Luna

Twenty-five years old, newly hired, frighteningly intelligent, somehow capable of keeping your head in the middle of absolute chaos while still managing to smile at frightened patients as though the emergency department wasn't currently collapsing around you, and before he'd even realised what was happening, Jack found himself looking for you every time he walked onto the floor.

Not deliberately.

Never deliberately.

His eyes simply...found you.

You were standing over a trauma patient, brow furrowed in concentration as you tied off sutures with quick, practiced movements, and he caught himself watching the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were thinking.

You were reviewing imaging at the computer, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear every few seconds because it refused to stay put.

You laughed with one of the nurses while grabbing another pair of gloves, and somehow he could identify your laugh from halfway across the department despite the constant alarms, overhead pages, and organized chaos that filled every shift.

It was unacceptable.

Embarrassing.

Pathetic.

He was old enough to be better than this.

Instead, he noticed everything.

You hated the coffee from the second-floor vending machine but tolerated the cafeteria blend. You always skipped lunch when the department got busy unless someone physically put food in front of you. You preferred blue pens because black ink smudged across your handwriting. You unconsciously rubbed your left wrist whenever you were anxious. You loved difficult cases. You thanked every member of the nursing staff after complicated resuscitations. You apologised to patients when procedures hurt even though they knew they were necessary. You carried strawberry-flavored lip balm because hospital air dried your lips out.

He knew all of it.

God help him.

He knew all of it.

The guilt settled somewhere beneath his ribs and refused to leave.

Because you were twenty-five.

Twenty-five.

Young enough that the future still stretched endlessly in front of you.

Brilliant enough that you could work anywhere you wanted in a few years.

Funny.

Kind.

Beautiful.

And he was...

Fifty.

A man with grey beginning to creep through his hair.Laugh lines carved permanently around his eyes. Old enough to remember medicine before electronic charting. Old enough that people automatically assumed he had children close to your age.

He should have been mentoring you.

Encouraging you.

Helping your career.

Not wondering what perfume you wore after you'd walked past him. Not remembering that your favourite energy drink was the peach one because you'd mentioned it exactly once three months ago. Not feeling an ugly spike of irritation whenever patients became inappropriate with you.

That last one worried him the most.

Because it wasn't rational.

You didn't belong to him.

You weren't his responsibility beyond making sure you became an exceptional physician.

Yet every time some intoxicated patient looked at you a little too long or some aggressive family member raised their voice, Jack was already moving before he'd consciously decided to.

"I've got this," he'd say quietly, stepping between you and the problem.

Every.

Single.

Time.

The nurses noticed.

Of course they noticed.

Nurses noticed everything.

"You know," Dana remarked one evening while signing discharge paperwork, not even looking up from her clipboard, "I've worked with Jack for...what? Fifteen years?"

Another nurse hummed.

"I've never seen him hover."

"I don't hover."

Jack hadn't even realized he'd walked into the conversation.

Dana looked at him over the rim of her reading glasses.

"You absolutely hover."

"I supervise."

"You supervise everyone."

"I supervise her more."

Silence.

Jack froze.

Dana smiled with the slow satisfaction of someone who'd just watched another person accidentally confess to murder.

"...Didn't mean to say that out loud, did you?"

He stared at her for a long moment before sighning so hard, Dana thought his soul might leave his body.

"No."

"I figured."

The guilt became unbearable the afternoon you fell asleep in the staff lounge.

You'd worked nearly fourteen hours.

You'd curled up on the battered couch with your jacket folded beneath your head, intending—he assumed—to close your eyes for five minutes.

You were still there forty minutes later.

Jack had gone looking because he hadn't seen you leave.

He found you asleep beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, still wearing your scrubs, one hand tucked beneath your cheek.

He stood in the doorway.

Just...stood there.

You looked exhausted.

Young.

Peaceful.

Someone had left the air conditioning too cold again.

Without thinking, he picked up the blanket draped over the back of a chair and carefully laid it across you.

You stirred slightly but didn't wake.

"...Sleep," he murmured so quietly he barely heard himself.

Then he walked away.

Unfortunately...

Someone else had seen.

"You are so gone."

Jack looked up to find Collins leaning against the opposite wall.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mhm."

"I covered someone with a blanket."

"You looked at her like she personally invented oxygen."

Jack closed his eyes.

"I am begging you not to start."

"Oh, I'm absolutely starting."

What Jack didn't realize—what everyone else realised before he did— Was that you weren't subtle.

Not even remotely.

You always saved the seat beside you during meetings. You brought him coffee without asking how he took it because you'd memorised his order weeks ago. You sought him out after difficult cases. You laughed at jokes that objectively weren't funny. You found reasons to stop by his office. You remembered his birthday. You complimented his ties at events.

Who complimented ties?

You did.

One afternoon he was reviewing labs when you wandered into his office carrying two coffees.

"I got you one."

"You didn't have to."

"I know."

You smiled.

"I wanted to."

You handed him the cup.

"Extra shot. No sugar."

He blinked.

"...How did you know?"

"You always look less disappointed after the extra shot."

"You've...noticed that?"

You laughed.

"I notice lots of things."

If there had been a defibrillator nearby, he thought it might have been medically indicated.

The flirting escalated.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that he kept wondering if he was imagining it.

"You look nice today."

"...I'm wearing the same thing I always wear."

"I know."

"You...know?"

"I notice lots of things, Jack."

Then you'd smile.

Every single time.

"You shaved."

"...Yes."

"I like it."

"You're frowning."

"I'm reading."

"You frown differently when you're annoyed."

"...There's different kinds of frowning?"

"Oh, definitely."

"You remembered I hate mushrooms."

"You told me."

"Months ago."

"You looked horrified when they put them on your pizza."

"You remembered that?"

"You remember things when they matter."

Jack spent the rest of that conversation forgetting approximately half the English language.

Eventually, Dana cornered you.

"So."

"So?"

"Jack."

You smiled into your coffee.

"What about him?"

"You've been flirting with him for months."

"I know."

"He thinks he's imagining it."

"I know."

"He also thinks he's approximately one hundred and fifty years too old for you."

You laughed outright.

"He's ridiculous."

"You're twenty-five."

"So?"

"He's fifty."

"So?"

Dana studied you carefully.

"...You're serious."

"Very."

"You know he feels guilty."

"I know."

"You know he's trying very hard not to fall in love with you."

You looked almost offended.

"Oh."

Dana frowned.

"Oh?"

"I think he's already failed."

It happened after an especially brutal shift.

Everyone looked exhausted.

You found Jack sitting alone outside the hospital, jacket off, tie loosened, staring out at the parking lot with the thousand-yard look every emergency physician wore eventually.

You sat beside him without asking.

Neither of you spoke for several minutes.

Finally, he sighed.

"...You should stop."

You blinked.

"Stop what?"

"This."

He gestured vaguely between you.

"The flirting."

You were quiet.

"...Do you want me to?"

His answer should have been immediate.

Yes.

Absolutely.

Instead—

"...It doesn't matter what I want."

"It matters to me."

He laughed once.

A tired, broken sound.

"I'm fifty."

"I know."

"You have your whole life ahead of you."

"I know."

"You deserve someone younger."

"According to who?"

"Common sense."

You turned toward him fully.

"I don't want common sense."

His jaw tightened.

"You'll regret it."

"You don't get to decide that for me."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"...Me."

The answer came so quietly it almost disappeared into the evening air.

You reached over and took his hand.

He looked down at your fingers wrapped around his.

He didn't pull away.

"I've spent six months trying to convince the smartest man in this hospital that I like him."

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"I do."

"No."

"I know you're kind."

He looked away.

"I know you pretend to be grumpy because it's easier than letting people know you care."

Silence.

"I know you always make sure junior doctors eat before you do."

Silence.

"I know you remember everyone's coffee order."

Silence.

"I know you cover sleeping coworkers with blankets."

He stared.

"...You were awake."

"I woke up."

"You didn't say anything."

"I wanted to see if you'd do it."

His face fell into his hands.

"Oh, God."

"I thought it was sweet."

"It was inappropriate."

"It was a blanket."

"I've been trying so hard—"

"I know."

You gently pulled his hands away from his face.

"I know you've been trying."

"And?"

"And I still like you."

You smiled, softer now.

"I didn't accidentally fall for you, Jack."

His eyes searched yours for a long, silent moment, as though he was desperately looking for uncertainty, hesitation, some sign that this was temporary or impulsive or naïve, and found none, only quiet certainty and affection that had been growing just as steadily as his own, until the fight seemed to leave him all at once with a weary exhale that sounded suspiciously like surrender.

"...This is a terrible idea."

"It might be."

"You'll make me look foolish."

"I already think you're adorable."

"I am absolutely not adorable."

You laughed.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The grumpy face."

"I do not have a grumpy face."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You really do."

For the first time in months—perhaps years—Jack laughed without restraint, the sound rich and genuine, shaking his head as you smiled at him like he'd just hung the moon instead of argued over whether he possessed a grumpy face, and somewhere between that laugh and the way your hand still rested comfortably in his, he accepted the truth he'd been fighting with everything he had.

He was old enough to know better.

Old enough to know love rarely arrived when it was convenient.

Old enough to understand that life was painfully short, unpredictably fragile, and far too precious to waste walking away from something real simply because it hadn't appeared on the timeline he'd expected.

So instead of letting go, he intertwined his fingers with yours.

Just once.

Tentatively.

You squeezed back immediately.

You want to believe that seeing him this often now is a coincidence. You don’t want to allow yourself to think, even for a moment, that he might ever come down to the ER just to get a glimpse of you. But you can’t deny that his visits to the emergency floor have become far more frequent. 

And it isn’t just you. You’d overheard Dr. Whitaker talking with some interns about him, about how they should try to avoid consulting with him as much as they could but that he’d been on the floor more often than usual. You’d also finally discovered his name, overhearing it in Dr. Whitaker’s timid tone. 

“Park the Shark.” 

You’d giggled when you heard it. You do think he resembles a shark, but in a hot sort of way that makes you feel warm all over. Also the thought of him biting you-

Anyway, you don’t think you could be more obvious than you are. You’ve been caught on more than one occasion staring at him during your shift while he worked. Sure, he might be holding an amputated leg, but you’d still sit there watching him with hearts in your eyes until Lupe snapped in your face. He could be stern-faced with his jaw clenched, scolding an intern about ORs and CTs and a bunch of other acronyms you’d always be right on the edge of but probably never really grasp, and you’d so be focused on the sound of his voice that you’d miss a patient’s angry complaint about wait times.

Everyone sees it. And no one seems to be afraid to warn you that your feelings for Dr. Park are a bad idea. 

“You’re staring again.” Lupe’s tone is bored but suspicious, her gaze pointedly side-eyeing you from where she sits at her desk. Her voice shakes you out of your thoughts, and you feel your cheeks warm at the accusation. 

“I’m not.” You deny, ignoring her gaze while you pick up some papers and tidy up your desk. 

“You are.” She turns her head in your direction, and once you meet her disappointed eyes, you wish you hadn’t. “I promise you, I’m only trying to help.”

“I just don’t understand why everyone has a problem with him.” Your words trail off as more people approach the window to check in. Lupe looks like she wants to say something, but she never gets a chance. 

You run into Dr. Park again while carrying a patient’s paperwork to the back for Dana. She’s not at the desk, so you stand there for a few moments while you wait for anyone to take the paperwork so you can return to your own desk. You’re tapping your nails against the counter when he comes around the corner. 

“The OR will be ready in 10 minutes. Go.” You feel your spine straighten automatically as his voice reaches your ears. Your eyes meet his as he approaches the nurse’s station. He doesn’t say anything, of course he doesn’t, but he does give you a long once-over before his gaze returns to the chart in his hands. Your skin feels tingly, like all your nerve endings are standing at attention, and you feel like you might explode if he doesn’t look at you again. 

“Hey.” He stops at your voice, turning to give you a look over his shoulder. Your heart squeezes, your throat clenches, and your brain goes still, having no idea what to do next. All you manage to do is stutter out a little, “It- It’s good to see you again.” 

He gets a look in his eye, though you aren’t sure how to interpret it. A glint of amusement? A shimmer of confusion? You aren’t sure, but knowing his eyes are on you at all warms your stomach. 

He opens his mouth, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s finally going to speak to you again, that you’ll hear that deep voice that has echoed through every corner of your mind since the coffee shop. Only, the sound of his voice never comes. 

Instead, Dana steps up to the counter and clears her throat, making you jump out of your skin. Your heart pounds, the embarrassment of being caught making you feel warm. 

“What’s up, kid?” Her gum smacks as she reaches for the paperwork you set on the counter. You fumble, stumbling for an answer, having completely forgotten why you’d even come back here once you’d seen Dr. Park. You can’t help but find your gaze tracing back to him, only to find that he’s gone again. Dana shakes her head at you, a knowing look in her eyes. She leans toward you and lowers her voice to a whisper, “Kid, you have to stop. This doesn’t end well for you, and all of us here really like you and we want you to stay working here, okay?”

Her words tug at your heart. You purse your lips, giving her a tight nod and a quiet ‘okay.’ before returning to your desk, throwing yourself into work so you don’t spiral. 

Because you really don’t think you can get over him. His eyes, his jaw, the shape of his shoulders, every single part of him captures your attention and refuses to let go. You know you’ll probably stay awake all night wondering what he might’ve said to you if Dana hadn’t interrupted. He lingers in your mind even when you’re thinking of other things, your eyes constantly drifting across the ER floor, seeking out his figure. 

You spend the rest of your shift at your desk, and not once do your eyes glance back. You hate the way Lupe pats you on the arm encouragingly as she leaves for the evening. 

You do stay up for hours thinking about him that night, no matter how hard you try to stop. You toss and turn in your bed, wondering how it might feel if he were laying next to you, or what he’d be like if he were above you. You think about the way he’d looked over you today, about the glint in his eyes that suggested he felt something, even if you didn’t know what. 

By the time you fall asleep, it’s the early hours of the morning. You’re angry at yourself when you wake up, your eyes burning from lack of sleep. You debate giving yourself another 15 minutes, but instead you decide to stop for coffee on the way to work. 

And that’s when you get an idea. 

Lupe seems suspicious when you walk in with two coffees in hand. “Extra tired today?” She asks as you place one down at your desk. 

You give her a shrug, “Something like that.” And duck back into the emergency department, heading for the nurse’s station. You pen “Dr. Park” on the side of the coffee cup, leaving it on the counter where he will hopefully find it. 

When you return to your desk coffee-less, Lupe gives you a knowing, disappointed glance. You take a seat, ignoring it, and call a patient to check in. 

Dana corners you in the parking lot at the end of the day. Truthfully, you’d been lingering, hoping Dr. Park might walk with you out to your car and say something about the coffee. But instead, Dana’s arm wraps around your shoulders, and she gently leads you away from the doors, further into the parking lot. 

“Hon, I’m really trying to be nice here…” She squeezes your shoulder, “I know you might think you like Dr. Park, but you gotta stop. It’s too much, you don’t want him to be uncomfortable.”

Ouch. You curl in on yourself a bit, your arms crossing in front of you. “I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable, I just…” You don’t know how to finish your sentence. Like him? Have a crush on him? You spend hours a day thinking about him, it feels deeper than that. But it’s also not. You have only had one real conversation with him. You feel your throat tighten and you shake your head, unable to finish your sentence.

“I know, sweetie, I do.” The two of you walk in silence after that, your eyes burning as you approach your car. Maybe she’s right, you think to yourself, surely he would’ve expressed some kind of interest in you if there had been feelings there? You’d been trying to speak to him for weeks, after all, and hadn’t managed anything more than a few syllables. 

Dana sighs as the two of you stop by your car, then she steps in front of you so she can look into your eyes, her hands on your shoulders. “You gonna be okay?”

You give her a nod, thoughts running a million miles an hour. “Yeah… I think so. Thanks, Dana.”

It’s another sleepless night that night, though not for the same reasons. Instead of thinking about being with Dr. Park, you’re thinking about what it would be like to close him out forever. You think about letting go of this little crush you have, the fantasies of him in your mind, and part of you feels empty. But then, you think about leaving him the coffee, about how Dana suggested that you might be making him uncomfortable, and you’d never want that. You consider quitting your job. You don’t know how much you can control your thoughts if the man walks in your line of vision multiple times a week. But then you remember how Dana said that they want you to stay, plus you do not want to end up back in the job market. 

You still haven’t made up your mind on what to do by the time your alarm clock goes off. You coast through your shower, getting dressed, and completely forget to eat or grab a coffee on your way to the hospital. You sit in your car for a few minutes before going inside, resigning yourself to a terrible, caffeine-less day, before forcing yourself to go in. 

The sight of the iced coffee on your desk feels like a gift from heaven. 

“Lupe,” You say as you sit at your desk, taking a drink. It’s your exact order. “Thank you so much for getting me a coffee, I actually forgot to get one today.”

The other woman raises an eyebrow at you, “I didn’t get that for you. It was here when I got here.” 

“You didn’t?” You question, pulling the cup away to look at the sticker. “Then who-”

That’s when your eyes catch on the name on the cup. “Brendon.” 

Your gaze raises, finding him through the sea of people in the ER like a beacon. He’s already looking at you, and when your eyes meet his, he gives you a little, one-sided smirk and a gentle nod. 

You can barely contain your giddiness as you raise the straw to your lips again and call up your first patient to check in. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

By your next shift, after a night of dreams haunted by a tall, broad, handsome stranger, you decide to go on a hunt for more information despite Lupe’s warning. 

You don’t get far before you run into another obstacle. Setting down your coffee at your desk, you slip through the door into the ER and approach the nurse’s stand. Dana looks up at you over her glasses, a chart in her hand that’s forgotten as you approach. 

“What’s goin’ on?” She asks, smacking her gum. You run your hands over the counter, nails tapping against the flat top as you try to piece together your question.

“There was a doctor down here yesterday that I’d never seen before.” You play innocent, though there’s something in Dana’s gaze that makes you think she can see right through you. You try not to fold immediately. “I just think it’s a good idea that I know everyone’s name…”

Dana is silent for a long moment before she places the chart down in front of her. She leans back in her chair, taking a long breath, before she sighs and leans toward you again.

“Listen, kid.” The tone of her voice immediately dampens your enthusiasm. She continues, her eyes having an almost motherly gaze when she looks at you over the nurse’s station counter. “I know who you’re askin’ about. I also know that Lupe already told you askin’ after him is a bad idea. And I’m going to reiterate that for you. He’s not nice, he’d eat you alive.”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your shoulders curving in on yourself. You wish you could disappear into the floor. Had they talked about you? Did Lupe tell her you’d been watching him? Does everyone know? 

By the time you meet Dana’s gaze again, there’s a pitying smile on her lips. She stands, picking up her chart with one hand and patting one of yours with her other. “It’s better if you drop it.” 

But you couldn’t drop it. You found your eyes drifting on more than one occasion toward the emergency room floor, tracing for any familiar details that might suggest your the doctor had returned. He lingered in your dreams, imbedding himself in every fantasy. You didn’t even know his name but you’d imagined him doing things to you that would make anyone else blush if you said them out loud. 

You decide to try one last resort. You know you can’t ask any of the doctors, mostly because they’re too frantic and fast-paced for you to have any chance to. But nurses… nurses are fair game, especially ones who have been nice to you since you started working in the ER. 

You arrive early, another iced coffee clenched in your hand as you wait like a predator stalking prey. You watch some of the night shift leave, some of the day shift doctors arriving before dawn to take their place. Your victim arrives shortly, and you scramble to exit your car at the same time she does, jogging to reach her side as you shout her name to get her attention.

“Princess!”

She looks up with wide eyes, but then her lips turn up in a smile with only a hint of confusion beneath it. “Hi!”

“I have a question for you.” You say, keeping in step with her as the two of you approach the building. You adjust your bag on your shoulder as you continue, “There was a doctor down here the other day. I’ve never seen him before, and I was wondering-”

“Oh no.” Princess shakes her head, holding up a finger in your direction, “I was told explicitly not to tell you anything about a certain evil orthopedic surgeon that you seem to have your eye on.”

Orthopedics. Well, that’s more information than you’ve gotten out of anyone else. You conveniently ignore the other adjective she’d used to describe him. 

You try to push for more, “Not even his name?” 

“Not from me.” She shakes her head again, lifting her fingers to mime zipping her lips closed. You groan in defeat, but you still hold the door open for her as you walk in. 

You keep your eyes peeled for him, this handsome doctor who has somehow wedged his way between the folds of your brain. But as shifts pass by, days and days of them, you lose hope. Maybe he was just visiting, and that’s why no one wanted to tell you anything? Or had other women like you fallen into the same trap and gotten burned, and that’s why no one had entertained you, even for a moment? 

Your brain goes around and around, shifting between fantasies of the mysterious man and disappointment that you’d probably never see him again. 

And then, one early Saturday morning, fate decided to intervene. 

You’re off work surprisingly, not trapped between white walls or engulfed in the scent of antiseptic. You’re enjoying a nice walk, breathing in the fresh air, and splurge a little with a stop at your favorite coffee shop halfway across town. 

You’re waiting at the counter for your order to come out, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Your ears perk up when you hear one of the baristas call out your coffee order, placing in on the counter. You make a mad dash through the small crowd of people also waiting, your hand clasping around the cup. You give a quick ‘thanks!’ to the staff working behind the counter, beginning to lift the straw to your mouth for a drink. 

A throat clears behind you. “I believe that’s mine.” 

You turn, and to your horror… it’s him. The doctor from the ER, the one who has been present in every fantasy and every dream you’ve had since you first saw him. You’re gaping at him, mouth slightly parted like a fish, and a look of annoyance crosses his face. 

“That’s my coffee.” He says again, and some part of your brain must finally reset and work because next you’re practically shoving it into his hand. 

“Sorry!” You tell him, trying to put on an apologetic face while simultaneously urging your heart to slow down. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t give you a smile, doesn’t give you any kind of acknowledgment at all. Instead, he begins to turn away. 

You can’t let him escape again, you think. Not without at least knowing who he is. 

“Hey,” You take a step forward to get his attention again, but it doesn’t work. So instead, you just blurt out, “Do you work at the PTMC?”

This does make him pause. He turns back toward you, his eyes more narrowed but less annoyed this time when they meet yours. 

“I do.” He says. He gives you a once-over, his head tilting just the slightest bit to the side. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You tell him with a nod. Your mouth opens for you to speak again, though you aren’t able to get anything out before the barista is calling out your order. The exact same as his.

No wonder you’d gotten them confused.

His eyebrows raise, eyes glancing back at the counter where your coffee sits. “You have a good taste in coffee.” He gives you a nod, and you feel like you won a battle. He doesn’t say anything else before turning to leave, and the giddiness of the interaction has you on a high that almost makes you feel like you don’t need a coffee after all.

It’s not until later that you realize you still never learned his name. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

“What the?” she called out for you.

Maybe you were having a self-care night. Charged up a vibrator and such.

Santos chuckled to herself as she made to tiptoe past your room.

There was the unmistakable sound of another.

“Oh fuck.”

Trinity paused.

You and her were close, she could admit that. You were maybe her only friend. So she knew you had been going through a dry patch. Because you were making it everyone's problem.

She listened in.

There was deep groaning from a man and your moans, the soft thudding of a bed against the wall. Trinity thanked the heavens again that the head of your bed was against Denis's wall and not hers.

“Deeper, harder,” she heard you moan.

“Oh, fuck me,” the guy groaned deep. She didn't recognise the voice. Did she?

Curious she tried to listen to the mans voice, wondering what she could tell. He must have been busy as little else was said other than groanings.

Where had you met this guy? Had this been happening longer than she knew? Is this why you hurried out?

Santos thought you weren't one of one night stands. Were you proving her wrong?

She snook into her room and knew she had to tell someone, at least Whitaker.

Robby collapsed next to you on your bed, catching his breath as you pulled the sheets up to cover your slightly sweaty bodies. The bed creaked under his weight as he moved around, getting himself comfortable.

Your bed was a small double, not really built for anyone more than one. Let alone Robby.

“You want some water or something?” you asked.

Robby chuckled, the bed creaking again as he turned on his side to face you. “Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?”

You lifted your shoulders, tucking your hands under your head to admire him. “Well you're the senior citizen with the... bad back?”

His brows lifted. “Oh that's how you want to play it.”

He grabbed your hip and pulled you close.

You were still trying to recover from the multiple orgasms Robby had ripped through your body as soon as you'd stepped through your apartment door. But that didn't stop his hands from crowding around your body, pulling you into him as all his hardness turned soft.

His lips found yours as easy as one found home, kissing you the way he knew you liked to be kissed. Head tilted to reach deeper, nose moving against your cheek.

There was a sudden shriek in your apartment.

You pushed Robby off, sitting up quick in bed.

“What?” he asked, far less alarmed then you as his arm fell around your waist.

“Trinity.”

Robby hummed. “Thought you said she was at Garcia's tonight?”

“I thought she was,” you uttered as if she was in the room.

The dating with Robby had started maybe three months ago when you'd had a disastrous date at the same bar Robby frequented with his buddy Duke. He'd seen the distress you were in with your date when he wouldn't stop talking about why sports people should actually get paid more than health care workers.

From there you had drinks with Robby.

From there he asked to see you again outside of work.

From there you ended up in his bed and he in yours on the occasions you had the place to yourself, which with two room mates didn't happen often.

You'd thought tonight was one of them.

“You should go,” you said, throwing the cover back to find your clothes in the dark.

“What?” Robby laughed, without moving. Instead he got himself comfortable, throwing an arm around the back of his head and tugging the covers down to his waist.

“Yes, do you want Trinity to know?”

“She doesn't sleep in your room though does she?”

Still, you tried to find some clothes.

The word around the PTMC was that Robby was a seven week itch kind of guy, the sort to never tie himself down. So though you'd been on dates with him and though he'd brought you flowers before and held your hands in bars and took you to a fancy dinner, he still fucked you like a guy that could move on the next day.

And you didn't want to scare him away with talk of serious dating. A bit of Robby was better than none of him.

You just didn't want your friends to judge you for that.

“Hey-hey-” Robby moved over on the bed, arm darting out to wrap around your waist and tug you back in.

You couldn't even protest before he was pulling you into him, hooking one of his large legs over yours and trapping you in. Your quilt was pulled up and his head rested next to yours.

At least when you and Robby were done with the sex you never kicked each other out of bed. But you did go into work separately.

“But-”

“-I'll be out of here first thing in the morning.”

With his arms around you and his calming breath you didn't think you could push him off you if you wanted to.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Robby kissed the blade of your shoulder and for the rest of the night that was how you were and when you woke in the morning with two hours to spare before your shift started, Robby was already gone.

“So who's the lucky guy?”

You chocked on your coffee, peering next to you at Trinity. “What?”

She smirked, leaning on the locker next to yours. “Oh come on, I heard you last night.”

The bitter taste of black coffee turned to ash in your stomach. She'd heard. Or worse, she'd been up to see Robby sneak out in the morning.

“What-what do you mean?” play it cool, you could totally starve of the humiliation. Maybe you could persuade her it was a dream, a nightmare, that she was sleepwalking and actually heard/saw/knew nothing.

“I heard you last night,” she said. “Quite the dicking down from what it sounded like.”

You felt the heat in your cheeks. “Oh my god.”

“Hey, I think its good, you deserve it,” said Santos as you hid yourself in your locker, taking great care in peeling off your jacket and finding your stethoscope inside. “So is it someone I know, or...”

She didn't know. You rejoiced silently before realising she still knew there was someone. “That is none of your business.”

“Oh come on, you know Garcia!”

“Because she works here.”

“Does he work here?”

“No!” you close the locker door, not as amused as Trinity was clearly finding this situation. “Please, he's just... a guy.”

She leaned in closer for the gossip. Few things got her as excited as gossip did. “A boyfriend guy or a sleep around guy?”

Wasn't that the golden question.

“Oh my god, you don't know.”

“Santos!” the call of her name should have saved you. Not when it was Robby calling for her as he stood between the two of you. “Pelvic exam in three.”

She groaned but gave a salute. “You got it boss,” she said to him before aiming a finger at you. “This isn't over.”

Santos had turned, leaving and you hardly waited anytime to turn back to the lockers and bash your head into them. Not enough to hurt but enough to erase the terrible fact that Santos had heard you.

Robby liked hearing you moan and you liked Robby so you always moaned loud.

And she'd caught enough of it.

Usually, you wished for Robby to be a bit louder in bed. You were glad he hadn't been.

The cold metal of the locker was replaced on what might have been your twentieth go at hitting yourself with the back of a rough hand.

“Everything okay?” asked Robby, coming to stand next to you, leaning on the lockers. His eyes creased with concern.

“She knows.”

His brows shot up, which didn't indicate a good reaction. “She knows?”

“Not about you, don't worry,” you said with a light scoff. “She knows that I had a good time with a guy last night, she doesn't know who.”

Robby nodded in consideration. “So we're in the clear?”

You screwed your eyes shut. You hadn't realised just how bad you wanted him to shrug it off, tell you he didn't care if Trinity knew, that of everyone in the ward knew, that he only cared about what it meant between the two of you. You only realised when he didn't give you that option.

He wanted to be sure he wasn't affiliated with it.

“Yeah, you're in the clear.”

You left Robby at the lockers before suspicions could grow. Nothing wrong with a resident talking to their attending and so far you and Robby had done a good job at not having any suspicion- not even from Dana.

The least you could do for the guy was keep it that way.

“You had a hot date last night?” Princess slid up to your side before you were even half way across the ward.

You groaned. “Santos told you already.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Say anything about what?” Javadi's voice suddenly came from Doctor McKay's side. The older woman tried to act uninterested but her keen eyes were watching you from over the computer.

“She had a date around hers last night,” said Perhlah, coming up to your other side.

“And she won't tell us who it was,” added Princess.

Javadi's smile grew and her jaw hung open. “Who?”

You shook your head and stared at your shoes. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Okay!” Robby's voiced boomed out. He clapped his hands, gaining everyone's attention. “We have patients, how about we go ask them some riveting questions?”

Mel frowned from somewhere in the crowd that had formed. “We should go ask them if they know who the guy is?”

She realised quickly that wasn't quite what he meant.

Perlah and Princess walked off together, quietly scheming. “Men just don't get it.”

You gulped down, smoothing your hand over your head and where the growing headache was forming. “Thanks.”

Robby said nothing but there was the brief feel of his hands on your shoulders as he squeezed before moving past you.

It was going on lunch, you'd just gotten a trauma through and up to the OR when you spotted bright post-it notes stuck up on the board in Ahmed's office. The betting board, his mini kingdom had been put back together.

Three titles.

Who?

How long?

Casual or dating?

“Oh my god!” your shriek echoed around the Pitt.

“What? What is it? What?” Robby was at your side in an instant, body almost slamming into you with how quick he slid next to you. He steadied himself, holding on.

“That!”

Ahmed had set up a betting board based on your love life.

The who column was spread with names and the name of those that had bet scribbled underneath. In the middle there was how long had it been going on for, some thought it was only a few weeks, others guessed up to six months.

The last column, wondering if it was a casual thing or serious was filled with almost every post it note saying 'casual'.

“Oh,” Robby chuckled.

“It's not funny,” you argued. “Has every body here bet?”

“Not me, I had no idea. Besides I think that's kind of cheating, right?”

“I see you've found my latest and greatest,” said Ahmed, approaching behind the two of you. “We got this up and running two hours ago, you want me to break it down for you?”

“Holy shit,” you uttered, scanning the board. It was a great and easy way to find out what everyone thought about you.

Robby nodded, leaning on the door next to you. “Holy shit.”

“How much money's in the pot?” you asked.

Ahmed grinned like he was just waiting for you to ask. “Five-hundred and five dollars!”

Robby chocked on a breath next to you as your jaw hung open.

Someone was gonna make money of your guys' sex lives and none of that was going to come to you.

“And I'm guessing I can't get in on it?” you asked.

“No," said Ahmed. “Unless, you know, you wanna tell me who it is and I'll split the money between us.”

“And who do you think it is?” asked Robby. He asked casually, still leaning on the doorframe like he couldn't care less. If he was a girl in a rom-com he might have even checked on his nails or twirled his hair. But you'd studied him close the last couple months, you'd worked all his emotions out into your own little Robby dictionary.

There was a hint of jealousy.

“Well, I've gone with the fan favourite,” he said, plucking off his post it note to show you. “Frank. Three months. And serious.”

“Langdon!” Robby announced.

Uh-oh.

“Yeah, man,” he said. “More than half these notes say it's him.”

On further reading you noticed it did. On yellows and pinks and greens Frank's name was written in quick scribbles or thought out curves.

Frank? Sure the two of you were close. You'd worked close together for a year- nearly two. You worked coordinated well in traumas and with patients you always knew what the other was thinking.

Since his divorce with you'd been helping him as much as you could. You had a friend who was a good lawyer and when he had a chance to see the kids you always covered.

You knew, of course, everything that had happened with the benzos.

You knew Robby still wasn't back to being best-buds with the guy.

You didn't know everyone thought you and Frank were together!

Donnie side stepped past you, coming in with his bets. “I got it, I got it-”

Robby snatched them from his hand, scoffing at whatever was written.

“Langdon. Two weeks and serious.”

“Et-tu, Donnie?” you asked.

“I got fifty in the pool, looking to get a new tv, you know.”

Robby stormed off.

Donnie watched. “He got a bet in?”

“Not yet, sorry, you don't mind?” asked Ahamed.

You scoffed. “Do I have a choice?”

You left them to it, finding Robby sitting at the nurses station at a computer. His jaw clenched and fingers worked furiously over the keypads. You evaluated the area before leaning in. “If you put a pool in we could split the money?”

“Should I put a bet in for Langdon?” He didn't look up to you as he slid on his glasses.

It angered you because he seemed annoyed at something he knew not to be true and because he slid on the glasses that made him even hotter than he already was.

“Is there something wrong, Robby?”

“No.”

“You seem-”

“- I'm not,” he snapped.

He was.

Robby wouldn't admit how much he let his emotions rule, especially anger. He used to be terrible for it but for a while he'd been better, lighter on his feet, patient. Since about.... well, since you started seeing each other.

“Hey.” Langdon joined your side.

You noticed a vein in Robby's neck twitch. “Hey.”

“You seen what everyone's saying?” asked Frank. “Apparently we're seeing each other?”

“Yeah,” you said, turning to him. “I had no idea.”

“You think I should buy a ring next?” he teased.

Robby slammed his hands on the counter, pushing himself up and storming off without so much as a glance.

Frank watched. “What's his problem?”

What was his problem? You'd love to know. “He had a bet on someone else,” you excused.

“Oh bummer,” said Frank. “You think he lost a lot of money?”

You didn't have time to come up with another lie as you spotted Santos and Whitaker walking by. Politely, you ditched Frank, promising you'd catch him for lunch.

“Did you start a betting system on my sex life?” you asked Trinity.

She smirked. “That wasn't me, I had nothing to do with that, seriously!”

“It's true,” said Denis. “But she was the first to put down a bet on Frank.”

You looked at her. You knew the history between her and Frank. Why would she want you to sleep with him? “You hate Frank?”

She shrugged. “So I guessed you were sleeping with him and didn't want to tell me because you know I don't like him.”

You shook your head. “I didn't want to tell you because it's none of your business.” You considered Whitaker. “Who'd you bet for?”

“I-I didn't, I-I wouldn't-”

“He bet on Nick from radiology.”

All of this from Robby sleeping with you in your apartment. Next time- if there was even gong to be a next time- you were doing it at his.

By the end of your shift anyone that hadn't placed a bet had.

Franks name had doubled and the pot was up to one thousand dollars (the highest bet in Pitt history). Frank found it funny, cracking jokes about it all day, throwing arms around you and dragging you onto cases saying 'couples that save lives together, stay together.'

Any other time you'd have laughed.

But when Robby was around every corner, glaring yet refusing to talk to you you couldn't find amusement in it.

The night had come and you were catching a break at the ambulance bay, sitting down on the curb. You were home in an hour, Denis had already gone to Amy's to deliver a lamb or something and Santos was supposed to be at Garcia's tonight.

But you highly doubted you'd have company.

“Hey,” Jack greeted, walking over to you in his midnight scrubs and bag slung over his shoulder. “How's my favourite day shift resident?”

You smiled a tired one at him. “How much money do you have in your wallet?”

Without a beat Jack fetched it and offered you what he had. Because that's the kind of guy Jack was.

“No, no,” you chuckled. “I don't need your cash. There's a betting pool on about who I'm sleeping with. I just- I was gonna ask you to not place a bet.”

Jack laughed, setting next to you on the curb, stretching out his prosthetic leg. “Would be a bit unfair seeing's as I'm best pals with the guy you're dating.”

“Not dating,” you corrected. “Probably not even seeing each other after today.”

Jack listened as you explained the distance, the glares, the snapping that returned to Robby. He didn't jump to defend his friend, he listened to you and took notes mentally. “The guys an emotional wreck. You know that. I know that.”

“But I thought he was doing better?”

“He was- is. Since he started dating you,” he said. “You ask me he's dealing with some emotions he doesn't know how to process. Jealousy. Greed. What's the other deadly sin?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Lust?”

“Yeah. That.”

“So I'm supposed to what? Let him be a dick all over again?”

“Oh fuck no,” said Jack firmly. “Put him in his place.”

Admittedly you didn't want to. You wanted to go back to being whatever it was you had with Robby. You wanted to hold hands and share beers in shitty bars at least an hour out of town so it was kept a secret. You wanted the brush of hands between the rush of patients and the discreet meetings at his or yours.

But how far were you willing to bend before you broke?

“So who's everyone putting bets on anyway?” Jack asked.

“Frank.”

Understanding of the situation hit him. “Ah.”

“Yeah. Ah.”

Suddenly the wail of an ambulance cut through the quiet.

The doors burst open, Robby, Santos, King, Jesse all pouring out.

“GSW to the chest, forty-two year old male, weak pulse, un-conscious on the ride over,” said Robby tugging on his gloves as you and Jack jumped up. He spared a glance at the two of you before the ambulance pulled up.

You jumped into it, wheeling the gurney ahead into trauma two. Everyone working around the man.

“Okay we move him on the count of three,” said Jack as you all got a hold of the patient. “One... two... three!”

He was heavier than some, not that it would effect your level of care but it made moving him just that but more difficult. There was a breath of air and struggle from Jack and Robby, the noises you had to drown out.

“Lets get an intubation tray going!” called Robby.

The two of you crossed each other, swapping sides.

“Can we talk later?” he uttered as he paused for only a second.

“Whatever, Robby.”

He sighed heavy.

The rest of you carried on gaging the extent of his injury.

“So do you want me out the apartment tonight so your man friend can come around?” asked Santos at your side.

“I want you out cause I'm annoyed at you.”

“Ouch.”

“Okay we need to turn him to see if it went through, on my say!” yelled Robby.

The team had thinned as orders had been barked, there were two of you on either side of him: Robby and Jack, and you and Santos.

Robby passed a nod. “Okay, roll!”

You and Trinity pulled while the men on the other side pushed but maybe Robby didn't have a good grip or maybe he hadn't expected him to be so heavy.

Robby grunted and groaned. “Ah, urg-”

“Not through,” Jack grunted.

You tried to lower him as slow as you could but it wasn't slow enough as Robby's hand got trapped under.

“Oh! Fuck me!”

You and Jack lifted the body quick and Robby released his hand.

Santos was frozen.

The whole room seemed to pause for a second.

“Oh my god!” Santos cheered, arms thrown wide. “Oh my god, oh my god!”

What was wrong with her?

It took you a second to realise, memory of last night coming to you.

Robby over you, thrusting careful.

Your body moved with his thrusts but you wrapped your legs around him, pushing his pelvis in till you felt the length of him deep. “Deeper, harder,” you'd begged.

Robby had groaned out loud, just the way you liked to hear him. “Oh! Fuck me!”

He'd uttered the words into you as he pressed his weight down, squashing you onto your squeaky bed. He'd wrapped his hands around your neck, squeezing just enough to have your walls fluttering around his cock.

Santos had been home longer than you'd thought.

Now, she was practically jumping up and down, smirking. “Oh my god!”

“Trinity can I talk to you outside please?”

“It's- you- and-” her arms were waving around.

“Outside, please, Trinity!”

Everyone was staring.

“Trinity, outside!” You guided her out and she let you, abandoning the trauma and ripping off her gown. You returned, finding Robby's gaze and Jack's amused grin as he tended to the patient. “Sorry, Doctor Robby, may I talk to Santos outside for a moment?”

Robby must have jumped to the same conclusion as you. “Er yes, yes! Of course, go!”

You rushed out, nudging Trinity into an empty exam room as she laughed. You closed the door and pulled the curtain over the glass.

“It's Doctor Robby!” she said at once. “It's Doctor Robby! You're sleeping with Doctor Robby!”

“Can you keep your voice down?”

Santos laughed again, a full belly laugh. “Oh my god, this whole time I thought it was Frank. Oh, I'm so happy.” She wiped at amused tears.

“Hey!”

“How long have you been sleeping with him?”

You shook your head, tugging off your own hospital gown. “It doesn't matter.”

Finally Trinity considered you. Her laughter died. “What-what do you mean?”

How could you explain that what she'd heard last night was over hardly twenty-four hours later.

The door pushed open and Robby stepped through, gown and gloves already gone.

“Is everything okay in here?” he asked, looking between the two of you.

“You and you?” Trinity confirmed, finger gesturing between the two of you.

Robby ran his hands through the back of his hair.

“I just can't believe it,” she said. “You guys are dating?”

Robby sighed out a “yes” at the same time you shook your head, “no”

Now, Robby looked at you.

Santos folded her arms over her chest, smirking and watching like the two of you were her favourite show. “Oh.”

Robby's hands fell to his hips as he looked at you. “What do you mean, no?”

“What do you mean, yes?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he chuckled.

Your rubbed at your temples. “I'm so confused.”

“You're confused, I'm confused,” Robby scoffed.

“Wait- I'm confused,” said Santos. “You guys don't know if you're dating or not?”

Robby's eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “Doctor Santos, please. Go make yourself useful.”

Trinity didn't move. She looked at you, waiting for what you wanted. Because yes, Robby was her attending but you were her friend. When she was insecure about Garcia you were there telling her how much better she could do.

In the hospital Santos was guided under Robby.

At home, she was guided by friendship and care for you.

You gave her a nod and she dismissed herself.

You didn't know where to look, didn't know where to touch.

Outside the usual routine of the Pitt carried on.

Robby sighed, hands going into his fleece pocket. “You didn't know we were dating?”

No, you really didn't. “Was I supposed to? You never asked.”

He shook his head, looking down with a chuckle. He started to list things off, counting them off on his fingers. “Flowers, dinners, day trips, was that not enough?”

“But you never said!”

“I thought it was obvious!”

“Obvious to who?”

“To us!” His hands fell to your forearms.

“No to you maybe!”

“So the dinners... the flowers, you thought it was all just, just sex?” he asked.

You'd hoped it was more. You'd dreamt about it when his weight kept you down on his bed after you kissed and made love for hours. Love...

“I... yeah.”

How long had you thought him the bad guy? Were you the one that had been distant, pulling away?

You carried yourself away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed. You never realised how uncomfortable those things were.

Robby laughed to himself, standing for a moment longer. He checked that nobody was around through the curtain before he settled next to you. He shuffled, his bodies attention focused on you. He laid a hand on your knee, tilting his head to try to look at you. “I should have asked, properly.”

“It would've saved confusion,” you admitted.

Robby's hand came up, cradling your face and drawing your attention to him. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over your cheek.

You looked at him, finding nothing but warmth in his gaze. The only thing that had been there for three months. “But today, you... you could hardly look at me.”

He took in a deep breath. “I was...” his jaw ticked.

You smirked. “Jealous?”

His eyes flickered back to yours. “Nobody on that board thought I could be dating you.”

“Till about two seconds ago I didn't even know we were dating,” you joked.

Robby shook his head, wetting his lips. “We are.”

“You're not even going to ask me?”

“I don't need to,” he said. “We're dating, that okay with you?” His face inched closer.

“I don't know, I might have to ask Frank that one,” you teased.

Robby leant back, a dark look to him. The hand caressing you fell to your neck, keeping you looking at him. “You think that's funny?”

“Everyone else thinks so-”

He pulled you in by your neck and kissed you, hard, the imprint of his teeth felt through your lips.

You held onto him, kissing him with a new need. Kissing your boyfriend. Your hands wound around his head and you brought him down on top of you.

Robby climbed atop the bed that was not made for heavy make out sessions. He held the edge with one hand and the other fell down your body till it could crawl up your scrub top, un-tucking it and holding onto your hips.

He bit down on your lip and used the opening of your mouth to slide in his tongue.

“This is un-professional,” you said against his lips.

“I've been wanting to be un-professional for months.”

You were so lost in the feel of each other you didn't notice the curtain being yanked back until you heard.

“We got him stable,” said Jack, casually. “Oh and you've got an audience.”

You looked over Robby's shoulder as he looked back to see nosey nurses and night shifters along with half the day staff all looking at you.

You tapped his shoulder and though resigned to, Robby slowly climbed off you.

“Who put down Robby?” Ahmed called. “Did anyone bet Robby?”

The crowd that had watched you both suddenly rushed to the board, scanning the name.

Eventually you and Robby joined, waiting.

“Oh my god.”

“There he is, Robby, one vote!”

Robby's head perked in confusion.

“Who is it? Who?”

Ahmed collected the money and made his way through the people. To the one who had made a bet on Robby. “Doctor Robby, three months, and serious.”

He delivered the money- to everyone's shock- to Frank.

Your jaw hung open as Frank collected the money.

Everyone looked at him, silent.

You couldn't tell if next to you Robby was okay with it or angered.

Frank looked around at everyone. “C'mon, nobody else saw it? He's been happier for three months and can't take his eyes off her.”

Clealry, nobody had.

“I thought you didn't bet?” you asked him.

Frank shrugged, bashful. “Yeah well, couldn't help myself. Here-” Langdon held out the wad of cash to Robby's hand, practically forcing it in. “Take her somewhere nice.”

You wished you had a camera to capture Robby's shock.

“Okay folks! Show's over!” called out Dana. “Day shift let's pass on to night so we can get out of here to have some fun!” she winked your way.

Slowly the crowd dissipated, shaking their heads in disappointment.

Ahmed was already pulling off the notes and rubbing away at the board.

Robby waved the cash in front of you. “What do you say, you gonna let your boyfriend treat you tonight?”

“I'm looking at hotels to stay in till they figure it all out,” you said.

“Your insurance going to cover that?” he asked.

You peered at him through the sleep you didn't get. “You're funny this morning, Ken, you know that?”

“Well I got an early start.”

“Hey-”

At the call of Robby's voice, you straightened like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Frank laughed into his coffee mug.

It was embarrassing, really. How quick your body reacted to Robby and his call quicker than your mind could catch up. All he had to do was appear, say your name or catch your eye and you straightened, falling to his side and doing whatever he said. Somewhere along the way of working with him, he'd trained you.

“You're late,” he said, a small tug in the space between his brows. “Not like you, is everything okay?” Robby slipped in and Frank slipped out, pulling a face behind Robby, puckering lips directed at you.

“Sorry, sorry. My car's in the garage and the uber cancelled and I didn't really sleep much last night, it- it won't happen again.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Interesting night?”

You chuckled to yourself. “You could say that.”

Robby squinted at you before his eyes caught onto the pile of your stuff that wasn't there the last time he came in for a coffee. “Moving in?” he asked.

You laughed, a little more genuine then you had at Frank. “My apartment's flooded, they're just here till I can get a hotel.”

There was something heavy in the rise of his brows, in the way his expression morphed and his eyes widened only a little.

You tried to ignore it, because it almost looked like genuine concern. Not just for his resident that everyone claimed he had a soft spot for, but for the person behind the medical training. “They'll be moved by the end of the day.”

“You get any sleep last night?” he asked.

“Do I look that bad?” you asked with a pitiful huff.

“No,” Robby said at once. “Did you?”

“Couple hours. Those that were lucky enough not to wake up on the Titanic had a few sofas available.” You'd slept on Mrs Issac's sofa for three hours before you woke to her cat curled on your chest and your phone alarm blaring. It had felt as if your head had only just touched down, your dreams had only just started to form in mindless and faceless shapes before you were being brought back out of it.

Robby looked around at the staff room that was empty besides the two of you, peeking out the jutted open door. “We're pretty slow out there. South nineteen's empty.”

You nodded. “I'll look who's in chairs, get someone in-”

“Get some rest,” he said.

At some point Robby had come close to you, leaning his arm on the counter to support his weight. The tattoo hidden behind his watch peeking out at you. He stared down, studying you.

“I'm-I'm fine,” you said, un-sure what to do under his care.

Robby shook his head, lips tugged up slightly. “Fine isn't good enough for my best resident.”

Best resident. Somewhere along the way of working with him that title had been given to you; knelt on the ground, a sword going from shoulder to shoulder and there you had your title. Whenever he could, Robby slipped it into conversation with you, saying it more than your actual name.

“Thirty minutes,” he said.

Arguing with Robby was like arguing with a brick wall.

You sighed, imagining the scratchy blankets and hard bed but your body slumping at the idea of rest. “Thirty minutes. And get me if there's a trauma.”

“Which one of us is attending?” he asked, amused at the fight you tried to pull.

“You don't have best in front of your title though, do you?”

“I don't know, you tell me?”

“Hmm, only on Tuesday's.”

“Oh, Tuesday's are special days, huh?”

Tuesdays were special days because every Tuesday the two of you worked together. You don't know how you realised it, and maybe Robby didn't even know but every single Tuesday since you'd began the two of you had always been on shift together. Days off, weekends missed, long weekends and holidays but every Tuesday without a doubt, you and Robby were there.

Robby led you out, a phantom touch of his hand ballad up in the back of your scrub shirt before it was gone again.

“You'll wake me up?” you asked again.

He nodded his head once more. “I will wake you up.”

“And if somebody needs the bed?”

“I will personally throw you over my shoulder and put you somewhere else.”

You were suddenly glad your back was to him, so he couldn't see the blush on your cheeks at the very idea of being thrown over his shoulder. In your delirious state you picture the situation you'd have to be in to be thrown over his shoulder, the behaviour it would take to have him moving you around, hauling you about-

Thirty minutes of rest you could do.

“Hope you know what you're doing.”

Robby flinched at the accent and heavy smell of nicotine mixed with mint. He didn't even satisfy Dana by glancing back at her. “What?”

She chuckled. “Nothing. I guess.”

He shook his head and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, checking the hotels around the area. There seemed to be three types: expensive, high-end and pristine. Dirty, still not that cheap or booked up. How long would you need the room for? Was your landlord or anyone going to help you out for it? He didn't know your situation exactly but he knew what it was like to be a third year resident and stuck with bills.

Dana leant on the counter next to him, smirking.

“I'm just trying to help,” he excused.

“Yeah, sure.”

He peered at her over the black rim of his glasses. “Something else to say, Evans?”

Her head titled. “Don't you have a spare room at yours?”

Yes, he did. It was plain walled and not at all decorated besides a map of Pittsburgh train lines framed and not hung up. Some old Christmas gift from Jack that he couldn't get rid of in fear of offending him. The bed was comfy because it very rarely got slept on, aside from Jack or Jake on occasion. Truth was Robby couldn't remember the last time he had a guest over.

“Cheaper than a hotel,” she added. “Unless your up-tight.”

Suddenly he was thinking about it. You, in his place. You'd been around maybe once before, he re-called, un-able to re-count the circumstances that had you around.

“You'd be doing the girl I favour, I bet,” she continued.

Robby looked at the screen then back to her. “Has she... said something?”

“Not to me, but hey, she's been asleep the last hour. What do I know?”

Robby looked back down to the time at the computer, the numbers flickering by. He knew it had been longer than his half-an-hour. Really, he had no interest in waking you from your sleep unless he really, really had to. And if he had time to sit and scroll through hotels, you had time to sleep.

He let out a breath. “Apparently everything.”

She laughed. “Hey, you said it, not me. But if you can't put her up think I heard Santos offering up a sofa.”

Robby looked around the space, trying to find Santos or Whitaker to confirm. He didn't see either of them.

It was decided in his head then that he'd have to ask you to take up his guest room. He'd act it was all under the pretence of making sure you were well-rested, had a decent bed and your own space to sleep in, assuring you could get the rest and come in bright eyed and bushy tailed. Deep down he'd know, just to himself, it was because there was a seething bite of envy at the idea of Santos having you waking in her apartment, going home with you at the end of the day.

He dragged his hands down his face as Princess called out his name, demanding his attention.

What was a couple days, anyway.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

You looked up from your tablet, handing it over to Jesse as you stepped away from exam room six.

Robby stepped in Jesse's place, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders lifted high.

“Two hours,” you said. “I was asleep for two hours.”

“Sweet dreams?” he asked.

Yes. There had been dreams and rest. The blanket hadn't felt so scratchy and as tired as you were the noises of the Pitt were muffled in your mind. By the time you woke up your body felt lighter, you could practically feel the bags under your eyes retreat. Then you stepped out and there were new sets of patients, a different lighting in the place and the hour hand had moved all away around the clock.

“I dreamt there was a long que of patients waiting for the room,” you said. “A line like at Disney, except without the pay off.”

“They fast tracked to another,” he excused. “Can I talk to you now?”

He seemed restless, fists balling up in his fleece pockets and glasses tucked away in the front. His hair was tussled slightly, as if he'd already done a full day of work while you'd slept.

You waited for him to go on, watching his mouth open and close before he shook his head at himself, a light chuckle leaving him.

“I did some research,” he said, dragging out his words, in the way he did when he was nervous. You'd seen it when he was trying to let down every one of his flings, scared it was gonna end up loud in the middle of his ER. “Hotels in the area are expensive, I have a spare room, got a bed, it's big, my place is spacious and I'm hardly ever there. No garden but there's a balcony-”

Robby listed aspects of his apartment like he was putting it up for sale.

It took some time for you to realise what he was saying. A spare room, yours, he was offering. You caught the fact he'd looked up hotel rooms and suddenly you were imagining him, phone pulled out with the glow reflecting on his readers. Was he frowning at the prices? Was he rubbing at his beard in frustration, thinking which you'd prefer.

Was he hoping to find you a room so he didn't feel obliged to give up his own?

“That's- that's very kind of you, Robby,” you said softly, letting yourself down gently. “I- I can't do that.”

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Take your room.”

“It's not my room, it's a spare.”

You blushed, thinking that he thought you were thinking about staying in his room. “No! No, I-I get that, I just- I can't put you out like that.”

Robby rocked forward on his heels. “You wouldn't. Really.”

“I'm sure I could find somewhere cheap-”

“- you can't-”

“- or I can check around with friends-”

“- Santos only has a sofa,” he said, raising his brows.

“I-I have other friends.”

Robby pressed his lips into a thin line. “Like me?”

He was insistent. Had someone put him up to it? Had he seen how tired you were and felt bad?

Every morning you woke and before walking into work you took a shovel to the feelings you held for Robby and buried them deep, deep down, plunging a sign that read remain professional into the ditch of your own creation. You called him boss and cap, reminding yourself that's what he was. Of course a friend was another title too, but calling him friend and invading his space wasn't going to do much for your feelings. Or your nerves. And you liked to think you'd done a pretty good job in keeping both in check.

Robby rocked on his feet again, almost jittering. “I don't charge rent, you'd be saving some money.”

How many more excuses could you come up with? How long could you stand here going back and forth?

“How many bathrooms?” you asked.

“Just one.”

“You live in a quiet area?”

“Very.”

“You don't have a cat do you?”

He shook his head with a small smirk. “No. I had fish but lost them.”

You nodded, arms hugging yourself. Admitting yourself into his hands wasn't just a jump, more a leap. Denying yourself had been easier in work, when glimpses of Robby between procedures and patients was all you could gauge yourself on. In his space, you'd become full.

“Say yes and I'll put your stuff in my truck.”

Future regret bubbled up in your throat.

“Okay, fine,” you said, earning a slump of relief from him. “But I'm paying rent while I stay.”

He shook his head. “I don't need it.”

“It'll make me feel better,” you said. “I have to do something.”

Robby looked past you, thinking for a moment. “You cook?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. While you're staying with me-” he jutted his thumbs at himself, like he was proud. “You can cook dinner, if you want.”

It wasn't a terrible service. More often then not you'd seen Robby slump his way out the place, mentioning something about a restaurant he was stopping by to pick up food that might last him a couple days. It would be like taking care of him and wasn't that what he was doing here? Taking care of you?

In a friendly way, of course.

“I will cook dinner,” you agreed.

“Great.” Robby seemed to relax in front of your eyes: his hands came out of his pockets, his shoulders shrunk and the crinkles at his eyes showed in a smile. “Your stuff's in my truck already.”

“Presumptuous,” you said, calling after him as he backed off slowly.

He shrugged. “Hopeful.”

But what did he have to hope for?

“Hey,” said Santos breathless and approaching you, moving your gaze from the pull of Robby's back to her. “I've got our labs back on that guy in seven.”

“Oh- er, great, great.” The tablet takes up your attention, but your mind lingers on the crows feet at Robby's eyes, the smile you saw briefly when you agreed to go home with him.

But Trinity Santos never missed a beat. “What was that about?” she asked in an uplifting teasing voice you were all too familiar with as she looked back at where Robby had disappeared to.

“What- what was what?”

“You and Robby, huh?”

“No. No me and Robby, don't make it weird.”

She smirked. “You're doing that all on your own.”

You carried yourself over to the nurses station, clocking Robby lingering in a corner, talking something over with Samira, so instead you distracted yourself with the tablet and charting. “He just offered me a place to stay.”

Santos's brows rose up high. “His place?”

You blushed under her analyses.

“Oh my god-”

“Don't- don't make it a thing-”

“It's already a thing,” she scoffed, leaning over and swatting at you. “You're staying at Robby's!”

“In his spare room, separate living completely.”

Santos leant back on the counter, looking around dreamily. “Suuurree, until you need the bathroom and just so happen to walk in on him, towel around his waist-”

“- Santos-”

“- it's all hot and steamy from his shower,” she continued. “And you just so happen to slip, right into his arms and- oh my- the towel falls.”

“You have too much time on your hands,” you said. “Go get Garcia for a surgical consult on twelve.”

Sulking, she did so, dragging her feet across the place while you were left to debate if the dent in your bank account was worth it to spare the dent in your heart.

A life with Robby was framed in different ways.

When you first stepped through his place, your case tugged in his hand and your bag slung over his shoulder along with his own, there was a thick layer of tension blanketing over everything, mystifying the tour he gave you. It didn't give in the morning when you both woke groggy from alarms, reaching for coffee. Through the day the tension sat between the two of you through patients and traumas.

It started to feel like a terrible idea.

Until you both went back to his that night and laughed about the couple that had super-glued themselves together, the teenage boy who got his head stuck in between balcony bars. You made mac & cheese, which Robby deemed the best he ever had but considering you only found kraft cheese boxes in his cupboards, you didn't think much of it.

Then the routine built, mugs of coffee in the morning, a hearty breakfast started by whoever was up earlier in the morning, taking turns in the bathroom with only the occasional awkward bump in to each other in between brushings of teeth.

It was one morning when he stepped out, a smudge of minty white toothpaste in the corner of his mouth.

“You've got a bit of-” you'd told him, gesturing to the corner of his mouth by your own.

He rubbed and missed it completely and your hand reached out first. It was like you were watching it outside of your own body, as your thumb swiped away at the corner of his mouth, scratching at his beard.

Every morning since then Robby had walked out with that same bit of smudged toothpaste and every time you spotted it, you got rid of it for him.

Feeling the heat of his breath dance along your fingertips.

The peppermint smell of him clinging like second skin.

The wet fall of his hair, droplets dripping down to your feet.

It made every morning harder, but made every one more the while.

In work, you had your own new routine between the two of you.

In the mornings everyone in the Pitt- including those that stuck around from night long enough- lingered to watch as you and Robby walked in side by side, heading straight for the fridge in the lounge.

There, Robby would pull out two containers of leftovers from the night before while talking about.... well, sometimes nobody could really tell what it was.

“- all I'm saying is that if it was real life they'd be shut down instantly,” Shen caught Robby telling you, shamelessly lingering in the door way with Abbot and Javadi.

“It's not real life, it's Disney.”

“It's a restaurant ran by a rat!”

“It's whimsy.”

Robby grumbled under his breath. “It's un-realistic.”

You laughed and as busy as you were laughing you didn't see the look Robby gave you, a smile of his own. A soft one, because when he was looking at you, nothing had to be loud. “Just wait till you watch Cinderella, the rats sew a dress!”

Abbot was first to clear his throat. “Good morning, happy couple.”

And Robby's expression dropped, passing a glare to his friend.

As distracted as he was with the glare, he didn't see the way your face fell. The disappointment that marred your features.

“Got anything fun for me?” asked Robby, clapping his hands and getting to business, taking the night shift attendings by the shoulders and dragging them out.

Javadi entered in, a sheepish smirk on her lips. “So, how's it going?” she asked with all the air of a girl needing gossip.

“It's fine,” you said.

It had been three weeks of living inside of his apartment, of his space becoming yours, of shows he'd never think about watching slowly enrapturing him.

“Just fine?” she asked. “Isn't this supposed to be the part where the two of you get together?”

It was a few beers kind of mistake to tell Javadi on your feelings for Robby. But she was a med-student harbouring hard feelings for Matteo and you'd been desperate to bond and suddenly it turned into Javadi shooting you looks across the floor whenever Robby got too close, and he was doing that a lot recently.

“No, no, that's crossing so many lines,” you excused.

“Yeah but, he invited you to stay.”

“As a friendly gesture.”

“And how friendly do we know Robby to be?”

With you, very. With others it was more a tough game to play to get Robby to show some sympathy.

Your mouth was left ajar, stuttering on words you couldn't even come up with when Princess drummed her knuckles on the door.

“Louie's in south nineteen, asking for you.”

Never had you been so thankful to be called away on a patient run, especially when it was one of your terribly concealed favourites.

But you didn't leave quick enough to not catch how Princess crowded in Victoria, asking her what the latest was.

You managed to skirt your way over to nineteen without any more fans asking you about your new living situations. You were more than happy to hide away with Louie.

“Hey, doc!” he grinned as you let the door shut behind you.

“Louie, it's been weeks, what took you so long?” you joked, taking the stool and wheeling over to him with a smile. Really, you'd been worried when he hadn't come in- counting two months down since his last visit. It didn't give you hope that he was doing better, it filled you with dread he'd given up entirely.

He chuckled. “Sorry, doc, been busy.”

“A good busy?”

“Always.”

It was one of those slow nights when Louie came in when you and Robby were working- a Tuesday night where you were just about to go home when you checked in on Louie one more time, finding him half way through a devastating story on his life.

You'd cried in the bathroom and Robby had silently handed you a tissue when you stepped out, cold water splashed in your face.

“Hold out your hand for me, Louie,” you said, watching him do so with a tremble you could have bet your money on. “Shaky, huh?”

“Well it is eight a.m,” he grinned.

“We'll start you with fifty of Librium, as always. Anything else bothering you, Louie?”

“I had some aching in my side, right there-” diligently he showed you the pain, wincing as he pressed down on the pain.

You tugged on gloves and did an exam, finding the are bruised.

“You been in any trouble recently?” you asked, knowing that if Louie ever was in a fight, it would never be started by him. He was happy to drink silently.

“Not that I remember, maybe with a stool,” he joked.

You smiled with him, testing out spots of his chest and asking him to breathe in, listening down the stethoscope. “Everything seems fine but we'll get an ultrasound in to check you over.”

He waved you off. “Don't rush, doc, I like to watch the people go by sometimes.”

You entertained him. “Course, I'll be back shortly.”

You got Perlah on the case, someone just as happy to see Louie as you were, the duo that took the best care of him. Then you were occupied with slowly ticking off the board, discharging simple cases, working harder on the demanding ones.

At some point in the morning Robby slid in next to you, taking his place casually.

“I think I win for most interesting case today,” he said.

Happily, you looked up from your charts. “I didn't realise it was a competition?”

“Competition keeps you young,” he said, head nodding side to side.

“I'm not the one that needs to be kept young,” you teased.

There was smirk of shock that gave way to darkening eyes and a straighter back when he pulled himself up.

“You wanna play that?”

“I'm playing that,” you said. “I'm surprised you don't have an old mans seat when you shower.”

“I didn't realise you thought about me showering.”

It took you so off guard your elbow slipped, taking down someone's abandoned coffee.

“Shit!” You cursed, clamouring to the shards and spilt liquid.

Robby was still chuckling to himself when he knelt next to you, collecting the bits of mug in his hands, taking what you had in yours to his also.

“I- I don't think about you showering,” you said, quietly. “Of course I don't, I just- I just meant- a joke. It was a joke.”

Robby inhaled, tilting his head to get a look at you. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah, god, I-I didn't-”

Your name was cried out and the shards of China fell back to the ground as Perlah helplessly stood outside of Louie's room. Almost slipping on the coffee, you took off in a run, Robby hot on your heels as you burst through the doors.

“He just- he just started-” Perlah panicked among the blood.

He lay still, un-responsive and you didn't miss a beat in jumping up, pumping down on his chest with gloves, without a gown, just the need to save a life that had been drilled into you.

His blood got on your hands, under your nails as with every pump down on his chest, you pumped more blood out.

“Get an intubation tray, crash cart and suction, now!” Robby called as a flood of nurses assembled around you. He was intubated and a bag put in place, a nurse came in for suction and the heavy rolling wheels of the crash cart sounded.

It fell upon you muffled as your arms shook while pressing down on his chest.

“We can swap out,” Robby offered quietly from behind you.

“No, no, I- I got this,” you said through the gasps and slow bead of sweat beginning down your temple. “C'mon Louie, c'mon-”

Perlah stretched over, slamming down pads on his chest, under the gown that practically had his name on it from how often he visited. “Pads in place!”

“Hold compressions!” said Robby.

You backed up enough to get a reading, getting a dull feeling of Robby's hands on your arms as you trembled. “Still V-Fib,” you said, climbing off the bed. “Charge to two hundred!”

“Charged!”

“Clear!”

So it went on, maybe only for minutes, maybe for an hour. A continuous rhythm of your chest compressions, the push of epi, the constant let down of no pulse, the flow of blood. And Robby's eyes only fumble from you to check on Louie before returning to you.

Everyone in the room hung on the thread of the flatline.

“Do we push more epi?” asked Perlah.

There was a silence behind you but you could picture the slow shake of Robby's head. You'd seen it in dozens of patients, in several helpless cases.

“Robby?” you called out helplessly, without knowing what you were calling for.

He was slow in his approach to you but you could feel him closer, know he was reaching out. “We've done everything we can.” It wasn't harsh. It wasn't kind. It was fact and sometimes fact was neither thing.

His hand was gentle on your shoulder, not squeezing or pulling. Just there. It was enough for you to feel everything deep down in your bones, the pressure of trying to bring him back to life making you weak and Robby's touch helping you give up.

You didn't recall the calling of his time of death, or the stumbling out the room, the wiping down of his blood on your scrubs. You didn't know anything until you made it out to the ambulance bay, drinking in gulps of fresh air that seemed to poison you more then help.

It clamped down on your chest and choaked at your throat-

“Hey, hey- it's okay, you're okay-”

Arms were tugging at you, pulling you into a chest you'd grown knwon with.

You pushed back. “No, no, I'm bloody, I- I can't-”

“Shh-” Robby cooed.

He embraced you tightly, suffocating you into his chest like he was trying to tell the rest of the world to go away, to shield you from the hospital and ambulances would inevitably come by. Robby stood there, arms strong and protecting you. He rocked slightly, lips pressed to the top of your head like it was a natural thing to do. Like you'd never felt them there or anywhere else before.

“I'm sorry,” you sniffed into his chest.

“No, don't be- shh,” he whispered into you. “You did everything you could.”

“He's gone, he's gone,” you mumbled.

Robby held you until he felt he could let you go, which proved a while. By the time you'd dragged yourself back in, red faced and teary eyed word had spread about Louie. Robby remained behind you, a hand curling against the lower parts of your back as he guided you through to the scrub bin, daring anyone to stop and ask you what happened.

He was a dog ready to bite.

“Take some time,” he said in the same air he'd used to ask you to stay with him. With no room for arguments.

You changed scrubs, met Perlah in the middle of the nurses hub for support. When Louie's body was took to the viewing room, Robby stayed stuck at your side, fingers brushing yours as he let everyone who wanted to say goodbye, say it.

By your side he stayed for the rest of the day, with biting breaths and lingering looks. His touches became every other moment, every spare second he knelt next to you, checking in.

“I'm fine,” you told him repeatedly as the day went on, as new patient names clouded your mind and traumas stole your attention.

“We'll get out of here, tonight,” he promised, hand edging closer to yours. Closer to something he wouldn't be able to take back. “No cooking tonight, we'll pick something up.”

“I can- I can cook-”

Robby shook his head. “And you can pick the movie.”

You smiled, though it was tainted from the pain. “Even if it has talking animals?”

His eyes rolled playfully as he sighed, pushing himself up. “If you must.” His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he squeezed, moving by.

When you looked back up you weren't surprised to see the fleeing eyes of Dana over her glasses.

She knew you'd caught her but only turned and walked off. You didn't know how you knew she was still smiling, but you knew.

By the time you and Robby got home- back to his- the sky had darkened and the Thai was procured on the drive back.

He'd let you shower first, knowing you still felt the need to scrub the phantoms of the day from you. You'd been so desperate you'd left your own wash bag in your room, your own robe there. So you bathed in Robby's signature smell, washed your hair in his shampoo that wasn't a two in one.

You wrapped yourself in a towel that was fluffy and smelt like him, wiping down condensation from the window before letting yourself sit with the grief.

It was never a good idea, alone in your own apartment to let the day haunt you. In Robby's place, surrounded by a smell that was all his, you safely let yourself remember the wobble in your arms, the pain in your heart and ache in your body.

You stood, re-tucking the towel around you when the door burst open at once.

“Shit- shit-”

You grasped at the towel as it slipped down your body, clutching it to your chest before it could expose everything.

Robby stood, frozen in the doorway, his lips parted slowly. “Shit- sorry, I thought you were done.”

“I'm- I'm finishing up,” you gulped.

Robby nodded, hand clenched on the door.

You watched his eyes catch a glance past your shoulder, seeing something there that had a blush creeping up his neck and ears. Something that made him bashful and looking away.

A chill ran down your body, from the toll of the day, the lack of clothing around you or the look Robby gave you.

“I'll, er- just...” you trailed off.

Robby closed his eyes, breathing deep. “Yeah. Yeah.”

The door inched closed slower. Before it shut completely you were sure Robby paused, sure you heard him inhale and sigh before you caught the retreat of his footsteps.

You body sunk in on itself, catching the electricity buried under your skin by just being looked at by him. At the idea that he could smell him on you.

It wasn't until you turned, catching a glimpse of yourself in the wiped down mirror that you realised.

Wiped down.

When Robby glanced behind you- to the mirror- he'd blushed at the sight of that part of you left bare. The slope of your back, the dimples that sat just above your ass and the curve of you.

He'd got a glimpse of it. Not just a glimpse by the way he paused- an eyeful.

“Fuck.”

It was bound to happen, maybe, with how long the two of you had been in co-habitation. But the day had been messy enough. Navigating the corners of yours and Robby's changed relationship.... you didn't have the nerve, though it felt alight by his look.

Maybe he hadn't seen anything, you told yourself as you dressed.

He probably didn't even notice, you said as you threw your damp hair up.

Just don't bring it up and he probably won't, you repeated as you stepped out.

When you came back out Robby was hiding in the kitchen, tucking himself right into the counter as he set up several dishes of all the food you'd ordered. His head was tucked low but there was a new sheen of sweat at the expanse of his neck still poking out from his scrubs.

“Sorry for taking so long,” you apologised, slipping into a stool across from him.

He shook his head and shrugged without looking at you.

“Smells good!” you said, reaching for the food that lay between you.

Muscles in Robby's jaw moved. Tightening.

You watched his tongue run over the bottom of his lip before he stepped back from the counter, a finger running over his lips as he excused himself quickly.

It was just a glimpse you thought you caught, something tightening in his scrub pants exenterated by his hands trying to be discreet in covering it (and failing).

Only when you went back to the bathroom an hour later, to brush your teeth did you notice the very, very cold setting of the shower. But if he didn't bring it up, neither would you.

Robby was only supposed to be passing. It had been ten minutes since he last caught a glimpse of you and he decided that was nine minutes too long.

He couldn't pinpoint when exactly the obsession started, if he wanted to call it that. It could have been when your things started to pile up at his, your favourite mug that you drank from sitting comfortably next to his every morning, or the cook books you went back to like it was your bible. It might've been before you'd even effectively moved in with him. Maybe when he saw the way you commanded a room around a trauma, never once doubting yourself.

Whenever it began it only increased with every good morning he got, every night and gentle touch he felt.

And finding you in that bathroom, a blink and miss it moment when your towel started to fall. The expanse of everything behind you that you were so un-aware of.

Robby felt dirty for the erection he supported most the night, even after the coldest shower of his life and taking care of it in his bed when you were sure you were asleep.

It had taken every bit of taught and measure self-restraint to keep his hands off you. You'd had a tough day, Robby throwing himself at your mercy wasn't going to help.

But it had been a week since then, a week of near misses and close calls in the bathroom the two of you were treating like a battleground. The splotches of toothpaste he let linger on him got further and further along his mouth, the playing clueless became more silly. The brushed past each other in the kitchen when there was plenty of room became more telling.

It was all supposed to be going somewhere.

“ - while she is playing house with her boss,” he caught Santos saying, hers, yours and Javadi's backs to him as he slowed his approach.

“It's messy,” said Victoria.

“Oh, would you- the two of you stop,” you said. “It's not like that.”

“No?” asked Javadi.

“It's not like what?” he heard the teasing uplift of Trinity's voice.

“Like what you're trying to say,” you argued. “Robby and I are friends, just friends.”

Santos nodded, head lowering. “Sure. Friends. Friends with house mate benefits.”

“What are house mate benefits?” asked Javadi, looking over to you enough that Robby could catch a grin.

“Oh, use your imagination,” said Santos. “One bathroom, two people, trips to get water from the kitchen, in nothing but skimpy little-”

Robby could practically see the face you were pulling.

“Oh, can we not talk about this?” you said. “Nothing like that has happened, nothing like that will happen. We're friends, just friends.”

Robby didn't realise how badly he must have wanted it to be more until he heard you dismiss it out of hand. Until he heard the mocking chuckle of his doctors at what you were saying. That nothing was ever going to happen, essentially admitting you didn't think about the escapade in the bathroom as much as he did.

Why would you? You probably thought it was odd and gross how he lingered. How he acted the rest of the night- withdrawn and ashamed- probably didn't help.

What? Did he think that after spending more time with him, living with him, you'd grow to care in a way he had for you. In a way he'd tried to ignore for months?

Did he really think he stood a fucking chance?

He was hyper aware of himself, standing there like an idiot with the fading mark of his heart on his sleeve. Soon somebody would call his name, his game would be up and the three of you would turn to him, catching him there.

Robby cleared his throat and shouldered between you and Victoria, practically tossing the tablet down. “Guy in five needs a surgical consult on a blood clot.”

Santos held up her hands to be clear of it and Javadi was walking away at once.

Robby watched you take it and he left.

It was time to start re-building his heart.

“Hey,” you said, quick to follow him. “I was thinking of trying a carbonara tonight, do you like it?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Cool. You know if we have parmigiana?”

“I have more pressing things to think about then what's in my fridge,” he said.

You were quiet for a moment and he hoped he'd scared you away. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? Has something happened?”

“No,” he huffed, halting at the door to trauma two where a car crash victim was under the scope of three capable doctors. What was one more? “Now instead of pestering me can you go do you're fucking job?”

The flash of hurt in your eyes was almost enough to have him apologising. To have him cave and tell you he didn't want to just be friends, that he couldn't go a day without feeling you and being calmed instantly.

Almost.

Your lips pursed and you held the tablet up to your chest like it was a shield. “I will get right on that, boss.”

The tension that began at his house when you first joined him in the space of his walls falls returned, un-invited, with a vengeance.

After Robby's snap at you you figured it was a bad day, that things had piled up and him and he didn't want to talk about it. He still waited for you at the end of his shift, still drove you home but in a silence that was stale. He went to the bathroom first and you started on dinner, making two plates of the pasta you'd promised.

He never left his room that night and his dinner was still sitting on the counter in the morning.

It continued for three days. No blushing meetings outside of the bathroom, no movie's he'd fall asleep to and miss the end- though insisting he was only resting his eyes- it all stopped, quickly.

So quick you had no time to think of what had gone wrong.

“Hey,” said Victoria, lingering next to you as you went back to your search for cheap hotels that didn't have complaints of bug bites.

“Hey.”

“Your leftovers smell so good.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn't even pack lunch today,” she added, a small smile bitten back.

You huffed a laugh. “You can take Robby's, I don't think he's hungry.”

“Really?” she said. “He's usually very punctual about your lunches.”

He was, until a few days ago when you'd tried to find him to see if he was hungry, so you could sit down to your leftover together as you had done. But he'd brushed by you, telling you he wasn't hungry. He did so every day you asked.

“Has something happened?” asked Victoria.

Yes, something had clearly happened but you didn't know what.

“No, just.... Robby being Robby I guess.” You shrugged it off but the indifference hurt because it wasn't just Robby being Robby. You'd found a different Robby, the one that wasn't snapping and grumpy every day, the one who coaxed you to your room when you were too tired to move from the sofa, the one who let you hum along to the songs in the movies you'd pick, the Robby that made you coffee just the way you like. You'd never even had to tell him.

“Oh. I'm sorry,” she said. “You know if I didn't live with my parents I'd let you stay, of course.”

You smiled. “I know. Thanks.”

The hotel you settled on wasn't in the top ten in the city and it was nearly forty minutes out of your way. Earlier mornings were a small price to pay.

You let Robby drive you home without conversation, let him tirelessly switch from one radio to the other. Your fingers curled and un-curled against your knees in anxiety.

“My-urm- apartment is up and running again,” you said.

Robby's knuckles bleached white on the steering wheel. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I can get my stuff packed up and be out your hair.”

Robby didn't say anything. You glanced at him, seeing the tightness of his body and the eyes he kept plastered on the road. “It's late,” he said, mouth moving to say something else before he closed it again and thought. “I can give you a lift over.”

“You- you don't have to,” you said. The idea of one more tense car ride was enough to have you thinking about jumping out the moving vehicle. “I can book an uber.”

“It's late.”

Robby kept himself busy while you packed up the clothes you'd un-packed in the wardrobe in his room. He packed up your toiletries and your kitchen things that had slowly wound themselves in his cupboards.

You were already at the door, your case and bag standing next to you, your phone warming in your hand as you checked your hotel booking and uber confirmation.

Robby walked out from the bathroom, your toiletery bag in hand.

“I've got an uber booked,” you told him, quickly. “It's been a long day, I didn't want you to have to drive anymore.”

He nodded, slowly, handing you the bag. “Okay.” His hands retreated back to his pockets.

You loitered. You still had ten minutes before your uber on the way. “I'm sorry if I out-stayed my welcome.”

He shrugged, shaking his head. “However long it took to get your place fixed.”

“Still, I didn't mean for it to take this long.”

Robby didn't reply and his gaze faded away from you.

It was a heavy goodbye. The longer you'd stayed with him the little time you gave to thinking how leaving would work. You wouldn't be escaping him, no, he'd be stuck in your mind and lingering in the corner of your gaze. You'd still remember how he looked when he was falling asleep, how his shower smelt and the way he stretched in the morning.

They'd all be happy memories of another time.

You took it with you like extra baggage into the uber and into the two star hotel.

Robby knew he was ingraining himself into the night shift longer than he needed to but since you left a week ago his apartment was cold, empty and he loathed it.

He hated that there was no other noise, no other mug sitting next to his, nobody to talk to. Hated it so much he was choosing the taunting walls of the Pitt over heading back.

“You thinking of joining the night crawlers?” Jack asked, finding Robby stretching at the hub of the Pitt.

“Nope.”

“Oh. It's just, you're still here, so I assumed,” Jack teased.

“I get it,” said Robby in a sing-song voice.

“It can't be that bad, can it?” asked Abbot. “You see her tomorrow.”

Robby wished he could say he didn't know what Jack was talking about but it was painfully obvious to everyone that he couldn't deny it himself. There was no more coming in together, in fact, you'd been coming in late but he was doing his best to avoid you he couldn't talk to you to find out why. He no longer had a tub of well-cooked food or your teasing invitation to eat with you.

It felt like he had nothing all over again.

He looked down to the nurses counter, picking at a mark on there. “It's just...” he trailed, trying to think of a word to sum it all up.

“Yeah?” asked Jack, leaning next to him.

“Quiet.” He decided on.

Jack nodded, slowly. He glanced away before frowning at whatever he'd found. “What happened anyway? The pipes at her place were fixed so you just kicked her out?”

“No, she wanted to leave.”

“So you guys can't just, hang out?” he asked, holding his hands behind his back.

Robby made a pfft noise. “Hang out?”

“Well, Dana says-”

“- Dana-” he scoffed.

“Dana says the two of you can hardly look at each other,” said Jack. “Seems to be a change from what I'd heard before.”

Robby looked at him. “And what did you hear before?”

“You laugh,” he said, like it was a rare phenomenon. “Heard you joke. Saw you smile. Saw you happy.”

He thought about you, grinning with Santos and Javadi as you told them you were just friends, that nothing had happened and nothing was going to happen. He remembered how you looked at him first thing in the mornings and last thing at night, how you were- and still- were on his mind as he laid his head down and pushed himself up in the morning.

“She... she made it clear that nothing was going to happen between us,” Robby admitted.

“And you wanted more?”

Robby was still, the flecks of the stain coming off under his nail.

“Want more?” Jack corrected.

He nodded.

“And did you tell her that?”

It was rather annoying, sometimes, how well Jack knew him.

“I didn't have to.”

“I think you did. You still do,” said Jack. “Just talk to her man, tell her how you feel-”

Robby shook his head at once. “- no-”

“Robby. Brother,” said Jack with a firm pat on his back. “I've seen how you look at her. I've seen how she looks at you. Take it from me, it would be a waste to let that go.”

He didn't want to let it go, but Robby didn't know how to hold on either.

“Hey, big bosses!” Lena called. “Got major trauma's coming, hotel caught fire. We're the closest hospital, Westbridge can only take two traumas and ten minors.”

“Send them our way, I'll round up the crawlers!” said Jack already sliding into his professionalism.

“I'll hang around then,” said Robby, almost spitefully proving a point to Jack. That he didn't need to go home.

“I'm giving you an hour.”

An hour was all he needed.

A flood of people, most in their sleep wear, robes hastily thrown and tied up flooded in. Many were covered in ash, faces grey or pale. They were checked over for smoke inhalation, nobody got through without a stethoscope to their chest and back. There was a family of four who's father was being treated for bad burns. An elderly man with cancer that was put up to south eighteen, chefs from the small hotel kitchen that were being seen for burns, damage to their lungs and everything else.

“I told you! I told you!” one of them shouted, accent foreign to Robby. “That place is a death trap! It was just waiting to go up in flames!”

Robby stepped out and decided to let them argue, tugging of gloves and fetching another pair from the always stocked box on the wall. “Is that everyone?”

“Just one more, pulling up now!” said Lena, yelling over the chaos the ED had turned into to.

Just one more. That heavy set of exhaustion was starting to settle in his feet, making them ache. It was nearing one in the morning, in five hours time he'd need to be up and heading in.

He thought it was the need for sleep that had him hearing your voice.

“Mark Tellon, on his seventies, severe smoke inhalation and asthma attack. No signed nasal hair, his pulse ox is at eighty-four wet crackles bilaterally!”

There was no such thing as dreaming.

Robby stumbled at the sight of you in bottoms that were too long for you, in a cartoon character he couldn't name, in a shirt that drowned you. He guessed it was once white but was stained in ash and smoke, as was your face and hair.

You wheeled in the man with the paramedics and Robby stepped just ahead.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded.

“Hotel caught fire, quick evacuation, this is everyone,” you listed, clinically.

“You were there?”

You glanced up at him as the bed of the old man was wheeled by the two of you. He watched your face fall, smudging ash as you wiped at your forehead. “Er-”

Robby didn't care for the answer. Well, he did but not when your eyes were hazy, skin clammy and smoke and ash covered you. His hands climbed at your cheeks, holding you there and looking into your eyes. “Have you been checked over?”

“Urm, no I'm fine-”

“C'mon-”

“What? Robby!” you protested even as his fingers wrapped around your forearms, dragging you across the floor and past patients waiting for consults and doctors and nurses clearly rushed off their feet.

There was no spare room available but the family room so Robby took you there, where it was empty, and closed the door behind him.

You were stuck, again, alone with Robby. Exactly the place you'd tried not to be. But he'd closed the door behind him, zoned in on you with that tight crease of worry between his brows.

You stood there, holding onto yourself.

Robby made you follow his finger with your eyes, his other hand steadying your cheek as he watched you. “Any dizziness?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He took his penlight out from his pocket of tricks next, shining the light and checking your pupil response, you knew how it all worked and let him go through the motions. “You inhaled smoke?” he asked.

“Probably. I was trying to make sure everyone got out, first.”

There was a tut from his lips but a small upturn in his cheeks.

“Course you were,” he mumbled, ditching the pen light when he was done with it.

“Honestly, I'm fine, I'll just need a shower.”

Robby was already making his way behind you, warming up the drum of his stethoscope in the palm of his hand. Still, when you felt the brush of his rough fingertips skirting over the skin of your back and the metal pressing along, you shivered. “Breathe in.”

You took a deep breath in, Robby's eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

“Breathe out.”

You did everything he said.

He moved so he was in front of you, sliding the stethoscope down the front of your shirt, closer over the drum of your heart.

Robby's eyes remained lower, not meeting your gaze. “Breathe in.”

Your chest expanded into his hand.

“Your heart's racing,” he observed.

You swallowed down the feeling of him so close. “Yeah. Probably. Been a crazy night.”

Gently his hands smoothed down your arms, sitting you down on the leather chairs as he set himself on the small coffee table in front of you.

“Want to tell me why you were at the hotel to begin with?” he asked, elbows rested on his knees and hands clasped together. “Cause I can come up with my own ideas and I don't like them.”

Lying to him had proved a silly task time and time again.

“My apartment isn't actually ready to be lived in yet,” you admitted, low in your throat and looking down to his hands. The only update you had from your apartment was that it would take another week, followed by a hopefully.

“No?” he said in fake disbelief.

You shook your head. “I just guessed I'd out stayed my welcome, you wanted to be alone.”

“No,” he said. “No, you didn't. You could've stayed.”

You eyed Robby. “You didn't really seem like you wanted me there anymore.”

You watched as he sighed, shoulders slumping.

Robby's fingers thread and un-thread. “It wasn't like that.”

“I mean did I- did I do something?” you asked, a spew of words ready at the barrel of your gun. “I thought we were okay.”

“So did I,” he said, bringing up his gaze and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “So did I.”

“Then what?”

Robby pushed himself up, hands flying to the back of his head and patting down his hair. His boots scuffed against the floor as he paced the area small and not built for pacing. “I thought things were going really well,” he admitted, hands making a weak gesture between the two of you. “I thought there were moments.”

“There were!” you opposed, quickly.

Was this a chance you'd been looking for? Was he wanting you to say there was something more? That the touches and everything else meant something.

He looked at you, arms pulling over his chest. “But we're just friends, right?”

There was a way he was saying it, a bite to his words like a dog barking, trying to make a point. Just friends.

With your head spinning you remembered another time of saying those words. You remembered Santos's teasing (really it was hard to pick one particular moment out from it all) and Javadi there too. You remembered their teasing grins, asking you about benefits-

And how Robby forced the tablet in between the three of you.

Your head hung, hands wiping away the stress. “Oh god.”

Robby waited.

“Oh god,” your voice came out muffled by your own hands. “Robby-”

“Yeah, I started to like you,” he said, trying to make it all seem like it was no big deal, body moving to shake it of. “I shouldn't, I know. I'm your boss, you're the resident, you were staying with me as a guest.”

“Robby, I-” you pushed yourself up, making your way around the table.

“- and you made it very clear to Doctor Santos and Doctor Javadi-”

“- they were teasing me, it was- it was nothing. I didn't mean it! I mean, they'd been teasing me for weeks, they were just annoying me.”

His body moved in his breath as looked at you. “You don't have to lie.”

“I'm not!”

“You lied about your place. Instead you chose a hotel, one that was a death trap, apparently.”

“I thought you hated me!”

“No, I want you!”

“And I want you!” you yelled.

“You didn't tell me.”

“Well, you didn't tell me.”

Robby scoffed. “Yeah, I'm the one who's supposed to have communication issues, sweetheart.”

Within seconds you had thrown yourself into Robby's arms, practically leaping atop him and kissing him. His lips were frozen, body waking up slowly as his arms curled around your back, holding you in. You could feel the scrunch of his noise and the scrape of his beard as he didn't kiss you back.

You pulled away, keeping your eyes down.

Just because he wanted you, because you wanted him didn't mean throwing yourself at him (literally!) was going to work.

“I-I'm sorry, I thought-”

His hands drowned your face as he pulled you back in, head dipping low to lick his tongue into you. He pressed his mouth into your, letting his tongue in your mouth. His hands tilted your head back, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he reacted to you at once.

Your hands tugged a hold of his hoodie, bending him further along you while his hands slowed down your body, cupping your backside and digging his fingers in.

Some noise made its way out the back of his throat, groaning into your mouth.

“Are we-” you said against his lips. “Mmp; are we doing this right now?”

“Doing what?” He mumbled, tilting his head to nudge your mouth open deeper.

You smiled against him. “Making out in the family room?”

“God, I hope so.”

His mouth was open, warm and welcoming as he kissed you harder, finding parts of you nobody had ever found before.

“I meant it,” said Robby against you, his tongue running over the tip of your lip. “I want you.”

You nudged your nose with his, arms coming to wrap around the back of his neck. “I mean it. I don’t- we’re not just friends, Robby.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, smirking. “I don’t think think friends kiss each other the way I’m about to kiss you.”

The oddest thing he recognised was that the washing machine went more often than it ever had before, folding your jeans out of the dryer. It warmed his soul to see you trade your old ripped up t-shirts for one more you after Trin dragged you to go shopping. 

It was an odd adjustment for Jack, his almost always empty apartment slowly being filled by your belongings. A new fluffy blanket on the couch, new shampoo conditioner and body wash that Jack had bought in your favourite scent. 

You’d woken up to complete silence in the house, it wasn’t an unfamiliar happening, most of the time you rose before Jack and just stayed in your room until you heard his movement in the living room.  Even if you lived here you still didn’t feel like it was your home, no it was Jack’s and you were just staying there until you could find a place to live. 

But after a few hours you were still met with nothing, you carefully moved into the shared space, hours later there was still absolutely nothing. You’d assumed Jack’s room was only his to enter thus until now you hadn’t even stepped foot inside, that's why it felt so insane to knock on the hardware. The door slid open exposing that there was absolutely no one in his room, the bed perfectly made with the corners tucked (something you didn’t even know you could do). “Jack-” you tried to suppress the panic that threatened to rise.

You stumbled around the apartment pushing open every door before grasping your new phone, one of Jack's old ones, quickly calling him and pressing on his contact. Your body sank against the island, knuckles aching from how tightly you gripped the phone, curled in the fetal position. 

“Hey roomie-” you raggedly let out a breath of relief at the sound of his voice “is everything okay?” The sound of the car door slamming shut made you jump as you stared at his profile picture. 

“Where are you?” your voice cracked, rocking gently.

“I just went to get groceries I’m on the way home now- right now…” he clarified realising how stupid it was of him to leave you home alone with absolutely no notice. “I wouldn't leave you like that honey, I was just getting food.” his voice dripped with concern “Just watch some TV and relax”

You hung up, sliding over to the couch and turning on the TV fiddling with his remote, still struggling with some of the buttons. You switched on some random sitcom, staring at the screen as you cocooned himself in the fluffy blanket you’d bought. Tears burned at your eyeline as you watched the family on TV laugh and eat dinners together, you and Jack eat dinner together when you can. It sucks, the little reminders of what you did not and will not ever have. 

The door clicked open and shut rapidly, the thud of a full bag of groceries against the kitchen floor, the hardwood creaking with Jack’s uneven gait, his hand moving gently to your shoulder, “wanna make dinner with me?” he spoke softly, he’d learned that was the best way to approach you, with kindness. 

“Can I just watch?” you replied as he nodded, “do you want the chair?” Jack had an ergonomic chair he could use instead of standing to cook. There was a guilt attached to the whole debacle, making a disabled man tend to your needs because you’re just utterly clueless. He nodded again as you grabbed it for him, he sat with a gruff hum of relief, you lowered to detach the prosthesis and the lining so his leg could breathe. “Can I help in any way…?”

“You wanna try chopping some vegetables?” you nodded moving onto one of the island stools, Jack maneuvered around by gripping onto counters, pulling out a large wood chopping board and the appropriate knife placing it down in front of you. Over the weeks spent in Jack’s house you’d see him go through the motions countless times, the rotation of the wrist, the size and shape needed for the perfect tasting dish. 

The weight of the knife was unfamiliar yet you managed to mimic Jack’s movements, a soft smile on your lips as Jack stared over at you, his heart thumping in his chest. Your eyes flickered up to him only to feel a deep sharp pain seer through your finger. It took several seconds to look down and register that you had fully just chopped off a whole part of your finger. Jack was already staring back at the meat he was preparing, your hand darted to a tea towel, wrapping up your hand. “I’m going to the toilet.” you darted over to the room, locking the door behind you as blood stained the probably very expensive hand towel. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck”

Jack leaned against the counter as his head turned to where you were sitting, seeing the blood all over your chopping board, the bloody handprint on the counter, the sliver of your fingertip on the wooden board. “Kid!?” he froze for a few seconds, his leg was still by the couch, his chair was his only option to make it to the bathroom, pulling himself frantically along the walls to pound on the bathroom door.

The floor of the bathroom toilet was a haven, towel discarded on the tile as sobs forced themselves out of you “I’M SORRY JACK!” your lungs began to burn, air not entering them as the room spun. 

“Don’t be sorry!” He barely thought about the volume of his voice as he pounded on the door "Sweetheart I can’t get you out!” Jack’s heart pounded as he pulled at the door handle.

“Please don’t be mad!” it was hard, registering when people were getting angry, really registering any emotions people felt around you. All you knew was that Jack was screaming and that usually meant that trouble was on the horizon. 

“I’m not mad! Doll i’m not mad i’m- i’m scared-!” his voice was raw as you stared at your hand, the way it was bleeding over your shirt. “SIRI CALL ROBBY!” 

It was minutes later when Robby rushed into the apartment, sweating as he threw his body against the bathroom door, bile rose up Jack’s throat every time he heard your destroyed squeals as the wood of the door splintered and cracked with the impact. 

The door swung open, revealing your form hidden behind the toilet, Robby rushing in to crouch in front of you, taking your palm to inspect your injured finger. “It’s okay…no one is mad- we’re gonna fix it okay?”

He ushered you to stand, pulling you out of the kitchen to find Jack on the couch, pulling on his liner and prosthesis. The second his eyes locked on you, his whole body bolting over to meet you. His arms wrapped around yours, one weaving up into your hair, the other with his palm pressed to the small of your back, his chin moving into the crook of your neck just to relax himself. “Don't hide when you’re hurt…okay? Never, i’ll take care of you, i’m not mad i’m not-” 

“Promise?” you rasped. 

“Promise.”

………..

It felt weird, being watched as much as Jack Abbot tended to watch you. Since the day with your finger he never seemed to take off his prosthesis around you, the simmering guilt returned. In the most simple terms you weren't used to the level of care Abbot had assigned to you. Making sure you were constantly comfortable both at home and at work. 

It was some football player from a match in a nearby park. He was rowdy, his whole team was rowdy yet you moved around the party without a second thought. Trying to treat the guy who had come in with a dislocated shoulder, moving him carefully from chairs. “Okay so we’re going to try to pop it back in…” you grasped your hands around the tablet as you sat him down in south 15. “I have to ask you some…questions about your history-” you pulled up the ergonomic stool to the edge of the bed, offering a sweet smile in an attempt to sooth his discomfort. 

You ran through your standard questions feeling a coarse dirty finger against your cheek bone pushing a strand of hair out of your face with his good hand. You ducked away with an awkward chuckle “i don’t know…if that is appropriate.” you stated turning back to the tablet.

“Sorry you’re just so pretty…you must be really smart- to be a nurse-” you couldn't help the heat that rose up your neck at his words, his praise, his attention. “Just…how about you reset my shoulder and I take you out to dinner after?”

“I have to finish my shift…” you chuckled attention his oxygen monitor and helped him strip off the football gear. “And your arm is gonna hurt for a while…” 

“I can power through for you…besides- i’ll take you out to breakfast.” he smirked lazily, and somehow it got to you…

“fine…I’ll be outta here around 8am…that's good for you, you gonna come pick me up?” you teased slightly as he nodded. 

The shift came and went, you sat out on the curb outside the hospital, checking your phone every minute waiting for the described jeep to pull up and take you on a cute little lunch date. You’d made it to the curb at 8 am on the dot, it was now….8:48 am.

“I don’t know if he’s coming, kid.” Jack strolled over, stood tall by your side as you sat in one of the outfits you and trin had picked out. 

“He’s gonna be here, his arm just probably hurts…” you rationalised, fingers itching to type out another query on his location, on if he was coming and how you weren't mad you were just excited to see him.

“Sweetheart.” His hand came down softly on your head with a gruff sigh “he’s not coming. Let's go home.”

“No he’ll be here.” 

“Honey.”

“No he’s coming.” 

Jack groaned realising you weren’t going to give up, huffing as he sat on a flower pot by your side. “Then I’ll wait with you.”

9:00am nothing.

9:24 still nothing.

9:32

Ding

You jumped up at the sound, opening your phone to see something far worse than the simple excuse you’d expected. Sorry. One of the guys bet that I could get you to go on a date. But you’re not my type. Sorry. 

“We’re going-” you shoved the phone in your pocket, jack standing without a word and following you to his car. Once again you sat in Jack Abbot’s car sobbing as he drove you home, only this time the vulnerability came not in the form of fever but instead from humiliation. 

“Do you wanna-” the door to your room in the apartment slammed shut, his hand forming a strong grip with a sigh. “-talk…about it…” 

Was it humiliating to be sobbing into your pillow in your late 20s over some frat guy? Oh absolutely it was. But it didn’t stop your mascara from staining the white sheets, nor your eyes from puffing up, or crying yourself to sleep. 

It was hard heavy rasps on the door that stirred you from your slumber, “honey c’mon wake up…” you stumbled to the door, looking like 10 kinds of crap, sliding the door open. 

“Wow.” 

“I know….now what?” you sighed as he tugged at your hand, pulling you down into the living room “you should take off that leg abbot-” your words filtered out as you stared at the spread which had been laid out for you, croissants, pain au chocolat, eggs, bacon…everything. 

“I thought we could have brunch….?”

part 3

To say you were nervous for your first day at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was an understatement. As you waited for your shift to start, you couldn’t stop rocking on your heels with your hands held behind your back, fingers twisting at your wedding ring, as you waited near the nurses’ station promptly at 6:55 am. 

The ED bustled around the small, eager and probably equally nervous group that you were a part of. To your left, a brunette woman and a blond man held similar poses while a raven-haired, dark-skinned girl took the place next to your right, looking almost too young to be there. The urge to introduce yourself to the other three was swiftly put on hold when a rather tall, sad-looking man, probably your new attending, Dr. Robby, approached while talking to what you would call already-veteran doctors. 

“Alright folks, listen up,” Robby announced before stopping. “As you can see, we have some new faces this morning. Starting with second-year resident Doctor Melissa King, fresh from the V.A.” 

The happy-looking blond woman next to him smiled and slightly waved her hands. “Everybody calls me Mel. I’m super happy to be here.” 

He nodded sat her before looking at your group. “And one new intern, three med students.”

You pursed your lips, waiting for him to start the introductions, but apparently it seemed like he had other ideas. He crossed his arms and continued to stare expectantly. 

“This is where you introduce yourselves.” 

Again, none of you spoke until the brunette to your left spoke up. “Trinity Santos. Intern.” 

The raven-haired girl went next. “Victoria Javadi, M.S. Three.” 

Then the blond. “Dennis Whitaker, M.S. Four.” 

And that left you to finish out the group, finger still spinning your ring with nervousness. “Y/n Cody. Also M.S. Four.” 

A redheaded woman with a fringe leaned over to a brunet male. “Would you look at that rock,” she whispered, but her voice carried enough that you were able to hear it. 

You bashfully put your hands behind your back again. It wasn’t like you weren’t proud to be married, but the unwanted attention had you shrinking into yourself. Thankfully though, their eyes shifted away from you when a bleach blond older woman joined the group. Robby gestured toward her. 

“For you new people, this is the most important person you’re going to meet today. Dana is our Charge Nurse; she is the ring linger of this circus. Do what she says, when she says it. Now, as you can see, the house is always packed.” 

Your eyes drifted from the attending to look around. However, because of the motion, you weren’t able to get a good look at the person who spoke next. 

“The ER is the gift that keeps on giving.” 

Robby’s voice filled your ears again. “Most of our department is clogged up with boarders. Those are the admitted patients waiting for a room upstairs, sometimes for days. Beds are a precious commodity, so be quick and efficient with your workups. Half of your cases will be discharged from chairs. And while we treat the sicker patients back here, keep an eye on the waiting room to be sure no one’s about to die out there.” He turned to Dana. “Ready to rock and roll?” 

Dana smiled. “To quote Wu-Tang, Bring the mother fuckin’ ruckus.” 

Robby turned to the residents, and you finally turned your eyes back to him. 

“Senior residents got sign outs?” he asked. 

Two of them—the brunet man and a dark-skinned woman—nodded, their hands both holding tablets. 

“Alright, let’s do this,” Robby said before turning away, already moving further into the department. 

He quickly began to integrate your group into their daily routine. First stop was an exhausted-looking mother holding an even louder and exhausted-sounding baby. You kept quiet while they worked, wanting to more take in everything instead of jumping the gun and calling the wrong diagnoses. After Dana walked away to get some Nair for the baby’s hair tourniquet, Robby continued on, each of you following him like a lost duckling. 

After the small moments of calm in the morning, the following hours ascended into madness. The first traumas had been a woman who’d been pushed down onto subway tracks and ended up with a degloved foot. The second adjacent trauma had been the man who’d tried to save her life. 

During the procedure to reset the woman’s foot, you were unfortunate enough to be closest to Victoria, who had been looking sick since the wrapping came off. Not wanting her to hit the ground, you stepped into her freefall and stuck your arms under hers, keeping her semi-upright while she became dead weight. 

Trinity looked over with a smirk. “Med students are playing dominos.” 

“Just didn’t want her to hit her head,” you grunted, easing her down until she was flat on the ground. “That’d be too much paperwork that I absolutely do not want to deal with on the first day.” 

An echo of “preach” followed your statement. 

“You’re certainly a good catch, slugger,” Trinity quipped. “Ever think about playing for the Pirates? I’ve heard their outfield has been struggling this season.” 

You shook your head and flashed her a sarcastic smile. “Sadly, I think my hand eye coordination is better for catching my peers instead of balls flying at 90 miles an hour. And I really don’t think my husband would been too keen on me switching careers this fast after one day.” 

You knew she wanted to say something back, maybe ask a question or throw another snarky remark, but you were quickly called away to help another resident. 

By noon, your brain was quickly getting overwhelmed with the sheer number of patients in the halls and the number still waiting to be seen. Thankfully, charting gave you a small moment to catch your breath, the tying quickly getting your mind off the panic that’d been building for a small while. While you sat there, you wished your phone would buzz even though you knew you wouldn’t. 

Andrew was out for the day, and that normally meant you wouldn’t see him until you got home after shift. But that was fine; you really didn’t need any distractions on your first day, mind too focused on making a good enough impression that they might consider you for residency after you graduated. 

The thought had you sighing, which somehow caught the attention of Dana just behind you. 

“Why the loud sigh, hun?” she asked, coming into your line of sight. “Shift treating you that bad already?” 

You winced, smile slightly slanted as you met her gray eyes. “It is bad I’m already ready for it to be over?” 

She smiled sympathetically. “Welcome to emergency medicine. This is how it’ll probably be for the rest of your time here.” 

“Should have gone into cosmetology then,” you joked. “Maybe the assholes there would be different than the assholes here.” 

“Ha!” Dana barked, hand coming down gently on your shoulder. “I like you, kid.” She turned back towards her board. “So, what’s your story. Why you here?” Her accented twang sounded lovely in your ears, comforting you in a way. 

“My husband, actually. We needed a fresh start; Pittsburg seemed like a good enough place to do so. We just moved from California.” 

She cocked her head. “Beaches not enticing enough for you to stay?” 

“I’m more of a mountains girl,” you responded. “Plus, I didn’t pick here. My first thought would have been Kentucky. But the gloom here was enough to satiate me.”

“Well, we’re glad to have you here. The Pitt can’t be a teaching hospital without people to teach.” 

You folded your hands on the desk. “I’m excited to learn.” 

Apparently, that had her handing you a tablet. “Then Room 4 is all yours, slugger.” 

A groan rumbled your chest as you stood. “Did Santos already blab about that?” 

“News travels fast everywhere, but it travels even faster in a hospital.” She tuned back towards her board. “Better get to your patients. Robby’s available for when you need him or find Samira; she’s probably looking for someone to help.” 

You looked down at the tablet. “Thank you, Dana.” 

“Don’t mention it, hun. It’s my job.” 

Your eyes trailed the tablet as you left the hub in search for your new attending or one of the senior residents. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for you to find Samira, the tablet still clutched to your front. 

“Dr. Mohan?” you asked as you walked up to her. “Dana handed me the chart for Room 4, and I was wondering if I could tag along with you for it?” 

“Samira is just fine.” Her deep brown eyes gleamed, matching her shining smile. “But sure! Mrs. Thompson is one of our regulars,” she began while walking in the direction of the room. “Her husband died a couple of months ago, and she has a history of OCD and hypochondria.” 

You hummed. “So for her, do you normally listen and bring her down?” 

“We at least try to. Sometimes we’ll give her plain saline but say it’s a medication so she believes she’s getting treatment.” 

“Isn’t that lying though?” you asked with pinched brows. 

Samira, in return, gave you an understanding look. “That’s just sometimes the best thing for her when she gets stuck inside her head.” She gave one knock on the door before entering with a large gin. “Hi, Mrs. Thompson. I’m Dr. Mohon, and we have one of our med students here if you’re comfortable with that.” 

Mrs. Thompson was exactly how you imagined her: graying hair, wide and scared eyes that roamed the room, and nervous hands that rested on her skirted lap. You stayed next to the door just in case she asked for you to step out. 

“No, that’s fine,” she answered, looking right at you. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” you answered before pulling the privacy curtain shut. 

You stayed close to Samira as she sat down on the edge of the bed. While she talked to Mrs. Thompson, you let your eyes roam while staying alert to any questions. However, once your eyes landed on the small side table, you noticed how the instruments weren’t that straight. Another thing you noticed was how Mrs. Thompson kept glancing towards them as well, and the twitch of her finger had you guessing that she too wanted to straighten them. Without saying anything, you shuffled quietly over and rearranged them from shortest to largest, also making sure that they were evenly spaced out while staying as straight as possible. When they were to your liking, you stepped back behind Samira in time to see Mrs. Thomspon take a large inhale, her shoulders relaxing just a bit more as she went over why she was in today. 

It wasn’t until you left the room that Samira put a hand on your shoulder. 

“What was with the instruments?” she asked. “

You took another glance back at the room. “You said Mrs. Thompson has a history of OCD, and she kept looking over at them. Her fingers would twitch each time she did. I thought I’d just go ahead and put them in order, thinking she might be able to focus more on what you were saying instead of overthinking about them.” 

Samira cocked her head. “Oh; I didn’t think about that. Great catch then.” 

“What did Slugger catch this time?” Trinity asked as she walked right up to the two of you, hands deep in her pockets, a wide smirk on her face. “Did your patient fall over this time?”  

“Our patient was showing non-verbal signs of an OCD tick,” you replied. “I just wanted to make her more comfortable.” 

“How’d you even know to look for stuff like that? Did you take a specific course in school?” Trinity asked. 

You shook your head. “Not really. Uh, my husband has OCD, and if you live with someone for long enough, you pick up on the little things.” 

Samira handed the tablet back to you. “Like I said, good catch. That was actually the smoothest conversation I’ve had with Mrs. Thompson before.” 

“Glad I could help,” you said. “Should I give this back to Dana since she’ll be discharged soon?” 

“That’d be great. I’ll find you when I get my next patient.” 

“Common, Slugger. Let’s see if there’s any other fun patients to grab,” Trinity said while taking your wrist. “Maybe the next one you can show of your catching skills again.” 

“Ha, ha.” 

_______________________

The one rule you should have paid more attention to was that if everything seemed to go well in the ER, it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. With only one hour left of your shift, Robby announced a Code Triage alter, and your stomach sunk so deep you feared it’d disappear into your feet. 

“Okay, everybody listen up,” Robby yelled over the growing panic. “There is an active shooter at Pittfest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims. We don’t know yet how many we are getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. They either go home, they go upstairs, or they go to Family Medicine. Call you loved ones now if you need to. I can guarantee your cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there’s time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes.” 

With that, you quickly turned away, hand already digging for your phone. Your heart clenched at the screen that indicated you still hadn’t received any notification from Andrew, but that didn’t stop you from pulling up his contact and pushing the call button. When his voicemail answered instead, you closed your eyes and sighed sadly. 

“Hey, Andy. Um, listen, I’ll probably be home late tonight unless you want to come pick me up. There’s a shooter at that festival, and pretty much all hell’s about to break loose. If you try to call back, I probably won’t be able to answer. Just know I love you, and I’ll be home as soon as I can.” 

You ended the call there, hoping and wishing the cell service would hold enough for it to go through. Your hands were already slightly shaking as you put your phone back into your pocket, also sliding off your rings so they wouldn’t get lost. However, the moment you looked up, you froze completely. 

Because, for some odd reason, Andrew was currently talking to your attending like they’d known each other for years. You wanted to go up to him right then and there, but your feet kept you from doing so. Honestly, after a few moments, you were glad as it gave you enough time to figure out that, no, that man wasn’t Andrew at all. While they shared the same hazel eyes and muscular build, this man’s curls were salt-and-peppered where Andrew’s was still holding onto bits and parts of auburn. You also didn’t realize how long you were staring, brain desperately trying to separate Andrew and whoever this man was. 

Across the way, Jack could feel a pair of eyes on him, and one quick look had him finding your wide and confused eyes.

“Brother, you hiring med students with staring problems now?” he asked with furrowed brows. 

Robby turned around and also caught your surprised look. “Cody,” he called out, breaking you from staring at his friend. “Everything okay?” 

You shook your head. “Sorry, Dr. Robby. I'm just trying to figure out if my husband has a twin he never knew about,” you nervously laughed, eyes finding the man's ID tag. “I didn't mean to stare for so long, Dr. Abbot.” 

Jack waved a dismissive hand. "No trouble. You were just looking at me like you'd seen a ghost. And last I checked, I haven't died just yet."

That earned a small snort from your nose. "Thank goodness for that, yeah? However, I think if I see you and my husband in the same room, I might explode."

He smirked widely. "Well, we don't need that happening."

“Okay, party people, our first ambulance in on its way in, so let’s get moving,” Dana announced while walking right between the three of you. “Cody, go help Whitaker with the disaster bins.”

“On it.” You paused. “Again, sorry for staring, Dr. Abbot.” Without waiting for an answer, you turned away and began searching for your fellow M.S. 4, leaving the two attendings by themselves. 

“So, do you think her husband really looks like me?” Jack questioned after a short moment while his eyes followed where you were walking away. 

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen, brother.” 

 _______________________

By now, you were sweating more than a sinner in the middle of a Southern Baptist choir special. Blood dripped off your arms, your front, and onto your shoes. Everywhere you stepped squished with the thick liquid, and you knew you’d still smell the iron scent hours after you’d gone home. Thankfully, though, the worst was over, and like Dana announced, the Pitt would be opening back up soon to take in regular patients. 

Trinity shoulder nudged you slightly while you leaned on an empty gurney. “That was fucking exhausting.” 

“I can’t wait to get in my bed,” you replied with a groan. 

“With your husband that looks just like Dr. Abbot, right?” she teased. 

“Fucking fast traveling news.” You pushed yourself up, back protesting at the sudden change. “Hey, I need to go change, and I don't know if he's coming to pick me up or not. In the event that he does, if you happen to see him, can you let him know I'll be back soon?” 

Trinity smiled and nodded. “Oh, I definitely will!”

"Thank you, Santos," you replied, hand coming up to cover a yawn as you walked away in the direction of the locker rooms.

Trinity turned and ripped the smock off and pushed in down into the nearest bin. Around her, the ED gave a large sigh of relief, and everyone slowed down for the first time in hours. As she waited by the nurses’ station, she watched a few regular patients start to trickle in, but one in particular caught her attention.

The man was tall and rocked a head of auburn curls that were just starting to gray near his ears. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he looked out of place in his civilian clothes in a sea of scrubs and gowns. Trinity noted the amount of freckles that spanned across his face, and for one tiny moment, she saw a vision of Jack Abbot in his face. Not even a breath later, it clicked that the man was probably one who put that rock on your finger.

Her lips stretched into a smile, and she itched to walk up to him and ask if he was your husband. However, Samira, still in the adrenaline rush with a wide eyes, hastily walked up to him. Trinity didn't even think she knew that the man she was approaching was not the night shift attending she'd been stealing glances at between blood transfusions and saving lives.

"Dr. Abbot!" Trinity heard her all but yell right in the guy's face, voice a little too stretched. "I was hoping I'd catch you. I have a patient who's about to go up to the OR, but I need an attending's sign off on it first."

As she rattled off, Trinity watched the man looked at her with the most confused expression she’d ever seen someone have. His eyes had widened just a fraction, but that didn't stop him from looking around every so often like he was desperate to find someone who wasn't in the room. His mouth parted in an attempt to say something, but Samira, bless her heart, wasn't even looking at him. Her eyes stayed glued to the tablet in her hands.

“Oh, this is absolute gold,” Trinity muttered before turning to the charge nurse. “Hey, Dana. Look at this.” 

Dana’s attention moved from her board over to where the man was standing awkwardly while Samira continued to talk at him. “Did Abbot dye his hair?” 

“Not that I know of,” Jack responded, suddenly appearing at the nurses' station, brows pinched at Dana's question. “When would I have had time to dye my hair?” 

The sound of his voice must have caught Samira, because in the next moment, she looked up at the man like a dear caught in headlights. Horrified, she turned her head and met Jack's confused gaze that had moved from her and to the man she had been talking to.

For once in his life, Jack didn’t know whether to start laughing or run away. Because staring right back at him was a man that looked like him in pictures from 10 years ago. His brain struggled to comprehend until he remembered what you had said earlier before the chaos of the casualty.

"Oh."

By now, the commotion had drawn eyes from everywhere, and everyone who looked over wondered if they were truly seeing double. 

The man, who did look exactly like a younger Jack Abbot, walked quietly over to the station and stopped right in front of Jack, chest puffing slightly even if both of them were the same height. His hazel eyes scanned behind Jack's shoulder before he met hazel hues that mirrored his own.

“I’m looking for my wife,” Andrew finally gruffed, hands curling into fists by his side, and obviously not liking the number of eyes that were on him. “She works here.” 

Trinity stepped into his line of sight. “You must be Mr. Cody; damn, I was not expecting this. Slugger wanted me to let you know that she's changing, but she should be out soon.” 

His brows somehow furrowed deeper, and the corners of his mouth tugged downwards in a matching frown. “Slugger?” 

“Your wife has an affinity for catching people. Baseball might be her actual calling.” 

“Trinity, I told you that I have no want to switch careers, thank you very little," you announced after you walked out of the hallway. Your eyes gleamed when they landed on a very, uncomfortable-looking Andrew and equally confused coworkers. "Hi, baby."

Andrew looked over and down at you. “Hi.” 

“You didn't have to come pick me up,” you said. "I didn't mind driving home."

“Wanted to,” he muttered while taking your hand into his. "Knew you'd be tired."

You warmly smiled up at him. "Well, I'm glad you're here then." Your face turned as you looked over at the small crowd that had gathered; their jaws wide open. "I guess I should explain. Everyone, this is my husband, Andrew. Andrew, these are my coworkers." You gestured towards Jack. "And I guess this is your secret twin."  

Andrew stayed silent for a second too long. “Hi.” He offered nothing more than a fleeting moment of eye contact with each of them before turning to you with what people could only call puppy-dog eyes. “Ready to go?” 

“Yeah. Let's go home.” But before Andrew could tug you away, you quickly waved at everyone. “See y’all in twelve hours!” 

They all stayed silent as Andrew led you out of the ER with you babbling the entire way while he seemed to not say anything, just looking happy to be the center of your attention after a long day. 

Finally, Jack broke the silence. “I should probably call my mom and see if I had a twin she gave up and never told me.” 

Robby patted him on the shoulder. “You do that, brother.” 

The stone floor of the Slytherin dormitory was cold under Draco Malfoy’s bare feet, but he barely noticed. He was eleven years old, standing in front of the long mirror in the changing alcove, his uniform shirt bunched in his hands, while Blaise Zabini leaned against the doorframe with the kind of casual patience that always made Draco’s shoulders tighten. The dormitory was otherwise empty; the other boys had already gone down to the common room, their voices echoing off the green-tinged stone. Draco had lingered behind, seized by a familiar, private ritual that he would never have admitted to under pain of torture.

He turned slowly, lifting his arms, craning his neck, scanning every visible patch of skin in the mirror’s reflection. His back, his ribs, the soft underside of his arms. Nothing. Not a single ink-black letter. The skin that should have held his soulmate’s first words to him remained as pale and unblemished as new parchment. He had been doing this since he was old enough to understand what a soulmate mark was, and every single time, the result was the same.

“Still nothing?” Blaise asked, his voice deliberately light. He knew the answer. Everyone in their year knew the answer.

Draco didn’t turn around. He let his arms drop and reached for his shirt. “Obviously,” he said, his voice clipped. “If anything had appeared, you’d have heard about it. I’d have had it embroidered on my school robes. Possibly on a flag.” He pulled the shirt over his head and smoothed the collar, finally meeting Blaise’s eyes in the mirror with a smile that was all sharp edges and no warmth. “Besides, soulmate marks are sentimental nonsense. I’ve got more important things to worry about.”

Blaise didn’t push. He simply nodded and pushed off the doorframe, and they walked together to the flying lesson, Draco’s chin held high because that was what Malfoys did. But the familiar weight of the blankness settled on him like a second skin, heavier than any ink. He could already feel the sidelong glances from the other first-years, the whispers that trailed behind him like a persistent draft. Poor Malfoy. No soulmate. Do you think he’s cursed? My mother says it’s impossibly rare. Maybe his soulmate died before they could meet. He had heard every variation. He had perfected the art of the icy stare that made the whisperers falter and look away, but it didn’t stop the words from burrowing deep, burrowing into the soft, hidden part of him that still secretly, desperately, wanted to belong to someone.

In the stands before the flying lesson began, Theodore Nott sat down beside him, tugging up his trouser leg to show the words on his calf. “Watch where you’re going,” Theo read aloud, grinning. “I’m hoping it’s a veela. Can you imagine? Colliding with a veela and those are her first words? Brilliant.” Crabbe and Goyle lumbered closer, and Crabbe muttered something about his own mark being so mortifying he’d never reveal it, which prompted a cascade of crude speculation. Draco joined in with a sneer and a few well-aimed barbs, because that was expected of him, but his mind was elsewhere.

Late that night, long after the greenish glow of the lake had dimmed and the other boys were snoring softly in their four-posters, Draco lay awake and let the mask slip. He stared at the underside of his canopy and let himself wonder what it would feel like. To carry a sentence on your skin that proved, beyond any doubt, that someone in the world was destined to speak to you and change everything. He had grown up on stories of his parents’ marks—his mother’s elegant, curling script on her collarbone, his father’s sharp, possessive declaration on his wrist—and the certainty in their voices when they spoke of it had always made something ache fiercely behind Draco’s ribs. He pressed his palm flat against his own blank chest, right over his heart, and imagined the warmth of a hand that wasn’t his own. The ache sharpened into something close to grief. He never told anyone how much it mattered. He never let the mask slip in daylight. But in the dark, with the lake pressing against the windows and the silent company of sleeping boys, he let himself believe, just for a moment, that he might be empty forever.

Miles and miles away, in a quiet house with a wildly overgrown garden and a fireplace that was always lit, another eleven-year-old was tracing the words on her shoulder for the ten-thousandth time. She sat cross-legged on her bed, her back to a tilted mirror, her neck twisted so she could see the reflection of the script that curved in a severe, elegant slant just below her left shoulder blade. The letters were not hers; they had appeared when she was very small, blooming across her skin like frost on a windowpane, and they had never faded. Can’t you even answer?

She traced the cruel, slanting question mark with the pad of her index finger. The words were not kind. They were not the sort of greeting that made a young heart flutter with romantic hope. They were the words of someone irritated, dismissive, possibly even cold. But she had spent years thinking about them, turning them over in her mind like a smooth stone, and she had come to a decision a long time ago. First words were not a verdict. They were not the entire story. People snapped at strangers in moments of stress. People had bad days. People said things they did not mean. First words were simply the beginning, and she had decided—quietly, firmly—that the rest of the story could be different. She would make it different. She was not afraid of those words. She was ready for them.

Because she was a girl who could not speak, she had always imagined the moment of meeting her soulmate with a kind of fierce, hopeful determination. She couldn't give him words, but she could give him her hands, her drawings, her silent, steady attention. She had planned it a hundred different ways. She would hear the words—those exact words—and she would not freeze. She would smile, she would pull out her charmed notepad, and she would write something back to him. I'm sorry. I can't answer. But I wanted to. I've been waiting for you. She would show him her shoulder, where his words were written, and then she would show him that she was not broken. That silence did not mean absence.

The fact that he would have no mark of his own—that his skin would be blank because of her—was a guilt she had learned to carry. But it had never dimmed her resolve. If anything, it made her more determined. She would make up for every missing word. She would prove to him that a soulmate who couldn't speak could still be a soulmate worth having. She traced the words one last time, a small, private smile touching the corner of her mouth, and then she pulled on her nightgown. Somewhere out there, a boy was waiting for her. She would find him. She would not let him down.

Hogwarts arrived with a blur of steam and scarlet and green, and she was sorted into Hufflepuff, a house that suited her quiet, steady nature. She threw herself into the rhythms of the castle with the same quiet determination she applied to everything. She learned the corridors, found her favourite corners of the library, and filled sketchbook after sketchbook with drawings of the world around her. She watched people. She was good at that. And like everyone else in the castle, she noticed Draco Malfoy.

He was impossible not to notice. The pale-haired Slytherin boy who swept through the corridors with his sharp smile and his sharper tongue, a small court of admirers and sycophants already trailing in his wake. She saw him in the Great Hall, holding court at the Slytherin table. She saw him on the Quidditch pitch, a blur of green and silver. She heard the things people said about him—that he was cruel, that he was arrogant, that he believed blood purity was everything and anyone less than pure was beneath his notice. She, a Muggle-born Hufflepuff who had never spoken a word in her life, could not have been further from his world if she had tried.

But she never once connected him to the words on her shoulder. Why would she? Draco Malfoy was a distant, glittering figure, the sort of boy who sneered at people like her. Her soulmate, wherever he was, was going to be someone who had a bad moment, a sharp first sentence, but who would prove to be kind underneath. Someone who was just having a rough day. She was not naïve—she knew the words were cutting—but she believed, with the stubborn optimism of someone who had spent her whole life overcoming silence, that the person behind them would surprise her. Draco Malfoy, with his casual cruelty and his pureblood posturing, was simply not a candidate. She had never imagined her soulmate could be someone like him.

So she went about her life, drawing and studying and learning sign language with the small group of friends who had made the effort to understand her, and she kept her eyes open for the moment when someone would snap Can’t you even answer? and the world would shift. She was ready. She was almost eager. She walked through the corridors with her charmed notepad always in her pocket and a quiet, humming anticipation in her chest. Any day now. Any moment.

The moment came on a grey October afternoon in their third year. The kind of day when the castle smelled of old stone and rain-soaked robes, and the light that filtered through the high windows was thin and watery. She was hurrying back from the library, her arms loaded with heavy Herbology tomes and a precarious stack of parchment that blocked half her vision. Her mind was elsewhere—on the essay she needed to finish, on the drawing she had started of Professor Sprout’s newest Fanged Geranium—when she rounded a corner near the Transfiguration courtyard and collided directly with someone solid and warm.

The books tumbled. The parchment scattered like startled birds. She stumbled backward, her shoulder catching the rough stone wall, and looked up into a pair of sharp grey eyes.

Draco Malfoy stood before her, still in his Quidditch robes, his hair windswept and damp with drizzle. The practice had been miserable; Slytherin’s Chaser formation had been a disaster, Flint had spent an hour bellowing, and Draco’s mood was a dark, churning thing just barely contained behind his eyes. Being knocked into by some clumsy girl with an armful of books was the final straw on an already broken back. He opened his mouth, and the words came out cold and clipped, exactly the way they were written, exactly the way she had always imagined they would sound, except for one terrible, catastrophic detail.

“Can’t you even answer?”

Time stopped. The corridor, the scattered books, the distant murmur of students—all of it fell away. She felt the words land on her like a physical blow, and at the same time, she felt the unmistakable pulse of magic deep in her bones, a resonance that confirmed everything and shattered everything at once. Soulmate. The word bloomed in her mind, bright and devastating. Her soulmate was Draco Malfoy. The cruel boy. The pureblood prince. The person who sneered at people like her as if they were nothing. And his first words to her were exactly as dismissive and cutting as she had always feared, but the man behind them was not a stranger having a bad day. He was a boy she had watched for two years, a boy whose casual cruelties were not exceptions but habits.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t reach for her notepad. She just stood there, frozen, her mouth open slightly, her eyes wide with horror and recognition. She couldn’t speak—she never could—but in that moment, even if she had possessed the most beautiful voice in the world, she would not have been able to make a sound. Because the boy she had been ready to love, the boy she had been ready to prove herself to, was Draco Malfoy. And he was looking at her with cold, dismissive irritation, already stepping around her as though she were nothing more than an inconvenient piece of furniture.

“Honestly,” he muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Some people.” He didn’t glance back. He rounded the next corner and disappeared, his footsteps fading into the distant murmur of the castle.

She stood there, alone in the corridor, surrounded by her fallen books, and the tears came without permission. They slid silently down her cheeks, hot and fast and utterly soundless, because of course they did. Everything about her was silent. She knelt and gathered the books with shaking hands, her vision blurring, and all she could think was that her soulmate—the person she had spent her whole childhood waiting for, the person she had been so determined to love—was a boy who would never want her. He was a Malfoy. He believed in blood purity. He surrounded himself with people who would mock her for her silence, her Muggle-born status, her quiet Hufflepuff existence. And beyond all of that, beyond the politics and the prejudice, he had walked away without a second glance. He had no idea what had just happened. And if he ever found out—if he ever discovered that his blank skin was because of her, that the universe had tethered him to a mute Muggle-born who couldn’t even give him words—he would be disgusted. He would feel cheated. He deserved someone who could match him, someone with a voice and a name and a place in his world. Not her. Never her.

She pressed her hand flat against her shoulder, over the place where his cruel, beautiful words were written, and let herself cry until the tears stopped. The hope she had carried for so long, the fierce, bright anticipation that had kept her tracing those words with affection, curdled into something heavy and cold. She had been so ready to meet her soulmate. She had planned a hundred different greetings, a hundred different ways to show him that silence didn’t mean absence. And now she could do none of them. Because her soulmate was Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy would never, ever accept her.

By the time she stood up, her knees aching from the cold stone, she had made a decision. She would avoid him completely. He would never have to know. And she would find some other way, some small, secret way, to love him from a distance. It was the only thing she could give him now.

Draco, for his part, forgot the incident almost immediately. It had been nothing—a minor irritation, a clumsy Hufflepuff who couldn’t be bothered to open her mouth. He had far more pressing concerns: the Quidditch Cup, his Potions marks, the never-ending task of maintaining his status. But over the following weeks, a strange pattern began to emerge, one that tugged at the edges of his awareness like a persistent thread. The same girl. The Hufflepuff with the wide, expressive eyes and the perpetually ink-stained fingers. He kept seeing her. And every single time, she was already looking away.

It began in the library. He would walk in, scanning for an empty table, and catch a flicker of movement from the stacks—a head ducking behind a shelf, a figure vanishing deeper into the aisles just as he entered. Then it was the Great Hall. Seated at the Slytherin table with his back straight and his breakfast untouched, he would let his gaze drift toward the Hufflepuff table, and without fail, she would be staring fixedly at her porridge, her cheeks faintly pink. In the greenhouses, she would become suddenly, intensely interested in the far end of the Venomous Tentacula bed the instant he walked in, her fingers busy with her sketchbook. It was so consistent, so deliberate, that it began to grate on him.

He told himself it was good. She was afraid of him, as she should be. He was a Malfoy, a Slytherin, a force to be reckoned with. Quiet little Hufflepuffs with ink-stained fingers should be afraid. But the avoidance still needled at him in a way he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t the usual fear; it was something more personal, more pointed. It was as if she was reacting not to the idea of him, but to him, specifically, and he couldn’t fathom why. He started watching her without quite meaning to. He noticed the graceful, rapid movements of her hands when she communicated with the few friends who understood her signs. He noticed the enchanted journal she carried, the one that transferred her handwriting into shimmering gold letters in the air. He noticed that she drew constantly, the tip of her quill moving in quick, sure strokes, and that her drawings were full of small, telling details—the exact way Professor Sprout’s hat sat askew, the particular curve of a thestral’s wing, the shy smile of a first-year who had just made a friend. She was observant. She was quiet. And she had, for some inexplicable reason, decided that Draco Malfoy was to be avoided at all costs.

He did not know, could not know, that she had spent the weeks since the corridor collision in a fog of heartbreak. She had mourned the soulmate she had imagined—the kind stranger having a bad day, the person who would be surprised by her silence but would learn to love her anyway—and she had tried to replace that imagined figure with the reality of Draco Malfoy. It was impossible. The gap between them was too wide. He was a pureblood who looked down on everyone; she was a Muggle-born who couldn’t even speak. He moved through the castle like he owned it; she moved through it like she was trying not to be seen. The only thing she could do, the only thing that felt right, was to remove herself from his path entirely. She owed him that much. He deserved the chance to find someone worthy, and she deserved the chance to forget him.

But forgetting him was impossible. She saw him everywhere, and every time, her heart gave the same sickening lurch. She noticed things about him she had never noticed before, now that she was watching him through the lens of soulmate. The way his smirk faltered when he thought no one was looking. The way his friends’ sycophantic laughter sometimes made his jaw tighten. The way he flew, up on the Quidditch pitch, with a freedom and a joy that seemed to strip away all the sharp edges. He was still cruel, still arrogant, still everything she disliked. But she began to see, in the quiet moments between his performances, a boy who might be lonely. A boy who might be carrying a weight of his own. A boy who, like her, had grown up with a soulmate-shaped absence.

The first drawing came to her almost without conscious thought. She was sitting in the library, her quill moving over parchment, and without quite meaning to, she had drawn a ferret. A small, smug ferret with a tiny silver medal around its neck. Beside it, a cheerful rabbit was clapping its paws together with obvious delight. She stared at the drawing for a long moment. It was ridiculous. It was childish. But it made her smile, just a little, and it captured something true. He had made a brilliant catch at practice yesterday; she had seen it from across the pitch, had seen the brief, unguarded flash of pride on his face before he had smoothed it away. No one had praised him for it. No one ever seemed to praise him for the things that actually made him happy.

She folded the drawing carefully and slipped it into his Potions textbook the next day, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst. It was a small thing, an anonymous thing. He would never know it was from her. But maybe, just maybe, it would make him smile.

Draco found the drawing three days later. He flipped open the page to the chapter on shrinking solutions, and a folded piece of parchment slipped out, fluttering toward the dungeon floor. His hand shot out with Slytherin seeker reflexes and snatched it before Snape’s sweeping gaze could land on it. He unfolded it under the desk, his heart beating inexplicably faster.

It was a drawing. Simple, clean lines in black ink, but brimming with personality. A ferret wearing a tiny medal, a rabbit clapping enthusiastically, and the words: Great catch today. He stared at it for a long moment, the dungeon around him fading into irrelevance. Someone had noticed. Someone had drawn him a picture. It was absurd, and it was childish, and he did not crumple it. He did not throw it away. He folded it carefully, more carefully than he had folded anything in his life, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his robes, right over his heart.

Crabbe leaned over, already reaching. “What’s that? A drawing? Someone’s sending you pictures, Malfoy? That’s childish.”

“It’s nothing,” Draco said, his voice carefully dismissive. “Probably Pansy’s idea of a joke.”

But Pansy, when asked, denied all knowledge. Theo laughed for a solid minute and declared that Draco had acquired a secret admirer. Draco threatened to hex him, but the threat came out half-hearted, and Theo’s grin only widened.

The drawings kept coming. They were never signed, but the little ferret was unmistakably him—the way it held its head, the particular arrogance in its tiny posture—and the rabbit, the devoted, cheerful rabbit, was unmistakably someone who had been watching him very, very closely. Each new drawing appeared in a place only Draco would find: tucked between the pages of a library book on ancient curses, slipped into his Quidditch locker between his gloves, folded inside his Transfiguration essay just before he handed it in. He started to look for them. He would open his textbooks with a small, secret flicker of anticipation that he would never have admitted to under Veritaserum, and when he found one, the warmth in his chest would expand just a little more.

After a triumphant Quidditch win against Ravenclaw that kept Slytherin in the running for the Cup, he found one waiting in his broom compartment: the ferret holding a tiny golden trophy, the rabbit waving an enormous green flag with Slytherin’s serpent on it, and beneath them the words You looked happiest in the air. During the brutal exam season that followed, a drawing appeared in his Arithmancy chart: the ferret asleep on a stack of books, his quill still clutched in one paw, while the rabbit placed a tiny blanket over him. Don’t forget to rest. When winter descended on the castle and the corridors turned draughty and bitter, he found a parchment in his scarf drawer: the ferret drowning in an oversized green-and-silver scarf, the rabbit offering a steaming cup of cocoa. Cold hands make bad handwriting. And after a devastating loss to Gryffindor that left Slytherin’s Cup hopes shattered and Draco’s temper flayed raw, he returned to the dormitory to find a drawing on his pillow. The ferret sat alone, his ears drooping, a dark cloud hanging over his head. Beside him, the rabbit was offering a single, tiny flower, its expression infinitely gentle. One bad day isn’t the whole story.

Draco collected every single one. He kept them in a polished wooden box he had charmed with a locking spell, hidden under his bed. On the nights when the whispers about his blank skin grew too loud, or his father’s letters were too cold, or the weight of being Draco Malfoy pressed down on him like a physical force, he would open the box and look through them. Someone, somewhere, saw him. Not the heir, not the Malfoy name, not the sharp edges he had spent years honing into weapons—but him. The boy who made a good catch at practice. The boy who forgot to rest. The boy who was happiest in the air. Someone believed he was worth cheering for, worth blankets and cocoa and small, gentle flowers after a loss. Someone thought he deserved kindness. And he had no idea who it was.

The girl who drew the pictures watched him from the edges of rooms and the shadows of corridors, and she saw the change. She saw the way his shoulders relaxed when he found a new drawing. She saw the small, private smile he tried so hard to hide. She saw him pause before snapping at a younger student, as though remembering something. And every time, it made the ache in her chest a little more bearable. She had started the drawings as a way to love him from a distance, a way to pour out all the affection she couldn’t give him openly. She had expected nothing in return. But seeing him soften, seeing him become a little less sharp, made something fierce and protective bloom in her chest. He was still Draco Malfoy—still proud, still capable of cruelty—but there were cracks in the armour now. And she was the one who had made them.

It was enough. She told herself it was enough, and she almost believed it.

Then, inevitably, Draco decided to find the artist. It started as a casual curiosity and quickly hardened into a quiet obsession. He began to pay attention to the timing of the drawings, the places they appeared. He questioned his housemates with a studied casualness, but his eyes were too sharp, his questions too persistent. He cornered a few startled Ravenclaws in the library, interrogated the house-elves who cleaned the Slytherin common room, even asked Madam Pince if she had noticed anyone lingering near the restricted section. No one knew anything. The artist remained a ghost, a phantom who left behind small miracles and vanished without a trace.

The girl grew more cautious. She varied her routes through the castle, timed her deliveries for moments of maximum chaos—between classes, during Quidditch matches, in the drowsy lull after dinner when the castle’s attention was scattered. She never lingered. She never made eye contact. But one afternoon in late March, as she was slipping a new drawing into the outer pocket of his bookbag where it leaned against a library table, she glanced up and found him staring straight at her from across the room.

Their eyes met. The world stopped. She saw recognition flicker in his grey eyes—not the full, terrible truth, but the dawning awareness that she was someone he had seen before, someone who was always looking away. Her heart seized. She snatched her hand back and fled, her soft-soled shoes making no sound on the stone floor. She vanished around a corner, through a tapestry, down a hidden passage she knew well, and she didn’t stop running until she was safe in the Hufflepuff common room, her breath coming in ragged, silent gasps.

Draco stood frozen in the library, the echo of her movement still hanging in the air. He had seen her. The quiet Hufflepuff. The one who never spoke, who always ducked away, who communicated with flying hands and a charmed notepad. And in her hands, just before she ran, he had seen a notebook—a worn leather notebook with a familiar cover. He didn’t understand it yet, not fully, but something had shifted. Some piece of the puzzle had clicked into place, and it left him restless and unsettled for days.

The notebook appeared three days later, abandoned on a library table in the alcove she often used. Draco spotted it from across the room, his heart giving a strange, heavy thud. He approached slowly, as if it might vanish if he moved too fast. He recognised the worn leather cover, the ink stains on the edges. He told himself he would simply return it. He told himself he would not look inside. It would be dishonourable. But the name written in tiny, precise letters on the inside flap—her name—made his breath catch in his throat, and the temptation was a living thing, clawing at his resolve. He opened it.

The first page was a ferret in Quidditch robes, diving for a snitch. The second was a ferret studying by candlelight, his brow furrowed in concentration. The third was a ferret laughing, and a rabbit smiling quietly beside him. Page after page, hundreds of them, a sprawling, lovingly rendered world in which a ferret and a rabbit lived side by side in a hundred moments of quiet devotion. Ferret sleeping, rabbit reading beside him. Ferret flying on a broom, rabbit cheering from the stands. Ferret studying, rabbit leaving a pile of snacks. Ferret laughing, rabbit watching with an expression of pure, radiant affection. Draco’s hands started to shake as he turned the pages.

Then one page fell open differently. It wasn’t tucked neatly among the others. It was crumpled, water-damaged, the ink slightly blurred in places as though tears had fallen on it and been hastily, imperfectly wiped away. The drawing was not cute. It was not gentle. It showed a ferret with an angry expression, his sharp teeth bared, and beside his mouth a speech bubble contained the words: Can’t you even answer?

Across from the ferret, a tiny rabbit. Crying. The rabbit held a small wooden sign, and on the sign, in letters that trembled slightly: I wanted to. I just couldn’t.

Below that, smaller, messier, written and rewritten until the parchment was almost worn through in places: I wish I could tell you that I wasn’t ignoring you. And even smaller, tucked into the corner as though the writer was trying to hide it: I wish my first words to you could have been hello.

Draco stared at the page. The corridor. The collision. The books falling. The girl’s wide, panicked eyes and her silent, trembling mouth. Can’t you even answer? He had said that. He had looked her in the eye and said those exact words, and she had stood there frozen because she couldn’t answer, and he had walked away without a second glance. He had walked away and she had gone back to her common room and drawn this, crying so hard the parchment had warped, and then she had still, impossibly, started sending him drawings of ferrets and rabbits and hot cocoa and flowers.

Everything crashed together in a single, devastating wave. The avoidance. The silence. The writing. The anonymous rabbit. His blank skin. Her silence. His soulmate marks had never appeared because there had never been any words to write. She would never speak. She would never give him first words, so the magic had left him empty, and he had spent his entire life believing no one in the world belonged to him. But someone did. She did. She had been here all along, drawing him into existence on parchment because she couldn’t speak him into existence with her voice, and she had believed—she had actually believed—that he deserved better.

And she had known. She had known the moment he spoke those words that he was her soulmate, and she had decided, in that instant, to hide herself away. Not because she didn’t care—God, she clearly cared more than anyone had ever cared about him—but because she thought he would reject her. Because she thought a Malfoy could never accept a mute Muggle-born as his soulmate. And the worst part, the part that made his stomach drop through the floor, was that he couldn’t even argue with her assumption. He had spent years sneering at people exactly like her. He had built his reputation on cruelty. She had every reason to believe he would be disgusted.

Draco closed the notebook with hands that were no longer shaking because they had gone perfectly, terribly still. He tucked it carefully into his robes, and then he ran.

He searched the castle with a desperation that bordered on unhinged. The Astronomy Tower, the greenhouses, the courtyard, the edge of the Forbidden Forest where the ground was soft from the morning’s rain. He asked portraits, who tutted and pointed vaguely. He nearly knocked over three separate first-years. He didn’t care. He needed to find her. He needed to find her now.

He found her at last on the low stone wall near the boathouse, where the lake lapped gently against the shore and the sky was the soft grey of impending dusk. She sat with her back to him, her sketchbook open on her lap, a quill in her hand. She must have heard his footsteps crunching on the gravel, because her shoulders stiffened and she turned, and when she saw him, the colour drained from her face. She moved to stand, to flee, just as she always did.

He stepped into her path, and he did it gently. For the first time in perhaps his entire life, there was no arrogance in his posture. No sneer, no sarcasm. Just guilt, vast and aching, written plainly across his features like a confession.

“Wait,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “Please. Please don’t run.”

She stopped. Her hands were trembling so badly the quill slipped from her fingers and landed in the grass.

“I found your notebook,” Draco said, and the words felt inadequate, clumsy, nothing like the grand speeches he had always imagined himself capable of. “I saw the drawings. All of them. And the one page. The one you cried on.” He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat nearly choking him. “I said those words to you. I said them, and I didn’t even look back. And you still—” His voice cracked. “You spent months making me smile after I made you cry. Why?”

She couldn’t answer with her voice. Her hands moved, quick and desperate, shaping signs he could not yet understand. Seeing his confusion, the frustration that flickered across his face, she fumbled for the charmed notepad in her pocket and wrote with a hand that shook so violently the letters were barely legible: You deserved someone better.

Draco shook his head, a short, sharp motion. “No.”

She wrote again: You deserved someone who could talk to you.

“I deserved you,” he said, and the words came out fierce, almost angry, but the anger was not at her. It was at himself, at the universe, at every moment he had wasted believing he was empty. “I deserved you, and I didn’t even know it. I walked right past you, and I didn’t know.”

The tears were falling again, silent as always, tracing silver paths down her cheeks. She reached up slowly, carefully, and pulled aside the collar of her robes just enough to reveal the words written on her shoulder. Can’t you even answer? The cruel, slanting script she had traced a thousand times, the words she had once regarded with hope and then with despair. The first thing he had ever given her.

Draco looked at the words on her skin, his own words, and something inside him broke apart and reassembled into something entirely new. He reached out, his hand hovering just above her shoulder, his eyes asking a silent question. She nodded, barely perceptibly. He let his fingertips brush the script, feather-light, as though he were touching something sacred. The words were warm from her skin, and they felt like a wound and a gift all at once.

“Those were the first thing I ever gave you,” he whispered. His voice was barely audible, but in the quiet of the lakeside, it carried like a bell. She nodded again, her eyes bright with tears.

He let his hand fall, but he didn’t step back. He didn’t want to step back ever again. “Then let me spend the rest of my life giving you better ones.”

She stared at him. Her lips parted, though no sound came, and then—slowly, like the sun breaking over the horizon—she smiled. It was the first real smile she had ever given him, and it was brighter than every spell he had ever learned, warmer than every fire in every common room, worth more than every Galleon in the Malfoy vault. Draco felt his own face shift in response, a smile that was raw and unguarded and entirely new.

The weeks that followed were a slow, careful dance. They met in quiet corners of the library, by the lake, in the greenhouses when no one else was around. Draco began learning magical sign language—the kind that used a wand’s subtle glow to enhance the meaning of each gesture, a language as complex and beautiful as any spoken tongue. He was terrible at it at first. His fingers fumbled, his grammar was atrocious, and he accidentally signed cabbage instead of good morning one day, a mistake that left her laughing so hard she had to brace herself against the greenhouse bench. Her laughter was silent, a shaking of shoulders and a bright, radiant expression, and Draco discovered that watching her laugh was his new favourite thing in the entire world. He practiced constantly, muttering to himself in the dormitory, drilling signs with Theo, who found the whole situation endlessly amusing but helped anyway because Theo, for all his cynicism, was still his friend.

She drew for him constantly now, not anonymously, but openly, sliding sketches across the library table with a shy smile. Ferrets and rabbits doing increasingly mundane, domestic things—making tea, folding laundry, arguing over the last biscuit. And Draco, who had once believed himself incapable of softness, found that he was, in fact, full to the brim with it.

One morning, nearly two months after the lakeside, he found a familiar folded parchment tucked into his Transfiguration textbook. His heart gave the same old flutter as he opened it, and there they were: the ferret and the rabbit, side by side, as they had always been. But this time, the rabbit was not holding a written note. Her little paws were raised, moving through the shapes of sign language, the faint glow of magic sketched around her fingers. The ferret was signing back, his own paws determined and a little clumsy, just like Draco’s. The caption below was simple, and it stole the breath from his lungs: Now you can hear me.

Draco smiled, the wide, unguarded smile that only she ever got to see. He folded the drawing with the same meticulous care he had used for the very first one, and he slipped it into the inside pocket of his robes, where it joined the small, cherished collection he still carried with him always. He didn’t need the drawings anymore to know she was there. But he kept them because they were a map of how they had found each other—a map drawn in ink by a girl who had been brave enough to love him from the shadows even when she believed he would never love her back. And as he walked through the sunlit corridors toward the library where she was waiting, he thought that the deepest magic of all had never been the words on his skin, but the quiet, stubborn hope that had found a way long before either of them had the language for it.

The crystal decanter shattered against the marble hearth with a sound like a dying star. Draco Malfoy stood in the middle of his mother’s private sitting room, chest heaving, his pale hair disheveled and his grey eyes rimmed red in a way Narcissa had not seen since he was a child convinced a Hippogriff had meant to murder him. But this was worse. This was a grief that seemed to hollow him out from the inside, a shaking, desperate thing that made his voice crack on every other syllable.

“She’s—she’s betrothed, Mother. To Avery Yaxley. Some Ravenclaw nobody who can’t even duel without tripping over his own robes, and she’s going to marry him, and I only found out because Pansy mentioned it in a letter like it was gossip—” He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if he could push the image out of his mind. “I can’t breathe. I actually cannot breathe.”

Narcissa set down her embroidery hoop with the careful, unhurried grace of a woman who had spent decades perfecting the art of never looking surprised. Inside, however, her mind was racing. (Y/N) Sinclair. The daughter of Minister of magic and the girl Draco had complained about ceaselessly since his third year at Hogwarts. Stupid, he’d called her. Naive. Insufferably nice to anyone. He’d come home for Christmas holidays with a new story every time—how (Y/N) had volunteered to stay after Potions to help Longbottom clean cauldrons, how she’d lectured him for hexing a first-year, how she’d smiled at him after he’d insulted her and said, “I hope your day gets better, Draco,” which had apparently sent him into a rage that lasted a full week. Narcissa had assumed, reasonably, that he hated the girl. She had filed (Y/N) Sinclair under minor irritant in the mental catalogue she kept of her son’s life, and she had not thought of her since.

But Draco was on his knees now, actually on his knees on the Aubusson rug, his fists clenched in the fabric, and he was weeping. Weeping. Her son, who had learned to sneer before he learned to walk, was sobbing like his heart had been carved out of his chest and served to him on a silver platter.

“Draco, darling, get up,” Narcissa said, but her voice was softer than her words. She rose and crossed to him, kneeling in a rustle of silk, and took his face in her hands. “You’ve never said a kind word about this girl in your life. You told me last summer she had the self-preservation instincts of a concussed flobberworm.”

“Because she does!” Draco wailed. “She’s too trusting and she talks to the squid in the lake and she once tried to heal a dying garden gnome with dittany as if that would do anything, and she’s always humming off-key, and she doesn’t care about bloodlines or status or anything that matters, and she’s—she’s perfect, Mother. She’s the only good thing in that entire castle and I’ve been wretched to her for years and now she’s going to belong to some Yaxley who probably doesn’t even know she prefers chamomile over Earl Grey or that she cries at the sight of injured mooncalves. She’s going to be wasted on him. And I will die. I will simply die.”

Narcissa stared at him. The firelight flickered across his anguished features, and she saw something there she recognized with a jolt that went straight to her marrow. It was the same wild, consuming desperation she had felt at eighteen, when her own parents had informed her she would be marrying Rodolphus Lestrange, and she had looked across the ballroom at Lucius Malfoy and known, with every fiber of her being, that she would burn the entire wizarding world to the ground before she let anyone else have her. She had won that battle. Rodolphus had ended up with Bellatrix, which had been a convenient solution for everyone except Bellatrix, who didn’t mind as long as she got to keep her collection of cursed jewelry. And Narcissa had gotten Lucius—cold, calculating, devastatingly devoted Lucius—who still looked at her thirty years later like she was the only star in a sky full of cheap imitations.

If Draco felt even a fraction of that for (Y/N) Sinclair, then (Y/N) Sinclair would be his. It was as simple as that.

“Stop crying,” Narcissa said, but she said it gently, stroking his hair. “Do not weep over things that can be fixed. And this can be fixed.”

Draco’s breath hitched. He looked up at her, silver eyes bloodshot, lashes spiked with tears. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Narcissa said, helping him to his feet and guiding him to the settee, “that you are going to tell me everything about this girl. And then your father and I are going to have a conversation.”

The conversation happened that very evening, in Lucius’s study, after Draco had been sent to bed with a Calming Draught and a promise that his mother would handle things. Lucius sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, a glass of Firewhisky in his hand, and listened to his wife’s summary with an expression that cycled through disbelief, calculation, and finally a sort of resigned amusement.

“The Sinclair girl,” he said slowly. “Gavin Sinclair’s daughter. The one who knocked over the Bordeaux tower at the Greengrass gala about a year ago and ruined a ten-thousand-Galleon carpet.”

“The very same.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened. That gala had been a nightmare. He remembered it vividly: the Sinclair family arriving late, (Y/N) in a pale green dress that was already smudged with what looked like soil, her messy hair escaping its elaborate updo like it had a personal vendetta against elegance. Draco had been seventeen and already spoiling for a fight, and within an hour of the formal proceedings, he and (Y/N) had been bickering in the corner about something inane—creature rights, Lucius thought, or maybe the ethical treatment of house-elves—and their argument had grown so heated that Draco had gestured wildly and caught the edge of the towering champagne and wine display. The entire structure had come down in a cascade of shattered crystal and spraying alcohol, drenching both of them, soaking Lucius’s shoes, and splattering the robes of no fewer than six Ministry officials. Lucius had been incandescent with fury. He had not spoken to Draco for a few days afterward, and he had avoided Gavin Sinclair at every subsequent event out of sheer mortification.

“I fail to see,” Lucius said, taking a measured sip of his drink, “why we would want to tether ourselves to a family that has brought us nothing but public embarrassment. The Sinclairs are blood traitors in all but name. They don’t believe in the old ways. Gavin Sinclair is Prime Minister of Magic by some fluke of populist sentiment, not by right, and his wife runs what amounts to a chain of craft stores. It’s undignified.”

“Elena Sinclair owns the largest franchise of specialized magical crafts in the entire wizarding world,” Narcissa said coolly, settling into the chair across from him. “Her apothecary-grade potion kits are in every Hogwarts classroom. Her bespoke wand-polishing cloths are used by Ollivander himself. The Sinclairs are wealthy, Lucius. Not Malfoy-wealthy, but wealthy enough, and their connections span the Ministry, the academic world, and the international trade guilds. Gavin Sinclair has the ear of the Wizengamot. Elena Sinclair has the ears of every influential witch in Britain because they all attend her seasonal crafting retreats in the Cotswolds. And more importantly, our son is currently upstairs, heavily sedated, because he has convinced himself that life is not worth living without this girl.”

Lucius’s eyebrow arched. “Draco? Our Draco? The same Draco who told me at Yule that he hoped (Y/N) Sinclair would be trampled by a herd of rampaging erumpents?”

“Apparently so. It appears his protests were something of a smokescreen.” Narcissa’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “He loves her, Lucius. I know that look. You had that look.”

Lucius studied his wife for a long moment. He had built his entire life around two principles: the supremacy of pureblood lineage and the unwavering devotion he felt to Narcissa Black. The first principle had taken some strategic blows over the years, but the second had never wavered. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, what it meant to want someone so badly that logic and propriety ceased to matter. And if Draco felt that way about (Y/N) Sinclair, then the Sinclairs were about to become extremely relevant to Malfoy interests.

“The girl is already betrothed to the Yaxley boy,” Lucius pointed out. “The Yaxleys have been our allies for generations. Corvus Yaxley sits on the Board of Governors. Breaking that engagement would create a significant rift.”

“Corvus Yaxley is also deeply in debt to us after that unfortunate investment in the cursed-mirror enterprise,” Narcissa said smoothly. “He won’t make a public fuss if we handle this correctly. And as for the engagement itself—engagements can be broken. Hearts can be swayed. The Sinclairs have no particular loyalty to the Yaxleys; it’s an arrangement of convenience, not affection. Gavin Sinclair wants political stability, and Elena Sinclair wants her daughter to be happy. We can offer both.”

“I would suggest amortentia would be a quick fix”

“No, that’s a temporary fix, a very risky one too. I believe our son can simply…win her heart.”

Lucius set down his glass and steepled his fingers. “My dear wife, are you perhaps proposing we convince the girl to fall for Draco. Genuinely. Without magical coercion.”

“Precisely.”

“That could take months. Years, even. Draco’s track record with her is abysmal. He’s done nothing but antagonize her since adolescence.”

“Then Draco will have to learn to be charming,” Narcissa said. “And we will give him an opportunity. A controlled environment. Time alone with her, away from Hogwarts, away from the Yaxley boy, away from any distractions. She needs to see the side of him he’s been too proud to show her.”

Lucius considered this. His mind, ever strategic, was already spinning through possibilities. “We could invite the Sinclairs to the Manor. Host a gathering, engineer some proximity—”

“Too obvious. Gavin Sinclair would see through it immediately. He’s not a fool.” Narcissa’s eyes glittered. “No, we need something more organic. Something that doesn’t look like a Malfoy plot even though it absolutely is one.”

She told him her plan then, in quiet, measured tones, and Lucius listened with the sort of admiration that had kept their marriage vibrant for three decades. His wife was a marvel. She had always been the more subtle mind between them—where Lucius wielded power like a broadsword, Narcissa preferred the scalpel. Her plan was elegant, slightly ruthless, and almost impossible to trace back to them if something went wrong.

“The forest near the Sinclair estate,” Lucius murmured. “She wanders there alone?”

“According to Draco, constantly. She’s obsessed with magical creatures. She’s been caught by the Centaur Liaison Office twice for unauthorized fraternization, and she once tried to befriend a colony of bowtruckles and ended up with splinters in her hands for a week. The girl has no sense of self-preservation. It won’t be difficult to arrange a small accident.”

“And her parents?”

“Out of town next week. Elena has a crafting summit in Brussels, and Gavin is attending a conference in Cairo. The Sinclair mansion will be staffed only by house-elves.” Narcissa smiled. “We’ll make sure she’s found near our property line. We’ll nurse her back to health. We’ll be gracious, concerned, hospitable. And Draco will have days—perhaps a week—to prove to her that he’s not the bully she’s always known.”

Lucius was quiet for a moment. Then he raised his glass. “To our son’s happiness.”

Narcissa’s smile widened. “And to the Sinclairs’ inevitable gratitude.”

The forest that bordered the Sinclair estate was ancient and thick with magic, the kind of woodland where the trees remembered things and the undergrowth whispered secrets in languages older than English. (Y/N) Sinclair loved it with a ferocity that bordered on religious devotion. She knew every game trail, every fairy ring, every stream where the mooncalves came to drink on the full moon. Her father had forbidden her from venturing too deep after the incident with the nest of juvenile occamies—she still had a scar on her forearm from that particular misadventure—but (Y/N) had never been good at following rules that didn’t make sense to her. The forest was safe if you respected it. The forest was home to creatures who needed understanding, not fear. And the forest was, on this particular evening, absolutely magical, drenched in the golden light of a late summer sunset, alive with the rustle of small things and the distant call of a phoenix—or possibly a particularly melodious jobberknoll, she couldn’t quite tell.

She’d been tracking a family of mooncalves for three hours, following the faint silvery traces of their nocturnal dances through the underbrush, when the drowsiness hit her. It came on suddenly, a wave of exhaustion so profound that her knees buckled before her mind could register what was happening. She grabbed at a tree trunk, blinking hard, but her vision was swimming, the gold light fracturing into kaleidoscope patterns that made no sense. Her satchel slipped from her shoulder. Her wand—she should reach for her wand—but her fingers wouldn’t cooperate, and the thought dissolved like sugar in water before she could complete it.

She never felt herself hit the ground. She never saw the two figures in dark cloaks emerge from the shadows, their movements silent and practiced. She never registered the gentle levitation charm that lifted her limp body, or the soft crack of Apparition that carried her away from the forest she loved and into the heart of a plan she had no idea was unfolding around her.

When (Y/N) woke, it was to the scent of roses and the feeling of silk against her cheek. This was wrong. She slept on cotton sheets that smelled faintly of the lavender her mother tucked into the linen closets. These sheets were smooth and cool and definitely not lavender. The pillow beneath her head was too plush. The mattress was too soft. And there was a weight of blankets on her that spoke of expensive down and careful tucking.

She opened her eyes.

The room was beautiful in a way that made her think of fairy tales—the old kind, the ones with palaces and princesses and slightly ominous undertones. High ceilings with intricate molding. Walls papered in pale silver-green damask. Windows draped in velvet that pooled on the floor like liquid emerald. A fireplace with a small, tasteful fire crackling in the grate. And beside the bed, sitting in an armchair with the posture of a woman who had never slouched in her life, was a stranger.

She was stunning. Older, perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, though it was hard to tell with witches. Her hair was black and silver in equal measure, swept into an elegant chignon, and her face was all sharp cheekbones and cool blue eyes that assessed (Y/N) with an expression of polite concern. She wore robes of charcoal grey, understated but clearly expensive, and her hands—folded neatly in her lap—were adorned with rings that probably cost more than (Y/N)’s entire wardrobe.

“Ah,” the woman said, her voice like honey over steel. “You’re awake. Good. You’ve been asleep for nearly sixteen hours. I was beginning to worry.”

(Y/N) tried to sit up. Her head spun briefly, then settled. “Where—” Her voice came out as a croak. She swallowed and tried again. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You’re at Malfoy Manor,” the woman said, and (Y/N)’s entire body went rigid. “My name is Narcissa Malfoy. You were found on the edge of our property by one of our groundskeepers, unconscious in the underbrush. We brought you inside immediately. Our Healer examined you and found traces of a particularly potent sleeping charm—nothing permanent, but strong enough to knock out a grown wizard. Do you remember what happened?”

(Y/N)’s mind was a whirlwind. Malfoy Manor. Malfoy. As in Draco Malfoy, the boy who had made her life intermittently miserable since their third year, the one with the silver eyes and the razor tongue and the inexplicable ability to make her feel simultaneously furious and flustered every time he opened his mouth. She was in his house.

“I—I was in the forest,” she said, forcing herself to focus. “Tracking mooncalves. I felt dizzy all of a sudden, and then I don’t remember anything. I didn’t encounter anyone. I didn’t see anyone.” She frowned. “A sleeping charm? But who would—?”

“We don’t know,” Narcissa said smoothly. “The forest has become somewhat unpredictable in recent years. There have been reports of rogue magical activity, unattended spellwork, even some unsavory individuals camping in the deeper woods. It’s possible you were caught in something unintended. Or it’s possible you were targeted. In either case, you’re safe now.” She smiled, and it softened her entire face, taking her from intimidating to almost maternal. “My staff will continue to monitor your recovery. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

(Y/N)’s heart was still racing, but some of the tension in her shoulders began to ease. Narcissa Malfoy had a reputation—everyone knew the Malfoys were pureblood aristocracy, proud and cold and deeply entangled in old money and older prejudices—but the woman in front of her didn’t seem cold. She seemed concerned. Genuinely concerned.

“Thank you,” (Y/N) said, and meant it. “I don’t want to impose. If I could just borrow an owl to contact my parents—”

“Already done,” Narcissa said. “My husband sent word to your family as soon as we identified you. Your parents are abroad, but they’ve been informed that you’re in excellent hands. They were, understandably, quite relieved.” She paused, tilting her head. “You’re (Y/N) Sinclair, aren’t you? Gavin Sinclair’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must know my son. Draco. He’s mentioned you.”

(Y/N)’s stomach did something complicated. “He—he has?”

“Oh, quite often,” Narcissa said, and there was a glint in her eye that (Y/N) couldn’t quite read. “He’ll be so surprised to learn you’re here. In fact—” She glanced toward the door as if on cue. “I believe I hear him now.”

The door opened.

Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, and (Y/N) felt the world tilt slightly on its axis. She had seen him countless times in Hogwarts corridors, across the Great Hall, in Potions class where he always managed to sit within glaring distance of her. She knew the sharp angles of his face, the way his pale hair fell across his forehead, the particular smirk he wore when he was about to say something cutting. But this Draco was different. This Draco was staring at her with an expression she couldn’t categorize—surprise, certainly, but also something rawer, something that made his grey eyes darken and his hands curl into fists at his sides. He was wearing casual robes, dark green, and his hair was slightly mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He looked, for the first time in her memory, completely at a loss for words.

“Sinclair,” he finally managed. His voice was hoarse. “What are you doing here?”

“I ask myself the same question,” (Y/N) said, and despite everything—the confusion, the lingering exhaustion, the sheer surreality of waking up in Malfoy Manor—she felt the corner of her mouth twitch upward. “Apparently, I passed out near your property. Your mother’s been very kind.”

Draco’s gaze snapped to Narcissa, who smiled serenely, then back to (Y/N). He took a step into the room, then another, then stopped as if afraid to get too close. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m fine. Just tired. And a little confused.” She studied him, wondering at the intensity of his reaction. The Draco she knew would have made a joke by now, some snide remark about (Y/N) being too soft to handle a walk in the woods. This Draco looked like he’d seen a ghost. “You’re being...nice. It’s unsettling.”

“I’m always nice,” Draco said automatically, then winced. “All right, that’s a lie. But you’re in my house. My mother would hex me if I was rude to a guest.”

“A guest who passed out in your shrubbery.”

“The shrubbery is very proud of its hospitality.”

(Y/N) laughed. It was a small laugh, surprised out of her, and Draco’s expression shifted in response—softened, almost, like her laughter was something he wanted to catch and keep. The moment stretched between them, strange and new, until Narcissa rose from her chair with a rustle of silk.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” she said. “Draco, perhaps you could show (Y/N) around the grounds later, if she’s feeling up to it. The gardens are lovely this time of year. And (Y/N), if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask the house-elves. They’re at your disposal.”

She swept out of the room before either of them could respond, and the door clicked shut behind her with a definitive sound.

Silence fell.

Draco stood by the bed, looking at (Y/N). (Y/N) sat propped against the pillows, looking at Draco. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a peacock screamed.

“This is weird,” (Y/N) said.

“Incredibly weird,” Draco agreed.

“You’re not insulting me.”

“I’m trying something new.”

“What, basic human decency?”

“I said trying, not mastering.”

She laughed again, and Draco’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk and wasn’t quite a smile—something tentative, hopeful, almost shy. It was the most disarming expression (Y/N) had ever seen on him, and it made her wonder, with a flutter of something she refused to name, what other expressions she’d never seen him wear.

The days that followed were strange and golden, suspended in a sort of enchanted interlude that felt disconnected from the real world. (Y/N)’s recovery was swift—the Healer confirmed the sleeping charm had completely dissipated, leaving no lasting effects—but Narcissa insisted she stay “just a few more days, to be absolutely certain.” The Sinclairs, reached by Floo from their respective locations, were effusively grateful and urged (Y/N) to rest as long as she needed. “The Malfoys have been nothing but gracious,” Elena Sinclair said, her face floating in the emerald flames, her brow furrowed with maternal worry. “If you’re comfortable, darling, stay. We’ll be home by the end of the week. I’d rather you be safe in a proper manor than alone in the house with just the elves.”

So (Y/N) stayed. And Draco Malfoy, contrary to every expectation she had ever formed about him, was...wonderful.

It started small. He brought her breakfast himself on the first morning, balancing a tray laden with pastries and fruit and a pot of chamomile tea—her favorite, though she couldn’t remember ever telling him that—and sitting with her while she ate, making conversation that was carefully free of insults. He asked about her mooncalf research. He listened to her answers without interrupting. When she mentioned she was hoping to spot a herd of winged horses on the northern moors before the summer ended, he didn’t call her a horse-obsessed lunatic like he would have at school. Instead, he said, “We have a small herd of Abraxans in our stables. My father breeds them. Would you like to see them?”

She would. She did. The stables were magnificent, all polished wood and warm hay-scented air, and the Abraxans were breathtaking—great golden creatures with palomino coats and powerful wings that rustled when (Y/N) approached them. Draco stood back and watched her as she moved among the horses, her face alight with wonder, her hands gentle on their velvety muzzles. He had seen the Abraxans hundreds of times. They were livestock to him, valuable but ordinary. But watching (Y/N) with them, seeing the way she murmured to them in a low, crooning voice and laughed when one of them nuzzled her hair, he felt something shift in his chest, a tightness he hadn’t known he was carrying loosen and re-form into something warmer.

“You really love them,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I love all magical creatures,” (Y/N) replied, stroking an Abraxan’s neck. “They’re so much more honest than people. They don’t pretend to be something they’re not. If an Abraxan likes you, it likes you. If it doesn’t, it’ll kick you in the head and be done with it. They don’t really play you around like some sort of game.”

“I’ve been playing games with you,” Draco said quietly.

(Y/N) looked at him, surprised. “What?”

“At school. The insults. The teasing. The—” He swallowed. “I wasn’t...I didn’t know how to...”

He trailed off, and (Y/N) waited, her hand still resting on the Abraxan’s warm flank. The afternoon light slanted through the stable windows, catching the gold in Draco’s hair, the silver of his eyes, the vulnerability he was clearly struggling to express.

“I’m not good at this,” he finally said. “Being decent. I’ve been a complete arse to you for years, and I don’t have a good excuse. I just...you made me feel things I didn’t know how to handle, and I handled it badly. Every time.” He met her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

(Y/N) blinked. Of all the things she had expected from this strange sojourn, a genuine apology from Draco Malfoy was not on the list. She’d assumed his politeness was temporary, a show for his mother, a veneer that would crack the moment they were alone. But he looked sincere. He looked, in fact, slightly terrified, like he’d just handed her a loaded crossbow and was waiting to see if she’d shoot.

“You called me a two-faced fake to magical society,” she said slowly. “In front of the entire Slytherin table.”

Draco winced. “I remember.”

“You charmed my shoes to squeak every time I took a step. For a month.”

“That was Pansy’s idea.”

“You told Professor Snape I’d been experimenting with illegal potions in my dormitory.”

“Look, I was just trying to get your attention,” Draco said, and then looked horrified at his own admission. “Not—not in a good way. In a terrible, counterproductive, deeply stupid way. I wanted you to notice me, and I didn’t know how to make that happen without being awful, and by the time I realized what I actually felt, I’d already ruined any chance of you ever—”

He stopped. The silence stretched.

“Ever what?” (Y/N) asked.

Draco’s jaw worked. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he was looking at her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Ever thinking I was worth your time.”

The Abraxan behind (Y/N) snorted and stamped a hoof, breaking the tension. She turned away from Draco, her cheeks suddenly warm, and busied herself with giving the horse one last pat. Her mind was a tangle of contradictions. This was Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, who had made her school years intermittently miserable. Draco Malfoy, whose family was synonymous with pureblood arrogance and Dark sympathies. But this was also the boy who had brought her chamomile tea, who had sat with her for hours while she recovered, who was showing her his prized horses and apologizing with a rawness that felt startlingly real.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said, not turning around.

“Neither are you,” Draco replied. “I expected you to hex me the moment you woke up.”

“I considered it. But your mother seems nice. I didn’t want to be rude.”

Draco laughed—a real laugh, surprised and bright—and (Y/N) felt something unlock in her chest, a door she hadn’t known she’d kept barred swinging slowly open.

The garden was where everything began to change, or perhaps where the change that had already begun finally became undeniable. It was three days into her stay, and (Y/N) had discovered the Malfoy gardens on her own—sprawling, meticulously maintained grounds that stretched from the back of the manor to the edge of a small, enchanted wood. There were rose arbors heavy with blooms in colors that didn’t exist in nature, fountains that played silent symphonies in shifting jets of water, peacocks (white ones, naturally) strutting across the manicured lawns like tiny avian aristocrats. And there was a particular corner, tucked away behind a hedge of night-blooming jasmine, where someone had placed a stone bench and a small, weathered sundial that looked older than the manor itself.

(Y/N) found it on her third evening, just as the sun was sinking below the horizon and the garden was drenched in lavender twilight. She sat on the bench and tilted her head back, breathing in the jasmine, feeling more at peace than she had in months. The Yaxley engagement had been a weight on her since the day her parents announced it—an arrangement she hadn’t wanted but hadn’t known how to refuse, because Avery Yaxley was perfectly nice and perfectly boring and perfectly wrong for her in every way that mattered, but he was also from a good family, and her parents had been so pleased, and (Y/N) had always tried so hard to be the daughter they deserved. She had smiled and nodded and let herself be measured for robes she didn’t want to wear, and she had pushed down the small, stubborn voice that whispered this isn’t what you want every time she looked at the engagement ring sitting in its velvet box on her dressing table.

She hadn’t thought about the ring once since waking up at Malfoy Manor. She thought about that now, and the realization unsettled her.

Footsteps on the gravel path. She looked up and saw Draco approaching, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. He was carrying something—a small, square object she couldn’t quite identify—and when he reached the bench, he stopped and offered her a crooked smile.

“I thought I might find you here. The house-elves said you’d wandered toward the gardens.”

“It’s beautiful,” (Y/N) said. “I’ve never seen roses that color. Is it enchantment or breeding?”

“Both, I think. My mother’s been cultivating them for years. She says a garden should look like a dream, not a reality.” He paused, then held up the object in his hands. It was a gramophone. An old-fashioned one, with a brass horn and a crank on the side. “I found this in one of the storage rooms. It belonged to my grandmother. I thought you might like some music. You hum when you’re reading—I noticed it in the library last night. You were humming something by Celestina Warbeck, I think. Terrible taste, but I’m willing to overlook it.”

(Y/N) felt her face heat. “You were watching me read?”

“I was in the library too. You didn’t notice. You were very absorbed in your book.” He set the gramophone on the ground and began to crank it. “This thing probably only plays music that’s a hundred years old, but it still works. My father had it charmed for durability.”

The gramophone crackled to life. The sound that emerged was scratchy and warm, a waltz played on strings, slow and sweet. It drifted through the garden, mingling with the scent of jasmine, and (Y/N) felt something in her chest tighten and release all at once.

Draco extended his hand. “Care for a dance?”

“What?”

“Dance with me. The music’s playing. The garden’s perfect. You’re here. I’m here.” His grey eyes caught the last of the twilight, turning almost silver. “Unless you’re afraid I’ll step on your feet.”

“I’m afraid you’ll turn back into the Draco who called me an overemotional girl in front of Professor Sprout.”

“I’m not that Draco anymore.” His voice was soft, earnest, stripped of all its usual defenses. “I don’t want to be that Draco anymore. Not with you.”

(Y/N) looked at his outstretched hand. His fingers were long and pale, the hand of someone who’d never done a day of manual labor in his life, but there was a slight tremor in them that betrayed his nervousness. He was afraid she’d say no. He was afraid, and he was asking anyway.

She took his hand.

His grip was warm and sure as he pulled her to her feet. They stood facing each other for a moment, close but not touching, the music swirling around them, and then Draco placed one hand on her waist and drew her into a proper waltz hold. He was taller than her by several inches; she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“I don’t actually know how to waltz,” she admitted.

“Neither do I. My mother tried to teach me when I was twelve. I spent the entire lesson complaining. Now I regret it.” He began to move, slowly, guiding her in a simple box step. “Just follow me. It’s not complicated. One-two-three, one-two-three.”

They stumbled through the first few steps, (Y/N) counting under her breath, Draco’s brow furrowed in concentration. Then, gradually, they found a rhythm. The music wrapped around them like a spell, and the garden became a blur of shadow and starlight, and Draco’s hand on her waist was a steady, grounding pressure that made her feel, for the first time in as long as she could remember, exactly where she was supposed to be.

From the window of the second-floor drawing room, Lucius and Narcissa watched.

They had come upon the scene entirely by accident. Narcissa had been passing by the window on her way to bed when the faint strains of music caught her attention, and she had paused, drawn by something she couldn’t name. Lucius had joined her a moment later, and now they stood side by side, looking down at the garden where their son was waltzing with Gavin Sinclair’s daughter under a canopy of stars.

“They look...” Lucius began, then stopped, as if the word he wanted was too foreign to articulate.

“Like us,” Narcissa finished. “Thirty years ago. At my parents’ summer estate. You insisted you could dance, and you absolutely could not, and we tripped over each other for an hour before you finally kissed me behind the hydrangeas.”

Lucius’s lips twitched. “I remember. Your mother caught us. She threatened to hex my eyebrows off.”

“She never did like you.”

“She liked me fine once I proved I could provide for you.” He was quiet for a moment, watching the two figures below. Draco had spun (Y/N) in an awkward little turn, and she was laughing—they could hear it faintly through the glass, bright and unguarded. “He’s actually done it, hasn’t he? He’s made her fall for him.”

“He’s made himself worthy of her,” Narcissa corrected. “There’s a difference. The plan only works if it’s genuine. If he’d just pretended, she would have seen through it eventually. But look at him.” She gestured toward the window. “He’s not pretending. That’s the boy I raised, finally showing someone who he really is.”

Lucius put his arm around his wife’s waist, drawing her against his side. “You did this,” he murmured. “You engineered the entire thing.”

“I gave them an opportunity. They did the rest themselves.” Narcissa leaned her head against his shoulder, her gaze still fixed on the garden. “He’s happy, Lucius. Truly happy. I haven’t seen him like this since he was a child.”

Below them, the waltz ended. Another began—slower, sweeter, a melody that seemed to have been written for two people falling in love in a rose garden. Draco and (Y/N) didn’t stop dancing. They moved closer together, their steps smaller now, almost swaying in place, and Draco’s forehead came to rest gently against (Y/N)’s. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

Lucius watched his son hold the girl who was supposed to have been a Yaxley bride, and felt something that might have been pride—or might have been the quiet, unfamiliar stirrings of a conscience he’d spent decades suppressing. He pushed the latter thought aside. This was a victory. His son was happy, the Sinclair alliance was all but secured, and Corvus Yaxley could choke on his own disappointment. Malfoys did not lose.

“Come to bed,” he said to Narcissa. “Let them have their moment.”

Narcissa allowed herself one last look before turning away. Her son’s silhouette, entwined with (Y/N)’s, was the last thing she saw before she drew the curtain.

The library at Malfoy Manor was a cathedral of books. Shelves soared toward a ceiling charmed to reflect the night sky, constellations wheeling slowly across the enchanted dome. Thousands of volumes lined the walls—ancient grimoires, leather-bound histories, poetry collections with pages edged in gold. Fireplaces crackled at either end of the vast room, and deep armchairs were scattered in inviting clusters. It was, (Y/N) thought, the most beautiful library she had ever seen, and she had spent the better part of four days exploring it with a reverence usually reserved for sacred spaces.

Tonight was her last night at the Manor. Her parents were returning from their travels tomorrow, and she would be going home. The thought sat heavily in her chest, a stone she couldn’t dislodge. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to leave the roses and the peacocks and the Abraxans. She didn’t want to leave the library with its starry ceiling. And she didn’t want to leave Draco, which was the most terrifying realization of all, because leaving him meant returning to a life where she was engaged to someone else, where Draco Malfoy was her antagonist and not the boy who danced with her in the garden and brought her chamomile tea and looked at her like she was the only person in the world.

She was curled up in one of the armchairs near the east fireplace, a book on Magizoology open in her lap, when Draco found her. He had been restless all evening, prowling the manor like a caged animal, and (Y/N) knew why. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she was leaving. Tomorrow she has to go back to her own reality.

“You’ve been reading that same page for ten minutes,” Draco said, dropping into the chair across from her. “I’ve been watching.”

“You watch me a lot,” (Y/N) said without looking up.

“I like watching you. Your face does things when you read. Your nose scrunches up when you hit a part you don’t agree with.”

“This author thinks Bowtruckles should be classified as pests. My nose is justified.”

Draco grinned, but it faded quickly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared into the fire. The flames reflected in his eyes, turning them molten. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll go back to your life. And I’ll go back to Hogwarts in September. And you’ll be there, but you’ll be with Yaxley, and I’ll have to watch you sit next to him at meals and hold his hand in the corridors and pretend I’m not—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

“Pretend you’re not what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stood abruptly, crossed to her chair, and plucked the book from her hands. She made a noise of protest, reaching for it, but he held it out of her grasp, a familiar spark of mischief lighting his features.

“Draco, give it back.”

“Come and get it.”

“We’re not twelve.”

“No, we’re eighteen, which is much worse. Come on, Sinclair. Show me what your determination looks like.”

She lunged for the book. He danced backward, laughing, and she scrambled out of the chair and chased him across the library, weaving between shelves and armchairs, her protests dissolving into breathless laughter. He was faster than her, but she was more agile, and when he ducked around a towering bookcase, she anticipated the move and cut him off. He tried to pivot, tripped over the edge of a rug, and stumbled backward onto one of the long velvet settees near the window—and (Y/N), carried by her own momentum, fell right on top of him.

The book went flying. The world tilted. And then she was sprawled across Draco Malfoy’s chest, her hands braced on his shoulders, her face inches from his. The moonlight streamed through the tall windows behind them, silvering his hair, gilding his cheekbones, catching the dark intensity of his gaze. His hands came up instinctively to her waist, steadying her, and neither of them moved.

Time stretched like taffy.

(Y/N) could feel his heartbeat beneath her palms. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath. She could see, in the moonlight, the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose—freckles she had never noticed before, barely there, pale gold against his pale skin. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were parted slightly, and she was suddenly, viscerally aware of every point of contact between them—her knees bracketing his hips, her chest against his, his fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.

“(Y/N),” he breathed. Her name. Not Sinclair. Her name, soft and reverent, like a prayer.

“Draco,” she whispered back, and it was a question and an answer all at once.

He leaned up. She leaned down. The space between them shrank until it was nothing, and then his lips were on hers, gentle at first, tentative, a question in itself. She answered by kissing him back, her fingers sliding into his hair, and the kiss deepened—still gentle, still careful, but layered with months and years of unspoken feeling. He tasted like the mint tea he’d been drinking earlier. He smelled like cedar and something citrusy, expensive cologne and clean skin. He kissed her like she was precious, like she was a delicate glass, like he couldn’t believe she was real and he was terrified she’d disappear.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, (Y/N)’s forehead came to rest against his. The moonlight pooled around them. The library was silent except for the crackle of the distant fire.

“I can’t,” she said, and her voice cracked. “Draco, I can’t. You know I’m engaged to Avery Yaxley.”

Draco’s hands tightened on her waist. “Do you want to be?”

The question hung in the air. (Y/N) thought about the velvet box on her dressing table. She thought about Avery’s polite, perfunctory letters. She thought about the way her heart had felt heavy every time she imagined her future—a future of diplomatic dinners and well-bred children and a husband who would never understand why she cried over injured mooncalves. And then she thought about this week. About the garden. About the dance. About the boy beneath her, who had been her enemy for years and was now looking at her like she held his entire world in her hands.

She shook her head. “No. I never did.”

Draco kissed her again. Harder this time. Desperate.

The week after (Y/N) returned home passed in a blur of owls. Draco wrote her every day, sometimes twice, letters sealed with the Malfoy crest and filled with a mix of heartfelt declarations and irreverent commentary that made her laugh out loud in her bedroom. I’ve been informed by my mother that I’m “besotted” and that it’s “unbecoming,” one letter read. I informed her that besotted is exactly what I am and I refuse to be shamed for it. Also, Father says the Abraxans miss you. I pointed out that horses can’t write letters. He told me to stop being pedantic. Another: I dreamed about you last night. You were in the garden, and you were laughing, and when I woke up I was smiling. I don’t smile when I wake up. I usually scowl. You’ve broken my perfectly good scowl, Sinclair.

She wrote back. She couldn’t help herself. His letters were a lifeline, a connection to the golden bubble of that week, and every owl that arrived at her window made her heart leap in a way that was becoming dangerously familiar.

Her parents noticed, of course. Elena Sinclair cornered her in the kitchen three days after her return, while (Y/N) was making tea and humming a waltz she couldn’t get out of her head.

“You’ve been receiving a lot of correspondence from the Malfoy boy,” Elena said, her tone carefully neutral. She was a warm woman, soft-spoken, with the same ginger hair as her daughter and a face that had been beautiful once and was now comfortable. “And you’ve been...different. Happier. Lighter.” She paused. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

(Y/N)’s hands stilled on the teapot. “Draco and I...we became friends. While I was staying there. Proper friends. He’s not like I thought he was.”

“And what is he like?”

“He’s—” (Y/N) struggled for words. “He’s kind. He’s funny. He’s...he listens to me, Mum. He doesn’t think my interest in magical creatures is childish. He danced with me in his garden and he apologized for being horrible to me at school and he—” She broke off, feeling tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. “I know he’s a Malfoy. I know what people say about his family. But I think I’m falling in love with him, and I don’t know what to do, because I’m supposed to marry Avery, and I don’t love Avery, and I’ve been trying so hard to be good but I can’t anymore, I can’t—”

Elena crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her daughter. (Y/N) buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and cried—great, heaving sobs that released months of suppressed misery and confusion and longing. Elena held her, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense words, until the storm passed.

“You don’t have to marry Avery,” Elena said quietly, when (Y/N)’s tears had subsided. “You never had to. Your father and I thought it was a good match. The Yaxleys are a respectable family, and you seemed...resigned. We didn’t realize you were unhappy. We should have asked.”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Darling girl.” Elena cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “The only thing that would disappoint me is you living a life that doesn’t make you happy. If Draco Malfoy makes you happy—if he truly makes you happy—then your father and I will figure out the Yaxley situation. It won’t be easy. The Yaxleys will be furious. But I’d rather have furious ex-allies than a miserable daughter.”

(Y/N) let out a shaky breath. “Really?”

“Really. Now go wash your face. You look like a drowned Kneazle.”

Three days after that conversation, the Malfoys arrived at Sinclair House.

It was a formal visit, the kind that required advance notice and best robes and a full tea service in the formal drawing room. Gavin Sinclair, back from Cairo and still slightly sunburned across the bridge of his nose, greeted Lucius and Narcissa with the guarded politeness of a politician who sensed he was about to be asked for something significant. Elena, gracious as ever, supervised the tea. And Draco Malfoy, dressed in robes of deep charcoal that made his silver eyes look almost luminous, sat beside his parents and tried very hard not to fidget.

(Y/N) was not in the room. Her parents had asked her to wait upstairs while the adults talked. She was sitting on the top step of the staircase, out of sight, straining to hear through the heavy oak door.

Lucius, never one for excessive preamble, got straight to the point. “We’re here to discuss your daughter’s engagement.”

Gavin’s expression flickered. “To Avery Yaxley. Yes. What about it?”

“We’d like you to break it.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Gavin stared at Lucius. Elena’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. Narcissa sat perfectly composed, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“I beg your pardon?” Gavin said, his voice dangerously quiet.

“The engagement to Avery Yaxley,” Lucius repeated. “We believe it would be in everyone’s best interest if it were dissolved. And in its place, we propose a new arrangement. Between your daughter and our son.”

Gavin set down his teacup with a clatter. “You’re asking me to break a binding magical contract with a family we’ve been allied with for over a decade, on the basis of—what, exactly? A whim?”

“Not a whim,” Draco said, before either of his parents could respond. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath it that (Y/N), listening from the stairs, recognized. “I’m in love with her. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know my reputation. I know I’ve been terrible to her for years, and I know your family has no reason to trust me or my intentions. But I love her, Mr. Sinclair. I love her, and I want to marry her, and I will spend the rest of my life proving to you and to her that I’m worthy of that.”

Gavin looked at Draco for a long moment. Then he looked at Lucius. Then he looked at his wife.

“This is absurd,” he said. “You can’t just walk in here and demand—”

“We’re not demanding,” Narcissa interjected smoothly. “We’re asking. We’re aware of the complexities involved. The Yaxley contract can be broken—there are clauses for mutual dissolution, particularly if the bride’s family initiates it. Yes, there will be diplomatic fallout. Yes, Corvus Yaxley will be incensed. But we believe the benefits of a Sinclair-Malfoy alliance outweigh the temporary unpleasantness of a broken engagement.”

“What benefits?” Gavin demanded.

Lucius leaned forward. “Political capital. Financial investment. Access to networks and connections the Yaxleys couldn’t dream of providing. Your daughter would want for nothing. Her children would want for nothing. And more importantly—she would be happy.”

The word hung in the air. Happy. Gavin Sinclair, for all his political acumen, was a father before he was a politician. He turned to Elena.

“What do you think?”

Elena set down her teacup. “I think,” she said carefully, “that (Y/N) has been carrying a weight she didn’t know how to put down. I think she agreed to the Yaxley engagement because she wanted to please us. And I think she’s been miserable ever since.” She looked at Draco. “You hurt her. At school. Repeatedly.”

“I know,” Draco said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I know, and I’m sorry, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to her if she’ll let me.”

“And if she won’t let you? If we go through the political earthquake of breaking this engagement, and (Y/N) decides she doesn’t want you after all?”

“Then I’ll accept her decision. I won’t like it. I’ll probably be insufferable about it. But I won’t force her into anything she doesn’t want.” Draco met Elena’s eyes. “I’ve spent years being someone she couldn’t stand. I’m done with that. Whatever she decides—I’ll respect it.”

Upstairs, (Y/N)’s heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She had heard enough. She stood, smoothed down her dress, and walked down the stairs.

The drawing room door opened. Everyone turned.

(Y/N) stood in the doorway, her ginger hair loose around her shoulders, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears. She looked at her parents, then at the Malfoys, then at Draco—who had risen from his seat the moment she appeared, his face a portrait of desperate hope.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling but clear. “I heard everything. I’m sorry, I know I was supposed to wait upstairs, but I couldn’t.” She took a breath. “Mum, Dad...you said once that I was a good kid, and that I would want you to be happy. And that’s true. I do want you to be happy. But I can’t marry Avery Yaxley. I can’t. I’ve tried so hard to want what you wanted for me, but I don’t. I don’t like Avery like that. I never have. I don’t like him the way I like—”

She stopped. Looked at Draco.

“The way I like Draco,” she finished.

Elena was the first to move. She crossed the room and pulled her daughter into a fierce embrace, her own eyes welling with tears. “Oh, my darling. My darling girl. Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, mom. Did I disappoint you?”

“You could never disappoint me,” Elena whispered into her hair. “Never.”

Over his wife’s shoulder, Gavin Sinclair met Lucius Malfoy’s eyes. For a long moment, the two men regarded each other—the old-money pureblood patriarch and the Muggle-friendly politician who had risen through the Ministry on merit rather than bloodline. They had nothing in common except this: they both loved their children, and they both wanted those children to be happy.

“I’ll have my solicitor draw up the dissolution papers for the Yaxley contract,” Gavin said at last, his voice heavy with resignation and something that might have been relief. “And then we’ll discuss terms for a new one.”

Lucius inclined his head. “A wise decision.”

“Don’t push your luck, Malfoy.”

Lucius smiled—a thin, satisfied smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I never do.”

The platform at King’s Cross was, as always, chaos. Families clustered in tearful farewells. First-years clung to their trolleys with white-knuckled grips. The Hogwarts Express loomed scarlet and magnificent, steam billowing from its engine. Owls screeched. Cats yowled. Somewhere, a parent was loudly explaining to their child that no, they could not bring a full-sized Hippogriff onto the train, regardless of what the care instructions said.

And through the crowd, cutting a path like ships through turbulent waters, came the Malfoys and the Sinclairs.

They arrived together—a deliberate statement, one that made heads turn and whispers spread like wildfire. Lucius walked with his usual arrogant grace, his silver-topped cane tapping against the platform. Narcissa was on his arm, serene and untouchable. Behind them came Gavin and Elena Sinclair, the former looking slightly uncomfortable with the level of attention, the latter holding her head high with quiet dignity.

And behind them, hands intertwined, came Draco and (Y/N).

The whispers intensified. Students who had known them for years—who had watched Draco torment (Y/N), who had witnessed their public arguments and private tensions—stared openly as the two walked side by side, their fingers laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world. (Y/N) was wearing robes in a deep Hufflepuff yellow, her hair braided back from her face, and she was smiling—a real smile, the kind that crinkled her eyes and made her freckles stand out. Draco walked close to her, his shoulder brushing hers, his expression one of quiet, possessive pride. Every so often he would glance down at her, as if checking that she was still there, still real, still his.

At the train door, they paused. The families clustered for final goodbyes.

“Write to us every week,” Elena said, kissing (Y/N)’s forehead. “And please, darling, try not to adopt any more dangerous creatures.”

“No promises,” (Y/N) said, grinning.

Gavin shook Draco’s hand with a grip that was slightly firmer than necessary. “Take care of her. If anything happens—”

“It won’t,” Draco said. “I swear it.”

Lucius, standing slightly apart, watched the proceedings with an expression of cool satisfaction. But his gaze kept drifting to a particular spot on the platform, where a cluster of figures stood frozen in various states of shock and fury. The Yaxley family. Corvus Yaxley, his face mottled with suppressed rage. His wife, pale and tight-lipped. And Avery himself, staring at (Y/N) and Draco with an expression of stunned, heartbroken disbelief.

Lucius allowed himself a small smile. He had waited weeks for this moment. The dissolution of the engagement had been messy—Corvus had raged, threatened legal action, invoked clauses in the contract that had required significant financial compensation to nullify. The Malfoys had paid without flinching. The price was worth it. And now, seeing the Yaxleys’ faces as Draco Malfoy helped (Y/N) Sinclair onto the train, their hands still entwined, Lucius felt a deep, primal satisfaction that warmed him from the inside out.

“That expression is unbecoming,” Narcissa murmured, appearing at his elbow.

“I was thinking about the Yaxleys.”

“I know. I can see them from here. Corvus looks like he’s swallowed a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

“An apt description.”

Narcissa slipped her arm through his. “Come. The train is leaving. We’ve done what we came to do.”

Lucius took one last look at the train—at the window where Draco and (Y/N) had found a compartment, their silhouettes visible through the glass, Draco’s arm draped casually over (Y/N)’s shoulders as she laughed at something he’d said. Then he turned away, his cane tapping a satisfied rhythm on the platform.

That night, Lucius Malfoy slept better than he had in years. He dreamed of Yaxley faces, twisted in fury, and woke with a smile still lingering on his lips.

On the train, Draco and (Y/N) sat curled together in a compartment they had claimed for themselves, the door firmly shut and the blinds drawn against prying eyes. The Hogwarts Express rattled northward, carrying them toward their final year, and neither of them could stop touching the other—fingers intertwined, knees pressed together, Draco’s thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of (Y/N)’s hand.

“You know everyone’s going to talk about this,” (Y/N) said. “About us. Pansy’s probably already sent six owls.”

“Let them talk.” Draco’s voice was lazy, content. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ve been waiting years for this. I’m not going to hide it.”

“Years? You hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He shifted, turning to face her more fully. “I was...terrified of you. You were so good. So genuinely, irritatingly good. You didn’t care about blood status or house rivalries or any of the things I’d been raised to care about. You were kind to everyone, even when they didn’t deserve it. Even when I didn’t deserve it. And I didn’t know how to deal with that, so I turned it into anger. Stupid. But I was a stupid kid.”

“You’re still a stupid kid.”

“Yes, but now I’m a stupid kid who’s madly in love with you, which makes it much more endearing.”

(Y/N) laughed and leaned into him, her head fitting perfectly into the curve of his shoulder. The train swayed gently. Outside, the English countryside rolled past, green and gold in the late summer light.

“What happens when we get to school?” she asked quietly. “The Yaxleys—”

“Avery won’t bother you. If he tries, I’ll hex him into next week.” Draco’s arm tightened around her, a flash of possessiveness darkening his voice. “You’re mine now, (Y/N). I won’t let anyone take you away. Not Avery. Not anyone.”

It should have been alarming. It should have been too much, too soon, too intense. But (Y/N) had spent a week in Malfoy Manor, and she had seen the garden and the library and the way Draco looked at her in the moonlight. She knew what she was signing up for. And she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that she wanted it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. And meant it.

Draco pressed another kiss to her hair and closed his eyes. The train carried them forward, toward Hogwarts, toward the future, toward a life neither of them had expected but both of them had chosen. And in the compartment, wrapped in each other, they let the world outside fall away.

Jack made sure to keep his features normal. Even though some part of himself (stupid and utterly selfish as it is) feels like something has just been taken away from him. 

He just let out a breath, an only slightly tortured smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh yeah? Thought that slot was reserved for me."

You tore your gaze away, looking at anything but his face as heat crept up your neck.

He didn't look away. He couldn't. He just stared, tracing the line of your face, waiting out the silence until you finally forced yourself to look back. "Yeah, well." you muttered, your voice tight. "That's the kind of shit you say when you're nineteen and stupid."

"Stupid?" Jack countered, leaning an inch closer. "You wound me."

"Oh, don't act like you actually believed me back then."

He tilted his head, locking his eyes onto yours. "Well..you are here at this bar with me right now. After years of never seeing each other. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the universe is incapable of keeping us apart."

Instead of answering, you flagged down the bartender, your knuckles rapping against the sticky wood of the counter as you ordered another drink, completely shutting him out.

Jack watched you take a sip. 

He needed to stop. He needed to be the adult in the room, to play the role of the supportive, well meaning ghost from your past.

"So," he said smoothly, "who's the lucky guy?"

The name David slipped past your lips, followed by a laundry list of details. His job, how you met, the stable life you’d built. Jack nodded in all the right places, but truth be told, he wasn't processing a single syllable.

Fuck that guy.

Fuck David and his immaculate timing. Fuck David for being the one who got to see you grow into this version of yourself, and fuck David for having the absolute privilege of taking care of you.

But as he watched the animated way your expression softened when you spoke, a bitter ache settled deep in Jack’s stomach.

By the time the bartender did last call, the room had thinned out to a handful of stragglers.

You stood up, sliding your purse over your shoulder and Jack was up a second later, tossing a stack of crumpled bills onto the counter without looking at them. "It's late. I’m walking you home."

You blinked up at him, shifting your weight. "Jack, I'm fine. I live right around the block. It’s a four minute walk."

He didn't say anything back. He just snagged his jacket, throwing it over one shoulder with a lazy shake of his head. "Don't fight me on this, sweetheart."

The walk was quiet at first, the pavement damp from an earlier rain, but Jack had never been excellent at staying quiet around you. He kept his pace slow, matching yours perfectly, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Your shoulders brushed with every third step.

Gradually, the conversation slipped back into its old rhythm, as if the lost years never existed. He looked down at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, and for a fleeting moment, he felt completely unmoored.

God, you were sharp. You were quick, funny, delivering lines with this effortless charm that made him want to pull you into the nearest shadowed doorway and never let you go.

Before he could entirely lose his mind, you stopped in front of a brick building with a heavy iron awning. "This is me." you said, turning to face him on the steps.

Jack braced his weight on one foot, looking up at you. The easy bravado finally dropped from his shoulders, replaced by something more exposed. "Can I have your number?" He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. Jesus, now who was the one acting like a nervous teenager? "I, uh..I texted your old one a few times. Over the years. But I think you had it changed."

Your expression softened, a flicker of something complicated crossing your eyes. "Yeah, I changed it once I got to college. So my dad couldn't reach me."

The mention of your father made Jack’s jaw tighten, a protective anger flaring in his chest. He just nodded, pulling his phone from his pocket.

...

Against your better judgment, you took it. Your fingers brushed his with a brief shock of heat, as you typed in your new digits and handed it back.

"There." you whispered. "Goodbye, Jack."

You turned, key already in hand, reaching for the glass door of your building. You took one step into the warm lobby, but you turned back, looking through the open doorway at him.

He hadn't moved an inch. 

He was still standing exactly where you left him.

"I missed seeing you, Jack." you said, the confession slipping out before you could think better of it. 

And before he could answer, before you could see exactly what those words did to him, you turned and walked inside, letting the door click shut between you.

…

"There was nothing wrong with any of them." you said, stepping onto the sidewalk as the boutique door clicked shut. You stared blankly at a crack in the pavement. "They were beautiful dresses, Meg. They just didn’t feel right."

Meg sighed, throwing an arm around your shoulder as you both started down the block. "You’re just overwhelmed. Wedding dress shopping is less about the fabric and more about the reality of the fact that you're actually doing this. It's a lot to process." She checked her watch, her face twisting into a grimace. "Crap. Speaking of reality, I have to run. If I don't meet the florist in fifteen minutes, she's going to take several liberties that I definitely will not approve of.” 

"Go, go." you urged, waving her off with a weak smile. "I'll be fine."

"Are you going straight home? Do you want me to call you later?"

"No, don't worry about it." you said, gesturing toward the diner across the street. "I think I'm just going to go sit in a corner, get a slice of pie, and read my book for a bit. Decompress."

"Good. Unplug your brain." Meg said, giving your arm a quick squeeze before jogging toward the subway.

The diner was louder than usual, packed with the early dinner rush escaping the incoming rain. The bell above the door chimed as you walked inside, and a quick scan confirmed your worst nightmare. Every single private booth was taken. The long counter was packed shoulder to shoulder.

The only available spot in the entire place was a tiny two person table near the back window, and it was currently occupied by a very large man with a leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. His head was turned toward the window, watching the starting drops of rain streak against the glass.

Curls. 

Familiar curls, is all you saw first. And you should be embarrassed how much your body reacts to them. Even after all these years, he’s got your heart beating into your throat. The only thing that has changed is that he grew out of the red and exchanged it for grey. 

To your disastrous conclusion, it only made him more handsome. More something. Magnetic? Maybe, but you’d always been drawn to Jack. 

You should turn around. You should walk back out into the rain, go to your apartment, and eat whatever stale crackers were left in your pantry. Seeing him once at a bar was a fluke. Seeing him twice felt dangerous.

But your feet didn't move toward the door. Instead, driven by that same pull, you navigated the tight maze of tables until you were standing right at the edge of his space.

"Hey." you said softly.

Jack’s head turned immediately. The distant, checked out expression on his face instantly vanished, his eyes expanding as they locked onto yours. He took you in all at once. Your windblown hair, the slight line of stress between your eyebrows, the book clutched tightly against your chest.

A smirk slowly tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained entirely intense. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing casually with his chin toward the empty seat across from him.

You swallowed the ridiculous spike of nerves in your throat, sliding into the chair. 

Jack caught the eye of a passing waitress and raised two fingers. He looked back at you, eyes tracking the way you clutched your book like a shield. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice low.

You had spent the last twenty minutes dreaming about a thick slice of cherry pie, but suddenly, the thought of him buying it for you made your stomach do things you didn’t like. It felt too intimate. It felt wrong, like you were allowing him to fill a need he no longer had the right to.

"Oh, I'm just reading." you lied smoothly, offering a dismissive wave. "No food."

He didn't say a word, but he leveled a look at you. His eyebrows pulling down just a fraction in that knowing way he used to when he caught you in a bluff. An ache of longing bloomed in your chest. You had missed the way he had looked at you. 

You missed when someone knew you so completely that you didn’t even have to say a word.

"Really?" Jack murmured, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "So was cherry pie just a phase, or is that still happening?"

A smile broke across your face before you could stop it, your shoulders dropping their defensive posture. Jack caught the change instantly. "We'll take a slice of the cherry. Two forks. And a black coffee."

When it arrived, you didn't fight him on it. Instead, a comfortable silence settled over the table. The only sound was the clinking of forks against the ceramic plate as you shared the slice, both of you staring out at the rain turning the streetlights blurry. 

It was nice.

It was terrifyingly easy.

"So," Jack said, breaking the quiet as he pushed the last bite of crust toward your side of the plate. "What did you do today?"

The lingering warmth from the pie evaporated, replaced by white satin and tulle. You let out a defeated sigh, leaning your chin into your hand. "Wedding dress shopping." you admitted, your voice miserable. "With Meg. It went horribly."

You expected a retort. Or for him to make a joke about you looking like a cloud or to tease you about being difficult. But when you didn't hear a reply, you looked up.

Jack wasn't smiling. He was watching you, his eyes focused on the sadness radiating from you. "I'm sorry, sweetheart." he said softly.

Your eyes screwed shut instantly, a shock running straight down your spine at the cadence of his voice. You forced them open, aggressively pointing your pie covered fork directly at his chest. "Don't call me that."

That smirk slowly worked its way back onto his face as he watched your cheeks flood with color. "Why?" he challenged, leaning an inch closer. "You like it too much?"

You tore your gaze away from him, turning your head toward the window and grumbling something under your breath just to avoid the smug, insufferable certainty in his eyes.

Then your phone buzzed against the table. “Oh, I have to take this. I'm sorry."

…

Inside, Jack was working double overtime just to keep his features flat. His jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. 

God, he needed to see his therapist. 

This was stupid. It was childish. It was entirely unhinged for him to feel this surge of possessiveness over a woman who wasn't even his. He had no claim over you. None at all. He was the one who had walked away eleven years ago.

But logic didn't do a damn thing to stop the way his chest constricted when you brought the phone to your ear.

Then came the blow, delivered in the sweetest tone. "Okay. Love you too."

Jack bristled. The words hit him with white hot jealousy.

You hung up, sliding the phone back into your pocket with an apologetic sigh. "Gotta go. David needs some help with something at the apartment."

You stood up, immediately reaching for your purse and unzipping it to hunt for cash. "Let me just grab some money for the pie."

Jack reached across the small distance, his hand came down over yours, his fingers completely covering your knuckles and pinning your hand to the fabric of your purse, stopping you instantly.

He would think about it later. Hours from now, lying awake in his bed, he would analyze the exact feel of your skin, the way his palm seemed to memorize the curve of your knuckles, and the buzzing that went straight up his forearm. 

But right now, he just needed to keep you from drawing another boundary between you.

"Don't even think about it." Jack said, leaving no room for debate. He didn't let go of your hand right away, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your wrist. "You don't pay for anything when you're with me."

You blinked down at his hand, then up at his face. You couldn't help the little smile that broke across your lips. "Oh, I see. Got that doctor money now and suddenly you're a big deal, huh?"

Jack laughed, his fingers reluctantly sliding off yours as he leaned back into his chair. "Are you kidding? I've always been a big deal."

You snorted, and to Jack, it was easily the best thing he had ever heard in his life. It was a sound he wanted to bottle up and keep. "Bye, Jack." you said softly, your smile lingering.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, standing by his seat. And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you reached out. Your hand closed briefly over his shoulder, a firm squeeze that pressed through the fabric of his shirt.

Then you turned and walked away.

He sat completely frozen, slowly bringing his left hand up to press over the exact spot on his shoulder where your fingers had just been, trying to trap the lingering warmth against his skin. 

…

It had been a week since you sat across from Jack in that diner, and your brain had spent the last several days thinking of absolutely nothing else.

Even now, with the late evening sun filtering through the trees of the park near your apartment, you were miles away. You were walking hand in hand with David. The gravel of the path was crunching beneath your sneakers, and his voice was steady beside you.

You weren't listening to a single syllable.

Instead, your mind was drifting back to a particular night a lifetime ago. You remembered the feeling when Jack had pulled his truck up to your house, the shouting of your dad’s latest explosive fit still echoing through the thin walls behind you.

Jack had taken one look at your face, grabbed your wrist, and thrown you into his passenger seat. 

He’d driven straight to the nearest Olive Garden and the two of you had proceeded to eat an ungodly amount of breadsticks. 

Looking back, you had probably been falling in love with Jack Abbot since the very first moment he’d ever shown up at your house, but watching him sit across from you under those tacky restaurant lights, making terrible faces just to make you forget the dark world you lived in, that was the exact moment your heart had stubbornly decided it wanted him.

But you had David now. Safe, stable, predictable David. Whose hand was currently wrapped around yours. He stopped walking, tilting his head down to look at you. "Hey. Did you hear me?"

You blinked, the memory dissipating as you forced yourself back into the present. "Hmm? No, sorry. I got completely lost in thought. What did you say?"

David didn't get annoyed. He just let out a patient laugh and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I was asking about our first dance song. I was thinking about it on the drive over. What do you think about Kiss Me?"

You couldn’t stop it then. Another memory slotting its way into your mind. You sitting shotgun  flying down winding back roads with the windows cracked wide open. The radio blasting that exact song, the wind whipping your hair across your face while you and Jack screamed the lyrics at the top of your lungs, completely off key.

"Maybe." you forced out, the word catching uncomfortably in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your expression from cracking.

"Ah, that's okay." David said smoothly, entirely oblivious. "Don't stress. I'll make a running list of options tonight and we can go through them later..oh, shit!"

David’s foot caught on a deep lip of concrete where the park path intersected with a dirt trail. His ankle rolled inward with a crack. He pitched forward, his grip ripping away from your hand as he went down hard on his side in the grass.

"David!" You dropped to your knees beside him instantly. "Are you okay?"

He was pale, his jaw clenched tight as he clutched at his left leg, a groan escaping his teeth. "My ankle." he gasped out, his forehead breaking into a sweat. "I think I just broke the damn thing."

…

You hadn't thought anything of the location when the driver pulled up to the emergency room. It was simply the closest trauma center. Your only focus had been helping David limp through triage until they finally rolled him back into an exam room.

David was lying on the gurney, his face tight with pain as he stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the doctor on staff to see him. You stood by the edge of the bed, your hand holding his.

"Alright, let's see what we're dealing with here." The fabric of the curtain was pulled back and your eyes flew upward. Standing in the entryway, a chart clutched in his hand and a stethoscope slung casually over his shoulders, was Jack.

Of course.

Jack’s eyes were locked onto the chart as he stepped into the room, his pen clicking once, and then he stopped. He raised his head and his gaze swept over the gurney, over David, and landed right on you.

"Sorry." David panted from the gurney, his knuckles white as he gripped the metal rail. He forced a strained smile. "Didn't mean to crowd your ER today, Doc. I think I completely destroyed my ankle on a rogue piece of park pavement."

"Let's take a look." Jack said. His voice was lower than usual. You could feel it rattle all the way down to your toes. He deliberately kept his eyes on David as he rolled a stool over, snapping on a pair of gloves.

As he knelt by the foot of the bed, his shoulder brushed right against your arm. It was a fleeting contact, but it sent a jolt straight up your spine. "So,” Jack said, his large fingers gently probing the swollen, purple bruising on David’s ankle. "How exactly did it happen? Lose your footing?"

"Yeah." David groaned, flinching slightly as Jack manipulated the joint. "I was totally distracted. We were just walking, talking about our wedding, and I didn't see the drop off."

Jack’s hands stayed perfectly still on David’s leg, but slowly, his head tilted up. His eyes locked dead onto yours, carrying a challenging spark that trapped your breath in your throat.

"Right." Jack said softly, his mouth curving into an almost smirk that was entirely meant for you. "Distractions will get you. Sometimes you think you're on solid ground, and then the universe completely shifts right out from under you. Isn't that right?"

You gripped the strap of your purse so hard your fingers turned numb. "I...yeah. I guess so."

David let out a painful laugh, completely oblivious to the suffocating layers of subtext heavy in the room. "Man, you can say that again. One minute you're picking out a first dance song, the next you're in a gown."

"A first dance song?" Jack repeated. He stood up, ripping off the gloves, his gaze still pinned to your face. He stepped closer, forcing you to slightly tilt your chin up to maintain eye contact. "What was the contender?"

"Oh, I was thinking Kiss Me." David called out from the pillow, letting his head fall back with a tired sigh. "You know that old nineties track? I think it's romantic. y/n was a little unsure, though."

A wicked gleam flashed in Jack’s eyes. A look of insufferable amusement mapping itself across his handsome face. He knew exactly what that song meant to you.  "Unsure? That’s surprising. Not a big fan of long drives and loud music?"

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper, glaring at him in a stare. "It’s a bit cliché." you managed to squeeze out, your voice tight.

Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back to David, his professional demeanor slotting back into place like it was nothing. "Well, David, the good news is I don't think it's a fracture, but the bad news is we definitely need X-rays to check for a hairline break or ligament tears. I'm going to order them and have the tech come grab you."

"Awesome. Thank you, seriously." David said. He looked up at Jack like the man had just personally parted the sea. "Man, honey aren't we lucky? This guy is fantastic. I gotta say, Doc, your bedside manner is incredible. Super attentive."

Jack laughed and stepped back toward the door and gave a polite nod. "Don't mention it." Just before he left, he cut his eyes back to you, leveling you with one last look. "I always make sure to take extra special care of things that are important."

…

You kept running into Jack.

Not on purpose, but for a few weeks after that night at the diner, the universe just seemed entirely incapable of keeping you separate.

You were roaming through your favorite bookstore, losing yourself in the new releases, when you turned a corner into the biography aisle.

He was leaning against the wood paneling, casually flipping through a massive hardcover on the French Revolution. Typical, honestly. It made you want to roll your eyes, but before you could look away, he raised his head. 

Did you proceed to sit at the tiny coffee shop inside the bookstore and talk for two straight hours? Yes. But it didn't mean anything.

Then there was the afternoon you got caught in a downpour. You stood on the sidewalk, cursing under your breath as you shoved at your umbrella, which yeah was completely broken.

A familiar truck pulled up to the curb, the passenger window sliding down smoothly. Jack leaned across the console, eyeing the way the rain was already plastering your hair to your forehead.

“Get in.” he called out over the thunder.

When you started to refuse, shaking your head and gesturing toward the short walk home, Jack didn’t argue. He just killed the engine, threw his door open, and stepped straight out into the rain. 

He just reached out, his hand wrapping gently around your elbow, and guided you toward his passenger side. He practically hovered over you, using his own body to protect you from the worst of the sheets of water while he got absolutely, completely soaked.

Did you sit up until three that night thinking about the way his hair looked all messy and plastered to his forehead? Did you think about the way his shirt had been completely soaked through, clinging to his shoulders? Yes. But it didn't mean anything.

All of this was pure coincidence. A series of flukes. Not on purpose at all.

Until it wasn't.

…

David was away at a work conference in Boston. You were pulling books off your overflowing bookshelves, doing some late night reorganizing, when the banging on the front door started.

It was pounding that rattled the wood in its frame and sent panic right through you.

"I know you're in there, baby girl! Getting married without telling your old man!!"

The words through the door were slurred, thick with alcohol and malice. You froze on the spot, a book slipping from your numb fingers. How had he found you?

You frantically dialed David’s number, your hands shaking so much you almost dropped the phone. When he finally answered, you poured out the words in a breathless rush, begging him to come home, begging him to fix it.

But David was three hundred miles away, and he simply didn't realize the severity of the situation. He didn’t know the history, not all of it, so he didn’t know the monster on the other side of that door.

"Call the police." David said through the line, his voice calm and practical. "I can't leave right now."

He meant well. He really did. He just didn't know.

You hung up, the slurred shouting outside your door growing louder, followed by another heavy kick against the door. 

Without thinking, you dialed Jack and he answered on the very first ring.

"My dad's here." you whispered. You didn't even say hello. Your voice fractured on the last word, and you were sure Jack could hear the muffled yelling through the background.

It took Jack no time to speak. "Stay right there. I'm coming."

David had retreated when you most needed him, hiding behind work responsibilities and distance. But Jack Abbot?

He would walk right into the fire.

…

Jack broke every speed limit getting there. He took the stairs two at a time, his feet pounding against the concrete, and when he rounded the corner into the hallway, he saw him.

Your father was swaying on his feet, one fist raised against your door, his knuckles already split and bleeding from the force of his own pounding. The smell of cheap whiskey hit Jack before he even got close.

"Hey!" Jack's voice cracked down the hallway. "Get away from that door."

Your father turned, bleary eyes struggling to focus. He blinked hard, swaying backward on unsteady feet as he took in the man closing the distance between them. "Who the hell are you?" he slurred, his words mashing together at the edges.

Jack stopped a few feet away, close enough to block him from the door, his jaw tight, hands curled into fists at his sides. There had been a time this man had known his face well. A time Jack had sat at his kitchen table, had shaken his hand, had been introduced as his friend from AA.

None of it registered. Not a flicker of recognition. Just glassy, unfocused eyes trying to place a stranger.

"Doesn't matter who I am." Jack said evenly, though his pulse was pounding in his ears. "You need to leave. Now."

Your father squinted at him a moment longer, some drunken calculation happening behind his eyes, weighing whether this stranger was worth the fight. Whatever he decided, it wasn't in Jack's favor to test. He muttered something incoherent under his breath, waved a dismissive hand through the air, and turned, stumbling back down the hallway toward the stairwell and the door banged shut behind him.

Jack stood there another few seconds, listening until the sound of uneven footsteps faded completely. Only then did he let his shoulders drop, some of the adrenaline bleeding out of him. He turned and knocked twice, soft. "It's me."

The door opened and Jack’s heart twisted. You were pale, your hand trembling on the frame, eyes glassy with barely held tears.

Jack stepped inside without a word. 

You shut the door behind him, the deadbolt sliding home and the second you turned around, whatever was holding you together gave out completely. You crossed the small distance and folded into him, your face pressing into his chest, your fists curling into the fabric of his shirt. A sob broke loose, shaking through your whole body.

Jack's arms came around you immediately, one hand splayed wide across your back, the other cradling the back of your head, holding you together at the seams. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're okay."

You just shook against him, gripping tighter. "He's gone." Jack said quietly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "He's not coming back. I promise you that."

"I was so scared." you choked out, your voice muffled against his chest.

"I know." His hand moved in steady circles against your back. "I know, baby. But you're safe. You hear me? You're safe. I'm not going anywhere." 

…

You didn't know how you'd ended up like this. Flat on your back on the couch, feet in Jack's lap, his hand wrapped loose around your ankle, thumb tracing slow circles against the bone there. His other hand rested just below your knee, warm, doing absolutely nothing except being there.

Somewhere in the deep, buried recesses of your mind, nineteen year old you was losing it. 

Screaming, actually. 

He hadn't said much. Just steered you gently toward the couch, dropped down at the end of it, and flipped on your favorite show without asking if that's what you wanted. You let the noise of it wash over you, let your heart rate go back down out of your throat, and for a while, neither of you said anything at all.

"I don't know how he found me." Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. "We're 3 hours from where he lives."

Jack turned his head to look at you, his hand stilling against your ankle.

"I honestly thought he was dead." You sat up then, pulling your feet out of his lap, curling your knees against your chest instead, wrapping your arms around them like a shield.

"A neighbor called a few years ago. Said he'd been evicted from the house. The city shut it down because he let it get too run down." You sighed, staring at the carpet. "And so I just thought to myself, that's it. I have to let him go now. For real. And it was over for me then. Even if he's still alive somewhere."

Jack was quiet for a moment, just watching you, something soft and aching behind his eyes. "You did what you had to do to survive him." he said finally. "That's not something to feel guilty about. You were trying to keep your head above water with somebody who should've been protecting you instead of drowning you." He shifted closer, his knee brushed yours. "Letting go of him wasn't you giving up. It was you finally choosing yourself. That takes more strength than most people ever have to find."

You didn't say anything, just picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

"You're doing so well." he continued, quieter now. "Look at you. You built a whole life he doesn't get to touch. And tonight, when it got hard, you didn't fall apart. You're still standing." His mouth curved, just barely. "You're gonna be okay. I mean that."

You didn't fully believe it. Not yet. But something about the way he said it, like it was fact and not comfort, made it easier to breathe.

Before you could stop yourself, you sat up and threw your arms around him.

Jack didn't hesitate. His arms came around you instantly, pulling you in tight against his chest. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck and breathed in, deep, the way you used to when you were younger. 

You'd thought you hid it well back then. Some guilty part of you had always known he'd caught on anyway.

When you pulled back, you just stared at him. 

For one long moment, the apartment, the show still playing, your father somewhere out there in the dark, none of it existed. There was just his face close to yours.

You cleared your throat and looked away first, scooting back to the opposite end of the couch, eyes fixed on the TV.

…

You didn't remember falling asleep.

You did vaguely register the sound of the television clicking off. You felt strong arms slide beneath you, lifting you and cradling you against a solid chest as he carried you down the hall. He laid you down in your bed and pulled the blanket up over your shoulders. You reached out before he could straighten, catching his hand. "Please don't go." Your voice was thick with sleep, barely above a whisper. "Don't leave me."

Jack went still, but then his fingers curled around yours, and he crouched down beside the bed so you didn't have to strain to see him. "I'm here. I'll always be here."

…

Jack was up before you.

He'd wanted nothing more than to climb into that bed, pull you against his chest, and hold you until the sun came up. But he wasn't that guy. Not with you asleep and vulnerable and still shaking from the night before. So he'd taken the couch instead, folding his tall frame onto cushions clearly built for someone half his size, and told himself it was fine.

Your coffee machine looked like it belonged on the bridge of a spaceship. Jack stood in front of it at six in the morning, squinting at a control panel with more buttons than his car dashboard, trying to figure out which one didn't require a PhD to operate.

That's when he heard the key turn in the lock. David stepped through the door, travel bag still slung over one shoulder, and rounded the corner into the kitchen before he saw Jack standing there. He let out a yelp, jerking backward, one hand flying to his chest. "Fuck!"

He squinted, still catching his breath, confusion slowly replacing the alarm on his face. "Dr. Abbot? What are you doing here?"

Jack had a few answers loaded and ready. 

Oh I don’t know, taking care of your fiancee. 

Doing your job for you. 

Petty, satisfying, and exactly the kind of thing he shouldn't say out loud to the man about to marry you.

"David?" Your voice came from the hallway. You crossed the room fast, wrapping your arms around him, and Jack watched David's shoulders sag with relief as he held you. "Thank god you're here." you said into his shoulder.

Jack kept his face carefully blank, ignoring the way that sentence sliced through him. 

"I know, I'm sorry. I left as soon as I could." David pulled back, and you both turned to look at Jack, still standing there with an untouched mug in his hand.

"Oh! Right, David. This is Jack." you said. "I didn't get a chance to tell you when we were at the hospital, but we've known each other a long time. He was friends with my dad briefly. He got him to leave last night."

And held her while she cried and shook until she fell asleep, Jack thought.

David's whole face opened up. "Oh, wow. Small world!" He crossed the kitchen, hand extended. "Thank you, man. Seriously."

Jack took the handshake, grip firm, and let it go. "Don't mention it."

You excused yourself to the bathroom, leaving the two of them alone in the living room. Jack figured that was his cue. He set the mug down and grabbed his jacket off the arm of the couch.

But before he headed for the door, he stopped, and let some of the easy charm drop out of his voice. "Hey. David." He waited until he had the guy's full attention. "Last night, her father was pounding on that door drunk enough to put his fist through it."

David's expression faltered.

"I get that you didn't know the whole situation." Jack tried his best to keep his tone civil. To not let the way his blood was boiling come through. "But you need to understand what you're marrying into. That man is dangerous, and he's not going to stop just because he struck out once. If he shows up again, you don't wait it out on the phone. You call me first, because I know exactly what he looks like and what he's capable of. Then you call the police. And then you get home as fast as humanly possible. She should never be alone behind that door with him on the other side of it again."

David swallowed, nodding slowly, all the earlier warmth gone out of his face, replaced by something more sober. "Of course." he said. "Yeah. You're right. I..I didn't realize how bad it was."

"Now you do." Jack said simply.

He gave the guy one last look and let himself out the door.

…

You'd decided to try veils this time, some last ditch effort to actually picture yourself walking down the aisle. You stood in front of the three way mirror, tulle pinned into your hair, and felt absolutely nothing shift into place.

You weren't sure what possessed you to do it, but you pulled out your phone. The lighting in here was stupidly flattering, if nothing else. You angled the camera, snapped a picture, and before you could think too hard about who you were about to send it to, your thumb had already done it.

Too much?

The one person on the entire planet you probably shouldn't be sending bridal photos to.

"This isn't the one either." you called out to Meg, already reaching for the zipper.

You thought you heard her sigh from the other side of the curtain.

Twenty minutes later you were back in your jeans, walking to the coffee shop around the corner to debrief, like you always did. You ordered, sat down across from her, and Meg leveled you with a look before you'd even taken a sip. "You've tried on twenty dresses this month." she said. "In the grand scheme of things that's not that many. But you'd think by now you'd have some idea of what you actually want."

You shrugged, staring into your cup.

"What's going on?"

You looked up at her, and the excuse died in your throat. You couldn't lie to her. Not about this.

So you told her. All of it. 

Meg's mouth had fallen fully open. "Okay, wait." she said, holding up a hand. "Jack. The Jack? From when you were a teenager? The one you used to talk about like he hung the moon?"

"That's the one."

"And he's been what, just reappearing in your life this whole time you've been dress shopping?"

"It's not like that." you said, too fast.

Meg just stared at you, unblinking, waiting.

"It's not." you said again, weaker this time.

"So you're not going to leave David?"

"What? No." The word came out of you immediately and it was unconvincing even to your own ears. You heard it yourself, the way it hung there in the air between you.

Meg didn't say anything. She didn't have to. She just reached across the table and squeezed your hand. "I'm not going to tell you what to do." she said finally. "But I've known you a long time, and I've never once seen you struggle like this. You need to actually sit with why nothing about this is feeling right.”

She gathered her bag, dropped a kiss on the top of your head, and left you sitting there. It was only once you were alone that you remembered your phone. 

You'd almost forgotten you'd sent that picture at all.

Jack: You can't just send a man a photo like that with zero warning

Jack: I had to set my phone down and collect myself.

Jack: You look stunning, sweetheart. Take a picture in every single dress you try on if it looks anywhere close to that good.

You sat there staring at the screen, feeling something warm and inconvenient bloom in your chest, right where it absolutely had no business blooming at all.

…

Jack was still staring at the picture, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen, when John's voice came from directly behind him. "Ooh, who is that?"

Jack locked the phone so fast he nearly dropped it, shoving it deep into his scrub pocket. "Someone I can't have. That's who."

John just stood there, genuinely stunned into silence. Jack Abbot didn't talk about his personal life. Ever. The man was a vault.  "I have so many follow up questions."

"And I'm not answering any of them." Jack clapped him on the shoulder as he passed and left him standing there, already halfway down the hall before John could get another word out.

He took the stairwell up instead of the elevator, needing the burn, needing something physical to focus on besides the picture still branded behind his eyes. The door to the roof access swung open onto cold air and the first thin streaks of orange bleeding up over the skyline, the city still mostly asleep below him.

He braced his forearms against the railing and just breathed.

You cannot have her.

He'd known that fact for years. Had built an entire life around avoiding the truth of it, had buried it under residency and fellowships and every double shift he could volunteer for, until the burying had just become who he was. 

He was so fucked.

Because the truth was that he'd never stopped. Not for one day. Somewhere in the back of his mind, you'd always been the one. The girl who told him she was going to marry him when she was young and terrified and had no business making promises like that, and he'd been arrogant enough, or maybe just honest enough with himself, to believe her.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. You had a life. A good one, from what he could see. David was steady. David showed up, mostly, and when he didn't, well, that one was on David to figure out, not Jack.

Jack was the disruption. He was the thing crashing back into your orbit and tearing it apart at the seams, one diner pie and one rescued night at a time. He didn't have the right to do that to you. Not when you'd fought so hard to build something that didn't look anything like the wreckage you came from.

He thought about the way you'd grabbed his hand last night and asked him not to leave, and he hadn't wanted to. 

God, he hadn't wanted to at all.

You were supposed to be mine.

Maybe you were. Maybe in some other version of this, some world where he hadn't left, where your father hadn't been the kind of man he was, where the timing had lined up right, maybe there was a version where it was his ring on your hand and his name you said into a phone with that same soft affection.

But this wasn't that world. In this one, you were engaged. 

In this one, he had a job to walk you back to your life and hand you off in one piece, not to unravel it because he couldn't get over you.

He loved you too much to be the reason you didn't get your happy ending. Even if it wasn't with him.

Stop seeing her. 

The thought was simple. Easy to think and impossible, apparently, to actually do. Not when you'd called him first last night, not when your name lighting up his phone did something to his pulse he couldn't explain away as friendship.

He had to be the one to put the distance back. You wouldn't. Not with the way this thing between you kept pulling you both back together like gravity, like the two of you were simply incapable of staying apart no matter how hard either of you tried.

So it had to be him.

He just wasn't sure if he actually had it in him to do it.

…

David had been quiet all through dinner, pushing his food around his plate more than actually eating it. 

It wasn't until the dishes were cleared and you were curled up on opposite ends of the couch, the TV playing something neither of you were watching, that he finally spoke.

"Can I ask you something?"

You looked over at him. "Of course."

He was quiet for a second, turning something over in his head, and when he finally looked at you, there was none of his usual easy calm in his face. Just something tired. "When's the last time you were actually excited about the wedding?"

You sat up. "What?" you managed.

"I'm not trying to start a fight." he said gently. "I just..I've been watching you for months now. Every time we talk about the venue, or the flowers, or the song, you get this look on your face." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "And I told myself it was stress. Wedding planning is stressful, everyone says that. But it's been going on so long now that I don't think that's it anymore."

You opened your mouth to argue, some defense already forming. But nothing came out. Because he wasn't wrong, and some exhausted part of you didn't want to keep lying about it anymore.

"David."

He shifted to face you fully. "I need you to be honest with me. Do you actually want this? Do you want to marry me? Or have you just been going along with it because I'm safe, and easy, and I never gave you a reason to say no?"

The tears came before you could stop them, blurring the outline of him sitting there so patiently, waiting for an answer you didn't know how to give without breaking something neither of you could put back together.

"I don't know." The words scraped out of you. "David, I don't know. I love you. I do. You've been so good to me. You've never once made me feel unsafe, or scared, or like I had to brace myself for anything, and after everything with my dad, that meant more than I think I ever told you." You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand. "But I don't know if that's the same thing as being in love with you. And I think some part of me has known that for a long time and just didn't want to look at it too closely, because looking at it meant I had to admit I was about to marry you for the wrong reasons."

David's face didn't crumple the way you thought it might. He just nodded slowly, like some quiet piece of him had already made peace with hearing this before you'd even said it.

"I think I've known too." he admitted. "I kept telling myself it was just cold feet. That everybody gets like this before a wedding." He let out a breath that shook slightly on the way out. "But cold feet doesn't usually last eight months, does it?"

You shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

"Is there someone else?" he asked. 

You thought about Jack's hands wrapped around your ankle on this exact couch.  "I don't know what he is." you said honestly. "But there's someone from a long time ago who came back into my life a few months ago, and ever since he did, I haven't been able to feel the same about anything. Including this."

David nodded again, slower this time, and reached out to take your hand. "I'm not going to pretend that doesn't hurt." he said. "But I'd rather know now than stand up in front of everyone we love and marry someone who's not sure I'm the one she wants standing there." He squeezed your hand once. "You deserve to be with somebody you don't have to talk yourself into loving. And so do I."

You cried harder then, not because it was cruel, but because it wasn't. Because David, steady and safe and undeserving of any of the mess of the last few months, had just done the bravest, kindest thing anyone had done for you in a long time.

"Go figure out what you actually want." he said softly. "I hope it's good, whatever it is."

…

The evening sun was dipping below the tree line, painting the park in golds. You walked along the path, hands shoved into the pockets of your jacket.

It was beautiful out and for the first time in what felt like forever, life had been good.

It was a strange kind of good, but it was yours. You had a new apartment now, entirely of your own making, filled with half unpacked cardboard boxes. Meg had been over earlier that afternoon, helping you put everything in its place, handing you coffee, and keeping the silence from getting to be too much. 

She had a stack of dinner plates balanced in her hands and looked at you with that no nonsense gaze of hers. "Are you going to tell Jack you aren't engaged anymore?" she had asked

You had only shaken your head, looking down at the bubble wrap in your hands.

How could you? He’d been radio silent for weeks now. Almost a month had passed since you sent him that photo of you in the wedding dress. 

You had figured that he was deliberately putting space between the two of you. It only made sense. Why would he ever see you as anything more? He hadn't back then, when you were nineteen and stupid, so why now?

You exited the park, taking the familiar path back toward your apartment, still turning the thoughts over in your mind. 

He had probably noticed you getting too attached to him. Jack, with his observant eyes, had likely seen the way you leaned into his touch, the way you clutched his shirt when your father showed up, and decided to remove that trouble from your life before you got hurt.

But the damage was already done.

Except, as you crossed the threshold of the park and stepped onto the concrete sidewalk, you realized it wasn’t really damage at all. It was more like clarity. A newfound, stubborn sense of self. 

Even if Jack wasn't going to be yours, you still had this new life. It was entirely yours. You had chosen yourself, just like he said you could.

You really shouldn't have been listening to music while walking along the busy street. The volume was up just high enough to drown out rush hour traffic. Because of it, you didn't hear the screech of tires peeling at the crosswalk.

You had the right of way. The pedestrian walk sign was white, glowing steadily, but someone wasn't paying attention.

You didn't really know what happened until the world tilted. There was a sickening impact of metal against bone, and then you were slammed down onto the pavement, hard.

Fuck, it hurt.

The breath was knocked completely out of your lungs, the cold asphalt pressing against your cheek as the music in your earbuds suddenly cut out. Your head felt dizzy, but you didn't think you’d hit it. But within seconds, shouting voices were closing in, and shadow after shadow fell over you as people rushed to your side.

"Don't move! Stay still, honey, don't try to get up!"

"Someone call 911!"

You tried to blink the blurriness from your eyes. Your right side felt like one throbbing bruise, but there was a wet warmth trickling down your shoulder. Dazed, you reached up with your left hand to touch it, your fingers brushing against the fabric of your collar.

When you pulled your hand back, your palm was bright, slick red.

The ambulance felt both like a split second and an entire lifetime. Paramedics were kneeling in the dirt beside you.

"I'm fine." you croaked, your voice sounding small and raspy even to your own ears. You tried to brace yourself on an elbow, pushing against the hands holding you down. "I can just..I can take myself to the ER. It's just my shoulder."

"Lie back." one of the medics said, his voice firm as he stabilized your neck. "We have to immobilize you. It's protocol."

You let out a defeated breath, the fight draining out of you as you nodded and let them carefully shift your body onto the rigid plastic of the stretcher.

The moment they lifted you, the shock finally caught up. Your vision began to gray out at the corners, the faces of the paramedics blurring into soft shapes. The pain in your shoulder and ribs began to fade into a dull numbness as your body finally decided to pass out, retreating into the dark.

As the darkness pulled you under, your mind clung to only one desperate thought.

I hope I'm going to see Jack.

…

Jack was standing at the nurses' station and John was going on about something dumb when he heard the incoming call being answered by Lena. When she hung up, she turned to the room. "Pedestrian was hit on the sidewalk by a car. Female. In and out of consciousness but vitals good. One minute out."

God, he had just clocked in and things were already ramping up. 

"Here we go. I feel like it's going to be a spicy night." John said.

"Don't say that." Jack frowned. "You know every night is spicy when I'm here."

John just gave him a look of disgust as he sipped his coffee.

Jack snapped some gloves on right as the patient was being wheeled through the double doors. But he barely got the second glove on when his heart felt like it stopped.

You on the gurney, bleeding from your neck from a scrape, dripping down your shoulder. You, blinking slowly at John’s light that he was already flashing in your eyes.

Fucking hell, it was you.

It was all Jack could do not to grab you in his arms and yell for everyone else to get the fuck out of the room. 

"Jack? Hello? You with me on this one?" John’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears.

Jack shook his head, physically forcing his brain to lock back into place. Gathering himself, he walked into the trauma bay alongside the gurney as the ambulance crew relayed their information. He didn't even realize he was doing it, but his hand found yours. He held onto it, tight, his thumb automatically brushing over the soft skin of your knuckles.

And while he was doing all this, John’s eyes darted from the monitor, to Jack’s white knuckled grip, and then back to Jack's face. The puzzle pieces were rapidly clicking together in his mind. "Uhh, is this the woman from the picture on your phone?" John asked quietly.

"Yes."

That was all Jack could say. Fuck whatever they thought about him and you. Fuck the hospital gossip, fuck the onlookers. He was staying with you.

You were slowly rousing, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks. The paramedics had said you hadn't passed out but the one time, but you were hurting, so you weren't saying much. Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm, and when your eyes finally found his, the quiet words that slipped past your lips almost broke Jack to pieces. "I hoped it was you."

Jack’s throat closed up. He grabbed your hand, lifting it to press it flat against his chest, right over his racing heart, needing you to feel him. "I'm here, sweetheart. I'll always be here."

John was watching you, his expression softening, well and fine with the moment, but he was already stepping toward the curtain, yelling for Parker to come in.

Jack's head snapped up, his eyes turning dark. "What?"

John shrugged. "You clearly know her, you can't work on her. Sorry, boss. Rules."

And fuck that. 

Fuck that. Every protective instinct inside Jack screamed at him to push them all away and tend to your wounds himself. But the rational side of his brain knew John was right. If he stayed as your physician, his judgment would be clouded by the terror of losing you.

Jack swallowed the bitter pill, his grip on your hand never wavering. "Fine, but I'm staying."

John just held his hands up in surrender. "Not going to argue with you there."

…

When you woke, it was in a quiet room in the hospital. A warm light was coming from the lamp on the desk beside you.

Jack was sitting laid back on the chair near the wall. His eyes were closed, and he had his arms crossed over his chest. Was he sleeping sitting up?

You couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh at the sight.

His eyes opened, the sleep clearing from them quickly. The moment he saw you awake, the tension in his shoulders melted, and his eyes softened.

"Hi honey." he said.

Even in the bruised state you were in, that greeting caused your heart to feel like it was going berserk. Thank goodness you weren't actually hooked up to any heart monitors anymore, or else he would know exactly what it did to you when he called you that.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked, pushing himself up from the chair to come stand right by you.

"Yes, all of it unfortunately." you grimaced, trying to sit up. 

Jack eased you back down against the pillows. "Keep laying down. They gave you pain meds, so that's why you've been out for a few hours."

"What time is it?" you asked, squinting toward the dark window.

"4 a.m." Jack said softly.

Your eyes widened. "Oh my god. I didn't mean to pull you from work. Please, go back on shift. I will be fine."

Jack just shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.  "No way. I'm not leaving you. Shift or no shift, there is nowhere else in the world I'd rather be right now."

This time when you sat up, he didn't try to stop you. You reached out and grabbed his arm, tugging him down slightly so that he was close to you, your eyes locking onto his. "Thank you, Jack."

And he just smiled at you, covering your hand with his own for a brief second before gently squeezing. "I'm going to see about getting you discharged. Then we're going to my house. That sound okay?"

You didn't think you would have any words if you tried to speak, so you just nodded.

…

Jack tucked you into his bed and closed the door to let you sleep. You slept for a while, which he knew you would because of the pain meds. While the house was quiet, he’d called in a favor with Robby to help get coverage for his next two shifts.

He just wanted to be with you. He never wanted to leave your side, never again.

When you finally woke up, he was standing in his kitchen, making some tea. Your hair was a little mussed from sleep, but even then, you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. You'd always been.

"Can I have some?" you said, pointing toward the steaming kettle.

He pointed toward the two mugs already sitting on the counter. "Was already making you one too."

You smiled and walked toward him. Still sleep brained, you had to be, because that was the only reason you would have come right up to him and folded yourself into his chest.

Either way, Jack didn't care about the reason. He let his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, and he couldn't help the contented hum that came from his chest.

"My hero." you whispered against his shirt.

He laughed a little. "Hardly."

You leaned back, tilting your head up to look at him. And god, he wanted to kiss you. He’d wanted to kiss you for a while, but everything felt so intensely domestic right now, the way you were just holding each other in his kitchen. This felt like some sort of future that the two of you could actually have.

It wasn't until later, when the two of you were sitting at his kitchen table and you brought your mug up to your lips, tilting it back, when Jack noticed it.

The lack of a ring on your finger.

The rush of adrenaline made him almost choke on his own sip of tea. He set his mug down and reached out, completely unable to stop himself. He gently rubbed his thumb over the exact area where the ring used to be.

You set your tea down, your gaze dropping to the table. "David and I are no longer getting married." you said softly.

When Jack didn't say anything, too stunned, too frozen by the words, you started rambling, the nervous heat creeping up your neck. "Well, actually, we're no longer anything. We broke up."

…

The confession felt terrifying and freeing all at once. You swallowed hard, staring down at your bare knuckles because looking at his face right now felt like staring directly into the sun. "I broke it off with him."

Jack didn't blink. He sat perfectly still across from you, his eyes focused on your face, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip. "Why?" 

You met his gaze then. And all you could do was smile. "Because of you, Jack." you said softly. "It's always been you. The second you crashed back into my life, everything else just completely unraveled. I couldn't stand up there and marry a good man when my entire heart was somewhere else."

Taking a shaky breath, you kept going. "When you left, I tried to bury it, I really did, but seeing you again, having you in my life again, it just made me realize that I don't want a life that doesn’t have you in it. I want.."

Before you could even finish, Jack leaned in.

His large hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb catching the edge of your cheek to tilt your head up.

The kiss was a breaking of a dam that neither of you could have stopped if you tried.  

Jack’s fingers tangled into your hair to hold you steady as he drank you in, making up for every single day he had forced himself to stay away. You melted into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt.

When you broke apart, he kept his forehead pressed against yours. "God, you have no idea," Jack breathed. He let out a small laugh, closing his eyes tightly for a moment before looking back at you. "I felt like such an asshole watching you with him. Sitting in that ER, listening to him talk about your wedding. I wanted to rip the walls down. I wanted to tell him to get his hands off what was mine."

He paused, a bitter smirk twisting the corner of his mouth. "I know I was a menace these past few weeks. I know I was pushing every single boundary you tried to set, but god, why wouldn't I be?" He leaned down, his lips brushing yours again, softer this time but no less desperate. "I love you so much. I've never stopped. Not for a single day."

…

True to his word, Jack took the whole weekend off to take care of you. He completely ignored your protests that you were totally fine and could go back to your own place to heal.

"Jack, I'm fine!" you said as he was walking out the door on Monday night to head back to the hospital for his shift.

He paused at the threshold, turning back to look at you. "I know. But stay here. Please?"

Looking up at him, you couldn't say no. You leaned in, and he caught your lips, kissing you again and leaving you breathless and wanting more.

To be honest, you had grown a little restless over the past two days. Even after everything that had been confessed, Jack still slept on the couch while he stubbornly insisted you take his bed. You were well enough after that first kiss to let thoughts start swirling in your head, keeping you wide awake in the dark.

You wondered if he was wide awake too those nights. You just kept getting woken up by visions of him, thoughts of him between your thighs, your hands tangled tightly in his curls. You wondered if he was eventually going to take that step with you, or if you’d have to be the one to make that leap first.

You didn't have to keep wondering for long.

When he finally got home in the morning you were already up. You were sitting in his living room, curled up in his comfy chair with a book in your lap.

You softly said hi, but the greeting completely died in your throat as he dropped his bag by the door without a word. His eyes were dark and fixed on you as he walked straight toward your chair. 

Instead of pulling you up, he sank directly to the floor.

You parted your legs and allowed him to slot himself right in between them, he fit perfectly. "What are you reading?" he asked, his voice low.

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Nothing yet. I just started it."

"Ah." Jack murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth before locking back onto your eyes. "Can I interrupt?"

You closed the book and set it aside blindly. He slid his hands slowly up your thighs. The warmth of his palms seared through your clothes, and you couldn't help the way you sank down a little in the seat, tilting your hips to make it even easier for his hands to roam.

He reached up, his movements unhurried as his fingers hooked at the waistband of your shorts. He paused, holding your gaze. "This okay?" he asked.

You nodded so fervently it got him to laugh, his thumbs brushing against your skin.

He pulled your shorts down and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then, he leaned down, and his mouth was on you. He started low, his lips pressing warm kisses up your thighs. He took his time, kissing a slow trail up your left side before shifting over to the right, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin and leaving a wake of shivers behind. 

He moved inward, placing small hot kisses right over your underwear. His breath was hot through the thin fabric, sending a wave of anticipation straight down your spine.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his chest heaving. "You're so beautiful." he breathed, his voice rough and undone. "Is this real?"

A breathless laugh escaped you. Instead of answering, you reached up, burying your hands deep into his hair and pulling him down to your mouth. When you finally pulled back for air, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought you’d be a bit more nervous for a moment like this, but you wanted him so bad the anxiety didn't even have time to grow. 

Jack reached up, his hand cupping your breast, his thumb brushing slowly over your nipple as you leaned back into the chair again, letting out a soft sigh. His fingers trailed a path down your stomach, moving lower until they found the edge of your underwear, tracing a line right over the seam of you, before pulling them off.

He just sat there on the floor between your legs, drinking you in, his eyes mapping every single inch of your body. You felt an ache pool in your lower stomach, your hips involuntarily wanting to squirm under his undivided attention. 

Having Jack Abbot look at you completely naked in the middle of his living room was somehow even more erotic than whatever was about to come next.

…

Jack’s hands reached up to frame the insides of your thighs, spreading you open for him. He leaned in close, his hot breath brushing over your sensitive skin before he pressed his tongue flat against your center. 

His mouth worked over you with greedy focus. He took his time, sweeping his tongue up the length of you, sucking softly, his stubble scraping lightly against your thighs.

He gripped your hips to keep you still whenever you tried to squirm, humming low against your skin when you arched into him. You whimpered his name into the quiet living room as you came against his face.

When he finally pulled back, he stood up and pulled you up out of the chair. Without a word, you followed him down the hallway into his bedroom.

The moment the door swung shut behind you, Jack turned, but you didn't give him a chance to lead. You pushed him backward onto the edge of his mattress, your hands pressing against his chest until he sat back. You stepped between his legs and swung a leg over his lap, straddling him.

Jack groaned as you settled against his hips. He grabbed your waist, pulling you down into a desperate kiss. His hands roamed up your back, pulling you closer, his mouth open and hot against yours. 

The taste of you was on his lips as you rocked your hips against him, feeling his cock pressing through his scrubs. You stood up then, and he shifted so that you could pull them down and off. Then he scooted back and you resumed your straddled position on him. 

When he guided himself to your entrance, you paused for a second, looking down at him. You wanted to commit this to memory. 

You sank down onto him in one slow push.

Jack threw his head back against the pillows. “Fuck, sweetheart.” 

It was overwhelming and hot. Eleven years of ache and longing. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his as you began to move.

"You feel so good." Jack said, rolling his hips up to meet your thrusts, taking you deeper. His hands slid up your spine, tangling in your hair to pull you down into another kiss. 

…

You fell asleep with your head on his chest only to be woken a few hours later by his mouth pressing kisses down the slope of your neck.

By afternoon, you ended up in his shower, the steam filling the small bathroom as the hot water cascaded over both of you. Jack pressed you gently against the tile, his hands slick with soap as he washed you before pulling you back against him once more.

Every touch felt like finding solid ground after years of drifting.

…

One Year Later

Jack kept one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh in the passenger seat and he genuinely could not have told you where he was driving to. It didn't matter. 

The window was down on your side and your hair was whipping across your face and you didn't even bother fixing it, just let it happen, eyes closed, singing along to whatever was playing on the radio. The sun caught the side of your face through the windshield and Jack thought, not for the first time, that he had no idea how he'd survived all these years without seeing this exact sight.

God, he loved you. It still hit him sometimes, stealing the breath right out of him completely.

You must have felt him looking, because you turned and the smile you gave him was so easy and happy that his hands nearly slipped on the wheel.

You leaned across the console then, one hand braced on his thigh and pressed your lips to his cheek. Your other hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair there the way you always did. You just couldn’t help it.

The small, cool press of metal against his skin from your finger thrilled him. He'd slid it onto your finger three weeks ago in his kitchen, badly rehearsed. You'd said yes before he'd even gotten the whole sentence out.

He hadn't been surprised, not really. After all, you'd always known. You'd told him so yourself, once, a long time ago, before he'd been ready to hear it.

He was the one playing catch up. 

Your fingers were still tangled at the back of his neck, that ring cool against his skin, and outside the window the fields blurred in the last of the light and Jack thought that he could drive like this forever and never once feel like he was in a hurry to get anywhere else.