. You’ve only been here a week, my lady. It is no failing to find the noise overwhelming.”

You wonder if he finds it overwhelming, too—the heir to a dynasty unlike any other in the world, the half-Dornish boy who grew into a man caught between too many expectations. You have heard the whispers about his mother’s people, the sneers for his sun-dark skin, the grudging admiration for his skill in battle.

You know what it means to be out of place.

“Winterfell is quiet,” you tell him, surprising yourself. “But it’s a good quiet. Solid. The kind that lets you hear your own thoughts.” You glance back toward the corridor, where the hum of voices still spills past. “Here, it feels like my thoughts are drowned before I can have them.”

Baelor nods, slow, as if weighing your words. “You are your father’s heir, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then they will not be drowned,” he says simply. “They will learn to swim. And those who would prefer not to hear them will have to learn to listen.”

The certainty in his tone startles you more than the feel of his hand had.

“You sound very sure of that, Your Grace.”

“I try to be.” That hint of humour returns, dimming the intensity of his gaze just enough to let you breathe. “It is expected of me. People are comforted by conviction, even when it’s borrowed.”

“That seems… dangerous,” you say. “To borrow conviction.”

“It can be,” he agrees with a pleased nod. “So it’s important to borrow from the right people.”

His eyes catch yours. For a moment, the air between you feels as thick as honey and twice as warm.

“And who do you borrow from?” you ask curiously, because your mouth is braver than your good sense.

“From those who know how to stand in the cold,” he says softly, “and do not flinch.”

The world narrows in, down to the shape of him against the torchlit stone, the calm weight of his attention. You have never felt so acutely the distance between your body and someone else’s. A step. Less than that, maybe. You remember the heat of his palm through your gown, the steady line of his fingers, the way the crowd parted as if he carried his own weather with him.

There are worse storms to be caught in, you think.

A shout from the main corridor breaks whatever held the moment taut. A serving boy runs past the archway, chased by another, laughter echoing behind them. The spell shivers and eases, dispelling. Baelor straightens a little, the prince’s mantle settling more visibly around his shoulders again.

“May I see you safely back to your chambers, my lady?” he asks. “It seems I’ve already half-abducted you from the feast. I’d rather not leave you to brave the crush alone again.”

“That’s not necessary,” you begin automatically. “I won’t wish to trouble you.”

Northerners do not like to seem fragile; Starks, least of all.

He tilts his head. “Indulge me, then.”

You hesitate. You can hear the court whispering already, if you close your eyes. The northern lady on the prince’s arm. The wolf at the dragon’s side. Oh, what tales they’ll spin out of the sight of you side by side, and yet…

You are tired of being a story told by others.

“I suppose,” you say, unable to scrub the wariness out of your voice, “if Your Grace insists…”

The grin that answers you is brief but unexpectedly bright, one quick flash of unguarded warmth that softens the stern, strong angles of his face.

“I do,” he says, offering his arm.

You place your hand on his forearm, careful, aware of every point of contact. The fine fabric beneath your palm, the solid muscle beneath that, the way his skin heats the air between you. When you step back into the corridor, you feel the weight of a hundred eyes. You hold your head high, the way your mother taught you before she died. A Stark does not bow to the weather, you remind yourself. Starks are of old blood, steel and ice, everlasting. 

When you step back into the corridor, the noise washes over you in a hot wave. Laughter, clattering plates, the distant shrill of a pipe. The torches spit and smoke, scenting the air with pitch and singed dust.

You feel every pair of eyes. Every turn of a jewelled head.

Baelor moves as if he does not. As if the crowd is nothing more than a current he’s long since learned to read. A subtle shift of his shoulders here, a courteous incline of his head there, and the sea parts for him in due deference. The hush that follows your wake is thin but perceptible, like the trail of a blade through water. When a young lord, flushed and unsteady, staggers too close, Baelor’s free hand comes up between you and the impending collision. His palm brushes low at your side—just a ghost of contact at your waist as he guides the man past with a quiet word.

It is almost nothing.

Almost.

Your breath slows in your lungs. Your body knows the shape of that hand now; your bones seem to bow under it like a sword under a smithy’s hammer. The place where his fingers rest for that heartbeat feels branded. He does not look down at you right away. It would be too much, you think, to meet his eyes in the same moment his hand is on your body. Instead, he steers you past another knot of courtiers, past a herald arguing with a servant over spilt wine.

Only when the press thins a little does he speak.

“How are you finding the south, my lady?” he asks lightly, as if making idle conversation in a garden instead of cutting a path through a hall of vipers. “Truly. Not the answer you give my father.”

The honest answer rises, sharp and instinctive, before you can dress it in courtesy.

“It’s… overwhelming,” you admit warily. “Too hot. Too loud. Too much of everything, all at once.” The words taste like snowmelt and iron on your tongue. “The walls feel close, and the sky feels far. It smells of roses and rot.”

Baelor’s mouth twitches. “Rot?” he echoes, visibly amused. “I’m not sure the Master of Whisperers has turned that phrase yet. I’ll be sure he hears it.”

Heat flickers up your neck again, this time at your own lack of tact. “I did not mean—”

“I asked for truth,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “And you gave it to me. It is… rarer here than you might think.”

He glances sideways at you then, eyes catching the torchlight. There’s humour there, yes, but something else coils beneath it, something like relief.

“What does Winterfell smell of?” he asks curiously, keeping an easy, unhurried pace. “When it is not buried in snow tall as a man.”

The corridor takes a slight bend, opening up, awashed in the golden glow of torches. Your skirts whisper against the rushes; your fingers flex once against his sleeve, steadying yourself more than your feet require.

“Pine and smoke,” you answer, unable to keep the wishful note out of your voice. “Wet stone. Horse and leather and cold iron. The kennels, if the wind is wrong.” Your mouth curves despite yourself. “Wet wool, too, in winter. Everything smells faintly of wet wool.”

“And you miss that?” His tone is faintly incredulous. “Kennels and wet wool?”

You think of empty courtyards glazed with frost; of dark pine branches loaded with snow, bending but not breaking. Of the comforting roughness of your father’s cloak around your shoulders, scratchy and heavy and honest because back home, words and oaths are sacred. The weight of awareness you get whenever you sit next to the weirwood trees, feeling like every Stark whose come before you is pressing their attention into your skin, urging you forward. 

“Yes,” you say simply. “Very much.”

His smile softens, the sharp edges of his face easing for a moment into something almost boyish despite the faint brushes of grey you glimpse across the scruff on his face and temples.

“You sound homesick, Lady Stark.”

“I am,” you admit, more bare than you would care to admit. “But I suppose homesickness is easier to bear than being foolish.”

“Foolish?”

“To be offered a place at court and complain that the tapestries are the wrong colour,” you say dryly. “The south has… beauty. Even if it shouts it.” Your gaze snags on a high-arched window, on the spill of moonlight over red stone. “I don’t know yet if I like it. But I can’t say it’s dull.”

A low huff of laughter escapes Baelor. “That may be the kindest thing anyone has said about King’s Landing in years. Not dull. I’ll inform the small council that we can put it on the banners.”

You hazard a sidelong look at him, emboldened by your own honesty. “And what does it feel like to you, Your Grace?” you wonder aloud, scanning the mighty stone structure. “This city. This court. You were not born to it either, not entirely.”

His jaw moves, a small shift beneath sun-browned skin. The hand on your arm remains steady, heavy weight.

“It feels,” he replies slowly, “like standing in a room where everyone is shouting in a language you learned late. You know the words. You know what to say. But some part of you is always listening for a cadence that never comes.”

“Dorne,” you say softly.

“My mother,” he corrects, just as soft. “And the Marches. And the men I fought beside in the Stepstones who never cared what name my grandfather bore. Here, everything is flattery and intrigue. There, it was whether you held the line.”

You imagine him not in a gilded plate but in plain mail gone tacky with salt and blood; imagine that same steady hand closing around a spear instead of your arm, ending lives instead of preserving them. A man who knows the weight of his own strength, and the weight of others’ lives in it.

“That sounds lonely,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His gaze flicks to your face. “It is,” he admits, much to your surprise. “Sometimes. But then, I suppose any place where you must be two things at once is lonely.”

You swallow.

“I know something of that. Stark and heir. Daughter and—” You cut yourself off, teeth closing on the word. Lady. The one who will have to be hard enough for both, a placeholder until you marry and your sons inherit Winterfell instead. “The hall looks very different when you sit in your father’s chair instead of standing before it.”

He hums, a thoughtful, rumbling sound. “Do you miss being only one thing?” he questions, but you can tell it’s not an attempt to pry, and more so genuine curiosity he’s indulging in.

You consider his question properly, rather than offering him the fabricated response that would be safer. You’re nearing the quieter wings now, where guest chambers sleep behind thick doors, and the clamour of court is more blissfully muffled, giving you a moment to hear each other properly.

“I miss,” you say at last, “having room to make mistakes where fewer people could see.”

He laughs again at that, a warm, surprised sound that feels less like thunder and more like the crackle of a hearth catching.

“You may find,” he retorts, a smile in his voice, “that most of us are still making mistakes. We’re just better at pretending they were intentional.”

“That sounds very southern,” you say primly.

“Oh, it is,” Baelor agrees with a low huff. “We dress our errors in silk and call them a plan.”

A smile tugs at your mouth, reluctant but real. “In the north, we bury ours in the snow and pretend they were never there.”

“I’ve heard,” he says mildly, “that the things buried in the north have a way of walking again.”

You meet his eyes properly then, the weight of his words settling between you like a stone dropped in deep water. For a heartbeat, you think you see something there—a question, perhaps, or a warning, or recognition.

“That depends,” you say, voice low, “on what you put in the ground.”

His gaze lingers on you. The world tilts, just slightly. Then he exhales, the moment easing.

“I see,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I shall try not to offend your gods, then. I’m told they prefer honesty as well.”

“Yes,” you say, fingers tightening briefly on his sleeve. “They do.”

You turn another corner together. The torches here burn lower; the stones are cooler underfoot. The murmur of the feast has dulled to a distant roar, like the sea against cliffs. He slows as you reach the stretch of corridor that leads to your chamber. You recognise the heavy-carved door at the far end, the two guards posted discreetly beyond it—Stark men, standing a little straighter as the prince approaches.

Baelor comes to a halt a few paces short, so you are not under their direct gaze. Only then does he gently disengage his arm, leaving your hand suspended stupidly in the air for an instant before you recall it to yourself. The loss of contact is abrupt, like stepping out from under a fur cloak into naked winter wind. You feel the awareness of him along your skin where he is not touching you.

“Here we are,” he says quietly. “Unabducted, as promised.”

You huff, the sound almost a laugh. “I don’t recall giving you leave to abduct me in the first place, Your Grace.”

His eyes glint. “Ah, but I recall saving you from assault by silk and steel in the king’s own hall. We might call it a kidnapping in your defence.”

You dare a little tilt of your chin. “If you wished to impress a northern lord, Your Grace, I fear you would have to drag me over your shoulder rather than lead me politely by the arm.”

The grin that flashes across his face is quick and wicked, gone almost before it fully forms, a glint of heat entering and leaving his gaze in a blink.

“Duly noted,” he murmurs, and there is something in his tone that makes your stomach dip. “I will revise my tactics should the need arise.”

You hold his gaze, somehow impossibly darker in the shadowed hall, but it does not frighten you. There’s no ill will to be found on his face, and while you’re well aware men can be deceitful and hide their intent well, there’s something in the prince’s expression that eases your hackles down. 

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, your gazes locked. 

“Thank you,” you say finally, because Stark courtesy runs as deep as Stark stubbornness. You dip your head in a grateful half-bow. “For your help. And for asking how I fare and not how my father thinks I fare.”

“You are very welcome,” he returns promptly, unblinking as his gaze slides across the planes of your face. “It is… a relief, Lady Stark, to speak to someone who does not answer every question with flattery or a calculation.”

You hesitate, then venture, “You seem to me a man who does many calculations, Your Grace.”

“Oh, I do,” Baelor admits, amused again, skin around his eyes crinkling like he’s pleased you noticed. “But every now and then I like to remember what it is to simply listen.”

Something in your chest loosens at that. “I hope, then,” you say, “that I did not disappoint.”

His gaze sweeps your face again, and you feel it like a touch—cool across your brow, warm along your cheek, skimming over the curve of your lips so swiftly you would have missed it had you not been watching him just as closely.

“On the contrary,” he murmurs. “You have given me more to think on than half the lords I’ve spoken with this fortnight.”

Your throat feels too dry, but you still force yourself to speak. “That seems unwise,” you manage after a beat. “To let a homesick northerner trouble the mind of the king’s Hand.”

Baelor inclines his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps,” he says, a small wrinkle appearing between his strong brows. “Or perhaps that is exactly the mind I should be troubled by.”

The words hang there, a small, bright spark in the dim corridor. You glance away first, pulse thrumming in your ears while you fight to keep your expression perfectly schooled. 

“We have kept late enough hours,” you begin, retreating a half step into politeness because you can feel the ground tilting under your feet. “I should not take more of your time, Your Grace.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Baelor,” he says, almost too low to hear.

You blink. “…Your Grace?”

“If we are to be honest with one another,” he continues, a glint back in his eye, “it seems unfair that you have given me snow and rot and wet wool, and I have given you only titles. You may call me Baelor when we are not being watched, if you wish.”

Your heart gives a single, startled thud. “That would be… irregular,” you acknowledge faintly.

“Nearly everything worth doing is,” he replies quietly, then his tone gentles. “But I will not press it upon you, my lady. I know wolves walk slowly with their trust.”

You draw in a breath that tastes of stone dust and something else. Metal, maybe, or dragonfire, that these halls still recall from the age when dragons still flew through the skies.

“Then you must allow me a compromise,” you hear yourself say. “It would not do for word to spread that I address the Crown Prince like an old friend after a single walk down a hallway.”

“Of course not,” he says solemnly, though you can see laughter waiting at the edge of his mouth.

“So instead,” you continue, feeling oddly reckless, “you’ll have to endure something only a little less improper.”

His brows rise, waiting patiently. You give him the full weight of your Stark gaze, cool and steady, and bow your head just enough that it could be courtesy or defiance.

“Good night,” you say, every word measured, “my Lord Prince.”

The title should sound stiff, far too formal on your tongue. It does not. It sounds like a jest between the two of you alone, like you’ve taken his rank and wrapped it in something warmer. For a heartbeat, he just scrutinises you. Then that smile breaks over Baelor’s face again—real and surprised and vividly, disarmingly pleased, making him look moons younger. It softens the battle-hardened angles of his handsome face, turns him from statue, a fable, to man, flesh and blood.

“Lady Stark,” he answers, and now it is you who feels seen, the words settling over your shoulders like a cloak sewn to your exact measure. “Sleep well. Try not to dream too unkindly of our rot and roses.”

“I shall do my best, my Lord Prince,” you say dryly. “Though I make no promises about the roses.”

He laughs, low and delighted. It feels like a secret you’ve earned. He steps back then, just enough to bow properly. It is not the deep, sweeping gesture he gives the queen or the king, but neither is it the perfunctory nod you’ve seen him grant lesser lords. It is something in between, tailored to fit this narrow stretch of corridor and the strange, fragile thing that has grown between you in it.

When he straightens, he looks briefly, dangerously as if he might say more, ask more. But the guards at the end of the hall shift, armour chinking, and the spell trembles, coming apart at the seams.

“Good night,” he says again, more composed. “May the gods—old and new—watch your rest.”

You incline your head once more, fingers curled tight in your skirts to keep from fidgeting, then turn toward your door before your resolve can crack.

You feel his gaze on your back all the way to the threshold.

Only when the door has shut behind you, and you are alone with the banked fire and the distant, muffled roar of the city, do you let yourself sag against the wood. Your heart beats high and wild in your throat, like a trapped bird. You cross to the window on unsteady legs. Blackwater Bay lies beyond, a dark, glimmering curve, torchlight from the harbour pricking its surface like fallen stars. The night air that slides in is cooler, but still heavy compared to home. It smells of salt and smoke and something metallic underneath.

You press your palm to your waist, to the place where his hand rested. Your fingers span only half the space his did; the memory of his touch burns in the gap between, forcing a shiver.

It is absurd, how it unsettles you. How a single hand at your waist, a single walk down a crowded hall, a single traded jest—Lady Stark. My Lord Prince—can make the Red Keep feel… altered. Tilted, as if someone has shifted its weight on the hill by a fraction of an inch. 

The south is still too bright, too loud, too hot. The air still feels crowded. You still miss the honest cold of Winterfell with a dull ache that never quite leaves your bones. But tonight, when you close your eyes, you do not only see red stone and leering gargoyles and tapestries heavy with dust and history of blood and fire. You see a prince who moved through a crush of bodies as if they were nothing but reeds in a current, who put his hand between you and the world and did not once pretend you were a burden to bear.

You hear his low voice sounding out Lady Stark as if it is a name he chose for himself, not one sewn onto you at birth. You hear your own, reckless tongue calling him my Lord Prince as if the words can both tease and test at once.

Later, much later, you will understand that this was the first time you spoke to one another not as pieces on a board—north and crown, wolf and dragon—but as two people standing in the same crowded, suffocating hall, both trying to remember how to breathe.

For now, you only know this:

In a place that still does not feel like yours, under a sky that feels too far away, someone reached out and steadied you without demanding anything in return.

If dragons can learn to move carefully, you think, fingertips pressed to the phantom mark of his palm, perhaps wolves can learn to bear the heat.

Oh. Oh, last night happened. Last night was definitely real.

“We’ve got work,” you say, voice thickened with sleep, sliding the alarm off from your phone.

“I called us out.”

You pause. “When?”

“Last night. I forgot that you probably had an alarm.”

You rub your eyes, blearily staring at a message from Lena that tells you to take it easy and to reach out if you need anything else.

“C’mere.” His breath fanning across your back.

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you at the sensation. Phone placed flipped down, turning around to face him. “Thank you.”

He hums.

“But don’t manage my schedule without consulting me first,” you say. “Please.”

Jack blinks at you. You both know the added Please is just to appear polite. “Okay,” he relents.

“Thank you.” Shuffling into him, your eyes drifting shut again.

The next time you wake, you’re riding his thigh. You don’t even remember if you had been dreaming or not. Just that you’re awake, chasing your pleasure. Fuck. This is embarrassing.

“Uh uh, baby.” Jack’s awake. Was woken up by you grinding yourself against his thigh. It took everything in him not to get himself inside you while you were asleep.

This feels doubly embarrassing for you. He’s witnessed you acting like a teenager with a wet dream.

“Don’t stop just because you woke up.” And his hand grips your hip, dragging you up his thigh. He pushes his knee in closer.

Your forehead thumps against his chest. Moaning. “Jack.”

His fingers nudging your underwear aside, smearing your slick along his fingers. Catching your clit.

You buck up, whining. Sensitive, still. From last night. Yesterday. Whatever time of day it was. Night shift has long altered the way you perceive time.

“Three wasn’t enough for you, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “You need more than that? I’m not taking care of my baby, is that it?” Two fingers sliding inside of you.

You muffle your gasp into his sternum. “No,” you keen. “You do.” Pushing yourself closer to him. Like you want to crawl behind his ribcage, insert yourself right next to his heart. “You do.” You can’t have him thinking less of himself. The problem is you, it’s always you. Too needy. Too much.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay, honey. I’m not mad,” Jack says. His thumb against your clit. Rubbing. “Just take what you need.”

Tears in your eyes, fucking yourself into his fingers. It feels good. Too good. Your clit still feels sensitive. “Hurts,” you whine.

“Yeah? You want to stop?”

“No.” Mouthing at his skin, along his collarbone. A hand gripping his bicep.

“You still want to come?”

“Yes,” you utter. “Please.”

“Yeah, of course you do. Just sleeping next to me made you so horny you started humping my leg in your sleep, huh? Couldn’t even let me fucking rest. You wanted this, baby. Show me what you wanted to take from me.”

You could combust into flames, with the way he’s talking, the way he’s making you feel. Fire broiling beneath your skin. Exhaled with the moans you release.

Your orgasm crashes into you. Body shuddering, soft little ah, ah, Jack, ah, please emitted. Your arm hooked around his shoulder, riding his hand. Down on his fingers, up into his thumb.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. Lazy kisses along your jawline, his other hand against the crown of your scalp, angling your head back. His fingers still moving. “God, you’re so perfect.”

Trembling with the overstimulation. High pitched whimpers escaping from your throat. Tears leaking.

“Too much?”

You nod. Make a complaining noise, unable to speak.

“Okay, baby.” Shuffling closer to kiss you, lips on yours as he slides his fingers out. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” Murmuring. Shifting back down.

“Don’t go.” Words pressed against his neck, into his carotid.

“Never.” A promise woven between the two of you, legs tangled together.

Jack keeps staring at you.

The confines of your apartment walls, a meal shared during the sunlight hours after yesterday.

You’re both on your couch. It’s not a large one, but still big enough that you can occupy the opposite ends with your feet in his lap.

You put down the book you’re reading, looking up at him. His focus on you.

“What?” he asks.

“That’s my question to you.”

“You’re staring.”

“So are you. You’ve been staring since we woke up.”

“I can’t look at you?”

Despite the way you were completely exposed to him yesterday, you get shy at his question. Looking away, teeth sinking into your lower lip as your face scrunches, a smile that you don’t sanction stretching across your lips.

Jack studies you, grinning. “Getting shy?”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

His eyes are like fire when they’re trained on you. “So talk.”

“I… hm. You gotta stop looking at me like that.”

A sly smile on his face. Definitely aware of his effect. “C’mere.” Straightening up, hand rubbing up your ankle.

You place the book on the rug below, crawling across the couch to decrease the space. Perch yourself in his lap. Palms to his face, cradling. His attached to the side of your thighs. You’re both quiet, studying each other. “You keep looking at me like you want to say something.”

Jack slides one of his hands to one of yours, angling his head to kiss your palm. Somehow you knew him well enough to know that about him. “You were out of it, but… you said you love me. Yesterday.”

You smile, a small thing. “I do. I’m not expecting you to say it back. I know it’s complicated, um—with you being a widower.”

Jack forehead creases. “I was—”

“It’s okay.”

“But I—”

You lean in to kiss him. Maybe because you want him to understand that you don’t have the expectation. Maybe because you don’t want to feel like him saying it is merely an obligation to respond, just because you said it first.

“It’s okay,” you say. Bumping you nose against his. “I mean it. Please don’t say it yet.”

Jack frowns. “Okay,” he says. The obvious answer, simply because you asked. And he will give into you, time and time again.

Nothing changes.

At work, that is. Outwardly.

You’re still professional, maintaining an invisible degree of separation.

If Jack looks at you and thinks about the noises he knows you make; the way you become eager and desperate for him; the way you submit for him; and is a little heavy handed with the praises just to see you squirm? Well. That’s only for him to know.

And for him to deal with, after your shared shifts are done. In the privacy of his or your bedroom walls.

In the wake of Jack taking a day off for you, you’re told you’ll be shunted with a double shift—starting with the day shift, then staying for your regularly scheduled night.

Weeks later, they finally cash it in. You should have known the rare weekend off was too good to be true. 48 hours off just to body-slam you with 24 hours on. Whoever managed the schedules had a sense of humour that rivalled the wishes made to a monkey’s paw.

You come in half an hour before shift change. Part of it is to ensure you get to see night shift. The other part of it is to maintain a good relationship with the day shifters. There’s only been a few occasions where you work with them. Most often than not, it’s an outstanding MCI. During those times, the last thing on your mind was a good impression.

“You better be in one piece when I come back,” Lena says, winking at you.

You can’t help the laugh. “Of course I will be.”

Dana grins. “Day shift has less wild patients. We’ll be fine.”

“20 bucks,” you say. “20 bucks to Dana if I’m in one piece by the time night shift gets back.”

“Deal.”

“You betcha.”

A handshake between the two charge nurses. You’re both the bet objective and witness. You make yourself scarce as they hand-off their duties.

“Here you go.” Dr Shen gifts you an iced coffee.

Your mouth drops opened. Regardless of how many times you’ve wheedled the attending for one, his Dunkin traditions remain a solo thing. “For me?”

“Quit making it a big deal before I take it back.”

“Wait, no take backs.” You grab the cup.

“Good luck. You’re repping night shift today.”

You almost feel like a kid being dropped off at school. “With you running things? I don’t think we have much of a reputation.”

Shen makes a face. “I’m taking the coffee—”

“No take backs!” You scamper away. Or, at least, try to. A two person collision, resulting in a firm hand gripping your shoulder to steady you.

“Careful—”

A sucked in gasp. “I’m so sorry, Dr Robby.” Thankfully, whatever coffee deity exists has deemed you worthy enough that the beverage hasn’t splashed onto him. You think you could die from mortification if it did.

“Just as I was talking about repping the night shift,” Shen mutters, assumedly under his breath, but it ends up being loud enough for you to hear.

Robby eyes your drink, then his attention flickers between the two of you. He shakes his head. “There cannot be two of you.”

“Of course not,” you say, quick, before Shen can impose whatever untruths he considers necessary. “I’m nothing like Dr Shen. You can actually rely on me, Dr Robby, sir.”

“Remind me to never do anything good for you, ever again,” Shen says, scowling. Evidently, you’ve never heard of the saying ‘never bite the hand that feeds you’.

You press your lips into a line, trying not to giggle. You make the mistake of meeting Robby’s gaze, who looks like he, too, is fighting a losing battle to mirth.

There are two of you. He doesn’t know how Jack does it. He can already feel the beginnings of a headache, and he hasn’t even officially started yet. Hell, Shen is meant to be going home soon. He shakes his head.

“Hey, there you are.” Parker rescuing you from the testosterone party at Central. An arm hooked around your shoulders, a quick greeting to Dr Robby before she waylays you. “I know we’re going to do hand-offs soon, but I’ve got a kid in Central 11. I really need your touch in there.”

“Yeah, of course. You got it, Dr Ellis.”

“Thank you.” She takes note of the iced coffee, grinning. “Shen was missing you today. We all did.”

“I’ll be back with you guys in 12 hours.”

“Is this your first 24?”

“First full 24.” You’ve done less hours before. Unscheduled overtime that saw you doing 18 hour days, sometimes. Woes of working in a hospital.

“Good luck. Have fun. But remember you’re stuck with us, not them.”

“Oh really, us and them?” McKay sidling up to the conversation, raising an eyebrow at Parker.

“You can’t poach our nurses,” Parker says.

“Don’t act like you guys aren’t trying to poach Mohan and Santos.”

“No comment.”

McKay turns to you.

You silently mime zipping your lips. You’re sworn into silence.

“This is why we don’t like night shift.”

“Hey,” both you and Parker protest.

McKay only laughs. “Alright, you can head out, Parker. We’ll take care of the stray.”

Parker salutes the both of you before she heads for the break room.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just haven’t pulled a 24 yet. They’re just making sure I’m good for it.”

McKay gives you a look that says she means more than just today. The last minute day off that Dr Abbot had taken had circulated the rumour mill around the Pitt. Time is the only thing that buried it.

But the way that McKay looks at you—it’s like she remembers that she had missed seeing you during that shift change. People had been so preoccupied with Dr Abbot that they forgot about the night shift nurses—the absent one, and a worried charge nurse.

“If you ever need to talk to someone,” she trails off.

“Thank you,” you say, because it’s easier than telling her that you would rather not. Jack finding out had been embarrassing enough. You were lucky that he was him. That you were you. That it worked out for the both of you.

As if sensing your unwillingness to talk, McKay squeezes your shoulder before she walks away. “I’m in chairs if you need me.”

“Got it, Dr McKay.” You take yourself back to Central. You try not to make in abundantly obvious that you notice Jack there. Arms crossed talking in low tones with Robby.

Jack sends you a lingering, sidelong look that you pretend doesn’t make you shiver. A slow tilt of his head towards the break room, an eyebrow raised. A silent request. And like all his requests, you obey. You make your way there. Busy yourself with washing the dishes dumped in the sink. Not technically your job, but it keeps your hands occupied.

Two minutes later, Jack’s in the break room, the door closing behind him.

Robby doesn’t know what compels him to follow, waiting until Jack’s no longer paying attention to him.

“Just take care of him like you would me,” Jack says.

Robby’s creeping. He knows. He doesn’t hear you say anything, but you must reply with a look, because Jack laughs. It’s something soft and fond. Not a sound he usually hears inside the walls of the Pitt.

“Alright. Maybe not.” Then he snorts. “Not unless he wants to.”

“Unless he—what?” you ask.

Jack hums.

From the sliver of opening, Robby sees Jack lean in close to you. Oh. Jack’s kissing you. Pieces falling into place. The long story that Jack never really told him in full. The day off he had taken. The only explanation he provided to Robby was that something’s wrong with one of my nurses.

It was you, all those weeks ago.

Really, Robby should have known. Jack’s ambience in the Pitt changed, not a drastic one, but something that usually followed in the wake of one of those nights. Sometimes Robby found Jack a willing partner when he noticed that the other attending was in his own head; sometimes they were each other’s fulfilment. It’s been a long friendship, the two of them. There was very little that wasn’t shared between them.

And yet, not a word about this.

Interesting.

Robby walks away before anyone starts to get suspicious of his presence outside the closed break room.

The thing about scrub change during night shift is they don’t get the luxury of taking time. Not like the day shift. And especially not between the heathen hours of midnight to 3 AM. Those three hours are always filled with intoxicated people, alcohol poisoning, and an abundance of vomit and blood.

With a smaller pool of staff, Jack has forgone squirrelling away into a bathroom for scrub change. It’s not an enacted rule, per se, but when every one of his doctors are balancing a higher volume of patients and fluids, it’s hard to spare the extra ten minutes to change clothes, get the new scrubs, then change again in a bathroom.

It’s something that the rest of the night shift has also adopted. Shen, Parker, Tim, Bridget. Lena, in the rare occasions that she leaves her station at the Central desk. All the other nurses and doctors that you work with.

It had taken you a while to get used to it. You didn’t have the years of familiarity when you first joined. But it had been one of those nights. A toddler crying so forcefully they made themselves sick. A man found unconscious in his home, and the first thing he did upon waking was expel the contents of his stomach. A woman with an arterial bleed.

“Scrub change!” you called out to Lena. She waves you off. As long as Lena knows where everyone is, the department will run smoothly. It was one of the first things you learned when starting. Tell Nurse Lena everything. She’ll take care of it.

Usually you’d change in the bathroom. But. You can hear how the night is getting to everyone. Even in the quick way that Lena waved to acknowledge you, hair plastered to her forehead.

You don’t have time. You need to get back out there.

You’re stripped down, goosebumps across your skin. Old scrubs in. Waiting for your new ones.

And that’s how Jack finds you. Directed towards the scrub machine by Lena when he asked for an extra pair of hands. He knows that his new staff are a little more uncertain about changing right in front of the machine. So he’s expecting to find you there clothed.

He says your name. “I need—”

“One sec.” Hopping with a knee bent, sliding into your pants. The top pulled on after. “Yes, sir?”

Jack’s looking away, jaw set. It’s not the first time he’s seen his staff out here. But it’s the first time he’s seen you. He had no idea you had any tattoos. Scratch that—why the fuck would he need to know that about you?

“Need you in Trauma 2,” he says, eventually.

“You got it, Dr Abbot.”

So.

Night shift scrub change. Different from day shift. A fact you forget after helping Dr Whitaker with an arterial bleed.

“Whoa!” Dana’s the one that drapes a spare patient gown over you.

“What—?” You blink at her.

She blinks at you.

“This isn’t night shift,” you breathe out your realisation.

“This isn’t night shift,” Dana agrees.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” a new voice. Crap. “If I had a body like that, I’d show it off too.”

“Thank you, Myrna.” You flee into the bathroom. Fucking hell. So much for not embarrassing yourself in front of the day shift. Donning the patient gown, you’re back at scrub change, waiting for the new set of scrubs. It already feels like a longer process. You’d already be in new ones at this point. Jack was definitely onto something when he made the decision.

New scrubs obtained, then back into the bathroom to change. Patient gown discarded.

“So, when you guys are trying to talk me into joining nights,” Santos’ voice, walking alongside you to Central. “Is this what I have to look forward to? A free show?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You saw that?”

“Oh, come on, who didn’t?” she says, cackling at the groan you let out.

“It’s just faster,” you try to defend. You’re at Central, eyeing the board above you.

“Fucking Jack,” you hear Robby mutter under his breath. He’s sliding his phone into his back pocket, leaning over the computer.

“I’m really sorry,” you say, shuffling closer to him. You think you’d bury yourself if an authority figure was mad at you. “Please don’t take me to HR.”

Robby shakes his head. It’s already happened a number of times when any night shift staff had to do a stint during the day. Jack Abbot remains the bane of his existence. “No HR. Just try not to let it happen again.”

“Yes, sir.” You don’t notice the way he looks at you at that.

He’s thinking, probably too much, about things he shouldn’t be ruminating on. The way you are with Jack. The dynamic you share. If any of that obedient yes sirs make their way into it.

“There’s a head lac in North 3,” Robby says, instead.

You look at Santos.

“Hell yeah,” Santos grins.

You follow her in there.

An Anna Morales. Late 20s, will probably need stitches. An accident that she’s being vague about. She didn’t want to deal with the cost of an ambulance, so her boyfriend drove her to the PTMC. When he realised there was going to a wait, he told her he’d go home and wait for her call if she ever got into the ER. She had just called him a few minutes ago when McKay got her through chairs.

A stellar review of a boyfriend that has you and Santos trading judgemental looks.

“Hey, they told me to find you in… here.”

You had already been stepping aside when the door opened.

Turning towards the newcomer.

Oh. Shit.

The boyfriend.

You recognise him. Kevin N. Early 30s. Pictures on an app. Four months of talking, of dates. Then a Saturday when you decided to take the leap. To put trust into him. And he left. Ghosted you. No texts, no calls. Radio silence.

Santos says your name, a little too annoyed for it to be the first time.

“Yes, sorry.” You busy yourself with setting up a tray with the tools she needs. Sterilised and clean tools. Avoiding the way Kevin looks at you as he takes a seat by the bed. By Anna.

You try not to throw up while you help Santos. Hoping that she’ll dismiss you as soon as she doesn’t need you anymore.

Santos keeps up a steady stream of conversation as she works. Her bedside manners have come a long way since she first started. You chime in every now and then. But you know you’re not as engaged as you usually are. Your skin’s crawling every time you feel Kevin’s gaze on you.

“Excuse me,” you say. Your tether’s cut short. You exit the room, shutting the door behind you. Technically, there’s no need for you and Santos to both be in there.

You’re heaving as you escape into the restroom. Your first instinct is to call Jack. You make it to the third ring before you hang up. Feel the static in your head as you watch his contact light up the phone screen. You slide to decline the call.

Sent: sorry was just missing you Jack: It’s okay. I have time to take your call. Sent: don’t worry about it. just got busy. sorry Jack: I miss you too, sweetheart.

Breathe. In and out. You pocket your phone and head to the break room next door. You know that caffeine would only increase the shaking, but you don’t think you can afford something that’s supposed to help you relax. You’d only fall asleep. You’re not even halfway through your 24 hours yet.

The door opens as you’re waiting for the coffee.

Robby steps through. “You alright, kid?” Though he knows he has a tendency to pull long hours, he knows how tough a 24 hour shift can be. They don’t get assigned often. And when they do, the attendings and charge nurses are always alerted.

You paste on a grin, nodding. Attempt to ignore the thudding in your chest. “Hanging in there.”

“You need anything?”

You take a sip from your mug. “Real coffee.” The break room’s sludge tastes like coffee-flavoured water. Even paling in comparison to the iced coffee that Shen had gotten you. And that was finished hours ago.

The corner of Robby’s lips twitch upwards. “And you say you’re nothing like Dr Shen.”

“Wait—no. No, I didn’t mean it like that.” This is easy to fall into. A little ribbing. Not thinking about the patient and her boyfriend that you just left with Santos.

Robby grins a little more openly. “You know, you can talk to me if you need anything, right?”

“I know. Thank you, Dr Robby.” Again, it’s easier to thank the generosity than dismiss them altogether. Something you’ve learned from dealing with people that you know mean well.

“You don’t have to wait for Jack.”

Your gaze snapped onto the attending, trying to swallow past the thick thing in your throat. “Um—I’m just. Used to working with the night crew.” Not quite a lie, not quite the truth either. You know Robby’s prodding, but you’re not sure what for. You can’t exactly deny that you’d rather have these talks with Jack—you’ve been working with him for two years, now. It would make sense that you’d trust him more than the day shift attending.

“I know he told you to take care of me.”

Oh shit. Jack said that in the break room when it was the two of you, alone. And unless Jack later relayed that to Robby within their own conversations you weren’t privy to, Robby wasn’t meant to know that. You remain frozen.

“But you also need to take care of yourself,” Robby says.

You blink. You have no idea where he’s trying to lead this discussion. “I’m—I’m okay.”

“You seem stressed.”

“I’ve still got 15 hours left on my shift.”

Robby nods, but remains unconvinced by your words. “Hey.” And his hand lays heavy on your shoulder.

The weight of it stills you, eyebrows creasing as you peer up at him. Waiting. He probably has some kind of wisdom he wants to impart onto you.

But he stays silent. Breathing. You don’t realise you’re matching it until your face eventually smooths out.

His thumb drifting, rubbing up and down over the juncture where shoulder meets neck. “Relax,” he murmurs.

And you can’t resist the way your eyelids flicker shut in response. To his touch. The tone of his voice.

“Good,” he whispers.

You don’t realise you’re swaying into him until you feel his solid chest against you. Feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Letting out a noise. Half complaining, half comforted.

“There you go.” Low tones. Soft. Talking you down from trembles that you hadn’t even noticed have wracked your frame. “I know something’s got you stressed out. I just want to take care of you like Jack would.”

The mention of Jack’s name is like cold water dumped on you. Sobering. You suck in a breath and draw away from Robby. Blinking wildly. “I—um—I have—I have to go.”

“It’s okay—”

But you’ve already left the break room.

Robby sighs, taking out his phone to send off another text to Jack.

It’s still not shift change yet. Guilt is a heavy thing in your chest, and what was once you looking forward to it, turns into dread.

You have to tell Jack what happened with Robby, even if you don’t fully understand what exactly transpired. It just felt comforting.

You’re bypassing dispatch to head towards the stairwell. You don’t realise you don’t hear the door close behind you.

You need a breather, and you’re kind of apprehensive of heading to the usual places. Robby might be there. Not to mention, Kevin and Anna are in the ED.

“Hey.”

You pivot, fast. Not having expecting anyone to follow you out. Much less…

“Kevin,” you say. Swallow thickly.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says. He’s approaching like you’re a cornered animal.

Maybe you are. Your eyes flicker to the door behind him. The stairs present another way out.

“I wanted to apologise.”

“Right now? While I’m at work?” You can’t help baring your teeth.

“You haven’t been making it easy for me.”

You blink. “You ghosted me.”

Kevin drops his head into a nod. “Yeah. And I’m apologising for it.”

You still haven’t heard him say the word ‘sorry’. “I’m not going to say anything to Anna, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s water under the bridge at this point.” Part of you wants to laugh. Him being an asshole to the nth degree landed you right into Jack’s arms.

“Water under the bridge?” Nose flaring. Jaw ticking.

“Yeah. It’s fine. I’ve moved passed it.”

“Moved passed—?” Scoffing, lips forming a scowl. “Moved passed it? Passed me?”

“You left. It’s been weeks. And clearly, you’ve moved on too.”

He shoves you backwards.

Stumbling, your head colliding into the wall behind you. Starbursts of white flashing across your vision. “Ow, what—?!”

An arm barred across your chest. “You do not get to move on—”

Trying to push at him. “Get off of—”

“Shut up. You fucking bitch.” His fingers around your throat. Cinching, pushing on top of your trachea. Fingers and thumb digging into the flesh on the sides. “You don’t get to fucking move on from me.”

You try to kick, fists furling, punching at his arms. Shoulders. Anywhere you can make contact.

“Stop fucking struggling. You like being choked. You want this, you fucking slut.”

Stars dancing in your vision. Unable to get air in.

“Hey—oh, fuck—!” A voice breaking through the ringing in your ears.

“We need security out here!” Another voice.

A blur of movement. The weight forcibly removed from you. You slide down the wall, hacking out coughs. Inhaling lungfuls of air.

“Holy shit. Are you okay?” Whitaker kneels in front of you, crowding into your space. Fingers going for your neck.

You shy away from him.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. But I really need to check on you.”

“What the hell happened?” Another person.

“I got him!”

Blinking, looking over Whitaker’s shoulder, down the hall to see Santos on Kevin. He’s face down, trying to wriggle out from whatever hold Santos has whilst she’s perched on him.

You see Mike move towards them. Cuffing Kevin. He yells something.

“Come on, let’s get you up.” Whitaker helps you stand. You don’t know what it is that makes you feel unsteady on your own feet. Adrenaline. Fear. A previous lack of air. Something else. But you’re grateful for the support he provides.

Santos pushes the door open. “Dr Robby!”

“We need an empty room!” Whitaker calls out. He has one arm around you, helping you walk.

“Six is opened!” Dana relays.

“Holy shit, what happened?” Princess follows you in.

“Mike has him,” Santos says. She’s gloving up. “Fucking asshole was choking—”

“What the hell?” Robby.

There’s too much happening.

Princess shines a light into your eyes, checking your pupils. Lifting your eyelids. “Robby.”

His arms are crossed, watching them mill around. Steps in closer at Princess’ alert. “Subconjunctival hemorrhaging,” he murmurs.

The flashlight blessedly clicked off.

Princess holds out a finger, making you track her movements.

When she’s done, Santos elbows Whitaker out of the way, gingerly tilting your head back to inspect your neck. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

You nod.

“Hurt to swallow?”

You swallow. Nod again.

“What about talking?”

You take a second. “I think—hurts,” you wheeze, wincing.

“Did you lose consciousness?”

You’re caught between shaking your head and nodding.

“Vision went fuzzy?”

You nod again. Thank God for Santos. She’s questioning in a way that allows you not to speak. She’s going to be a great doctor, you think, even if she decides her future is outside the walls of the Pitt.

You raise a hand. Guide it to the back of your head.

“You hit your head?” she asks.

You confirm.

“We need a CTA. Let’s keep this room for observation,” Robby says. “Minimum six hours. You know the protocol.” And this, he directs to you.

You dip your head. There goes the rest of your 24 hours shift.

Whitaker’s across from Santos on the other side of the bed. Checking the back of your head. “No bleeding.” Fingers on your scalp, palpating.

You flinch.

“Responsive to pain. A little tenderness but no lacerations. That’s good news, right?” His gaze flickers from Robby, then to Santos.

“We’ll wait for the scans,” Robby says. No false hope.

Whitaker presses his lips into a line, as if attempting to give you a reassuring look.

He, Princess, and Santos make themselves scarce.

Robby lingers in the room, sitting on the stool beside the bed. “I called Jack,” he says eventually.

You look at him.

“We both know I had to. He’s already on his way.”

You shoot him a tired thumbs up.

Silent, again. Then, Robby huffs out a chuckle. A hand at the back of his neck, massaging. “Shit. Jack’s never going to let me borrow you for day shift again.”

You can’t help the laugh. Then you wince. “Ow,” you manage, hoarse.

“Sorry, kiddo.” A hand on your shoulder, peering at you.

Again, you can’t help the way that you seem to settle under it.

Princess reappears. “CT’s ready for us.”

Robby feigns checking the bruises around your neck. Hand moving away. “Let’s go.” Between Robby and Princess, they push your gurney to the elevator to get your scan.

By the time you’re done and returned to your comfortable prison in room six, Jack arrives. A rap of knuckles on the door, then it’s opening.

Jack’s face—his eyes on you. Face stony. “Robby,” he says, nodding at him, both a greeting and dismissal.

“Alright. See you out there.” It doesn’t take further prompting for him to leave. The curtain drawn, door closed behind him.

Jack performs the same exams that Princess, Santos, and Whitaker have done. Eyes the monitor quietly tracking your vitals—you muted it as soon as Princess hooked you up. Silent as he does so. You know there’s something brewing in his eyes, dark. The tenseness of his frame. You watch him move around. Never settling.

“Jack,” you say. Your voice is still raw.

“Don’t talk,” he says, from where he’s standing by the computer. Scrolling through your chart.

“Jack,” you croak again.

He turns, eyes hardened as he levels his gaze with yours.

“Can you just come here?”

And he does, because he has never known what it’s like to not yield before you. Crossing the room. You don’t hesitate to reach for him, grabbing his arm to pull him closer. Face buried against his broad chest as you allow yourself to finally shatter.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and pushes the guardrail to the gurney down. Removing the barrier that separates you.

The trembling of your body, held together by strong arms enveloping around you.

“Okay.” A kiss pressed to the top of your head, a hand rubbing up and down your upper arm. An understanding of what you need from him in this moment.

He’s holding you like you’re something fragile, something gentle settling in his chest. A method of soothing himself as well as you.

The tightening of his muscles ever since Robby had called him to let him know that you had gotten hurt. The way he couldn’t let himself calm down until he saw you. And even when he did see you—God, the bruises around your neck. The red spots in your eyes. Your voice still hoarse.

To hold you in his arms, reminding himself that you’re alive. Hurt, but alive. That’s what he needs, and if that’s what you need, then he will give in, tenfold. He would immolate himself to keep you warm, if you ever asked. How dangerous a love like this.

“Hey,” Jack says, and his voice is equally hoarse for a different reason. Shifts back for a moment, hands framing your face. Thumbs wiping against your wet cheeks. “Hey. Fuck. You scare the shit out of me sometimes, you know that?”

You open your mouth.

“Don’t say sorry.”

You shut your mouth.

Jack shakes his head, chuckling gruffly. Leans in to kiss you. A thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

You grab one of his hands, pulling it down. As soon as it glides past your chin, his hand attempts to slide out of yours. You hold fast.

“Baby—” he starts.

“Please,” you manage. “Please, I just want to feel you.”

He stares down at you, eyes dark. He doesn’t say anything, but you note the moment his resolve falters. The breath he releases, the way his eyelids flicker as they shut. Jack kisses you again, and his palm rests against the side of your throat. Not pressing. Not firm. Just his touch, present.

You feel yourself melt into him. His other hand on the gurney, like he’s stopping himself from grabbing onto you.

There’s a knock on the door. “It’s Robby.” The door’s opened, but he hasn’t pulled back the curtain yet.

“Yeah?” Jack pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand still on your throat, thumb brushing against your chin.

“Police are here. They need to take a statement.”

You frown. “I’m not pressing charges.”

“It’s hospital policy. NFS,” Jack reminds you.

Non-fatal strangulation. Again, it’s protocol you know from working here for two years. You never expected to be on the receiving end of it.

“Can you stay?” you ask.

“Robby can. He’s chief attending.”

Robby clears his throat. The curtain slides, metal rings clinking against each other as he pulls enough to step into the room. The curtain ruffles behind him.

You feel your heart thud wildly, like you’ve been caught.

Jack doesn’t move away.

Robby’s gaze fixes on Jack’s hand against your neck. Flickers between your deer-in-the-headlights expression, and Jack’s relaxed look angled over his shoulder. “John’s out there,” he says, instead of commenting on anything. “He can take care of things for a little bit. He knows we’re in here.”

Of course. You completely missed that night shift started. That meant Robby was officially off the clock. And Jack was meant to be working, not babysitting you.

You move back, like you’re wanting to detach yourself from his hand. “It’s—it’s okay—”

Jack turns back to you. His hand remains where it is, thumb digging lightly into the line of your jaw. “Robby said I’m good to say.”

“But—”

“I’m staying.”

Your eyes shifting to Jack, then over his shoulder to Robby, still near the curtain. Just one step into the room. “Thank you,” you say.

Robby dips his head in acknowledgement. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Your heart rate’s pretty high.”

All three of you now studying the monitor.

“Uhh,” you manage. That’s embarrassing. You feel like you’re still riding the adrenaline high from when Robby came in and Jack hadn’t moved away from you. He still hasn’t. “I just… wasn’t expecting you to come in.”

Robby snorts. “Not the most compromising situation I’ve seen him in.”

Jack just laughs. Thumb brushing against the angle of your jaw before his lips graze your temple. “Robby has a thing for watching,” he murmurs.

Your mouth drops open, frowning. “You’ve—you’ve done things together?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, casual as ever. Grins down at you before he steps away. Sinking into the stool beside the bed with a muted groan.

You have more questions that they apparently, will leave unanswered.

Robby pulls back the curtain, opening the door. “Ready for you,” he calls out.

Two police officers enter, and the room feels smaller. They introduce themselves to you. Officers Reyes and Boyd.

“This should be fairly straightforward,” Reyes says. Kind eyes, despite the years weathering her face. “A few standard questions and then we’ll be out of your hair. It’s protocol for us to respond to these situations.”

“I appreciate it, officers,” you say. You cross your arms over your chest.

Boyd flips open a notepad.

“Do you remember if you said anything to him that could have been taken as hostile? I know people can get angry about the wait times here,” Reyes begins.

Your brows knit together. “He’s not a patient,” you say. Maybe your brain is sluggish from being starved of oxygen for a few seconds, but you’re slow to realise what’s happening.

Boyd blinks up from the notepad he’s jotting in.

“He’s a visitor. He came in for a patient. In North 3.”

“Right. And what was his relation to the patient?”

“A partner. The patient’s his girlfriend, or something. This wasn’t a random—I knew him.”

And just like that, it’s out in the open. You keep your attention on the two officers, but you can see Robby shifting behind them, lax as he leans against the wall. And Jack—you don’t want to look. Because you know how smart he is. He’ll connect the dots as soon as he even has a fraction of the picture.

Conflict welling inside you. You wanted him to stay, but you also want him out of the room in this moment.

Reyes looks at you. “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“I’m sure.” A long a messy process, you think.

She sighs. “Okay. What’s your relation to him?”

“An… ex-something. It wasn’t really labelled.”

An honorary scoff from the older woman. “Dating these days.”

“And how long did you know him?” Boyd asks.

“Four months.”

A brief moment from the corner of your eye, you can tell it clicks for Jack. The quiet intake of air. The shift of the stool.

“And the last time you talked to him?” Boyd asks.

“A month or so ago, maybe,” you answer.

“So you coincidentally met him today?”

“Yes. I was helping a doctor with a patient. I wasn’t expecting to see him here.”

“Prior to this attack would you say this kind of violent behaviour is typical or atypical for him?” Reyes asks.

“Um… atypical,” you say.

Boyd flips to another page of the pad. “When you saw him today, did he say anything that could be taken as hostile?”

“No. I didn’t talk to him. He didn’t talk to me either. I figured we were going to ignore our… history because his girlfriend was in the room.”

More notes from Boyd. It kind of unnerves you, but you know it’s part of his job. “So when you finally got to talk to him…”

“I went out into the stairwell to take a break. He followed me out there. He said he wanted to… apologise for how we left things.”

“And how did you leave things?” Reyes, this time.

You give her a wry look. “I slept with him and then he ghosted me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Men,” she says, derisive. She carries herself like an auntie that you would want to gossip with, wine glass in hand.

You smile a little in response to her. “I told him it was water under the bridge and he seemed… angry at that.”

“And then he attacked you?”

“Yes. He pushed me. I stumbled. I hit the back of my head on the wall. And then he…” And your gaze fall to your hands. Absentmindedly wringing your fingers. Running your nail against the pad of your thumb. “He—um—choked me.”

Reyes says your name, soft. “At any point, did you fear for your life?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, and you feel cold and small for admitting it. “I, um, I tried fighting back but I couldn’t—do anything. Against him.”

“Okay,” Reyes says, gentle.

“Did he say anything? While he was choking you. To make you think he was threatening your life?” Boyd asks.

“Um—no.”

“But he said something?” Reyes again.

“He said I should like it,” you tell her. Even though your voice carries to the other occupants of the room, you feel safer directing your words to just her. “Because I… asked him to during sex.”

Reyes is already shaking her head, even before you finish speaking. “That has no bearing on what happened—”

“Did you?” Boyd asks.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“Did you want him to—?”

“Boyd,” Reyes warns.

Your mouth falls opened. “He tried to kill me—”

“You said he wasn’t typically violent but you were also asking him to—”

“Officer Boyd.”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Both Robby and Jack are standing. Robby already has the door opened, the noise of the ED disturbing the room again. Jack stands between you and the officers.

“I think it’s time you leave my hospital,” Robby says, curt. It registers to you that he was the one that spoke up just moments before.

“I am so sorry,” Reyes says, to you. “I will be talking to Officer Boyd after we leave.” Half to you, half as a threat to Boyd.

“Thank you, officers,” Jack says, equally short in addressing them.

Robby walks out with them, the door closing again.

You feel humiliation sear your face, clog your throat, burn your eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“No, none of that.” Jack steps into your space, curling his own fingers around yours. Stopping your blind mission of picking them apart. “Look at me.”

With tears in your eyes, you do. Frustrated and ashamed. Face tilted up at him.

Squeezing your hand. “It’s not your fault. What happened wasn’t on you. Never was, alright? Tell me you understand.”

You want to. But a splintered noise in your throat releases as you crumple. And Jack sighs something ragged; this isn’t a wound to be mended in a day, even if it’s what his hands are known to do. Too intimately familiar with the knowledge that healing isn’t linear.

Twenty minutes after the police had left, Robby pops in to tell Jack that he’s leaving, and that the ED needed their night attending on the floor again.

“You alright?” Robby asks you, after Jack leaves with a kiss to your forehead.

You nod, but you can tell that he doesn’t believe you. “Can you tell Dana that she owes Lena $20?”

Robby’s bemused look is enough to make you laugh. “Do I want to know what it’s for?”

“20 to Dana if I made it through to night shift in one piece.”

Robby shakes his head. “Now that’s just tempting fate.”

You grin.

“Yeah, I’ll tell them.”

“Thanks, Dr Robby.”

His hands are braced on the rails of the bed. “You know it’s not your fault, right?” he asks, quiet.

You don’t verbally answer, but the silence is answer enough. Your lips pressed into a line, nodding too late.

Robby blows out a breath. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” He reaches out, cuffing you under your chin.

You blink at the gesture, and he leaves with a soft smile.

Six hours of observation pass without further complications. You’re sent home after Jack checks on your CT results and vitals one last time.

“I’m sending Robby over to yours,” he says.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you tell him.

“For my peace of mind. Please.”

And you’re not able to say no to him. The way he fights off the smug smile lets you know that he knows that about you.

“Whatever,” you say.

Jack grins. “Thank you.”

Half an hour after you get home, Robby is there. You slide over the guest slippers, letting the door close behind him.

“You really didn’t have to babysit me on your time off.”

“He owes me. I owe him.”

“Right. Because of compromising situations.”

Robby shrugs, gaze firmly on you. “We have… shared interests.”

You shake your head before leading him through to your tiny apartment, heading for the living room. You hear him follow. “I don’t really know what you’re meant to be doing, but feel free to set yourself up in here.” Between the kitchen and the living room, you assume the living room wins that competition, thanks to the couch.

Fluffing out the blanket you have on there. Pivoting, faltering in your turn when Robby is in your space. Not a few steps away like you had assumed, but too close behind.

His arm hooks around your waist so you don’t fall. “Sit. Let me check you.” From his pocket, he fishes out his flashlight.

You swallow, removing your hand from his chest; you had placed it there for balance. “Jack already checked before I left.”

Robby raises his eyebrows at you. He doesn’t even have to speak to argue with you.

You groan, realising your losing battle. Dropping onto the cushions.

Robby lowers into a crouch in front of you. And like personal space is nonexistent, his arm across your knees, stabilising himself as he shines the flashlight into your eyes. Tests your pupils; murmurs to himself about the healing of the blood in your eyes; clicks the flashlight off to perform an eye movement test.

Fingers pushing your chin up and aside, scrutinising the bruises. “Breathing’s okay?”

“Yep. And talking. And swallowing. Probably good to eat.”

“You haven’t eaten?”

“I was hooked up.”

Robby pushes himself up with the arm across your knees. Grunting a little as he does so. He heads into your kitchen.

“We could probably just order something,” you say, frowning as you follow him.

He gives you an unimpressed look. “Jack said to take care of you.”

You’re reminded of Jack coming to yours to take care of you after he found out about the sub drop in the hospital. Different kind of taking care of, you assume.

“You want to call him?” Robby’s phone already sliding out from his pocket, blindly holding it out to you as he digs through your fridge. Like he’s aware of your internal thoughts.

You take it, watch him rifle through your things. Unlocking his phone with a swipe. “You don’t have a password?”

“They’re annoying.”

“Oh my God, you’re so old.” You click onto his contacts. Jack’s is starred as a favourite. You call him, phone to your ear. Heading towards the living room. You’re still within earshot, and Robby’s periphery if he looks over. But it’s gives an illusion of privacy.

“What’s up, brother?” Jack greets.

“No Robby. Just me,” you say.

“Give me—” Rustling, the noise of the ED muffled. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. We’re okay. I’m just—you told him to take care of me.” You don’t phrase it like a question.

But he responds, anyway. “I did.”

“In what way?”

Jack makes a noise, and you know he’s shrugging with the answer, even if you can’t see him. “Whatever way you need.”

“I need you to stop beating around the bush with this. Please.”

“Whatever you would want from me, he can give you as well.”

You’re standing still in the living room. Watching Robby mill around your kitchen. The stove’s on, the flame turned to low. He found your pot from the cupboard. “And you’re okay with it?”

“If it’s Robby, yeah.” Like it’s a simple thing. “We’ve been friends a long time.”

“Just friends don’t do this kind of stuff.”

“Maybe not,” Jack hums. “You okay with it?”

“I’m—trying to wrap my head around it.”

Robby’s hunted down the chopping board and knives. Has dug around your freezer for protein as well.

“You asked me for everything, baby,” Jack says, soft. “That always included Robby.”

You swallow around the cloying thing in your throat. “Yeah.” Something in your chest aches. There’s love there, you think, between them. If not reciprocated by Robby, then at least from Jack’s perspective, it’s present. A hanging thing between them.

“When’s your break?”

“It’s already past 2. I’m definitely not getting one until after 4.”

“Gremlin hours,” you acknowledge distractedly. Still watching Robby. You could do something here. Permission has been granted. Whatever you want from Jack. “Stay on the line.”

“Okay?” Jack says, confused.

You pull the phone away from your ear, press the button to place the volume on speakerphone. Stride into the kitchen. “Robby.”

“Yeah?” He barely has time to look up from the chopping board.

You’re on him. Lips on his.

Robby makes a muffled, surprised noise before the knife clatters on the chopping board. Hands on your waist, stabilising as he kisses you back. Responding. “I take it you had a good talk?” Robby asks.

“He’s still—” You press the phone against his chest. One of his hands grab for it.

Then you sink to the tiled floor. On your knees, looking up at Robby.

“Shit,” Robby huffs, looking down at you wondrously.

“Can I—” You swallow, wetting your lips. “Is this…” Okay? Allowed? Alright with him? With either of them?

Robby seems to sense your hesitance. The other hand stroking your face. “You wanna suck me off while Jack listens to us?”

The phone crackles with Jack’s responding low hiss. Caught up on what’s happening on the other side.

You nod. “Can I?”

“Yeah, honey,” Robby says.

You look at the phone, cradled against his chest. Then back at Robby.

“Jack,” Robby prompts.

“Yeah, that’s okay. More than,” Jack manages.

And somehow, this is you, in your kitchen with Jack on the phone, Robby with his pants pooled around his ankles, leaning against the sink. With you on your knees, lapping at Robby’s balls, digits curled around his hardened cock, pumping him.

Robby’s fingers tightened in the roots of your hair. Groaning aloud. “Fucking hell.”

Then you’re sliding his cock into your mouth. Your jaw feels unhinged with the width of him. He’s big—you feel it in the strain in the corner of your lips.

“That’s it, honey,” Robby grunts. “All the way in.”

You slide further. Gagging around him. Tears in your eyes. Your nose to his pubis. Your ears ringing.

Robby’s mouth moving, saying something. You don’t hear. Talking to Jack, maybe. You hope. His fingers flexing against your hair. Pushing you down.

You stay. Seconds. Then his hand moves and you pull away, sucking in air. Drool all over his cock.

“Look at you,” Robby says. Caressing your face again. “You’re so pretty like this. You want to let Jack see?”

You shiver, nodding, mouthing at his cock again. Take him back into your mouth.

“Look up for me.” Robby takes a picture with his phone. Taps at the screen.

And the moment Jack sees it. “Fuck,” muttered out, hoarse. “Jesus, fuck, you’re killing me.”

You suck in your cheeks, sliding back and forth around Robby’s cock. Despite the crappy apartment, you don’t attempt to hide the sounds emanating from your mouth. Wet. Slurping. All because you want—need Jack to hear it from the phone.

Robby’s fingers are twisted in your hair again. Fucking his hips into your throat. Using your mouth like it’s your cunt. You’re clenching around nothing at the thought of it.

Robby groans. “That’s it, fuck, that’s it. So fucking good like this. Gonna come down your throat. Is that what you needed, you little slut?”

You’re moaning around him. Jack never seemed to want to insult you, and you never asked him to. But this. A hand between your legs just to give yourself some semblance of relief.

And then he’s coming. Spilling dregs of himself down your throat as he groans. And you’re swallowing him down. Everything. His hand keeping you there as he grinds into your face. You let him use you. You want nothing else.

“Fuck. Fuck. Come here.” Robby pulls you up. Still has the phone; Jack’s breathing hard on the other side.

You lean in to kiss him. It’s uncoordinated. Robby walks you backwards into the living room. Deposits you on the couch. Strips you of your bottoms without any ceremony. Tosses the phone next to your head.

You’re bent in half, ankles to your ears. He’s pushing and you’re holding your legs up for him.

And his mouth is on your wet pussy.

You’re gasping, humping into his face.

“He eating you out?” Jack’s voice is rough.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, oh my God.”

Robby eats you out until you’re crying, blubbering for release. And only when Jack says that he needs to return to work in a few minutes does Robby let you come.

Jack’s voice in your ear. “That’s it, baby. I wanna hear how good he’s making you feel. I know. You’re being so good for us, baby.”

Robby cleans the both of you up after he decides when you’re done. You’re whining, holding onto his hand as he tries to move into the kitchen.

“I’m going to put everything away.”

You look up at him. Teary-eyed. Letting go of his hand. “Okay,” you say, despite it being laced with displeasure.

“I’ll be back.” He makes fast work of packing away the ingredients he had prepared. Into containers then the fridge. Turning the stovetop off.

When he’s back in the living room, he dumps himself onto the couch. Pulls you against him. It’s not a big space, but you make it work. He’s laying across the cushions, and you’re tucked against his chest.

You both fall asleep like that.

When you wake up, your head’s pillowed in a lap. Fingers running through your hair. Your awakening dictated by slow movements.

“You feeling okay?” Jack’s soft murmurs. He places the book he was entertaining himself with down, helping you sit up.

You hum, reaching to rub at your eyes.

Jack stops before you can make contact, tutting at your forgetfulness. “Let me see.” A palm slotted to your face, tilting your head. Checking your eyes, then the bruising around your neck.

“What time is it?” You twist his wrist, peering at his watch. 8:37 AM. Already after shift change—Robby must have left; Jack came over to yours instead of going home. You’re not sure on the timeline of it.

“Robby made matzo ball soup. He said you fell asleep before you could eat.”

“Hm, got distracted.”

“Alright. Up. We’re both eating.”

You hum, following him along. Still feeling bleary with sleep. You’re sat on the dining chair. Jack drapes a jacket on top of you. You pull it tighter around your shoulders, studying the fabric. Taking in the scent of it. Unfamiliar to you. “It’s not yours.”

“Hm?” Jack takes out the container from the fridge, two bowls, two spoons.

“The jacket. It’s not yours.”

Jack blinks at you. Then shrugs, bustling around. “Must be Robby’s. He probably forgot it.”

“Isn’t it cold?”

“He’ll live. He’s probably got another one at work.” Two bowls of soup placed on the table. Jack shifts his chair so he’s sitting to the side, diagonal from you, not across. “You feeling okay?”

You hum your confirmation, tucking your spoon into the soup.

He watches you skim the top of it, then again. Not eating. Yeah, you’re definitely overthinking something but being cagey about it. He leans forward, catching your gaze. “Out with it.”

You try not to look away from the intensity of his eyes. You know that if you do, he’ll just chase it again. In a more obvious way. “Was it—was what we did okay?”

Jack tilts his head. “I said it was, didn’t I?”

You’re nodding. “You did.”

“Was it okay for you?”

“Yes.”

“And after?”

“We fell asleep on the couch.”

Jack inclines his head like it just affirms whatever knowledge he already had. Probably insight gained from check-ins with Robby. “Okay.” Attention flickering between your eyes. “You want to see him again?”

“Is… is that okay?”

“More than okay.”

“But we…” You swallow the words down, like you can’t verbalise your thoughts.

“Hey,” Jack says. Pushes both the bowls further into the table, pulls your chair closer to him. It screeches against the floor, but you both pay the noise no heed. “Whatever you want with him isn’t going to take away from us. It’s just more. And that’s okay.”

“For you too?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you lo—”

“I love you.”

And his words sit. Lingers in the space between you. You make a noise, caught between hopeful and wounded.

“I know you have your hang ups about me saying it,” Jack continues. “But I do. Okay?”

You nod, sniffling. “Okay. I love you too.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He watches you, for a second. “Come here.”

You climb into his lap. It’s not comfortable—the chairs are crappy and wooden but he doesn’t make a complaint with you straddling his thighs. Tucking your face into his neck.

Jack rubs his hands up and down your back, your arms. Fingers cradling the nape of your neck. Lifting you out to kiss you. Gentle. “Okay, crybaby?” A murmuring tone, ridiculously fond.

You let out a wet chuckle and kiss him again. And somewhere along the way, you’re grinding into his lap, and Jack makes an amused sound.

“Really?” Fiery eyes turned up to you, voice hoarse. “Robby ate you out and you still need more?”

“Jack,” you say. Beg him.

He kisses your cheek. “Eat first.” He grabs your thighs, spreads out his legs. Slowly thrusts his hips up to your core.

You whimper. “Jack.”

“I know. Eat first, okay?”

“You’re mean.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen mean, baby.”

You’re back in your seat, swamped in Robby’s jacket. Feasting on the soup that he made for you—the both of you.

The healing is straightforward. Your eye returns to normal. The bruises fade. Jack stops acting like you’ll evaporate if he dares to look away.

You don’t know if Jack and Robby talk about you, or their status. But Robby looks at you more during handoffs. Talks to Jack, low tones between them. You have no way of deciphering their conversations.

You pick up a few shifts during the day, not 24 hours, but exchanging them for your regular nights. Covering absences for other nurses; Kim is sick; Jesse’s on a much needed weekend away.

You get to see Robby more. Other than more eye contact and seemingly innocent touches, nothing changes.

And then a coincidental night off for you. Jack’s shift is scheduled to finish earlier than usual. Robby doesn’t work the next day. Maybe not from the hands of fate, but purposefully moulded by them. They are attendings, after all.

A text from Jack, then a call, checking in about plans. Dinner and after.

All of you, in Jack’s place. A slow meal. Jack talks to Robby like they haven’t had a chance to catch up in years. You’re content to listen to them, not quite taking in what they’re saying, but listening to the timbre of their voices.

You don’t realise how much you’re staring until Robby pauses, looking over to you.

“Anything you want to say?” he asks.

“No,” you answer, honest.

“Okay.”

Your leg’s balanced on your knee under the table. Jack cups a hand over your ankle, thumb massaging your Achilles’ tendon.

It’s an otherworldly kind of domestic. Until you end up in Jack’s bed. Naked. Spread out under Robby. His knee between your legs, and you’re rutting against him, tugging him in for a kiss.

Jack digs through the nightstand. Blindfold, ribbon restraints, suction vibrator. Deposits them on the bed. Distracts you with kisses while Robby busies himself with tying you to the bed frame at the head of the bed.

“Not too tight?” he asks.

You swallow, feeling your heart race. Tug at them experimentally. “No. It’s fine.”

Jack kisses down your neck, lips over your pulse. Hums at the rapid thudding beneath. “You’re okay, sweetheart. We’ll take care of you.” He kisses you again, once. “Ready for the blindfold?”

You confirm, and then the fabric over your eyes. Around to the back of your head. Tightening, but not damaging.

“Okay?” Robby asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“You can stop at any time,” Jack reminds.

“I know.”

“Okay. I’m going to let Robby have his fun first, okay?”

You nod. “Kiss first?”

Jack swipes a thumb across your bottom lip before he leaves you with another one. Lingering. Heated. Has you instinctively wanting to reach for him, to feel him beneath you fingertips. But the restraints stop you.

“I love you,” he whispers, like a shared secret.

And you’re bucking your hips into air. Wanting to say it back but he moves away. The bed shifts, weight moving. Robby’s hands spreading your thighs open. Situating himself there. He eats you out first. Doesn’t let you come. Just tastes you.

Until you’re begging for more. Until you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. Whining every time he takes you to the edge, then draws back.

“Robby, please,” you cry. “Please, I just—once. Please, let me come, please.” You have no idea how long this has been going on for. Your thighs are messy, sticky with Robby’s saliva and your slick.

Robby hums. “What do you think, Jack? Good enough for you?”

You hear Jack breathe, somewhere to the side. Not knowing where he is, but knowing he’s watching—you didn’t think you would enjoy it, but something is lit within you. “Yeah. Good enough for me.”

Robby licks a stripe up your slit. Takes the vibrator, turns on the suction. Nudges it against your clit.

You almost weep with relief. “Unghh, thank you, thank you, Robby, thank you.” It’s a quick thing, your release. From the edging. From the direct suction. You come. Fall apart. And Robby refuses to move the toy from your clit.

Grips your thighs. Licking, sucking at your entrance.

“You wanted to come, honey,” Robby tuts, when you’re bowling past your second one, and he’s still not letting up. When you’re struggling in his hold.

You haven’t seen mean, yet, Jack had said. This is what he meant, you realise. Robby. Giving into you, but on his conditions.

And you’re crying. Full, heaving sobs, absolutely ruined. The circulation to your hands probably cut off by now, with how tightly you’ve twisted your fingers into the fabric. You’re not sure. Your arms were tingly. Now numb past your elbows to your digits. You don’t pay it too much heed. You could lose your phalanges, and you wouldn’t care.

“Please,” you cry. “Please, Robby. Please.”

You hear him laugh. A mean thing. Tongue delving inside you, the toy buzzing incessantly on your clit. The toy’s the issue. You’re on your fifth, you’re pretty sure. Because of that damn toy. Suction, forcing out orgasm after orgasm.

“Please, Jack—”

“Oh ho ho, no, honey,” Robby says, thick with condescension. And he presses the toy firmly against your clit in response to you daring to reach out to Jack, to disobey the established chain of command. “He’s not going to help you.”

“I can’t. I can’t, please, I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can.” Robby’s slides a finger in, crooked. Dragging out your slick for him to continue to lap up. His beard rubbing against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

“Please.” Halfway fractured. Begging for more and for less. Your legs over his shoulders, heels digging into the expanse of his back.

“Give me your colour.”

You whine. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

You feel him move away. You try to grab a hold of him, but your hands are tied, trapped above you. You sob, legs attempting to tighten around him. “No, please, don’t go. Just—Robby.”

“I need a colour, honey.” And his voice. Softened. Gentle. A far cry from the man that degraded you for needing him.

“Green,” you choke out. “Please, one more.”

“One more and then we pause?”

You’re nodding, tears wetting the blindfold. “Please.”

“You’re okay, baby.” The brief reprieve as his lips ghost over your inner thigh. A barely there kiss. Then the toy back on your clit, his tongue slipping inside you again. Tasting.

You moan through the oversensitivity. The suction well past too much. But you can do this. Can be good for him. For Jack, too, even if you can’t see or touch him. Your fingers flexing against the fabric.

“There you go. You need this, don’t you? Need to come six times like a fucking slut. Being so good for Jack and me.”

A gasp of air. The vice-like clenching around his finger. So hard that he can feel it. You’re trembling into your sixth orgasm. Breathing raggedly, almost like you’re hyperventilating. Pulling on the restraints above you. Outright sobbing.

Hips moving into the toy, and away. Chasing and running. Too much and wanting more.

His tongue slathering, licking into you. You can hear the squelching. Your face feels hot. Embarrassed by the sounds your body makes.

“Robby,” you whimper, shaking. “Pause, you said pause. Please, Robby.”

“Alright. I got you. I got you, honey.” The toy turned off and discarded. Robby moving up your body. Undoing the knot that ties your wrists to the bar of the bed frame. Fingers at the strings of the blindfold.

You whine, shaking your head.

“You want to keep it on?”

“Yes, please.” You think you need the comfort of the darkness, right now.

“Okay, honey.”

You’re being shifted, the both of you lying on your sides, facing each other. Your face tucked against his chest. But you still feel like you’re shaking apart, unable to ground yourself, despite Robby holding you.

You don’t realise you’re crying until you feel Robby speak, more so than hear what he says. His thumbs brushing away tears that leak under the blindfold.

And then the weight behind you. The arms around you. Familiar. Lips against the curve of your shoulders, up the side of your neck.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.” Grazing your jawline.

“Jack.” You hadn’t realised you were uttering his name, over and over again.

“Right here.”

You shift, angling your head. Catching his lips with yours. Fingers gripping the hand that Robby has on the side of your leg. You feel Robby’s knee nudging between yours, thigh aligned with your sticky core. A stuttering breath as you grind yourself onto it. It borders on painful, but riding out the aftershocks helps soothe you. And he knew that, somehow.

“You’re perfect, baby,” Jack whispers. “Taking what Robby gave you? You did so good for us.”

You want so badly to ask Robby if he shares the same thoughts. But he doesn’t volunteer, and asking feels too much like digging a scalpel into your chest, beating muscle on display, for him to discern your worthiness, to leave or to cherish. You’ve always harboured a greed that knows no bounds.

You hate yourself for needing that reassurance from him, too.

Your fingers shifting, interlacing with Robby’s. His digits folding over yours. It should be a moment of tenderness but feels clinical from him. Responding, but not given. The way he touches you feels methodical.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs. “You okay?”

“Yes,” you answer. Maybe you’re not being good enough. Maybe Robby doesn’t like you as much yet. If you’re better, maybe he will.

“Yeah? You good to start again?”

You’re nodding.

Jack gives you another kiss, one that has you melting into it. Lost in him. Jack shifts back to breathe, and every millimetre he pulls away feels like something defined with regret. “Go give Robby some love, sweetheart.”

You’re hiccuping, the blindfold damp against your skin. Unseeing as you shuffle along Robby’s thigh, until you’re pressed against his chest. You feel Jack follow your movements, his lips grazing the back of your shoulder. You shiver.

“Hey, honey,” Robby murmurs.

You reach out, feel the coarse hair of his beard beneath your finger pads. Your thumb outlining the corners of his lips. Dragging to the curve of his bottom lip. Inching in until your lips are on his. Once again, he responds. Answering when you kiss. Starting off gentle until you’re rutting yourself against his thigh, and his fingers are digging into the meat of your side.

Until you’re whimpering with the need for more, despite the overstimulation. You need him inside you. Any one of them.

“Alright, up you get,” Robby says.

You’re unsteady on your knees, Jack in front of you. You’ve long lost the orientation of the room, of the bed you’re on.

Jack kisses you again, tongue sliding into your mouth. Soft and reassuring. Hands roaming, touching. Any time your fingers move pass his bare pelvis, he snags your wrist. Correcting wordlessly.

You hear Robby shuffle behind you.

“Down on the bed, baby,” Jack whispers. “On your front for Robby.”

You move, lying down. Your hands brushing against Jack’s knees, you think. Your hands shifting up, grabbing his thighs for the contact. To feel grounded. His hand covers yours, thumbs circling over the back of them.

Bunched up sheets between your legs. Rolling your hips into it, just for some semblance of friction. You let out a moan.

Robby inhales sharply, watching the tattoos across your back ripple with your movements. “That’s real pretty, honey.” Soft. “But we didn’t ask you to do that.” Fingers catching your hips, seizing your movements. You try not to cry. “Bring your knees up for me.”

With his guidance, you do. Legs drawn up under you, presenting yourself to him. It’s not a position that you’ve done a lot with Jack. You’re too clingy, you think. Would prefer to see him. This feels almost impersonal.

“You want Jack in your mouth?”

“Fuck,” Jack hisses, quiet.

Your brain stutters. Somehow, it hadn’t crossed your mind. “Yes.” Can feel yourself salivating at the thought of it.

“Yeah, course you do,” Robby chuckles, low and dark. He draws himself up. He must be on his knees too, thighs bracketing yours.

You feel the head of his cock slide between the swollen lips of your cunt. Resting there. Teasing. You try to grind back onto it, to take it—take him—into you. You’re keening, a pathetic sound that’s brimming with your desperation to be full.

Robby laughs. The heavy paw of his hand swats the swell of your ass.

You jerk at the sting. Feel yourself clench around nothing. “Robby. Please. I need you.”

“Oh, I know.” Once more, the head of his cock swiping the wetness at your entrance. “I can see you. You’re dripping.”

“Please.”

It’s a slow process. Robby draws it out. A tortuous slide into you. Has you scrabbling against Jack’s thighs, his hands caressing yours. Your face turned, cheek against the mattress in the space between his legs.

Robby’s cock pushing into you, the stretch of your walls. Aching. You moan around it. Through it. The stuttering inhales, the hitching of your breath.

“Jesus, honey,” Robby manages, hoarse. Rolling his hips into you with unhurried movements. Experiments of motions to test how your body responds.

You’re sure you have a bruising grip on Jack’s thighs. You’ve lost yourself in recitations of wordless sounds. Feeling yourself ripple around Robby.

“Alright,” Robby bites out. “Your turn, Jack.”

You hear Jack move in front of you. Hear him groan.

Then.

Robby fucks into you, once. Hard. Pushing you further up the bed. A cry punched out of you.

Closer to Jack. His hands on yours, guiding. “Keep your hands on my thighs. Tap three times if you need to stop.”

You nod.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Okay. Three times to stop.”

“There we go. You’re doing so good, baby.”

You shudder at his words. Feel Robby jerk into you as you tighten in response. Robby lets out a breath, a quiet chuckle.

You already feel saliva pooling under your tongue. You swallow. Mouth opening, lips over your teeth. Jack rests a hand on the back of your head. Pushes you down over his cock. The stinging of the corners of your lips. The weight of him on your tongue. Sliding further in. You bob your head, up and down. Tongue flexing up against his length, hollowing out your cheeks.

“Fuck,” Jack grunts.

Robby waits. Has been waiting. Only when Jack meets his eyes, and nods, does he starts to move. Fucking into you.

Your muffled noises, trapped. Your mouth and cunt full. A fucking vision to them.

“Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” Robby murmurs.

You feel dangerously warm. Delirious. Like this is occurring in a dream. Hazy, like a smoky fire on a distant hill. You shift, moaning around the slide of Jack’s cock in your mouth. Dipping your head in repetitive motions. Can hear him come apart as you do.

“That’s it,” Robby says. His thrusts are slow, measured. Giving you reprieve, seemingly content to watch you please Jack. “Show me how good you are for him.”

Oh. Robby has a thing for watching, Jack had said. The break room, probably. When you thought it was just the two of you, and somehow Robby knew that Jack told you to take care of him. How much did he watch through the curtain, before he came in to tell you the police wanted to collect your statement?

Lifting off of Jack’s cock, saliva dripping onto him. He groans, a hand cupping your face. Soft in his touch.

You rub your cheek against his palm, kitten licks to the tip of his dick. Then you’re sliding down again. Feel him all the way, the tip of his cock head up against the back of your throat. You stay like that, your head fuzzy. Hear his muted moans, like you’re underwater.

You swallow around him. He fucks his hips up into your face. Fingers buried into the roots of your hair, clenching.

Robby draws out, almost all the way, then fucks into you. Once.

You choke, throat spasming around Jack. Your fingers digging into the muscles of Jack’s thighs. But not tapping out. You tighten around Robby, roll your hips against him.

Robby grabs the flesh of your sides, then does it again. Pulls out, almost unsheathed. Then thrusts back inside.

You whine around Jack’s cock. Coming up for air again, mouthing at the length of him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect, baby,” Jack says, ruined. His thumb brushing against your cheek. Tugging lightly at the corner of your lips. “So good for us.”

You keen. Robby rocks into you, intermittent motions like he’s taking the edge off for himself. Not after your pleasure. Just his own. Different from Jack, but somehow, you find inextricably hot.

He’s using you.

“Come on,” Robby rasps. “Make him come. Then I’ll fuck you after. That’s what you want, right? Don’t even have to say anything. I can feel you clenching around me. Just begging to be fucked. Just like—that.”

Your head bowed, pressed against one side of Jack’s pelvis. Panting. Fuck, you’re burning. All Robby is doing is talking to you, and you feel like you can’t breathe. Something fluttering in your stomach.

“Jesus, Robby,” Jack breathes out. You can feel the twitching of his thighs. Minute reactions to Robby. He’s not unaffected either.

“Fuck,” Robby bites out. Slowly thrusting into you. Once again, the movements are aimless. Not for you. Just to sate himself. “So turned on you it’s making you dumb, huh?” Robby drapes his weight on your back. Pressing his cock in further.

You whine. You’re so sure the tip of his dick is at your cervix. Hips flexing against him again.

A hand in your hair, guiding, pushing. “I said, make him come.”

You try to nod, mewling at the sting of your scalp when you can’t. “Yes, yes sir, please.” Sliding back onto Jack’s cock. Still blindfolded, completely missing the look Robby and Jack share. Something undecipherable, even with the years they’ve known each other. The way Jack jerks into your mouth. The sharp inhale from Robby.

“Fuck,” Jack grunts.

You hollow out your cheeks, heading bobbing up and down like you’re on a mission. Saliva guiding the way. Wet and noisy. The obscene sounds coming from you, from your mouth stuffed full. But you don’t care. No, what you care about is making Jack come. Like Robby told you to.

You can feel Jack’s cock jerking in your mouth. He’s close. You can hear him. You bury his cock all the way down your throat. Move one of your hands to fondle with his balls. Listen to him groan.

Then he comes.

And you swallow around him. His hand, or Robby’s hand, you’re not sure anymore, in your hair. Forcing you down.

You stay. Swallowing. Drinking his release. Then you move again. The hand on your head falling away. You’re lifting your head, up and down. Hear Jack swear as you continue to suck on his softening cock. Slide up his dick, tongue on the slit. Suckling the tip.

“Fuck, fuck.” Jack tries to grab your head.

But you grasp his hand. Interlocking your fingers. Continue. Sliding back down.

You hear Robby chuckle, sinful and deep, by your ear. Spread across your back. “That’s it, honey. That’s a good cockslut. I can see why he keeps you around.”

“Fucking Christ—baby, that’s—” Jack fucks into your mouth with his spent dick. Fingers digging into your hand from where you’re holding his.

And you’re still going.

“Okay, that’s enough, baby. Fuck, that’s enough.”

You pop off of him. Heaving. Mouthing and kissing above his thighs, along the pubic bone and pelvis.

“Did Jack teach you that?” Robby asks, lips grazing the back of your neck.

You shiver at the sensation. “No.”

Jack huffs out a breathless laugh. “I’m pretty sure I saw heaven the first time that happened.”

Robby smiles against the soft skin of your nape. “So you just came along, all perfect for him, hm?”

“Pretty much,” Jack whispers, tone unbearably soft.

“Robby,” you whine. You try to fuck yourself onto his cock. Still inside you. Still hard. “Please, you said.”

“Oh, I remember what I said, honey.” He lifts himself off your back. Kneeling upright again.

“Please.”

“What do you think, Jack?” Robby asks. His fingers trace the black artwork on your back, making you tremble under his touch. “Is it time for me to fuck your slut? Been good enough for you?”

Jack releases a noise. Eyes scorching when he meets Robby’s gaze.

“Please,” you cry. Pushing yourself backwards into Robby. “Please, Robby. You said you would if I made him come. I did, I did. Please.”

Robby laughs, momentarily watching you struggle. “Not me, honey.” Attention back on the other man. “Ask Jack.”

“Jack,” you sob. Lifting your head.

Even though Jack can’t see your eyes, he knows. The way you’d look. Dilated pupils, how shiny and wet they’d be from your tears. How he can’t say no to you when you look at him.

“Jack, please, I want to feel him. Please, Jack, I was good, I promise, please.”

Robby swears, hips grinding into you. You moan.

“You were so good for me, baby,” Jack says, a hand caressing your face.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Jack answers, just as quiet, completely lost to you. “Robby.”

“You wanna lie down?” Robby asks him.

Both Jack and Robby move. With their guidance, you’re kneeling up long enough for Jack to settle comfortably on the bed. Then Robby situates you on top of Jack. You let out a noise, half moan, half sigh. Completely content to feel Jack against you.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You hum, chin tilted. And wordlessly, his lips find yours. A messy exchange of saliva. Jack’s tongue in your mouth. Against yours. A hint of teeth nibbling your lower lip. Carried away by kissing him. Until you’re rutting against him. Hissing when your clit rubs against him.

Then Robby fucks into you. Hard. Punching the air out of you. You keen. Trying to catch your breath but he keeps up the pace. Relentless as he fucks into you. Just as you had been begging him to. He doesn’t think there was ever a world where he could withhold this from you, from himself.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jack rasps. His hands roam, squeezing. Touch scorching. “Robby making you feel good?”

“Yes, yes, he’s, mhm, yes. Oh—”

“Fuck,” Robby grunts. “Taking me so well, honey.”

You arch your back just a little, feel him slip in further against that spongy spot inside you. You’re both moaning around the deeper slide of him. Feel Robby’s grip on your waist as he fucks into you, again and again. You hope his fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises. A souvenir to remember this and him by.

Jack’s fingers delving between your bodies, the space made when you curved your spine.

You whimper, reaching to grab Jack’s wrist, to stop him from rubbing circles against your clit. Based on the previous six orgasms that Robby gave you with the toy, you’re still too sensitive.

“Too much for you?” he asks.

You hum in affirmation. “It’s—mm, this is—ah.”

Robby releases a breathless laugh. He fucks into you like it’s his mission, like it was what he was put onto this Earth to do. Hitting that spot, on target with each thrust.

Jack takes your hands in his, fingers interlacing. Lies them on the bed above his head. Until your arms are stretching up. You feel the scorch of it, rekindling the burn of when they had been tied to the bed frame.

You cry out.

“There we go, honey.” Robby leans down, until you start to feel the press of his weight on top of you. Not entirely to suffocate you, but enough of his body aligning against yours.

Your breath hitches in your throat. That fire building in your stomach. Fucking yourself back against him. “Ah, ah, mm. Oh my God, Robby.”

And Jack recognises it. The stuttering of your gasps. The way your mouth drops open in broken off moans. The whimpers in the higher register of your voice. “Holy shit,” he utters, reverent. “You’re going to come, baby? Just from Robby fucking you like this?”

Your forehead against the curve of Jack’s chest. Crying out. “Yes. Yes, he’s—so good, he’s—I’m—” Half formed sentences, lost to wordless noises of pleasure. You’ve never been able to come from penetration alone. You’ve accepted it as a truth about yourself. Even told Jack about it.

And then comes Robby, an act of defiance.

“Yeah?” Robby grunts. His movements are more urgent. Like he needs to see you fall apart under him. To take something from you that hasn’t already been claimed by someone else. “Never been fucked like this before? No one’s been treating this little slut right, is that it? Just needed my cock inside you to—fucking—come like this?”

You’re keening, feeling yourself tighten around him, impossibly. Lava, all encompassing. All around you. On your flesh, consuming.

“Fucking hell, Robby,” you hear Jack groan. His hold on your hands start to bite.

“That’s it. Fucking come for me.” Robby’s reaches, fingers curling around your throat. Lifting your chin up. Squeezing the sides, above your pulse.

You gasp.

“Robby,” Jacks voice.

“You like this, don’t you? Can feel you tightening around me. Need to be fucked like a goddamn whore.”

Robby thrusts, once, twice.

And then you’re coming around him, a forceful avalanche. Imploding supernova. Heaving when Robby lets go of your neck. Riding out your orgasm as Robby buries himself deep, rolling his hips.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” Jack says.

You’re crying. Sobbing, grinding yourself against Robby. Robby hooks an arm around your stomach, face buried against the notches of your bared spine. Grunting as he comes, hot breath fanning your upper back. You feel his dick twitching with it. He thrusts into you, milking out his own orgasm. And you take what he gives, whimpering with the overstimulation.

“Fuck me,” Robby huffs.

“Come on, I got you.” Jack releases your hands, rubbing up and down your arms.

You’re absolutely gone. Floating. Moving through molasses.

“Robby.”

“Yeah?”

“On your side.”

Robby tucking your back against his heaving chest, still inside of you, softened. Jack shuffles close. You’re nestled between them. Robby has a hand splayed on your stomach. Jack’s hand rests against your chest.

Jack kisses you. His other hand against your cheek. Fingers nudging the strings of the blindfold. “Can I take this off?”

You hum. An affirmative sound, you think, given that Jack gingerly removes it off of you.

You keep your eyes closed. And even if they were opened, the room would be dark. Blacked out curtains framing the windows, no lights on.

Wiping at your wet cheeks. “So beautiful, sweetheart. You did so good.”

You’re shuddering, nosing against his jaw. And yet, something not quite clicking the way it should. That greed within you, again. A gaping hole that swallows.

You’re sobbing, still. Too fractured. Too tremulous.

“Hey, I’m right here,” Jack murmurs, picking up on your erratic breathing. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?” Fingers through your hair, against your cheek. “Baby, hey.”

Robby’s hand soothing up and down your thigh.

“Not good,” you manage, hoarse.

“What? What wasn’t good?” Jack asks.

“Robby.”

And Robby goes still behind you. Deathly so. “Honey—” He tries to move. Back and away. Out of you.

You’re shaking your head, crying. “No.” You clench around his already flaccid dick. You don’t want him to go.

Robby hisses. “Jack.”

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What happened?” Jack asks.

“Not good for Robby,” you utter.

“What wasn’t good for him?” Jack asks. Clarifying.

Robby still feels his heart in his throat.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper.

Robby swallows. Makes an incredulous noise. “Yes, you were. You were so good for me. For us.”

“You haven’t kissed me,” you hiccup.

Robby mouth opens, prepared to argue. He has. Remembers your lips against his. But really, if he’s cataloguing those moments, they’ve not been initiated by him. Too unsure to know where and how he fits in this. What he’s allowed to do and take.

Robby’s fingers gripping either side of your chin, angling your face to him. Kissing you. The scrape of his beard. The push of his tongue against yours. His hand smoothing down, resting over the front of your neck.

You keen, jerking your hips.

Robby parts, swearing at the sensation of velvet walls rippling around him. He can’t go again.

You make a noise. Jack shushes you. Kissing you again. Robby takes the moment to detangle himself from you. Sliding out, throwing the condom away in the bathroom. Cleaning himself up. Then runs hand towels under warm water from the sink.

Bringing himself back to the bed, passing a towel over to Jack. You’re on your back, and Robby’s cleaning you up, towel against your skin. And even though Robby’s sure you’re exhausted from seven orgasms, you buck up lightly at his ministrations.

“How the hell are you keeping up with this, man?” Robby asks, glancing at Jack.

Jack snorts. “I’m not. What do you think you’re here for?” Kisses the curve of your shoulder, gentle.

Robby chuckles. “You’re insatiable, you know that?” Aimed towards you, now.

You’re whining.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Robby will make you feel better,” Jack murmurs from beside you.

“You think you can do one more?” Robby asks, something raw and hungry in his voice.

He barely waits for your answer, already moving south of the bed, between your legs. A greedy thing, inside of him. An abyss that answers yours, buried in the cavern of his chest. How completely fitting that Jack found the both of you to call his.

You’re whimpering, digits twisting in Robby’s hair. And his fingers are sliding into your sopping cunt and he’s groaning as your hips thrust up when he mouths at your clit. Jack is a solid thing next to you, alternating between gentle kisses and talking you through the oversensitivity.

You’re trembling when you come, and Robby’s rutting his half-hard dick against the sheets beneath him.

Robby cleans you up again. Takes the towels to bathroom. Then he’s back on the bed. Tucking himself on your other side.

When you feel him, you bodily turn, facing him. Your eyes blinking, getting used to the darkness of the room.

Robby thumbs your cheek. “You’re so perfect, baby,” he rasps out, faint words ghosting over your lips before he kisses you again.

You sigh, a quiet sound, sinking against his chest, eyes closing. Robby’s hand rubbing your upper arm. Your breathing gradually evens out, falling asleep.

“You okay?” Jack asks, eventually. His chin hooked over your shoulder.

And when Robby looks at him, Jack’s eyes are already on him. “Yeah.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Just thinking.”

“Quit thinking. We just had mind-blowing sex.”

Robby huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah, we did.”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Jack kisses the back of your shoulder; you shuffle closer into Robby’s chest.

“Yeah?” Sternum cracked open in the quiet room. Gaze moving between Jack and you. Silently daring to wish.