Karla

There’s that tone. The one he uses with residents when they’re dancing around something obvious. Not unkind. Just… direct. Your breath catches for half a second. Not nerves exactly—more the weight of being looked at like that. Seen through, a little.

Jack glances at you, something softer there now. A small nod. Go on.

You shift in your seat, tucking one leg under you slightly, grounding yourself before you speak.

“It’s not… open,” you start, careful. “We’re not looking to—change anything. Not really.”

Robby watches you the whole time. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence for you.

“It’s just—” you exhale, a small, almost embarrassed huff of a laugh, “—we trust you. Both of us do. And you’ve been… there. With us. For a while.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters.

Jack snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

But Robby doesn’t look away from you.

You hold his gaze. “It’s not random. It’s not… about finding some person to fool around with. It’s you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, just slightly. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it tightens around the edges.

“…Right,” he says, slower now.

Jack leans forward, elbows on the table, finally stepping back in. “It’s not a free-for-all,” he adds, dry. “We’re not pitching some kind of ER orgy.”

“Shame,” Robby says flatly.

You almost laugh, tension breaking for a second.

Jack shoots him a look. “Be serious for one second in your life.”

“I am serious,” Robby says. Then, to you—“I’m just making sure I understand what the hell you’re asking me.”

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, the way they’re curled loosely around your glass—then back up again.

“What are you actually offering here?” he asks.

You hesitate—not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud makes it real. Jack shifts beside you. You feel his knee press into yours, steady, grounding.

“It’s not just sex,” you say, quieter now.

Robby’s brow lifts. “No?”

You shake your head. “It’s… us. Still us. Just—” you glance at Jack, then back at Robby, “—with you in it. Sometimes. If you wanted that.”

There’s a long beat.

Robby leans back again, dragging his hand over his mouth, thinking. Really thinking.

“You two have been together, what,” he says, glancing at Jack, “two years now?”

“Nearly three,” Jack corrects.

“Nearly three,” Robby repeats. “You know, you… you live together. Don’t kill each other. That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” you say, dry.

His gaze shifts back to you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.

“And you’re both telling me this doesn’t… complicate things.”

Jack answers this time, steady. “Everything’s already complicated. This wouldn’t change what we’ve got. We’ve talked, we trust each other, we trust you.”

Robby studies him for a second longer than necessary. There’s history in that look. Long-standing, unspoken understanding. The kind you only get after decades of knowing someone.

“…You’re serious,” he says finally.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

Robby exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh under his breath. He tips his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to reset his brain.

“Jesus Christ.”

You don’t rush him. Neither does Jack. When he looks back at you, it’s different now. Less amused. More… considering.

“You’re asking about the three of us…” he tries, trailing off.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes flick, just briefly, to where your leg is still angled toward Jack’s, the easy closeness of it. Then back to your face.

“And you’re both just- you’re… good with it,” he says.

Your voice is quieter when you answer. “Wouldn’t be sitting here if we weren’t. You’re attractive, smart, funny. And I think you’ve always secretly had a thing for at least one of us. Maybe both, but, one way to find out, I guess.”

Robby drums his fingers once against the table, then stills them.

“...Christ,” he mutters again, but there’s a hint of something else in it now. Not just disbelief.

Interest. He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, passing glances from before. This is slower. Measuring.

“You always this persuasive?” He wonders.

You tilt your head, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Only when it matters.”

That earns the faintest huff of a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can see that.”

Jack shifts beside you, not tense—but alert. Watching the shift happen in real time. Robby notices that too. His mouth quirks, just slightly.

Your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a string of messages lighting up your screen.

You glance down, already half-standing. “I’ve gotta go. Park needs me—Isla called in sick.”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. He’s already reaching into his pocket, keys in hand. “Take the car. I’ll ride back with him.”

You take them, brushing his fingers briefly. “Thanks, baby.”

You lean down—meant to be quick, but it doesn’t quite stay that way. Your mouth presses to his, warm, familiar. He lets you, hand coming up to your cheek, thumb catching just under your jaw, holding you there for half a second longer than necessary before you pull back.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when you do. You straighten, turning— Robby’s already looking at you. Not subtle about it. Rarely is.

“Michael,” you say, softer, a small nod.

He repeats your name—flatter, rougher, like he’s testing how it sits in his mouth.

You don’t linger. You head out.

The door swings shut behind you.

Jack watches it a beat too long. Then exhales, leaning back into the booth, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s resetting.

Robby doesn’t look at the door. He looks at Jack. There’s a slow, almost amused curve to his mouth. Not mocking. Just… processing.

“Alright,” he says. “Who’s idea is it?”

Jack doesn’t bother pretending. “Mine.”

Robby lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“When?”

Jack shrugs, reaching for his beer. “Remember that detox sexless cult thing she did a few months back?”

Robby snorts. “Yeah. You turned into the most unbearable version of yourself I’ve seen in twenty years. Which is saying something.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Walking around like—” Robby gestures vaguely, “—like a cat in heat.”

Jack huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. After you left that morning, we had our… you know, usual great sex - not adding as part of the pitch, you already know how good the sex is -”

“-get to the point,” Robby says, with a slight snicker.

“Some point, I mention… I don’t know, marriage, foreplay, a third. We finish up, and… we’re just talking.”

“Talking,” Robby repeats, deadpan.

“Yeah. Try it sometime. With a professional, even, they do that.”

“Hard pass.”

Jack ignores him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “It came up. Not seriously at first. Hypotheticals. What we’d be into, what we wouldn’t.”

“And you landed on me,” Robby says.

“Yeah.”

Robby watches him for a second. Longer than usual. “…Both of you.”

“Both of us.”

That lands differently.

Robby leans back, dragging a hand over his jaw, thinking. Really thinking now—not just reacting.

“That’s your girl,” he says finally. “You’ve built something there. I’m not—” he shakes his head slightly, “—I’m not interested in screwing that up.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles. He nods once.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I thought you would.”

Robby glances at him, sharper now. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“No,” Jack agrees easily. “But I do know you.”

A beat.

“And I trust you,” he adds.

it hangs there. Robby exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table for a second before coming back up.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

Jack’s brow lifts, faintly amused. “That I trust you?”

“That I don’t take that lightly,” Robby shoots back.

Silence stretches for a second. Then Robby leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table, voice dropping a notch.

“And you’re fine with it,” he says. Not a question. “Me and her.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

Robby studies him—searching for cracks, for ego, for something careless. Doesn’t find much. Jack kept his pride in check. He wasn’t a jealous person, not really. He was secure in himself. Something Robby envied, sometimes.

“…She’s—” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw tightening slightly. “You know what she is.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

“Twenty-something,” Robby continues. “Smart. Looks like—” he gestures vaguely, then shakes his head. “You’ve seen her.”

Jack smirks faintly. “I have, yeah. A lot of her. It’s great.”

Robby’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“And she looks at you like you hung the moon half the time,” he adds.

Jack’s expression softens just a fraction. “Sometimes.”

Robby nods once, slow. Then—

“…You really telling me you’ve never thought about it? About her” Jack asks, casual—but not careless.

Robby lets out a quiet breath through his nose, leaning back again.

“That’s not a fair question.”

Jack tilts his head at his friend. An insistence in his eyes to go on.

Robby tips his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a second like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.

Then he looks back at Jack.

“…Well I’m not blind,” he says.

Jack doesn’t react much. Just watches him.

“She’s—” Robby exhales, searching for a word, then gives up and settles for, “—she’s a lot. Sweet.”

Jack’s mouth ticks. “She is… You ever think about her while jerking off?”

Robby lets out a low breath at that, clicking his tongue at his friend's bluntness. Fuck it, they’re being honest. “Yes.”

Robby’s a little surprised when he sees the slow blink from Jack, a nod. Maybe irritable. 

“What?” Robby scoffs. “You’re cool with the prospect of me fucking your girl? But what I do with my hand in my spare time is… what, some sort of line being crossed?”

“I didn’t say anything, alright. I’m all good here. Just didn’t think you’d admit it,” Jack nods with insistence. “What about during sex? Thought about her then?”

“...On occasion, yes, I’ve- she’s popped up there, yeah.” Robby admits with brief hesitance. 

That’s as far as he pushes it—but it’s enough. Jack nods once, like this one he expected. Like it doesn’t threaten anything.

“Fair,” he says.

Robby glances at him, something like disbelief creeping back in. “You’re taking that a lot better than I thought you would.”

Jack shrugs. “She’s hot. You’re not dead. Tells me you’ve got a working dick, at least.”

Robby lets out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.

Jack took a sip of his beer, then—because he wasn’t finished, because he never really was with Robby—tilts his head slightly.

“What about me?”

Robby scoffs immediately, too quick. “Oh, come on.”

“No, seriously,” Jack says, glancing at him sideways. Casual on the surface, not casual underneath. “No shame, total honesty here. Twenty years, no secrets, all that bullshit.”

Robby drags a hand over his beard, already feeling the trap closing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Have you?” Jack asks, like he was asking about the weather.

A pause.

Robby stares at the table, jaw working once.

“…You first,” he mutters.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes dropping, like he was doing the math on how much of himself he was willing to hand over tonight.

“Man, it’s not even—” Jack went on, shrugging a shoulder. “Half the time that shit doesn’t mean anything. Brain just throws things at you. Doesn’t make you anything.”

Robby let out a short, humourless huff. “Right.”

“What,” Jack presses lightly, “you worried about the gay implications?”

Robby shot him a look. “Don’t—”

“—What? Say ‘gay’?” Jack says, not unkind, but not backing off either.

Robby glances up as a couple walks past, waits them out, then leans back in his seat, voice lower.

“We’re talking about whether I’ve jacked off thinking about another guy,” he says, flat. “Yeah, the… ‘gay’ of it all crossed my mind. Excuse me.”

Jack just nods, like that was fair.

“I just… I guess, I didn’t realise—” Robby starts, then stops, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, you know, are you—”

Jack shrugs, easy. “I’ve been with a few. Never made a whole thing out of it. Don’t really care to.”

Robby gives a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “Figrues. Army man.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “You don’t have to slap a label on it, Rob. Doesn’t have to mean anything bigger than it is.”

“I’m aware,” Robby says, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter—like it cost him something— “…It’s crossed my mind.”

Jack’s mouth pulled into something faintly smug. Not cruel—just… satisfied.

“Crossed your mind,” he repeated. “Interesting wording.”

“Don’t start,” Robby warns, but there was less heat in it now.

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “It was easier getting you to admit you think about fucking my girlfriend half our age than it was getting that out of you. That’s saying something.”

“Fuck you,” Robby mutters, rolling his eyes—but there was a reluctant grin there now, breaking through whether he liked it or not.

Jack shrugs, taking another sip. “Options apparently on the table.”

Robby shakes his head, but didn’t argue. Didn’t fully look away, either.

Something in the air had shifted—subtle, but real. Not a line crossed, exactly. More like one finally acknowledged.

Robby studied him for a second, longer than necessary. There was history there—years of it, unspoken things sitting just under the surface, things neither of them had ever had to name.

Jack didn’t push. Just leaned back, easy.

“Think about it,” he tries. “Or don’t. Nothing changes.”

Robby nods once, short. “Yeah.” A few seconds of quiet. “…You still need that ride home?” he asks.

Jack snorts. “Oh, a ride home? Wow. Subtle.”

“Shut up.”

“Flirting now, are we?”

“You are not a funny man, Jack Abbot, don’t think otherwise,” Robby says, but he was already smiling, just a little.

★★★

2 WEEKS EARLIER

threesomenoun — three·some — ˈthrē-səm

1: a group of three persons or things : trio

2: a golf match in which one person plays their ball against the ball of two others playing each stroke alternately

3: a sexual encounter involving three people

“Are you trying to say you wanna play golf?” Jack says from the stove, not even turning around as he stirs the pan like it personally offended him.

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter—onions already softened down, carrots and capsicum still holding a bit too much bite. He’s got one hand on the wooden spoon, the other braced on the counter, solid and steady in that way he always is.

You’re perched up on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, phone in hand.

“Yes,” you say dryly, scrolling. “I’m deeply passionate about golf. The balls. The stroking of the balls—”

“—I get it,” Jack cuts in. “You want a threesome.”

You look up at him, unimpressed. “I don’t want a threesome. I love twosomes. Specifically with you.” A beat. “But I’m not opposed to… expanding the sample size.”

Jack snorts, finally glancing over to you. “Expanding the—Jesus. That’s how you pitch wanting to fuck my best friend?”

“You brought it up,” you shoot back, pointing your phone at him like evidence. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your idea. ‘Oh baby, we should add a third, Robby would give me notes’—”

“I did not sound like that.”

“—If anything,” you continue over him, “I think you wanna fuck your best friend.”

“Alright,” Jack mutters, turning back to the pan. “Not what I sound like. And c’mon—you know you’re all I wanna fuck.” He nudges the vegetables again, frowning. “I think these are done.”

“They’re not.” You don’t even look up when you say it. “Anyway… I doubt he’d even be down for it,” you say. “I barely think he likes me as a friend.”

Jack lets out a quiet scoff at that.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I think he’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I said I was okay with it,” Jack says, like it’s obvious. Then, distracted again—“I really think these are done, hon.”

“Test the carrot,” you say, still scrolling. “If it’s soft enough, it’ll break with pressure.”

He presses the spoon into one. It doesn’t budge.

“…Needs longer,” he admits.

“How do you know that?”

“I just did what you said, I—”

“No,” you interrupt, looking at him properly now. “How do you know Robby would fuck me?”

That slows him down.

Jack exhales through his nose, shoulders shifting as he leans back slightly against the counter, thinking.

“I know him,” he says. “Twenty years of it. And I know you.” A beat. “There’s something there. A thing. You’ve always had good chemistry.”

You huff lightly. “A vague… thing, maybe.”

You hesitate, then—because you don’t really do half-truths—

“I did have a bit of a crush on him,” you admit. “Before I met you.”

Jack stills. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I don’t anymore,” you add quickly. “It faded. Pretty fast, actually. It was early—before I started coming down to ED properly. He’d come up sometimes, consults, whatever. I think it was just…” you shrug, searching, “…older. Authority. Bit of an asshole.”

Jack’s mouth pulls slightly at that, something between amused and unimpressed.

“Glad to know you don’t have a type,” he mutters.

You lean in closer from the counter, nudging his shoulder lightly with your knee.

“Hey,” you murmur. He glances up at you. “I like them a little shorter,” you say softly.

Jack blinks.

Then rolls his eyes, a huff of laughter slipping out despite himself as you grin and go back to your phone.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning the heat down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. 

★★★

The thing about a third—about this third—was that it… kind of just felt natural. Like there was so little reason to not do it, to not try it, invite it.

It wasn’t sudden. It was something that had been sitting under the skin of things for so long it stopped feeling foreign the second it was named.

Robby had never been separate from Jack. 

Not really. People liked to pretend friendships had clean edges—this is where I end, this is where you begin—but that had never been the case with them. 

Too many years. Too many nights that blurred into mornings, too many arguments that never quite resolved but never quite broke them either. 

They’d dragged each other through their twenties, stumbled into their thirties, and settled—somehow—into their forties without ever untangling.

They knew each other in ways that made distance feel artificial.

And Robby had always lived in that tension.

He didn’t soften easily. Didn’t trust softness when it showed up uninvited. Jack had always been the exception to that rule—steady enough to withstand it, patient enough not to demand more than Robby could give. But patience didn’t mean absence.

There were things between them that had never been said out loud. Not because they didn’t exist, but because saying them would’ve required a kind of clarity Robby had spent most of his life avoiding. 

It was easier to file it under something else—loyalty, history, proximity. Easier to laugh it off, to redirect, to let it sit in that grey space where it didn’t have to be examined too closely.

Then you came along. And you didn’t disrupt that balance. You just seemed to understand it. 

You didn’t wedge yourself between them, didn’t ask Jack to choose, didn’t look at Robby like he was something to tolerate or compete with. You moved through it like it already made sense to you. Like there was room.

And God—there was something about you.

Not just that you were beautiful—though you were, in a way that made people look twice without meaning to. Not just that you were younger, brighter, sharper at the edges in a way that made everything feel a little more alive. It was the way you saw people.

The way you saw Jack—fully, without flinching, without trying to fix him or soften him into something more palatable. The way you leaned into him like you trusted him to hold the weight of that. The way you touched him without hesitation, like affection was a language you spoke fluently.

And worse—

The way you looked at Robby sometimes, like you were trying to figure him out and already had.

He’d noticed it long before anyone said anything. Of course he had. The small things. The way your attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. The way you didn’t pull back when he got too close, didn’t flinch at the edge in him that made other people cautious.

You met it. Sometimes you even matched it. And that—more than anything—was what made him careful. Because wanting you was one thing.

That was easy enough to dismiss, tuck away under instinct, under biology, under the thousand other justifications people used to avoid looking too closely at themselves.

But wanting you like this—in the context of Jack, with Jack, because of Jack. That was something else entirely. It brushed up against things he didn’t have neat categories for. Things that felt uncomfortably close to lines he’d spent years pretending weren’t there.

And Jack…

Jack, who didn’t do anything halfway, who didn’t offer things he wasn’t sure about—was sitting across from him like this was just another extension of something already solid. Like this wasn’t a risk so much as… an opening.

That was what threw him. It wasn’t the sex or the implication, it was how Jack totally trusted him. With you, with this, with Jack himself.

And Robby didn’t trust himself nearly that much.

That was the problem. Beneath all the deflection, all the dryness and sarcasm, the sharp edges, there was something undeniably real threading through all three of you. Not clean, not simple—but real in a way that resisted being dismissed.

Jack had never been particularly private about you. Not with Robby.

Not in the way people usually were about relationships—careful, curated, keeping the good parts polished and the rest tucked away. Jack wasn’t built like that. He didn’t gush, didn’t sentimentalise—but if he’d had a couple drinks in him and it’d been a long week, you came up. Inevitably.

Not in a soft-focus, hearts-and-flowers way.

In details. In fragments. In the way you got under his skin and stayed there. 

The way you kissed him, made him feel every ounce of his own flesh and blood, grounded, and above at once. In how much he adored your figure, or some ridiculous position, some ridiculous story of stamina and libido, your mouth, his mouth, your hand, his hand.

Robby had learned, over the years, to let it wash over him. Half-listening, half-not. It wasn’t discomfort exactly—more like… he didn’t know where to put it. There was something about hearing your name in Jack’s mouth like that that sat strange in his chest. 

“What the fuck do you mean six times?” Robby had said once, a laugh breaking through despite himself as he tipped his beer back.

They were sprawled out on the grass like they hadn’t aged out of it—backs damp against the ground, shirts sticking, the heat of the day still rising up through the dirt. The city hummed around them, distant enough to ignore. It felt like being twenty something again, except their knees ached when they stood and everything they didn’t talk about sat heavier.

It was one of those nothing nights, sometime back in Spring. End of a shift. A few beers. Waiting for you to finish upstairs while Jack pretended he wasn’t being watched over by the hospital.

Jack didn’t even open his eyes. “I mean she came six times,” he said, easy. “Working up to eight.”

Robby snorted. “You’re talking like it’s a personal best.”

“It is,” Jack said. “You don’t set goals, you stagnate. That’s what my therapist says.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack grinned faintly, still flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like he had nowhere else to be. “What’s your number?”

Robby shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t know. I don’t have a number.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Nope.”

“Bull.”

Robby dragged a hand over his mouth, already regretting engaging. “…Four. Maybe.”

Jack turned his head slightly, considering that like it mattered more than it should. His fingers tapped absently against the neck of the bottle.

“Four,” he repeated.

“Some of us aren’t treating it like a competitive sport,” Robby muttered.

Jack huffed. “It’s not me,” he said. “It’s her. She’s a natural.”

“She really that good?” Robby had slipped as a question. Maybe for his own curiosity, maybe because he knew Jack would’ve gotten to it at some point. Both, likely.

There was a beat.

Robby stared up at the sky like it didn’t matter either way. Jack shifted slightly, something quieter settling into him now.

“She’s—” he paused, like he was trying to find a word that didn’t sound ridiculous and failing. “She pays attention. Like she’s studying you. Figures out what works and then—just… doesn’t let up. Like I’m constantly high around her. And man, she-” Jack cleared his throat. “She does this thing with her tongue.”

Robby exhaled through his nose, slow.

He didn’t say anything.

“She swirls it, right around the underside, traces it—the entire thing with the flat part. Goes between, you know, broad strokes, little ones, then she’ll—fuck,” Jack had mused. “…She’ll use the space beneath her tongue, suck, and still use her tongue at the same time. I can’t describe how good it feels,” Jack had explained, his words slurring slightly but still carrying a strange clarity. “Fucking… incredible.”

Robby couldn’t have helped but picture it. The image of you, on your knees, long lashes batting at him, as you brought him to the edge. He sipped his beer, fingers a bit tighter around the neck of the glass.

“She makes the prettiest noises, like a… I don’t even know,” Jack added, quieter now, almost to himself. “Moans and screams, and so… Christ. Like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, possessed.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Robby cut in, not sharply, but firm.

Jack just smirked, eyes still shut. “You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for a breakdown.”

“Semantics.”

Robby shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite it. He finished the last of his beer, letting the cold settle something in his chest that had nothing to do with the heat.

A pause stretched between them. Jack sipped his beer. Then—

“What’s the deal with you and Noelle?” Jack asked, casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all.

Robby’s jaw shifted.

“She’s… fine,” he said.

Jack cracked one eye open. “That sounds promising.”

Robby huffed. “It’s not—” he cut himself off, shook his head. “Don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

Jack watched him for a second. Then nodded, like he’d expected that. He handed Robby his own beer, watching as Robby took it after a moment, sipping from it himself

“Yeah,” he said. “Bummer.”

Another beat. Robby sat up, bracing his forearms on his knees, their shared beer dangling loose between his fingers.

“Don’t think I’m built for it,” he said finally.

Jack didn’t move. “For what?”

“This,” Robby gestured vaguely. “Relationships. The staying. The… showing up part.”

Jack was quiet for a second.

Then—

“Now that’s bull,” he said, not unkindly.

Robby glanced at him, a faint, tired smirk pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other, what—twenty years? You’ve stuck around that long.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Robby didn’t answer that. Jack pushed himself up onto his elbows now, looking at him properly.

“You don’t get to pretend you can’t do something just because you haven’t done it right yet,” he said.

Robby scoffed lightly. “Didn’t realise you were gonna get philosophical on me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, reaching for his beer. “Hate to break it to you, man, but you’re not some unfixable case.”

Robby laughed at that—short, real.

“Garcia said I’d make a good ex-husband,” he said.

Jack snorted. “See? Even she thinks you can commit.”

“That’s not what that means.”

“Close enough,” Jack sighed. “Lie down, will you. You’re so damn tense.”

Robby let out a low groan but did it anyway, dropping back into the grass beside him, one arm flung over his eyes like he could shut the world out for a second. 

The ground was still a little damp from the morning rain, cool through his shirt, the air thick and warm in that late-night way where everything feels slower, looser.

They went quiet after that. Easy quiet. The kind that only comes after years—no need to fill it, no need to perform.

“Aw, you two are so cute.”

Jack sat up immediately.

You stood a few feet off the path, lit half by a flickering streetlamp—scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess like you’d been running your hands through it all day, hoodie tied loose around your hips. One of Jack’s old military backpacks hung off your shoulder like it belonged there. 

For a while there, Robby had forgotten the whole reason they’d been in the park to begin with was to wait for you.

“Hey, baby,” Jack said, voice softening without him meaning it to. “You finish alright?”

You just nodded, already moving toward him.

You didn’t hesitate—never did. Leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek that turned, halfway through, into something closer to his mouth. Warm. Familiar. You lingered just long enough that he had to chase it a second.

“Miss me?” you murmured, barely pulling back.

“Always,” he said, easy. A little drunk, a little honest.

Robby watched it happen from the ground, not even pretending not to.

You dropped down in front of Jack, cross-legged, close enough your knees brushed his thighs. His hands came up immediately—instinct, habit—sliding over your arms, grounding, checking. 

Then his mouth found your neck, a soft press just under your jaw, before his hands settled at your shoulders, working slow circles into muscle that had no business being that tight at your age.

You exhaled like you’d been holding it all day.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?” Jack hummed against your skin, a little smug.

“Mhm.”

You tipped your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. He took it.

Across from you, Robby shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, watching the two of you with that same look he always got—half amused, half something else he never quite named.

“Robby,” you said, glancing over at him, “how the hell are you drinking after that shift? You guys were slammed.”

“Sometimes a drink’s all you get,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked—brief, involuntary—to where Jack’s hands were still working into your shoulders. Then back to your face. “Ortho must’ve been a dream, though.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah. Absolute paradise. Park was being a complete asshole to one of the R1s. Kid looked like he was gonna cry.”

“Sounds about right,” Robby muttered.

Jack’s hands slowed, thumbs pressing deeper into a knot that made you suck in a breath.

“Careful,” he said. “You’re gonna fall asleep right here.”

“Honestly?” you said, eyes half-lidded now, “tempting.”

There was a beat. Quiet again—but different this time. Fuller.

You shifted slightly, leaning back into Jack without thinking. Your hand found his knee, resting there, absent, like it belonged.

Robby noticed that too. Of course he did.

You glanced up at Jack then, studying him for a second longer than necessary.

“…You been talking about me?” you asked.

Jack snorted, immediate. “What?”

“You’ve got that look,” you said, squinting at him. “And he’s looking at me weird.”

“I always look at people weird,” Robby said, flat, from the grass.

You didn’t even look at him. “Yeah, but this is a different weird.”

Jack huffed a laugh under his breath, shaking his head like you were ridiculous, even as his mouth betrayed him. “We were just talking about your—what was it—immense beauty. Your sex appeal. Your many talents.”

His mouth brushed your neck again as he said it, like he couldn’t quite help himself.

Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Something drier. “It’s not far off.”

You stilled. Then slowly turned your head, looking at Jack properly now.

“What did you say to him,” you murmured, low, dangerous in a way that wasn’t entirely serious—but not entirely not.

Jack leaned in, said something under his breath—too quiet for Robby to catch. Your reaction was immediate.

You smacked his leg—right on the prosthetic—with a sharp thwack.

“Jack.”

He barely flinched, just grinned, caught your wrist before you could do it again.

“If you actually told him that,” you said, pointing at him, “I swear to god I’ll take this thing off and beat you with it.”

“That’s dramatic,” Jack murmured, still holding your hand. “And also physically unlikely.”

“It’s true, though,” he added, softer now, mouth near your ear again. “You’re very good at it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders had loosened, leaning back into him again despite yourself.

Robby watched the whole thing like it was a film he hadn’t agreed to sit through, but couldn’t quite look away from either.

“So the tongue thing’s real then?” he asked, almost idly.

Jack groaned. “Alright. We’re done here.”

You laughed—bright, cutting through the heaviness of the day shift still clinging to all three of you—and turned into Jack properly this time.

It wasn’t quick. Not really. Soft at first, then deeper, your hand coming up to his jaw, holding him there. He responded without thinking, one hand sliding to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself in something he knew.

Robby looked away. Not fast enough.

You pulled back eventually, brushing your nose against Jack’s.

“I’ll drive,” you said quietly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said automatically.

“You’re pretty drunk,” you corrected.

A beat.

“…Alright. Could be a little drunk,” he conceded.

You smiled, already reaching into his pocket for the keys like it was second nature. He let you. Fingers brushing yours as you took them, just for a second longer than necessary.

“Don’t lose the car,” he muttered.

“No promises.”

You stood, stretching slightly, then glanced down at Robby.

“You good?” you asked, softer now.

He met your eyes, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled back into something easier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”

You nodded like you believed him.

“Night, Michael.”

There was a flicker at that—something small but real.

“Night,” he said.

Jack let you haul him up, weight shifting automatically to his left as he got his balance, your hand steady at his arm without making a thing of it. He adjusted, rolled his shoulders like he always did, then followed your lead without argument.

“Text me when you get home,” he called back to Robby.

“Sure. Have fun with your girl.’ Robby had said, lying back down.

“I definitely will,” Jack nodded.

You were already walking, his shoulder brushing yours, easy. He leaned down slightly as you hit the path, murmuring something low against your hair that made you let out a quiet, breathy laugh—something private, something just for him.

Robby watched you both go.

Didn’t move.

The grass was still damp under his back when he lay down again, staring up at a sky that refused to give him anything clear.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth.

So, when you and Jack finally put it to him—cornered him in that quiet, deliberate way the two of you had—Robby wasn’t as hung up on the logistics of it as he probably should’ve been. The dynamic, the risk, the aftermath—those were the things a smarter man might’ve led with. But that wasn’t where his mind went first.

It went somewhere simpler. Sharper.

Just how pretty were the noises you made? How soft was your tongue? Would you like it if Robby was cruel—if he held your head down and made you choke on him?

And Jack… steady Jack. What did he look like when he finally came? Did he like being teased, kept right on that edge until it snapped? Would he grip Robby’s hair, or would he stay controlled even then, taking it without losing that composure?

It wasn't an abstract curiosity. It wasn’t even entirely sexual, not at its core. It was about access.

About seeing something of both of you that no one else did. About being let into a space that already existed—intimate, closed, complete—and being told there was room for him inside it.

And that—more than anything else—was what made it difficult to dismiss.

★★★

Ortho is down for a consultation when you get called in.

The patient is already under—intubated and sedated, leg secured in traction. The CT is up on PACS, the fracture obvious even before you zoom in: a displaced mid-shaft femur, clear shortening, classic muscle pull deformity.

“Yeah, that’s a transverse mid-shaft femoral fracture,” you say, pen tapping the screen. “You can see the displacement here, and the overlap—this is why the leg looks shortened clinically.”

Santos leans in, her eyes slightly wide. “Fuck.”

You shake your head. “It looks dramatic, but it’s stable from what we’ve got. No obvious vascular compromise on imaging. Ortho will likely take her for an intramedullary nail.”

Santos lets out a breath.

You scroll through the scan again, adjusting the windowing. “We’ll just want to repeat neurovascular checks pre-op and post-reduction. But she’s straightforward.”

“Thank god,” Santos mutters. “I was so not bothered to call for another consult.

A knock on the glass interrupts you. You glance up.

Robby.

He’s already halfway through sanitising his hands when he steps in, eyes flicking once to the screen before landing on you.

“Ortho’s down in ED?” he says.

“Yeah,” you answer, a little too aware of him in the doorway. “Santos messaged me. Femur fracture.”

He leans in beside you to look at the CT, close enough that the space shifts—clinical, but not entirely neutral. He’s tired in the way only long shifts make you, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked faintly by pressure lines from his undershirt.

“Looks like a clean nail,” he says.

“Assuming ortho behaves,” you reply.

He huffs something like a laugh. “They won’t.”

“No,” you agree. “We never do.”

Santos clears her throat. “While I’ve got you—Huckleberry and I are having a Parisian party next Friday. At our place. You should come. You and Abbott, of course.”

You pause slightly.

“A Parisian party?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” Santos says, warming to it. “Paris-themed. Like… French food, wine, decorations. The Eiffel Tower and shit.”

Robby makes a quiet sound behind you—almost a laugh, quickly disguised.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the scan like nothing happened.

Santos continues, mildly confused. “Have either of you been to Paris?”

“No,” you say.

Robby: “Nope.”

Santos nods like that still tracks logically. “Yeah, me neither. Barely even been to Canada.”

There’s a beat.

“Anyway,” She adds, already backing toward the door, “You’re invited too, Robby. Maybe the three of you come together or something. You’re all close”

“...Sounds good, Santos, we’ll let you know,” Robby says with a nod. “North Twelve?”

“Consider it done.” Santos says dry, nodding.

The door shuts behind her. Silence settles back in—clean, clinical, familiar. Except Robby is still standing close enough that you’re aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be during a trauma consult.

He glances at the CT again. “Paris-themed party,” he repeats flatly.

“Don’t even,” you say immediately, because you can hear it in his tone already, trying to hide your own smile.

“What?” he says innocently.

You turn slightly toward him. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

He finally looks at you properly now, mouth twitching. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You’re absolutely thinking something and at work nonetheless? Inappropriate.”

“I’m thinking Santos should never be allowed to plan anything,” he says.

“Liar.”

That earns you a brief, quiet exhale of amusement. You finish with the scans and walk out, Robby hot on your heels as you head to the nurses station.

“You think you’ll go?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “Jack and I have the night off. We’ll be busy.”

“Right,” he nods.

A beat.

“You?” you ask.

“I’d rather not spend my night around a bunch of drunk residents,” Robby says with a quiet exhale. “So, no.”

“Come over then,” you offer, stopping at the nurses’ station.

Robby gives you a look. “Thought you said you two were busy.”

“You can be busy with us,” you say, looking up at him, pen tapping lightly against the chart. “Or just Jack. Or just me. He told me you’ve thought about it either way.”

A faint sigh leaves him. “Right. I forgot he can’t keep anything to himself.”

He leans against the counter, lowering his voice slightly as his eyes flick briefly across the station—Dana watching from a few bays away, already narrowing her gaze like she’s clocking something she hasn’t labelled yet.

“Have you?” he asks softly.

“Thought about you? In that way?” you clarify.

He nods, a slight tilt to his head, curious.

You hesitate just long enough to make it honest.

“Yes,” you admit. “You’re tall. Kind. Your beard’s nice. You’re probably a little meaner than Jack, which interests me.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something deeper in him satisfied.

“Abbot’s a lover boy at heart,” Robby says. “Gives in easily. ‘Specially for you.”

You nod, like that tracks. “Most of the time, yeah.”

That earns a quieter look from him. A pause that sits just slightly longer than professional. Then, more carefully, “Is it true you had a crush on me?”

You tilt your head. “God, he really just— Doesn’t keep anything to himself.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “Not at all. I’ve been subjected to that man and his inner workings for too long.”

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, just enough contact to make the space between you feel intentional.

“Was it a yes?”

“To the crush?” You consider it. “Yeah.”

That makes his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Before Jack,” you add, like it matters in a technical sense. “Older, authority figure, slightly emotionally unavailable… I think I might just have a pattern.”

Robby hums, low. “Tracks.”

There’s a beat where neither of you moves away. Then he says, quieter, “And now?”

You don’t look away when you answer. “Now, it’s just… different.”

That hangs there. From somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps sharply, breaking the moment just enough for it not to tip into anything else.

You glance back down at the chart, already half-moving on.

“I’ll let you know when we get a room open for the femur nail lady.”

And then you’re gone—already walking toward the elevator, the conversation left hanging in the air behind you. Robby watches you go.

A quiet breath leaves him through his nose. He taps his fingers once against the counter, then pushes off it, turning back to the screens like he needs something solid to land on.

Dana appears beside him a second later, sliding into the space like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.

“What’s with that?” she asks.

“...What’s with what?” he replies, arms folding loosely, eyes still on the monitor bank.

“I mean,” she says slowly, “what’s with flirtin’ with Abbott’s girl in front of everybody?”

He doesn’t look at her when he answers.

“That’s not flirting,” he says evenly. “We were just talking.”

Dana hums, unconvinced. “Talkin’ real close.”

Robby exhales, already shifting focus. “New patient?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding toward the bay. “Just rolled in. Need you over there.”

“Alright,” he says.

And he follows her down the hall, expression already reset.

★★★

“—Hey. Hold on a second,” Jack says, breath a little uneven.

“No, don’t—don’t hold on,” you protest, already moving, frustrated at the interruption. Your hips roll, trying to sink deeper, but his hands clamp down on your waist—firm, grounding, stopping you.

“Hey. Easy.” A breath. “Just—gimme a second, alright?”

You huff, but you stop. Barely. Your thighs tremble, hovering just above his cock, the tip brushing against your wet slit.  “This better be good.”

He lets out something like a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah, I’ll try not to waste your time.”

A beat. He looks at you properly now—focused, a little too clear-headed for the situation. His thumb traces a slow circle on your hipbone, soothing, but his eyes are sharp.

“Just… wanna get this straight,” he says.

Your hands shift on his chest, nails dragging lightly. “Okay. Then say it.”

He nods once. “He can be there. He can watch, he can fuck you.” A pause. “But there are lines.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “Such as?”

His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, enough to mean something. “Such as—you don’t forget who you’re with.”

You raise a brow, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Hard to forget when you’ve got your dick in me half the time I’m not at work.”

“Smartass,” he mutters. Then, quieter—“I’m serious. He doesn’t get to know how you taste. That’s mine.”

“Uh-huh…” You roll your hips lazily, not sinking down, just letting the head of his cock nudge against your clit, making him hiss. “So this is allowed?” You lift up, then lower just an inch, teasing the tip against your entrance.

“Yeah, allowed,” Jack nods, his jaw tight.

“Mm. This?” You lean down and kiss him—sweet, slow, your tongue brushing his lower lip before you pull back with a soft pop.

He nods into the kiss, groaning when you start to move again, lifting your pussy off him completely. The air hits his wet shaft and he shudders.

“Yeah? What about this?” You wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip, slick with your own arousal. You squeeze just a little, watching his eyes flutter.

“All allowed,” he grates out, “but his mouth isn’t getting near this, alright, that’s all—” He cuts off as he grabs you by the hips, guiding your pussy back down, lining you up and shoving it back in with a single, brutal thrust. Your moan rips out of you—loud, breathy, grateful. His cock fills you so deep you feel it in your throat.

“Yeah? That good with you?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, already starting to ride him—slow at first, just a rock of your hips, teasing the angle. “What about you and ’im?” you ask, breath hitching as you grind down.

Jack shrugs—or tries to. “What don’t you want?”

“No blowjobs either, then,” you say, voice a little strained as you lift up and drop back down, feeling every ridge. “’S for me.”

“Sounds good to me.” His hands find your hips again, but he doesn’t guide—he just holds, letting you set the pace. Letting you take.

You pick up speed, thighs burning, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with each roll. The room fills with the wet sound of your pussy gripping his cock, and you tilt your head back, letting him see the arch of your throat.

His hand comes up, thumb brushing along your jaw, pulling your focus back to him when you drift.

“Right here,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze. That same look—steady, a little rough around the edges, but sure. His.

“Good,” he says, softer now. His thumb drags across your lower lip, and you part your mouth, just enough to suck the tip of it in. His eyes darken.

And when you move again, it’s slower. You rock forward, letting his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, and you moan against his thumb. You pull off it with a wet sound, then lean down to kiss him again—dirtier this time, tongue and teeth, whimpering into him.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips. “That’s better.”

★★​​★

It’s late into the evening on Friday when you hear Jack on the phone.

“No, can’t,” Jack says, pacing your living room, phone tucked to his ear while he half-heartedly folds laundry and gives up halfway through. “I’m home. She’s cooking. Smells like I’m about to get fat and happy.”

“Baby, can you come try this?” you call from the kitchen.

“One sec,” he says, then quieter, back into the phone—“What’d you wanna do?”

“Nothing,” Robby mutters. “I… I don’t know, man. I don’t feel like crashing Santos and Whitaker’s… house party. We could go for a drive. Hike.”

Jack stops mid-step. “A hike,” he repeats. “At nine-thirty at night.”

A beat.

“Yeah, not happening,” he decides, dropping the laundry basket and heading into the kitchen.

You’re at the counter in that barely-there nightgown—soft, short, riding up your thighs as you lean forward, aggressively chopping an onion like it personally offended you. Eyes glossy, blinking through it.

Jack pauses in the doorway for half a second longer than necessary.

Then—business as usual.

“Alright,” he says, stepping in behind you, close enough that his hand brushes your hip on the way past. “What am I trying?”

You nod at the stove. “Carbonara.”

He leans over, tastes it, hums—low, approving.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “She’s showing off.”

You bump his arm lightly. “I am not.”

“You are,” he says, kissing you quick, easy, like he’s done it a thousand times. “It’s working.”

You smile despite yourself, wiping at your eyes.

On the phone, Robby exhales. Rough. Tired.

“Hike’s dumb,” Jack says, shifting tone without making it obvious. “What’s actually going on.”

“Nothing,” Robby says. “Just… can’t sit still. Garcia was on my ass all day, Al-Hashimi wouldn’t shut the fuck up—”

“—Hey,” Jack cuts in, calm, steady. “Take a breath.”

You glance over at him. He’s not looking at you anymore—focused now, locked into that mode.

“You’re good,” he says. “You’re not thinking anything dumb, right?”

A pause.

“…No,” Robby says. “Just need to… get out of my head, I don’t know.”

Jack hears it. You do too. That edge. That restless, pissed-off with nowhere to put it thing.

“He can come here,” you say, like it’s obvious.

Jack looks at you—quick, assessing—but there’s no resistance there. Just a flicker of something else.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Come over. Food’s ready soon.”

“I don’t know, man—” Robby starts.

You reach over and take the phone straight out of Jack’s hand.

“Hey, Michael.”

There’s a beat.

Jack watches you now, not even pretending to focus on the onions anymore.

“…Hey,” Robby says, slower. “Heard you were cooking.”

“Mhm,” you hum, leaning back against the counter, bare leg brushing against Jack’s where he stands beside you. “Plenty to go around.”

Jack’s hand settles at your hip automatically. Not possessive—just there.

Robby hears the shift anyway.

“This a setup?” he asks.

You smile slightly. “You always this suspicious, or just with me?”

A quiet scoff from him.

“You should come,” you add, softer—but not innocent. “You sound like you need it.”

A beat. Jack’s thumb presses lightly into your hip. Grounding. Present.

Robby exhales. “Yeah. Guess I can make it.”

“Guess you can,” you say easily.

Silence again—but it’s different now.

You glance at Jack.

He nods once.

“Door’s unlocked,” you say. “Twenty minutes.”

You hand the phone back.

Jack takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, then brings it back to his ear. “You heard her. No pressure.”

A pause.

“…Alright,” Robby says.

The line clicks dead.

Jack sets the phone down on the counter, then looks at you properly. A slow once-over. Not subtle.

“What?” You raise a brow.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll finish the laundry.” He gives you a deep kiss to your neck, hands trailing over your figure as he mumbles into your skin, fingers gently pushing aside the light material. “You gonna stay in this?” He asks.

“‘S that alright?” You wonder, leaning into his touch.

He inhales sharply against your skin, lips leaving your skin. “Sure.”

★★★

You’re out on the balcony when it comes up.

Jack’s place sits high enough that the city feels almost staged—Pittsburgh stretched out in warm light, bridges lit up in clean lines, traffic moving steady below like it never really stops. It’s one of those late summer nights where the air sticks just slightly to your skin, warm but not suffocating. There’s music drifting from somewhere down the block, a party you can’t see but can feel in the background.

The balcony’s not small—wide enough for a proper table, a few chairs, space to lean without feeling cramped. Jack had insisted on that when he bought the place. Said if he was going to spend money, it’d be on something worth standing still for.

Your plates are mostly cleared, carbonara half-finished, wine and beer sweating into the wood.

“Have either of you done this before?” Robby asks.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “No.”

You don’t answer.

You’re thinking—actually thinking, head tilted slightly, finger lifting to tap against Jack’s arm like you need him to hold on a second. That’s when it hits him, belated and faintly incredulous, that this apparently hadn’t come up when the idea itself had.

“…Have you?” Jack asks, turning to you, already suspicious.

“I am thinking,” you murmur, brows pulling together like this is a serious recall exercise.

Robby raises a brow, watching you now, something amused creeping in despite himself.

“What do you mean you’re thinking?” Jack presses. “That’s not… I don’t know, something you half do or something. You’d know.”

“Or something,” Robby mutters under his breath.

You shoot him a look, then roll your eyes. “Okay—no. I don’t think I’ve had a threesome.”

“How can you not think you’ve had a threesome?” Jack wonders.

You lean back slightly, folding one leg under you, the fabric of your nightgown shifting higher on your thigh without you bothering to fix it. You don’t notice how both men’s gaze drop there.

You exhale, already regretting engaging. “Because—technically—no one actually got fucked, there was no penetration by anybody, so, grey area?”

There’s a beat.

Robby’s mouth twitches.

Jack blinks. “...Right.”

“Okay?” you continue, defensive now. “It was—hands. That’s it. Group situation, but not… full commitment.”

Robby huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Group situation,” he repeats.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Another guy or girl?” Jack asks, too quickly.

You hesitate just long enough to make it interesting. “…Both.”

Jack leans back like you’ve just told him something deeply inconvenient. “...Huh.”

Robby lets out a low whistle through his nose. “So not a threesome. Just… poor project management.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Oh my god.”

“That’s a foursome that lost direction,” he adds, dry.

“Whatever,” you shrug. “Med school was fun for me. Sorry I had range.”

Jack eyes you, something between amused and slightly thrown. “I’m just saying, that’s a hell of a thing to casually drop over dinner.”

You smirk faintly. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

Jack scoffs. “I’ve had opportunities.”

“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced.

Robby glances at him sideways. “That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” Jack says, defensive now. “I just—never felt the need.”

“Right,” Robby says. “Till now.”

Jack gives him a look. “Till now.”

Something passes there—quick, familiar, not entirely friendly as Robby sips his beer.

After, you step out to the edge of the balcony, forearms resting against the railing. The city hums below you, the air warmer now, carrying the smell of food and distant smoke.

Inside, you hear Jack moving—plates, running water. Robby’s voice low, asking something, already familiar with the space.

“Thanks, baby,” you say when Jack comes back out, taking your plate.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, hand coming up to your hair, messing it slightly with a small, easy smile.

You push him away lightly. “Don’t start.”

Robby watches it for a second before picking up the empty bottles, holding them loosely by the necks.

“Next to the fridge?” he asks, like he hasn’t been here a hundred times already—like tonight isn’t slightly different.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Recycling. Thank you.”

He gives a short nod and turns— You catch his wrist. It’s not forceful. Just enough.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

He looks down at you.

There’s a pause—his eyes dragging, just briefly, lower before coming back up. You’re close enough now to feel the heat off him, the faint roughness of his breath after a drink, after a long day.

You use his forearm to pull yourself up just slightly— and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s far from tentative either. Close. Testing.

His beard scratches lightly against your skin, rough in a way that makes you more aware of it, not less. He stills for half a second—then responds, mouth softer than you expected, hand hovering like he hasn’t decided where it’s allowed to land. 

Your teeth catch his bottom lip briefly. That’s what does it.

“Starting without me?” Jack’s voice cuts in, dry. “Bit mean.”

Robby pulls back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—even though—

Even though.

You smile a little, letting go of his wrist as he clears his throat.

“Next to the fridge,” Jack adds, nodding toward the bottles.

Robby nods once, wordless, moving past him.

Their shoulders brush as he goes. Not accidental. Jack doesn’t move out of the way.

He watches Robby for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at you.

You end up on the couch.

It happens naturally—plates abandoned in the sink, TV flicked on for noise more than anything else. Some late-night rerun playing low in the background, colours shifting across the room, low lamps lighting the room.

Jack’s in the middle, halfway through some story from work—one of those cases that stuck with him. Complicated, strange, the kind he can’t quite let go of.

You’re tucked into his side, knees curled under you, your hand idly playing at the back of his neck—fingers brushing through his hair, absent, familiar. You nod along, half-listening, more focused on the rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him.

Robby’s behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your back, even before his hand settles on your thigh—slow, absent movement, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.

Up. Down. Not pushing. Not asking. Just there.

Jack keeps talking.

You lean in without really thinking about it—your lips brushing along his jaw, then just below it. Light. Familiar. Not rushed.

Jack’s hand comes up to your lower back automatically, pulling you in a fraction closer, steadying you there.

Robby’s hand doesn’t stop. If anything, it shifts—just slightly higher, fingers brushing warmer skin now where the fabric gives way.

Jack feels it. His hand stills for a second at your back—then relaxes again.

He doesn’t pull you away. Doesn’t say anything. You exhale softly against his neck, your breath warm there, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest behind him.

And for a second—just a second—you’re aware of both of them at once.

Jack in front of you, steady, grounding. Robby behind you, quieter, heavier—watching more than speaking.

Jack’s gaze lifts. Meets Robby’s. There’s a beat. Not long. But long enough. Something passes between them—wordless, measured. Something you can’t read.

Jack gives the smallest nod. Barely there. Robby’s jaw shifts slight. Then Jack looks back at you.

Your hand slides from his neck to his jaw, turning him slightly, and you kiss him properly this time—slow, deliberate. He leans into it without hesitation, one hand firm at your waist.

When you pull back, it’s not far. Just enough. Just long enough to turn.

Robby’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not really. Just watching. You close the distance like it’s nothing—like it’s always been this simple—and kiss him too.

Different. Not softer, not harder—just new. Testing. His hand stills on your thigh for half a second before it shifts, coming up to steady at your side, like he’s grounding himself in it.

There’s a quiet breath from him—almost a huff, almost disbelief.

“This is fun,” You murmur.

You don’t give him time to overthink it.

You lean back between them again, tipping your head slightly, and they follow without being told.

Jack’s mouth finds one side of your neck, familiar, certain.

Robby hesitates for a fraction of a second— then doesn’t.

The other side. Slower. More deliberate. Like he’s learning something he’s not used to having.

You exhale, a soft sound you don’t quite hold back this time, and your hands come up instinctively—one finding Jack’s hair, the other Robby’s, fingers threading through both, holding them there.

For a second, it stays like that. Balanced.

Then you shift, just slightly—hands tightening, guiding as you move the two of them, their lips almost naturally coming to find one anothers, moving them like ken dolls, before you drop your hands, watching with a small smile, as Robby's immediacy for control goes against Jack's. Robby’s hand deepening into your thigh, grip tight as he kisses Jack.

Jack pulls back first, breath uneven but still controlled, his eyes flicking to yours like he’s checking in—like he always does.

His hand slides up your spine, slower now, deliberate where it had been absent before. His palm is cool against your overheated skin, the contrast making you shiver as it traces upward, then back down again, lingering just enough to feel intentional.

You lean back into him, lips finding his neck again—dragging slowly over the roughness of his skin, the faint scrape grounding, familiar. You press a little firmer this time, less thought, more instinct.

When you pull back, it’s only barely. Your breath catches—not dramatic, just… aware. Of him. Of Robby. Of both.

Jack’s hand presses more firmly into your back, keeping you close, steadying you like he can feel the shift too.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low, softer than before. “Feeling needy?”

You nod against him, answering with your mouth instead—kissing along his jaw now, slower, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he exhales, a quiet sort of understanding in it. “I know, hon.” A beat. Then, quieter—“You want me, or him?”

You hesitate. Not long—but long enough to matter.

Robby’s hand shifts on your thigh, moving from the outside to your inner thigh, firm but unhurried, easing you open just slightly—testing, not taking. Waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

“It’s alright,” Jack starts, voice still calm, like he’s talking you through something he already trusts. “Go ahead. She likes it when you—”

“—I’ll ask you for help if I need it, alright?” Robby cuts in, low and even.

They exchange a look—brief, sharp, understood.

You lean over, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jack’s cheek—something sweet, grounding—before shifting your weight and climbing into Robby’s lap.

He stiffens for a second. Just a second.

Robby’s always been hard to read. Time’s etched itself into his face, but there’s still that wall there—something held back, something controlled. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s you. His best friend’s girl, sitting on him like this—close, warm, curious.

“You okay there, Sasquatch?” you tease, tilting your head up at him.

His hands find your thighs again almost immediately, like muscle memory kicking in. His gaze flicks—down, over you, then back to your eyes. Briefly to Jack. Then back again.

“Sasquatch? Really?” he murmurs, one hand moving up to cup your breast through your top. His palm is warm against you, sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“Beard, tall… same thing, no?” you shrug lightly.

That earns the faintest hint of a smirk.

“She always cracking jokes before getting fucked?” Robby asks, giving your breast a firm squeeze. His other hand slides lower, ghosting over your stomach before cupping your mound through your panties

“Depends,” Jack admits. “One time I got G.I Joe for an hour.”

“He was in uniform, in my defense,” You defend, brief before you try moving your hips over Robby’s fingers, eager. “Come on, Michael.” 

Robby's fingers press harder against your core, rubbing slow, firm circles that have you arching into him, a sweet whine escaping your lips, his eyes enamoured with how your mouth parts, breath warm against him. 

“What a cute noise you make, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs. “Ask me nicely now.”

You hesitate, desperate as his fingers continue to move achingly slow over your wetness.

“Ask or I give Jack my hand right now instead and you can wait your turn for another hour,” Robby tells, voice low and soft, not looking away from where his fingers glide over your seeping core.

“Please,” you murmur, voice breathy and desperate. “Please fuck me with your fingers.”

You crash your lips to his—harsh, messy, tongues thrusting quick and slick, his beard scraping rough red trails across your cheeks and chin. He growls low into your mouth, yanking your panties aside with brutal force, calloused fingertips dragging through your dripping folds, parting your lips wide before ramming two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your clenching pussy—no mercy, no prep.

You gasp ragged into the kiss, a high-pitched moan ripping free as your lips break away, saliva trailing shiny strings from his mouth to yours. You latch onto his neck, teeth grazing the salty skin, sucking hard as you grind down fierce onto his invading digits—walls squeezing tight around the stretch, juices flooding hot over his palm.

“Move your fingers toward her ventral,” Jack instructs from the side, voice calm but edged with that teasing know-it-all tone, his hand sliding warm along your spine.

Robby exhales sharp through his nose—mild irritation flashing in his eyes at the unasked advice, jaw clenching as he shoots Jack a quick, heated glare. But he curls his fingers obediently upward inside you, knuckles grinding rough along your front wall to hammer your g-spot precise and relentless. Your moan swells louder, body jolting as fresh gushes of slick coat his hand, pussy slurping obscenely around each pump.

“Christ, you’re making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Huh?” Robby rasps, voice gravel-thick with mean delight, eyes locked on the filthy sight—your swollen pussy lips gliding and sucking greedily over his plunging fingers, riding them frantic. 

He twists his wrist sharp, scissoring the digits wide to pry your hole open, thumb mashing down hard on your throbbing clit with every brutal thrust—wet schlicks echoing loud, your thighs trembling slick against his forearm, arousal trickling warm down to soak his jeans.

He adds a third finger suddenly, forcing the burn deeper, stretching your cunt taut as he moves, hooking mercilessly on that spongy spot. 

“You getting close?” He asks, low and rough, listening closely to your moans, how they become pitchier, breathier, as sweet as Jack described. You nod, a loose yes, focused only on how your core winds up to the edge. “That right?”

Your cries pitch wilder, back arching as he pinches your clit between thumb and knuckle, rolling it rough while his fingers churn your insides, coil tight in your core.

“What else she like?” Robby asks Jack, glancing over at his friend now, fingers never slowing their rhythm inside you.

Jack taps his index and middle digit to his lips, nodding toward you. Robby nods back, hums at the sight of you, curious.

Robby yanks his fingers free abrupt—your pussy clenching empty, a whine tearing from your throat at the aching void, hips bucking needy for more. He brings those soaked digits up to your face, gripping your chin firm to still you, watching hungry as you part your lips instinctively. 

His fingertips tease your bottom lip, smearing your own cream glossy, before you suck them in deep—tongue swirling eager around the thick lengths, lapping every tangy drop, hollowing cheeks as saliva drips messy down your chin.

“Atta girl, you’re a fuckin’ mess now aren’t you?” Robby murmurs, gaze glued ravenous to your bobbing mouth, cock throbbing harder under you. “You wanna cum?”

You nod, frantic around his fingers, eyes pleading.

“Not yet,” Robby denies, voice almost gentle, yet harsh at once. “Barely seen what you can do.”

You exhale shaky as he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, trailing spit from your chin before cupping your whole face possessive, holding you locked on him.

“Go over to him. Make him feel good,” Robby orders, jerking his chin at Jack.

You nod, movements sluggish from the edge he left you on.

“On the floor, knees, now,” Robby snaps, voice brooking no argument.

You slide off his lap reluctant, crawling back to Jack beside him on the couch. He smiles soft at you, fingers threading gentle through your hair, cupping your cheek as he brushes strands aside, gaze roaming tender over your flushed skin.

“You alright there?” he asks nicely, thumb stroking your jaw.

You nod eager, hands diving straight to his sweatpants, palming the rigid bulge straining there—heat pulsing under your touch. 

You tug the waistband down, freeing his cock—thick shaft springing up heavy, veins bulging, head slick with pre-cum. Your fist wraps tight around the base, pumping slow firm strokes up to the tip, twisting slick over the crown to spread his leak.

Jack inhales sharp, but you drop fully to your knees between his spread thighs on the rug, the rough weave biting into your skin. You lean in, lips parting wide to swallow his cockhead first—tongue flicking the slit to lap salty pre, then sliding down inch by veiny inch, throat relaxing to take him deeper.

“Look pretty down there,” Jack murmurs with a small smile, hand light in your hair, just cradling.

“You’re so soft with her,” Robby remarks from beside, voice mixed with mocking and earnestness as he watches you work, his own tenting obvious.

Jack shrugs, a quiet groan escaping as you hollow your cheeks, sucking vacuum-tight while bobbing steady—saliva pooling at the corners of your stretched lips, dribbling down his balls. Your hand strokes what your mouth can't reach, twisting wet on the upstroke, tongue pressing flat along the underside to trace every ridge.

Robby's gaze burns hot—flicking over your arched back, your drool-slick chin, eyes that dart between Jack's tense face, Robby's hungry stare, then flutter shut as you deepthroat him full, nose burying in his pubes. He fixates on Jack's cock vanishing slick between your lips, throat bulging visible. Then up to Jack, whose fingers grip tighter into your scalp—not shoving, just anchoring as his neck cords tense.

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack praises breathy, hips twitching minimal into your rhythm. 

Your moan vibrates around his length, humming deep to make him shudder, spit bubbling messy as you pop off to lick sloppy stripes up his shaft, sucking each ball into your mouth turn before plunging back down.

He groans low, head lolling back, “Fucking… perfect. So perfect, always.”

Tension crackles thicker between them—Jack's free hand drifts casual at first, then deliberate, palming Robby's thigh before cupping the massive bulge in his jeans, squeezing firm through denim. Robby stiffens, eyes meeting with Jack's, breath hitching as Jack rubs slow circles over the thick outline, thumb pressing the zipper ridge where pre darkens the fabric.

“You alright there, man?” Jack scoffs, a light smile. “Can’t handle it?”

It’s a challenge. It always is with them. Has been since they were twenty something.

Jack knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the tells. The slight tilt of Robby’s head, the way his weight shifts more onto one side, the flicker of something sharper behind his eyes. He’s seen that look in bars, in fights, in operating rooms when things went sideways.

Robby doesn’t back down from anything. Least of all him.

Then Robby exhales slowly, something almost like a laugh under it, eyes locking onto Jack’s—steady, unflinching.

“Oh, I can handle it just fine,” Robby agrees with his own smile. “Go ‘head.”

Jack groans at your relentless mouth—fast and wet, then slowing perfect against him—his hand stroking over Robby’s clothed cock, deliberate and slow, denim rasping under his palm. He leans in first, crashing his mouth to Robby's—sloppy, urgent, tongues battling fierce right above you, beards grinding rough, wet sucks and grunts filling the air. Jack's fingers knead Robby's bulge harder, unzipping halfway to delve inside, wrapping firm around the hot shaft through boxers.

You pull off Jack with a gasp, spit stringing from your lips to his glistening tip, replacing your mouth with your fist—pumping slick and steady along his veiny length, thumb swirling over the slit to smear pre-cum. Your eyes lock on their kiss, Jack's hand slowing on Robby as your thumb teases tentative over his own sensitive crown, tongue darting out to lap the edge of his slit.

“Oh fuck,” Jack moans into Robby’s mouth, breaking away to watch you lick him sweetly, hips bucking light into your grip.

Your free hand joins Jack’s on Robby’s cock, fingers overlapping his as Robby undoes his belt buckle with a metallic clink, shoving jeans and boxers down his thighs. His thick cock springs free. You spit thick into your palm, slicking it hot before gripping him base to tip, stroking in tandem with Jack—your hand twisting wet on the upstroke while his squeezes the root, veins pulsing under your combined pressure. 

Robby hisses through clenched teeth, thighs tensing as you both jerk him off rough, pre dribbling over knuckles, your mouth still working on Jack’s cock.

Jack's strokes on you falter to lazy pumps, his fist gliding easy over your saliva-lubed skin as he watches Robby swell thicker in your shared hold. “Fuck, feel that grip? She’s got hands made for this,” he rasps, voice husky, eyes dark on Robby's face.

Robby grunts approval, thrusting shallow into the double stroke. Jack pulls back suddenly, nodding down at you. “Let him feel how good your pretty mouth is, baby.”

You release Jack reluctant, his cock twitching angry-red in the cool air as he takes over—fist flying fast over his shaft, slick echoing. You shift on your knees, turning to Robby, who grips his base and taps the fat head heavy against your cheek—wet smacks on flushed skin, taunting drip of pre-painting streaks.

“Dreamt about this once,” he admits, voice low. “The way Jack described it, you’d think you have the mouth of an angel. That right? You an angel?” He wonders.

You lick your lips in anticipation, hand between your legs, fingers gliding over your folds.

“Oh, baby, you’re touchin’ yourself too?” Robby notices. “God, so desperate.”

“Seemed pretty desperate for my boyfriend there too,” You remark, not looking away from Robby’s gaze.

His jaw tightens. “He’s pretty good with his hand, but I think you can do better with your tongue.”

You part lips wide, tongue out flat as he slaps his cock deliberately across it, underside dragging salty over your tastebuds before shoving in brutal—half his length in one thrust, stretching your jaw. 

You gag wet but suck hollow, cheeks caving as you bob frantic, hand pumping the rest in sync. Saliva floods fast, bubbling down his sack as you swirl tongue under the ridge, hollowing deep to milk him. Your fingers are quick against your wetness, dripping between your thighs, your other hand planted at Robby’s thigh.

“Shit—yeah, like that,” Robby growls, free hand fisting your hair to guide rough, not forcing but controlling the pace—pulling you off to tap his cock on your tongue again, smearing spit and pre glossy before ramming back in. 

He fucks your face shallow, hips snapping precise, balls swinging to nudge your chin while Jack jerks himself faster beside, groans syncing with yours muffled around Robby's girth.

You sweep the underside of your tongue around Robby’s cock, soft wetness coating him, slow, then fast, hearing how Robby’s hand tightens harder in your scalp.

Jack leans close, breath ragged as his fist blurs over his cock, tip weeping steady. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Robby mutters, focused on your mouth, your eyes as they look up at him, wide, watery.

Your fingers slip between your thighs, dipping into your soaked pussy, rutting slow circles over your clit as you kneel between them, mouth stuffed full on Robby's cock. Spit drips messy down your chin, mixing with the slick from your own folds as you finger yourself deeper, chasing that tight coil building low in your belly.

“I’m good,” Jack rasps, eyes locked on your hand working your cunt, his fist pumping steady over his own cock. “Slow down, sweetheart.”

Your fingers comply, easing to lazy drags through your wetness, eyes flicking up to watch Jack slow his palm in sync, thumb circling his flushed tip. His free hand drifts back to Robby's thigh, squeezing hard muscle as he watches you deepthroat—throat bulging obscene with each plunge, gags turning wet and rhythmic.

Robby's taunts rumble gravel-deep: “Fucking hell, you gonna let me cum in that mouth, honey?” He pops free with a gasp, cock throbbing inches from your face, tapping insistent on your cheek—left, right, smearing sticky pre over flushed skin—before you dive back voluntary, nose grinding into his pubes as you swallow him full, humming vibration to wrench a guttural curse from his chest.

“She can take it,” Jack murmurs, voice thick. “Can you, baby? Come on, speak now.”

You moan muffled around Robby's girth, pulling off with a slick pop, resting your head against his still-clothed thigh as your fingers plunge back into your pussy, rutting frantic. “Mhm.” You kiss alongside his shaft, tongue tracing veins lazy, lips brushing hot skin.

“So damn sweet now,” Robby murmurs, hand loosening from your scalp to pet gentle through your hair, watching your fingers disappear knuckle-deep. “That feel good?”

You nod against his thigh, licking slow stripes up his cock, pumping your pussy deliberate—thumb flicking your clit, hips rocking into your hand, edge creeping close, breath hitching sharp.

“No more of that, alright?” Robby nods down, eyes sharp on your body. “Yeah? You listening?”

You groan, fingers curling harder inside yourself. “Fuck you—you wanna cum, I get to cum too.”

Robby tilts his head, that piercing look—the one Jack knows spells trouble, before ripping into a resident. Jack nearly laughs, slowing his strokes to a tease. “Not how it works,” Robby says flat, voice dropping steel.

You glance at Jack, pleading.

“Don’t look at him,” Robby orders, tone snapping stricter, hand fisting your hair tight to force your gaze back. You gulp, thighs clenching empty as you pull your fingers free, pussy clenching needy on nothing. “Put both hands behind your back if you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ brat.”

Reluctant, you clasp your hands behind you, knees aching on the floor, tits heaving with each breath. Robby nods approval, gripping his base to feed his cock back past your lips—slow at first, letting you savor the stretch, then thrusting deeper as you hollow cheeks vacuum-tight.

Your tongue flattens under his shaft to lap the frenulum relentlessly, swirling wet around the head on every upstroke before slamming down throat-deep, gag reflex crushed to nothing. Saliva floods obscenely, bubbling at the corners of your mouth, dripping strings to his balls as you bob frantic—suction pulling groans from his gut, nose buried in coarse hair, throat milking him like a fist. 

You hum constant vibration, eyes watering up at him, popping off to spit thick on his length before sucking one ball then the other into your mouth, rolling tongue heavy before plunging back down full.

“Jesus Christ—yeah, there we go…” Robby snarls, hips snapping erratic, free hand clamping your nape to hold you buried as his cock swells impossibly thicker, balls drawing tight. 

He floods your mouth suddenly—hot spurts painting your tongue thick and salty, cock pulsing ropes down your throat as you swallow greedily around him, not spilling a drop. He rides it out shallow thrusts, groaning ragged until spent, pulling free with a wet schlick.

“Fuck,” he pants, watching your tongue swipe clean over his softening head, lapping the last beads from his slit.

You fall back onto your heels, knees throbbing, core dripping wet and aching empty down your thighs. Swallowing his load thick, you stand shaky, and lean down to Robby, core exposed from your barely there nightgown. You grab him by his jaw, fingers at his chin, watching as his hand catches your wrist.

You smile at that. “Go on,” Your fingers linger near his mouth, covered with your wetness. “Jack prefers the real deal. You shy all of a sudden, Mikey?”

Robby reluctantly opens his mouth, trying and tasting your wetness, sucking your fingers clean.

“Atta boy,” You say sarcastically, moving them out of his mouth. “You think you can still fuck me, old man?” You whisper.

“Watch it,” Robby murmurs.

“You can, in the corner, while Jack finally makes me cum.” You whisper. “Jack,” you grab Jack’s hand, walking away with him as Jack follows suit behind you.

“Up and at it,” Jack tells Robby over his shoulder as he follows you.

“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters, taking a second before following after.

You hum satisfied, leading them stumbling to the bedroom, the air electric behind you.

In the dim glow, you strip your nightgown overhead, leaving ruined panties—crotch soaked dark—and a lacey bra barely containing your tits. Their eyes burn hot as you climb onto yours and Jack's bed, kneeling center.

Jack follows instant, standing at the edge, hands cupping your jaw rough-tender, leaning down to crash his mouth to yours—passionate and devouring, tongue fucking deep to taste Robby's cum lingering salty. You moan into it, hand snaking to grip his cock again, stroking firm base-to-tip.

Behind Jack, Robby's hands roam his back, trailing firm over shirt fabric before gripping the hem, yanking it up and off in one pull. Jack moans muffled into your kiss when your fist pumps faster, hips bucking into your grip, but he breaks away gasping as cool air hits his bare chest.

Robby presses close from behind, chest flush to Jack's back, beard scraping his shoulder as lips latch onto Jack's neck—sucking a mark deliberate.

“Baby, lie down for me,” Jack instructs.

You nod, lying down on your back, knees spread apart like second nature. He tilts his head, as Robby’s lips trail over his skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” Robby echoes Jack's earlier words, hand meeting at his cock briefly, feeling Jack stiffen and inhale sharply at that. “You gonna make your girl cum, or do I have to do that?”

“Fuck off,” Jack murmurs. “Go sit in a corner and wait, or somethin’,” Jack mutters, hands dragging you by the underside of your knee, gently towards the edge as he kneels on the bed, as Robby steps back with a chuckle.

“Think I got her ready, though, so, shouldn't take long,” Robby says. “Unless you’re not as skilled as you’ve been bragging to be.”

“Oh, my god, one of you make me cum or else I’m doing it myself, Jesus,” you whine.

“Oh, baby,” Jack murmurs, kissing at your inner thighs. “I’m leaving you waiting here.”

“She’s being a brat. Have some patience, honey,” Robby insists, tilting his head at you in mock. “But she’s right, hurry up, Abbot, Christ.”

Jack swipes his tongue along your core, and you moan, your wetness ready and eager from Robby's fingering and your own arousal. He licks slow and firm, teasing your sensitive flesh. 

Robby watches from the side, his cock still tucked away in his jeans, as he observes you writhing under Jack's talented tongue. His expression is heated, hungry, clearly enjoying the show. 

"Mmm...you look like a-" you moan, too lost in sensation to finish the thought. "A fucking nun, Michael," you finally manage, nodding towards his henley. "You aren't hot in that? Take it off already, fuck," 

Robby clicks his tongue, a light roll of his eyes. "You could ask me nicely. Here I thought you were so polite and sweet," he chides.

Jack’s tongue is a relentless, wet invasion, fucking into you with a rhythm that steals your breath. You clench around him, a tight, pulsing grip, your fingers tangled in his silver curls, thighs locked around his head like a vise. 

Your eyes stay fixed on Robby’s as he discards his shirt, the fabric whispering to the floor. The snick of his belt sliding free from the loops makes you tighten your legs around Jack even more, a shiver of anticipation racing up your spine, as Jack laps at your pussy.

“Wider,” Jack grunts, his voice muffled against your pussy. He pushes your thighs apart with his hard biceps, one big hand splayed over your hipbone, pinning you down. “Stop squirming. Take it.”

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches, arms folded over his bare chest. He looks like a professor observing a dissection—calm, analytical, utterly in control. “How close are you?” he asks, his tone clinical.

“Mm, close,” you manage, the words breaking on a moan as Jack’s tongue flicks hard over your clit.

“You make such pretty sounds. He was right about that,” Robby hums, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, sweetly, but his brow is furrowed, his gaze intense. “Callin’ me a nun, and you still got this thing on, honey.” He hooks a finger under the strap of your bra and flicks it sharply against your skin, a sting of sensation.

Jack’s tongue plunges deep again, and you arch off the bed, a choked cry leaving your lips. Your eyes don’t leave Robby’s as his hand slides down, cupping your breast through the lace. He admires the weight, the shape, his fingers tracing the curve.

“Want me to fuck you first, or GI Joe there?” Robby recalls, a smirk playing on his lips. 

He doesn’t miss the way your mouth curves in a smile, even as your eyelids flutter shut. Jack quickens his pace, his hands now gripping your thighs like he’s holding you together.

You’re too close, teetering on that blinding edge. Words are impossible.

“Answer me,” Robby instructs, his voice dropping low and stern. His hand kneads your breast, then slips inside the cup of your bra, his fingers finding your nipple. He rolls it, pinches it just shy of pain. “Who do you want first?”

“You,” you gasp, the answer torn from you instinctively, desperately.

Robby’s smirk widens. “You hear that, Abbot? I get to break her in first.” He doesn’t look away from you as he says it.

He leans down, his hand sliding between your legs. Jack pulls back without a word, letting Robby’s fingers trail through your soaked folds, delivering a slap to your clit. You shiver violently, a string of high, needy moans escaping as he collects your wetness on his fingertips. He brings them back to your mouth, his other hand still working your nipple.

“I was right,” you murmur, breathless. “Knew you’d be mean.”

“Yeah? You like it?” Robby wonders, though he already knows.

You bite your lip, refusing to answer.

He pushes his wet fingers past your lips, pulling your jaw open with a firm pressure. The look he gives you is pure command—dark, expectant. Obey.

“I like it,” you moan around his fingers, the admission almost reluctant. Your grip tightens in Jack’s hair. “Fuck—I’m gonna—oh fuck—”

“Yeah?” Robby hums, petting your hair now, his other hand still at your breast. He watches your mouth hang open, watches the pleasure wreck you. “Eyes on me. Come on. No, no. No closing them. You keep ’em right here.” His gaze holds yours captive. “Good girl… good girl, aren’t you? Bratty, but you just needed to cum a little, isn’t that right?”

You whimper as Jack’s tongue sweeps over your oversensitive clit one last time, lapping up your juices as you shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and convulsing, your body bowing off the bed as you cry out.

“Good job, baby. Fucking hell,” Jack mutters against your thigh, his voice rough with praise. 

He comes up your body, his hand replacing Robby’s on your breast, kneading possessively. His lips find yours in a messy, wet kiss, tasting of you. Tongues swiping, teeth clashing briefly as you chuckle into the kiss, wet and sloppy as he moves to your neck, sucking hard around your jaw, yoru neck, hand trailing over your figure, squeezing, gentle, rough all at once.

“My favourite girl in the world, you know that,” he murmurs against your skin, kissing at your collarbone.

You grin, feeling as Robby captures your mouth with his own, a brief pause as he watches Jack worship your figure. Jack slides a finger over your core, feeling as your back arches, how you gasp into Robby’s mouth.

“You aren’t a brat, are you baby?” Jack murmurs, rubbing tight circles at your clit, hearing how you whimper at the feeling, fresh from your orgasm. “No, honey, not for me, isn’t that right? Yeah, I know, I know… my sweet girl,” He replaces Robby’s mouth with his own, dragging over yours as you nod into the kiss. 

“Told you. Lover boy,” Robby remarks to you.

You grin into the kiss, before Jack pulls away and naturally seems to find Robby’s lips.

You watch, a strange heat pooling in your belly, watching as Jack immediately leans in and kisses Robby. It’s harsh and sweet all at once—a clash of teeth and soft sighs. You thought you might feel a spike of jealousy, but instead, a warm, possessive pride swells in your chest. 

Robby stands, briefly cupping Jack’s jaw in a gesture that’s both dismissal and affection before pushing him gently aside. Jack moves from between your legs, sprawling onto his back on the bed. Robby’s hands are on your waist, and you yelp in surprise as he manhandles you with effortless strength, flipping you onto your stomach.

He drags your ruined panties down over your ass, off your legs, and sends them flying to a corner of the room with a flick of his wrist. Your bra is next; he unclips it with one practiced hand, and the lace joins the panties.

“Ass up, sweetheart,” Robby instructs, his voice thick. He lands a sharp, stinging tap on your bare ass cheek. He has one knee on the bed, the other foot planted on the floor.

You obey, pushing yourself up onto your knees and elbows. Jack is lying in front of you now, his gaze heated. You reach for his prosthetic leg, helping him with the quick-release mechanism. Robby hands you the second one without a word—a seamless, understood exchange. Jack kisses you, sweet and grateful, as he sets the limb aside.

"That's it," Robby mutters, positioning himself behind you. You feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance, teasing, and then he thrusts forward in one brutal, seamless motion.

Filling you so completely the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. He sets a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving you forward toward Jack.

Robby inhales sharply at the feeling of you. You adjust to him, moan loud and silent all at once at the feeling.

“Shit,” Robby mutters. “Fuckin’ hell, you know much Jack’s raved about this pussy? Callin’ it the treasure of the fucking ocean.”

His hands grip your hips like anchors, fingernails digging into your soft flesh as he sets a merciless rhythm—pounding into you with a force that drives your body forward with each impact, making the headboard knock rhythmically against the wall. “Perfect fucking pussy, sweetheart, you know that?”

You moan at his words, clenching even tighter around him. 

“How the fuck do you leave home, Jack— Jesus Christ,” Robby says as he quickens his pace slightly, watching as your ass moves from the harsh contact of his hips against you.

“Life or death, and that’s it,” Jack says. 

“Come on, give him some love, kid,” Robby tells.

Jack’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach. You lean down, taking him into your mouth, swallowing him deep. He groans, his hands coming up to cradle your head. “Fuck, just like that,” he rasps.

You’re split between them—Robby fucking into you from behind with deep, possessive strokes, and Jack’s length hitting the back of your throat. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Robby’s hips slap against your ass, the sound filthy and wet. 

“You like being used like this baby?” Jack wonders, your moans vibrating against him. 

You don’t answer, focused on the sensation of Robby’s cock harsh within you.

“He asked you a question,” Robby pants, moving his hand to your hair, tight as you look up at Jack, watery eyed.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. 

“See? Not so hard,” Robby groans.

Jack smiles a bit at that, caressing your face as you occupy your mouth with Jack’s cock. He groans. The taste of salt and heat floods your tongue as you take him deep, your lips stretching around his girth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you bob your head, letting him feel every ridge of your throat as you swallow him down. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and he groans, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Just like that… Just like that," Jack chokes out, his head falling back as his hips buck up involuntarily, his hand tightening on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, forcing your mouth wider, and you feel every ridge and vein of his cock sliding deeper down your throat. "Come on now, so close."

The words vibrate through you, but before you can double down, Robby leans over your arched back, his chest sweaty and hot against your spine, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Make him wait."

You pull off Jack's cock with a wet pop, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum stretching between your lips and his glistening tip before breaking. Jack's frustrated groan cuts through the room, his hips twitching in empty air.

"Fuck off, Mike," Jack growls, but his hand remains gentle in your hair, fingers stroking through the sweat-damp strands as you whimper from the brutal pace behind you. 

Robby's cock is driving into you with relentless accuracy, the head of him hitting that deep, spongy spot inside you with every thrust, sending electric jolts through your core. Your inner walls flutter and clench around him, helpless against the assault.

"You gonna be a brat too, then?" Robby says, shooting a lighthearted glare at Jack over your shoulder. 

Before Jack can retort, you clench down hard around Robby's shaft, a desperate whine escaping your throat. Robby's rhythm stutters for half a second, a low curse spilling from his lips. "Fucking—hell, god, doll. You are so goddamn tight, y'know that?"

His pace becomes brutal, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the angle punishing. His balls slap wetly against your clit with every impact, the sound filthy and rhythmic. You feel the slick heat of your own arousal coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs with every punishing stroke. 

"She's close," Jack murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. 

You shift forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his stomach, your tongue tracing the soft lines of his abs, tasting salt and skin, over the light freckles. You moan into his flesh, the vibration making his muscles jump, and then his palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, holding you warmly.

"Look at you," Jack whispers, his eyes dark and soft at once. "So beautiful like this. Taking us both. You're doing so well, baby."

“Go ahead, cum,” Robby growls into your ear, his hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. He rubs tight circles against the swollen nub while he continues to pound into you, and the sensation is electric—each thrust driving his fingers harder against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Now.”

You moan around Jack’s cock as you break, your pussy clenching wildly around Robby’s thrusts. The convulsions milk him, and with a low groan, he buries himself to the hilt and pulses inside you, hot and deep.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead pressing against your shoulder blade, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum begin to seep from you. 

“Goddamnit,” Robby murmurs, a pant. 

Before you can even catch your breath, he spits into his palm, the sound crude and purposeful. He reaches down, slicking up Jack’s cock, which is already hard again and straining against his stomach. Jack groans, a deep, ragged sound at the touch.

“Your turn,” Robby tells him, his voice rough with use.

But instead of letting you face Jack, Robby guides you. His strong hands on your hips turn you, maneuvering your spent body until you’re straddling Jack, but facing away from him. Your back is to Jack’s chest, your ass pressed against his hips. You can feel Robby’s cum, warm and wet, slicking the way as you settle over Jack’s length.

Jack’s hands come to your hips, steadying you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but his voice is tight with need.

From the foot of the bed, Robby watches. He’s kneeling there now, his eyes dark and hungry, fixed on the place where your bodies move against one another, well practiced. Jack’s fingers slide between your legs, through the slick mess Robby left behind. He gathers it on his fingertips, his touch making you shiver, he brings those wet fingers to your lips.

You open for him, tasting Robby’s salty tang on Jack’s skin as he slips his fingers into your mouth. You moan around them, your tongue swirling. Jack’s eyes never leave Robby’s as he then pulls his fingers free, back to your cunt, a slight shudder once more, and brings them to his own lips, sucking them clean, tasting his best friend.

Robby watches this whole exchange, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Atta girl,” Jack pants against your ear, his hands tightening on your hips.

Then he guides you down, and you sink onto him with a broken cry. He fills you completely, the stretch delicious, the sensation of being stuffed so soon after your last climax making your head spin. You’re so sensitive it’s almost painful, a sweet, overwhelming ache.

You begin to move, rising and falling on his cock, finding a slow, grinding rhythm. Your hands brace on Jack’s thighs behind you for leverage. The angle is deep, each descent hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

“That’s it,” Jack encourages, his voice a rasp in your ear. His hands roam your body—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, thumbing your nipples.

You increase your pace, bouncing on him, the wet sounds of your joining filling the room. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Eyes open, sweetheart.”

Robby’s command cuts through the haze. Your eyes snap open. He’s moved closer, kneeling right beside the bed now, his face level with where you’re joined with Jack. He’s watching every slide, every glide, his expression one of rapt fascination.

“Look at you,” Robby murmurs, his voice thick. “Takin’ him so well."

His praise fuels you. You lean more back, hands coming up behind you to Jack, angle pushing him even deeper, as you whimper, sharp gasps, teetering on the edge again.

“Baby, I’m gonna cum,” Your moan, soft.

“Fucking- shit, go ahead, honey, cum f’me,” he moans. 

Your orgasm crests, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body tightens. You clench around Jack, a series of violent, fluttering spasms that milk his length.

Jack curses, his hips bucking up into you. “Fucking—just like that—”

As you’re pulsing around him, Robby leans in. He captures Jack’s mouth in a sudden, fierce kiss over your shoulder. You can hear the wet slide of their lips, the soft grunts and sighs. It’s raw and intimate, and it sends another shockwave of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves.

Robby breaks the kiss. “Lift up for a second, kid,” he breathes against your skin.

Dazed and pliant, you raise yourself up, Jack’s slick cock sliding almost all the way out of you. Robby’s hand replaces you, wrapping around Jack’s shaft. He gives him a few rough, efficient strokes, his thumb smearing the pre-cum beaded at the tip.

“Missed the taste of you,” Robby mutters to Jack, his eyes locked on his friend’s face as he works him.

Jack just groans, his head thrown back, his hands gripping your thighs. Then Robby guides you back down, easing you onto Jack’s cock until you’re fully seated once more, stuffed to the brim.

“Go ahead, finish,” Robby growls, his command for both of you.

You begin to move again, a slow, rolling grind now, utterly spent but driven by the need to feel Jack lose control. He’s close—you can feel the tension in his body, the way his breath hitches.

“Come on, Jack,” Robby urges softly, his hand returning to your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. “Fill her up. Give her what she needs.”

That does it. With a shattered cry, Jack’s hips piston up once, twice, and then he stills, buried deep inside you as he comes. You feel the hot pulses of his release joining Robby’s already there, flooding you.

Jack kisses at your shoulder blades, near your neck, as you relax your body entirely, shaky breaths with your back against his chest. His arm coming around you automatically, instinctive, like it always does. His hand slides up your arm, slow, grounding, fingers brushing your shoulder, your collarbone—checking, not asking out loud but asking anyway. 

Robby puts a hand to your jaw, tapping your cheeks lightly with his fingers, watching as your eyes lazily find his.

“You alright?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it’s been all night.

“Mhm,” You nod, catching your breath.

“There she is,” Jack murmurs against you, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering there a second longer than usual.

Robby doesn’t move right away.

He’s sitting beside you both, elbows on his knees, head tipped slightly forward, breathing steadier now—but there’s something in his posture, something looser than before. The edge is gone. Or at least… dialed down.

You shift, peeling yourself gently from Jack, turning toward Robby. For a second, there’s that flicker—uncertainty, maybe. Not doubt. Just… recalibration.

Then you lean in and kiss him. It’s different now. Slower. Softer. No urgency behind it.

Robby’s hand comes up to the back of your head, not guiding, not demanding—just holding you there, thumb brushing lightly at your hairline. He exhales through his nose, a quiet thing, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding onto something.

When you pull back, you stay close.

“Hey,” you say, softer.

“Hey,” he echoes.

Jack watches the two of you. His hand still rests low on your back, thumb moving in slow, absent circles like it always does when he’s settling you.

Jack kisses gently at your bare back, “Be right back,” he murmurs against you, before you hear him leave the bed, putting on his temporary prosthetic. 

You hear him leave, pulling away from Robby who watches Jack as he leaves the room, headed for the hall.

You groan and flop onto the bed, Robby moving the blanket over you, maybe suddenly prudeish as he picks up presumably Jack’s shirt and hands it to you. You hum, put it on.

“Jesus,” you murmur, voice soft, wrecked. “I think my legs might actually fall off.”

That gets a quiet huff out of Robby.

He’s sitting up at the edge of the bed now, dragging a hand down his face, then through his hair. He looks… different, a little. Looser. The usual edge sanded down.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Think you’ll live.”

You glance over at him, managing a small smile.

He’s already reaching for his boxers, pulling them back on, movements unhurried. The gold chain at his neck catches the low light—the Star of David resting against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. There’s something grounding about it. Familiar. Normal.

There’s a beat.

Then, softer—

“…You good?” You ask.

He turns your head toward you. “Yeah.” He thinks for a moment, a shake of his head as he lets himself admit– “Needed that. Needed to be… not alone, I think.”

You watch him for a second—something thoughtful in your expression.

“That something you’d wanna do again or is this a one and done situation?” You wonder earnestly, rolling onto your side as you look up at him. “

Robby doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at you—really looks, like he’s trying to figure out what the question actually means underneath what you asked.

Your hair’s a mess, Jack’s shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes soft but steady on him. Hickies across your neck. Not fragile. Not asking for reassurance. Just… asking.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“…You always this direct after something like that?” he mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m an ortho resident. I don’t have time for interpretive dance.”

That almost gets a smile out of him. He exhales, leaning back more fully, one hand rubbing absently at his chest like he’s trying to settle something under the surface.

“It’s not—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “It’s not really a ‘one and done’ kind of question.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why not?”

He glances at the door—where Jack disappeared—then back at you.

Because Jack’s not just some guy. Because this isn’t just sex. Because there’s history here that predates you by decades and still manages to feel unfinished. Because he already feels it sitting somewhere in his chest, heavy.

You seem to pick up where his head is at, a nod. “Do you have… like, real feelings for him? Or me?”

Robby scoffs a chuckle. “I don’t have time to think about that.”

“Just time to fuck us though. Well, not Jack, sure he’ll give me a complaint about that later.” You murmur.

Robby smiles a bit. “You two are… perfect for each other. I still don’t get how he found you.”

“I don’t know either, to be honest,” You admit. “But he cares about you. Like a lot. And so do I. And it’s not just because your dick is great, promise. You’re always welcome with us, whether its sex, comfort, food, all three. We aren’t picky people.”

“Picked up on that,” Robby nods, quieter now. “What are your plans? With him, I mean. He mentioned something about marriage.”

You smile a little—more to yourself than anything—your hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to your left ring finger.

“No idea,” you admit. “However long he wants me around, I guess.”

Robby huffs a soft breath, leaning back against the headboard. “Well, if age’s anything to go by, you’ve got a good couple of years.”

You smack his arm lightly. “You’re literally older than him.”

“I’m not marrying you,” Robby shoots back, deadpan.

“You’re an ass,” you sigh.

That earns you a small smile.

The door opens.

Jack steps back in, towel slung over his shoulder, a glass of water already in hand. He pauses just inside, taking in the room in one sweep—quick, practiced. You, curled on your side in his shirt. Robby at the edge of the bed, quieter than usual.

“My leg’s killing me,” Jack mutters, like it’s an afterthought, already moving back toward the bed.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, frowning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, dismissive in that way he gets, like pain’s just background noise. He hands you the glass. “Drink.”

You take it, still watching him. “You say that about everything.”

“Because everything’s fine.”

Robby snorts under his breath. “Yeah. That’s a healthy coping mechanism.”

Jack shoots him a look as he sits down, stretching his leg out carefully. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to compare notes?”

Robby raises his brows. “Not particularly.”

Then Jack exhales, leaning back into the headboard. His hand finds your thigh automatically—absent, grounding, like he needs the contact without thinking about it.

His gaze flicks between the two of you, lingering on Robby for half a second longer than necessary.

“What’d I miss?” he asks.

You shift, settling back into him, your cheek brushing his shoulder. “Marriage.”

Jack huffs. “One night with my girl and you’re already trying to steal her? Alright. Good to know.”

Robby lets out a quiet chuckle.

“With you, idiot,” you correct.

Jack glances down at you. “Oh, him and I are getting married now?”

You roll your eyes and, just to be difficult, shift toward Robby instead—curling lightly into his side.

It lasts all of two seconds.

Jack’s arm hooks around you and pulls you straight back against him.

“Relax,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there against his chest.

Robby watches that, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles again.

Robby stays the night.

Not in the same way—there’s a natural rhythm to it. He gives you and Jack space without being asked, drifting out into the living room, the quiet murmur of the TV carrying faintly down the hall. At one point you hear the balcony door slide open, then shut again.

He’s not intrusive. Never has been.

But he doesn’t leave, either.

if u havent read it, i'd recommend reading my (wo)man on willpower! this is a spin off of that, i suppose. focuses more on jack x reader, though. :D

a/n: girls i have another like 700 words i had that as a short scene of santos speculating why u didnt make it to her paris party (oh my god im so funny paris because threesome haha i know right, please dont click off this), and i might post that later, but my ao3 will get the full thing if u wanna just see what it was. the 1000 block limit on tumblr genuinely my opp fr.

"Good morning," a singsong voice spreads through the room.

Samira turns her head to see you walking towards her with two paper cups in hand, one outstretched in her direction as soon as you're within reach.

"Good morning! What's this?"

She gently grabs the drink from you and takes a sip, eyelids fluttering shut as she savors the taste of perfectly made tea. When she opens her eyes a moment later to thank you, she sees that you're already looking at her with a soft smile and nervous eyes, breath catching in her throat.

"Good?"

It takes a moment for her to register your question, eyes darting in every direction but yours before she clears her throat. "Yes! It's perfect, thank you."

That’s been happening more and more frequently as of late; you'd give her a big smile or laugh at something she said and her stomach would flip a certain way. She had been concerned at first, not having felt anything like it before, but she soon realized that it didn't feel unpleasant, only...different.

"Whew, okay, I was nervous 'cause I tried making it exactly how you do, but the break room was out of your usual sweetener so—"

"You know my usual sweetener?"

You feel as if you've been caught doing something wrong, but a simple shrug is all you give her before saying, "I've seen you make it a few times now. I figured it would give you a couple extra minutes to talk to your first patient before Robby starts nagging you."

Samira stands there stunned for a couple seconds, lips parting and eyebrows furrowing in amazement. "That's so thoughtful."

Bumping her shoulder with yours, you shoot her a wink and a smile before grabbing a tablet and heading down the hall to check on your own patients. "What are friends for, right?"

Right. Friends.

Which is exactly what you are, she reminds herself.

When you first started working here almost a year ago, your friendly, infectious personality was a welcome change of pace among the team, and you quickly became the glue everyone could rely on to deal with difficult patients or just be a listening ear. You and Trinity had gotten close right away, finding out you were both lesbians making for immediate camaraderie, and that led to other members of the staff, namely Victoria, Mel, and Whitaker, also coming out.

That left Samira as the odd man out of your little group, but no one seemed to mind, always making sure to include her in your hangouts and constantly joking that every gay friend group needed a mandatory ally. That used to always get a laugh of agreement out of her, but the last couple months haven't felt the same, and she was having a difficult time pinpointing why.

The first half of the shift passes quickly, the staff working in a fluid, well-oiled manner and the main group of you finding time to chat amongst yourselves in between caring for patients. A few hours later, Samira walks into the break room and sees you laughing with Victoria, Mel and Whitaker.

"What are you guys talking about?" She questions with a smile, grabbing some water from the shared fridge. You offer her your bag of chips, waiting until she's grabbed a couple before responding. "We're trying to figure out our pride plans, I didn't realize it's already next weekend."

Samira makes a noise of surprise in the back of her throat, eyebrows raising at the admission as she leans against the counter. "Right! I forgot about that."

She notices that you're looking at her with a calculating gaze, head slightly cocked to the side. "Have any plans?"

Shaking her head, she swallows a mouthful of water before answering. "Nothing yet. To be honest, I've never actually...been to Pride before."

You and the others gasp, eyes going comically wide at the news. The reactions have the desired effect, making the curly headed woman laugh and shake her head fondly while softly telling you all to quiet down.

At that moment, Trinity walks in the room and asks what's going on. Once Victoria explains the conversation, the resident only shakes her head and claps a hand on Samira's shoulder.

"Honestly, don't even worry about it. Huckleberry's actually gay and he's never been."

Whitaker then snaps his head up from the sandwich he's currently stuffing into his mouth, a muffled, "How did you know that?" coming from his direction.

"Nebraska doesn't exactly seem like the pride capital of the world," Trinity tells him through a laugh.

Shrugging in defeated agreement, the man goes back to his lunch as you look at Samira and wait until she makes eye contact. "Well, we don't have anything specific locked in yet, but...do you want to go with us? We're gonna do all three days, head out Friday after we get off, Saturday go to the picnic then out to the club, and then probably the parade on Sunday. If you're down."

Samira thinks it over for a second, taking in the hopeful looks on everyone's face before nodding her head and saying, "Yeah." She quickly adds, "I'd like that."

That's all it takes for the rest of you to cheer, immediately switching to discussing outfits and where to meet. Samira finds herself unable to tear her eyes away from your grinning face, something curling in her gut at the thought of spending an entire weekend with you.

The next few hours pass by in a breeze, mostly filled with your friends coordinating plans and Samira trying to stay focused on her work. Towards the end of the shift, as she exits a patient's room, a hand shoots out to lightly grab her arm. Samira spins around, eyes widening in surprise as they land on you.

"Hey, can I borrow you for a sec?"

She nods in agreement, assuming it’s something patient related. It's not until you've steered her into an empty stairwell that she finally speaks, a nervous feeling creeping up her back. "What's up?"

"Uh, well..." You hesitate for a second, looking conflicted, before locking eyes with her and saying, "I just wanted to check in with you, see how you were feeling about the whole pride thing." Samira's brows scrunch together in confusion, mind racing to try and understand your train of thought until she sees that you're fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. "You know...since you've never been before. I just wanted to make sure you'd be comfortable and not, uh, overwhelmed or anything. Or like we were pressuring you into going, I know you're not generally one for going out, so if you don't want to, you don't have to."

The other woman blinks at you, brain taking a moment to process your words before a slow exhale leaves her. Suddenly, the concern you're showing for her seems to make a lot more sense. She lets out a soft chuckle and gives you a reassuring smile. "Are you worried about me?"

The question catches you off guard, and a warm feeling spreads through your cheeks. You shift uncomfortably on the spot, averting your gaze before admitting, "Well, yeah. I mean, it's gonna be a lot to take in, y'know?" Samira's smile softens even more, a fondness blossoming in her chest that she tries to ignore, instead focusing on the concern you're so freely displaying for her well-being.

"I'll be fine, I promise." She hesitates for just a moment before reaching out to give your hand a brief but firm squeeze, the contact sending a spark of electricity up her arm. "Besides, I'll have you all there with me, right?"

Her words cause your expression to immediately relax, any trepidation melting away at the trust in her eyes. The corner of your mouth quirks up into a crooked smile as you give her hand a quick squeeze back. "Yeah, of course. We'll take care of you."

Samira can't help the way her heart skips a beat at the reassurance, and she tries to distract herself by making a shooing gesture with her free hand. "Alright, alright, get back to work. Robby's probably about to bust a vein looking for us." You laugh at the comment, a bright, bubbly sound that goes straight to her head, but then you drop her hand and head back through the doorway, throwing a wave over your shoulder as you do.

The brunette takes a moment longer to linger in the stairwell, watching as your face lights up when Dana stops you to say something she can't make out through the window in the door. Shaking her head to clear it of those thoughts, she pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath before pushing past the same entrance, doing her best to ignore how she can still feel the sensation of your hand in hers.

The rest of that week and the next fly by, suddenly it's the Friday evening of Pride weekend and Samira is buzzing with anticipation as she knocks on the dark wooden door in front of her. Everyone had decided to stay over at your apartment for this weekend, for it was both the closest to the festivities they wanted to attend and had the most room. Mel was the only one not joining until Sunday, as she wasn't a fan of bars and felt bad being away from Becca for that many days.

A few seconds pass before the door swings inward to reveal you, clad in a comfy pair of shorts and loose t-shirt, skin still a bit damp from a seemingly recent shower. An excited “You made it!” reaches her ears, but Samira has to fight to keep her eyes from roaming over your form, swallowing hard and licking her suddenly dry lips before she finds her voice. "Hi. Is everyone else here already?"

"Nope, you're the first one." You engulf her in a hug that she barely reciprocates before pulling away and taking her bag from her, registering but not commenting on the death grip she has on it. "Come on in, I just finished cleaning up."

She follows you inside, eyes immediately traveling over the room and taking in every detail. It's exactly what she would have expected from you: cozy, comfortable, a bit eclectic, with a few books, journals, and personal projects lying around. Seeing this other side of you brings a soft smile to her face before she realizes it and schools her expression, instead focusing on you setting her bag down next to the couch.

"So," you start, standing up straight and clasping your hands together, "I was gonna wait 'til everyone got here to pick but I'll give you first dibs." Samira raises her eyebrows in anticipation of your next sentence.

"For sleeping arrangements, two people can fit on the couch, and I have a blowup mattress that fits one, I usually put it where the coffee table is." Nodding along, the other woman is doing the math in her head, noting that that's three spots so far for the four of them staying over. "And for whoever wants to, one person can sleep in the room with me." A wide smile rests on your lips as that statement causes the opposite reaction in Samira. "Pick wherever you feel comfortable, the couch and air mattress are super soft, I promise. I just figured since you're here early, I'd give you a heads up."

Her heartbeat quickens as she processes the options. The idea of sleeping in the same room as you is enough to make her palms sweaty, but the thought of crawling into bed next to you, mere feet away, has her stomach tied in knots. "Um..." she hesitates, clearing her throat to find her voice. "I think I'll just take the couch, if that's alright." It takes a lot more effort than she'd like to admit to keep her tone nonchalant.

With a nod and a simple, "Sounds good," you don't seem phased by her answer, and she finds herself confused at the slight feeling of disappointment she feels that you were just checking to see if she was comfortable and not trying to hint at anything. Your phone buzzes then, and you grab it from the table to check the message. "Oh, that's Whitaker! Him, Trinity, and Victoria will be here in a few minutes."

Heading into the kitchen, you begin laying out snacks before digging through the fridge and cabinet until you find what you're looking for, returning with a tall bottle of clear liquid and five shot glasses in hand, holding a finger in each of them. "You want anything to chase? I have limes and juice in the fridge."

"A lime is good for me, thanks." Samira raises an eyebrow as you place it all on the coffee table and begin to pour the drinks. "Wow, you really came prepared, huh?" She stands and moves closer, peering over your shoulder to get a better look, immediately recognizing the tequila's familiar scent.

"Yeah, of course, it's the first time everyone is over my place, I wanna make sure we all have a good time." You chuckle as you glance behind you, and the brunette swears there's a certain look in your eye as you do before there's a loud knock at the front door.

"That'll be the rest of them." As you pad over and swing it open, loud greetings ring down the hallway, Samira laying eyes on the trio and embracing them all as if they hadn't seen each other barely an hour ago.

"Now that we're all here,” you announce, “I think it's time for our first shot."

Whitaker and Victoria groan as Trinity cheers and slips her bag off her shoulder. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Samira can't hold back a chuckle at their antics, standing next to the couch and watching with amusement as the four of you follow and move around the coffee table with practiced ease. Her heart rate climbs as you grab the lime slice she asked for before rounding the furniture and standing in front of her, a lopsided smile on your face. "As requested."

She accepts the glass and lime with a small thanks, her hand brushing against yours in the process and leaving her fingers tingling. She's about to say something else when an arm loops around her shoulders, Trinity stepping up behind her and leaning in close, winking at her in a playful gesture. "Get ready Mohan, you're about to have the weekend of your life." She squeezes Samira to her side, an action that both distracts her from the anxiety growing in her chest and causes her excitement to rise.

By this time, you're across the table, shot glass raised in hand as everyone follows suit, waiting for you to lead the charge. "To us. Happy pride, guys." Resounding cheers fills the room and everyone downs their portion, a couple gags being heard, quickly followed by laughs from you and Trinity.

"Yikes." Samira quickly sticks the lime into her mouth and bites down, relieved when the citrus erases some of the bitter taste. Despite the initial burn, she can't help but let out a laugh at the reaction of the others, and her body automatically relaxes in Trinity's grasp.

"Wait." Everyone turns to look at the green eyed woman who is now pointing at you. "We need to decide who's sleeping where."

"Well, Samira already called dibs on the couch, so there's still another spot there, the air mattress, or the room with me."

"I got the bed!" Trinity immediately drops her arm from around Samira and moves to grab her bag, tossing it over her shoulder as she runs into the bedroom. Whitaker only sighs as he nods his head and mumbles, "Guess I'll take the couch again."

When Trinity returns moments later, she has her hands on her hips and a triumphant smile on her face. "That mattress is so fuckin' comfy, it's nicer than mine."

Everyone laughs at her statement, and Samira turns to Whitaker, eyebrow twitching. "You've been here before?" He simply nods, and Trinity jumps in to elaborate. "We've crashed more than once after a night out."

Samira lets out a forced laugh, a strange streak of jealousy hitting her as she fiddles with her hands, eyes finding their way to yours and finding that they're already staring back. Victoria must notice it, as she clears her throat and says, "I don't think we established yet; who's sleeping on the air mattress? "

"Mm, sounds like you, Crash." Trinity claps a hand on her shoulder with a faux sympathetic pout before Whitaker intervenes and offers to switch with her. "You can have the couch if you want, it's really comfy actually."

"Are you sure? Isn't the mattress kind of small for you?" Victoria objects, feeling bad for the man.

"I don't mind, I got used to it growing up, and I don't move in my sleep, so I'll be okay."

You let an easy smile cross your face at the interaction, watching as Whitaker makes his way over to the couch and takes a seat, testing out the cushion and giving a nod of approval.

"Alright, that sounds like everyone's situated then. Let's start getting ready so we can be out of here by ten." Walking towards the closed door next your room, you gesture to it as you tell everyone, “This is the bathroom in case anyone needs, there’s a decent sized mirror in here, along with the big one next to the couch and the one in my room.” After telling everyone where to find water and the rest of the snacks, you head into your bedroom and close the door, changing into your outfit for the night.

Samira's eyes briefly glance in that direction, wondering what you'll appear in. She shakes her head to try and clear that thought, focusing back on the task at hand and heading into the bathroom. Why does everything have to be so confusing lately?

She looks around quickly, not wanting to be nosy, before taking in her reflection. The outfit she chose earlier is simple and comfortable, but she's beginning to doubt her choice now.

After spending a couple minutes walking in circles and trying to hype herself up for the night ahead, she does a final check in the mirror and leaves the bathroom, walking to the living area to see what the others are wearing. Their outfits are colorful and show off their personalities, even Whitaker putting the effort in with a nice polo and well fitting jeans.

She's broken out of her thoughts a few moments later as Trinity steps out of the bedroom and gives her an enthusiastic whistle. "Okay, looking good, Mohan."

The curly haired woman feels a small swell of confidence at the compliment and shoots her friend a half smile. "Thanks, you too. Your shirt is perfect." Trinity winks and twirls for good measure, causing Samira to let out a small giggle.

"Now come on, it's time for touch ups." The two of them along with Victoria are standing in front of the large mirror next to the couch when the door behind them opens and you step out.

The three turn to see you approach, all of their eyes taking in your outfit for the evening. It's simple but flattering, so perfectly your style, and Samira feels that confusing but familiar tug in her stomach.

You lean against the couch, crossing your arms and observing the trio of women in front of you. Trinity speaks up first, raising an eyebrow and saying, "You look hot as fuck, dude." You laugh and wave off the compliment with a, "I've worn this before, I'm not trying to do anything crazy." They all chuckle and turn their attention back to what they were doing, a certain brown pair stealing glances through the mirror.

“We all look amazing, actually. If none of us kiss a stranger tonight, I’ll be shocked,” Trinity jokes.

The thought makes Samira’s skin crawl, but she convinces herself that it’s the idea of kissing a random person that makes her feel that way. "Okay, I think it's time for a second shot now!" The curly haired woman surprises herself with the announcement, but she knows she needs a little more liquid courage before they head out.

Trinity cheers, immediately grabbing the bottle off the kitchen table and filling up the group's glasses. You hold yours up, waiting for everyone to do the same before saying, "To lots of fun and making good memories this weekend." After a resounding cheer, you all throw them back quickly and go back to preparing.

A short while later, the entire group is almost ready and looking to call a car to take you to your destination. Victoria is snacking on some chips she found in your cabinet as her and Whitaker are talking about some movie coming out soon, and Samira is looking past them with the faintest pout on her lips, catching your attention.

At that exact moment, Trinity looks up from her phone with a grin, announcing that their driver is on the way. She and Whitaker head to the front door to put on their shoes, while you lean against the side of the couch to get in Samira's line of sight. "Everything all good? You’ve been kind of quiet."

She jolts a bit at the question and being pulled out of her thoughts, not having realized what she was doing. Her first instinct is to brush it off but she's never been good at lying to you. "I'm alright, just a little nervous, I guess."

Nodding your head in understanding, you give her a genuine smile and raise your pinky between you. "I'll be by your side the whole time, and if at any point you wanna leave, we will, no questions asked. I pinky promise."

A wave of relief washes over her at your words, the intensity of her earlier discomfort immediately lessening from your presence and reassurance. She smiles and raises her own hand, linking her pinky with yours and gently pulling them towards her so you're just a bit closer. "Okay. I trust you."

The two of you hold each other's gaze for longer than necessary, your heart stuttering just so at the look in her eyes. Before anything else can happen, Trinity's voice rips through the moment, yelling for you to get your asses outside.

Samira snaps her eyes away from yours and rushes to pull her shoes on, mentally cursing Trinity, and herself even more so for wanting to let whatever had just happened go further, blaming the alcohol flowing through her veins. The five of you pile into the SUV waiting at the curb downstairs, and the ride to the bar is filled with animated conversation between the whole group, the nerves Samira felt earlier having mostly faded in the warm atmosphere.

Despite it being just past ten, the streets are extremely crowded, with pride flags everywhere you look and music spilling from almost every building. You eventually reach the club and step out of the vehicle, the line leading into the building already stretching down the block. Trinity, ever the smooth talker, immediately walks up to the bouncer, not wasting any time to get you all inside.

You follow close behind, noticing the way Samira's eyes flit around trying to take everything in, and you reach out to interlock your fingers and give her hand a gentle squeeze, hoping to ground her in the overwhelming atmosphere. She shoots you a grateful smile and squeezes back, letting herself be led through the club and towards the bar.

Music blares loudly around you and the neon lights of the club have you blinking rapidly to adjust. Trinity leads the way easily, slipping through the crowded dance floor and making a beeline to the counter to start giving drink orders to the busy bartender. The rest of you gather around in a circle, laughing as Whitaker starts to dance to the beat of the song pumping through the speakers.

Trinity taps your shoulder a short while later to ask for your help with the shots, shoving one in Whitaker's hand to get him to stop his "moves." After they're all handed out and downed, Trinity yells over the music, "Let's hit the floor before getting the next round, I'm already buzzing and I need to dance." Whitaker sighs dramatically at her words but she pays him no mind, grabbing his wrist and dragging him into the crowded mass of people.

The youngest of your friends follows them, holding one of your hands as the other drags Samira behind you, her inhibitions lowering the further she walks. When your group reaches a small pocket of the dance floor, you spread out a bit, twirling each other and letting the beat guide you.

Trinity and Victoria immediately start dancing together, smiles wide and moves fluid, showing that this is something they've done before. They're pressed close, hands on each other's hips, and Samira watches them with wide eyes as she dances alone. You take a moment to look at her, taking in the entranced look in her eyes and the bit of a shine on her cheeks. You find yourself moving toward her and grabbing one of her hands to spin her around, grinning as she lets out a bit of a yelp then stumbles, her back now pressed against your front.

"You having fun?" You have to lean down to speak in her ear, the music too loud to hear you otherwise. She nods in response and gives your hands a squeeze where they're resting just above her hips, the feeling bringing butterflies to your own stomach.

The pair of you stay in that position for a while before you break the silence. “Look. Whitaker found a dance partner.”

Samira turns her head to find what you’re talking about, seeing your friend talking to a very cute guy, one set of hands interlocked as the mystery man has his other on the small of Whitaker’s back.

“Good for him,” she smiles, her mood brightening even more. The two of you continue watching the other pair and cooing at how compatible they seem, happy for your friend.

You both begin swaying your bodies together in time with the beat, her shoulders moving with every breath and the action causing the front of her body to press ever so slightly into you. The brunette’s head begins to spin as your warmth envelopes her more and more, mind going blank from the pounding music and strong drink. You feel her hips push further into you and your fingers flex in response, suddenly feeling the overwhelming urge to hold her tighter, your movements becoming more intimate in the hot, hazy atmosphere.

Samira feels an exhale brush over the shell of her ear, thoughts clouded and heart racing. The sensation of your chest moving with every breath distracts her, her own pulse thundering so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if you could feel it too. A jolt of pleasure shoots up her spine as your hand grazes her stomach, a small gasp escaping her and you almost miss it in the music.

You definitely notice the sound, leaning down further so your lips are hovering right over the skin of her neck, breath coming out in slow, deliberate puffs. She shivers at the feeling, body shifting closer to yours as her breathing gets shallower. Your thumb starts tracing small, slow circles above her hip bone, trying to not get swallowed up by the moment.

When your nose grazes the edge of her collarbone, you realize how close you are and pull back just enough that there's a couple of inches between your bodies. Samira subconsciously follows, grabbing both of your hands and placing them on her shoulders as she continues swaying. Taking that as a cue that you're not overstepping, you bring your bodies together once more, feeling her begin to rub your knuckles with her thumbs.

The song changes then, something more upbeat starting up. Despite the urge to continue dancing, your head is starting to spin and you need a break before you do something drastic.

"Let's grab that next round." You speak directly into her ear, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the music. She nods, and you reluctantly pull away to guide her towards the spot in front of the bar where Trinity is already ordering more shots.

Samira feels the loss of your presence immediately but shakes it off, trying to keep her mind clear in the alcohol and oxytocin fueled haze. Your green eyed friend has a knowing smirk on her face when she sees the two of you approaching, shooting you a wink that confuses the woman next to you. Whitaker has a similar look on his face, but you ignore them both in favor of grabbing two of the small glasses that have already arrived.

Handing one to Samira, you clink the glasses together before the five of you throw them back quickly, the burn in your throat becoming more and more pleasant with every passing second. As you place the empty container on the counter, Trinity moves it towards the bartender and takes your hand, pulling you back out onto the dance floor that is now even more crowded than before.

Your little group finds a pocket within the throng of people, a slight sheen of sweat covering all of you as the night progresses and the drinks continue to flow, strangers who think your friends are cute offering to foot the bills. Trinity and Victoria are back at it, dancing together as Whitaker throws his head back and laughs, his arms moving every which way with no rhythm whatsoever.

You're swaying yourself just slightly, letting the alcohol and vibe of the surrounding crowd carry you. You notice Samira watching the two girls again, this time with her bottom lip pulled into her mouth as she stares and tries to mirror their movements a bit, and you can't help but smile at the look of concentration on her face. Your hands move on their own accord, resting on her hips with your fingers lightly gripping the material of her shirt.

She lets out a small groan at the unexpected contact, eyes fluttering closed briefly before she can stop herself. The moment they reopen, however, they land on yours and she lets her head tilt to the side, biting her lip harder than before as she takes you in, mind whirling from the close proximity. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you take in the shine in her eyes, your thumbs rubbing soft circles across her waist.

You can see her swallow hard, her eyes flitting down to your lips before going back to hold your gaze, your heart starting to beat rapidly as she leans forward. She has her right hand resting on your hip now, fingers grazing across the fabric there and your tongue grazes your bottom lip in response. She sucks in a quiet breath at the action, moving even closer and pressing her chest flush to yours. As soon as you think she's going to do something else, you feel an arm throw itself around your shoulder, shattering the moment.

"I love you guys so much!"

Victoria has wrapped herself around both you and Samira, a huge grin on her face but barely able to keep her eyes open, and you know she's past her limit.

Samira stiffens as the moment between you two has ended, a feeling of disappointment spreading through her body. She sees how Victoria is now clinging to you, and in turn, you're helping hold the younger girl up. Samira's mind is racing and a thousand thoughts flash through her head before she pushes them all away to focus on the situation at hand. "Looks like someone's had a bit too much to drink, huh?"

Right then, Trinity rushes up to the three of you with an exasperated look on her face. "What the hell, Crash?!"

Looking over at you, she wears an apologetic expression before explaining that she took Victoria to get some water, but when she turned around, she had disappeared. The short haired woman then leans in to whisper something in your ear that causes you to quickly glance over at Samira before looking around at the crowd, causing her eyes to narrow slightly.

"I think that's our cue to leave, we should find Whitaker and head back to my place," you call out to her.

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Samira responds meekly. In spite of herself, her body slumps, all the confidence and excitement from earlier vanished, and instead replaced with anxiety and uncertainty. She finds herself avoiding your eyes as she tries to keep her expression neutral and looks around for your missing friend.

It takes a few minutes, but you and Trinity eventually find Whitaker standing by the bar, chatting up another guy. He notices you both approach and excuses himself, coming to stand between you.

"Whatcha guys up to?" He says, a lazy smile on his face and a red tint to his skin.

You raise an amused eyebrow at how relaxed he seems, giving him a once over before speaking. "We're headed out, Vic's pretty wasted so we're gonna call it a night."

Trinity chimes in to add, "Plus, it's getting pretty late as it is." Whitaker groans at the statement but nods his head and agrees, saying goodbye to the man he was talking to and slinging an arm around your shoulder. You all walk towards the exit together, squeezing through the crowd of people, and the cool air hits you as you emerge onto the sidewalk outside.

Luckily, a car had already been called and is pulling up to the curb as you walk towards the street, everyone piling in and making sure the baby of the group is doing okay. The ride back to your place is mostly filled with Whitaker and Trinity's lively conversation, the pair going back and forth and trying to keep a mostly silent Samira involved. She manages to add a couple comments here and there, eyes darting to you as discreetly as she can manage while keeping Victoria from slumping against her seatbelt.

Upon arriving, you and Trinity manage to get her upstairs without issue, and as soon as your front door is open, the two of you lay her on the couch to begin taking off her shoes.

Victoria groans in protest at her situation, a pout on her lips as she tries to swat your hands away from the straps on her heels. You chuckle and swat her back, telling her, "You'll thank us in the morning."

"Not fair," she grumbles as you both successfully take her shoes off and toss them to the side.

Whitaker takes this opportunity to go through his bedtime routine and tuck himself into bed, and you're glad you thought to blow up the air mattress before you all left.

After some convincing, and a bit of manhandling, Trinity manages to get the youngest into the bathroom to brush her teeth and change into comfier clothes. When Victoria makes her way back out, this time in sweatpants and a t-shirt that swallows her small frame, you help her settle onto the couch and pull a blanket over her. She buries her face into the pillow and murmurs a quiet, "Thank you," to the two of you, and you smooth her hair down in response.

Turning around to walk over towards the two women now standing in the kitchen, you jerk a thumb over your shoulder and ask, "Does anyone need to use the bathroom before I hop in the shower?"

Trinity's eyes widen like she just realized something and nods before making a beeline to the door and shutting it. You let out a soft laugh as you realize that you're left alone with Samira for the first time since you were interrupted earlier.

Watching her for a moment, you intend to crack a joke like you usually would, but the look on her face tells you not to. "So...how did you like the club?" The hesitation in your voice makes you internally cringe, you've never felt this awkward around her before but the tension between you was new, so you were navigating it as best you could.

The question catches Samira off guard and she flounders for a moment before managing to stammer out a response. "Yeah, the, uh...it was cool. Lots of people," she tries weakly and almost winces at her own words, a heavy atmosphere settling over the room.

At that moment, Trinity finally emerges from the bathroom, clutching her stomach as she grabs a water bottle from the bridge. "I had to piss so bad earlier and I forgot until you said something." That finally cracks both you and Samira, the two of you laughing at your friend's candor.

Trinity takes a deep breath, shaking her head playfully before joining in on the giggles. "TMI, I know, but I was gonna burst."

Samira waves a hand in front of herself, saying, "No, no, it's fine. I get it." She smiles warmly, some of the tension draining out of her shoulders, and a yawn comes out of nowhere, causing her to clap a hand over her mouth.

You let out an exaggerated gasp and point at her with mock outrage. "Are you tired, Samira?"

She shoots you a playful glare in return, rolling her eyes and telling you to shut up.

"Well, I happen to be pretty sleepy myself, so can I hop in the shower first?" Trinity looks between the two of you with a playful smile, and you narrow your eyes at her before nodding your head towards the hallway. "Try not to use up all the hot water. Again."

The short haired woman calls out, “Oh my god, that was one time, let it go!” as she shuts the door.

Samira catches on, a frown adorning her lips that she quickly dampens when you look her way. She hadn’t realized just how close you and Trinity were, and it throws her for a loop.

Smiling politely, she pulls out her phone and begins scrolling through social media, trying to push away the almost jealous feeling creeping into her mind. When it's clear that the other woman isn't going to make an effort to speak to you, you excuse yourself to the patio, grabbing a hoodie on your way.

As soon as you're gone, Samira cradles her head in her hands, frustrated for not being able to get a hold of herself and say something to you. Gaze dragging to the glass door you just exited, a multitude of scenarios float around her mind, and none of them are something she wants to think about at the moment.

Trinity reemerges from the bathroom while the curly haired woman is still sitting at the kitchen table, looking spaced out and aggravated all at once. "Shower's all yours if you want it."

Brown eyes trail up to meet her friend's, and she forces out a smile and a quiet thanks before rising from her seat and trudging over to the hallway, her peripheral vision catching how Trinity opens the patio door and joins you outside.

When Samira finishes her shower, she walks out to see you and Trinity sitting at the kitchen table talking, and elects to head over to the patio instead of joining the two of you. The fresh air helps her clear her head a bit, and though she'd rather be having this internal battle by herself at home, she doesn't want to bail on the joint plans you've all made for the weekend.

You can't say it didn't make you a bit nervous that Samira chose not to hang out with you and Trinity, but you remind yourself that not everything is about you and that she could have a completely different reason for doing so. Looking around and realizing you're the last one left to wash up, you head to the bathroom with your towel in hand, ready to end the day and start anew in the morning.

Flashes of the night echo through your head as you pull your shirt over your head to get ready for your shower. The moment the water touches your skin, you close your eyes and try to focus solely on the heat running down your back, but the image of Samira avoiding your eyes and her lack of conversation flaunts itself over and over at the forefront of your mind. Frustrated, you turn the water as cold as it'll go.

Once you're done, you quickly dry off and get dressed, eager to get into bed and slip into unconsciousness. Slinging the towel over your shoulder, you swing open the door only to bump into the woman you couldn't stop thinking about.

You're caught off guard by the sudden impact, and your hand reflexively lands on her hip, both of you taking a moment to steady yourselves. Realizing how close your bodies are, you find your gaze being pulled down to her own, and your hand slips back to your side, the loss of contact causing her to shiver.

It's the first time you've been this close to her since outside the club, and you're struck by two things. The first being a scent coming off her skin, a subtle combination of the lotion she uses mixed with her own natural scent. The second being the look in her eyes.

"Sorry, I was about to knock and see if anyone was in there."

You take half a step back, clearing your throat and taking a moment to respond. "No worries, I was just finishing up." Your eyes stay on her a moment longer, taking in the way her shirt falls from her shoulders before moving to the small bit of exposed midriff, a light dusting of goosebumps appearing on her skin.

Reaching a hand out, you stop just short of her waist before slipping around her to head towards the kitchen, suddenly in need of water. You grab a glass but don't even bother filling it up before taking a long drink directly from the faucet, willing yourself to calm down. You've never felt this out of control around her before, but after blurring the boundaries earlier, you're not sure what to feel.

At the same moment, Samira locks herself in the bathroom, taking a deep breath as she grips the sinks with both hands. What is happening right now, she thinks to herself.

Despite her efforts to stay focused, her mind is racing. Everything today has been so confusing, and she can still feel where your hand was caressing her, a small shiver crawling down her spine and causing her to squeeze the sink harder.

She can't even remember what she came in here for, moving to sit on the toilet instead. When she exits the bathroom a few minutes later, her eyes have to adjust to the dim lighting of the living room, seeing you sitting on the couch scrolling on your phone. Seeing a lack of Trinity makes her assume the woman has already gone to bed, and she takes in the sight of a sleeping Victoria and Whitaker, a small smile spreading onto her face at seeing how surprisingly peaceful they look.

"Oh, you're done."

Standing up and meeting her halfway, you gesture behind you to where you were just seated. "I set up a blanket and pillow for you, there's extra in the basket on the other side of the couch if you need." Looking around, you tell her, "You know where to find the water and all that, but if you need anything else, just come in the room and wake me up, I'm a pretty heavy sleeper so it might take a couple tries."

She's struck by how casually you're able to act, and she tells herself that your ability to ignore the earlier awkwardness means that she should be able to do the same.

"Right. Okay, thanks." She nods, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth as she tries to find the words to apologize for her earlier awkwardness, but they don't come, so she only watches as you cross the room to close the curtains in front of the sliding door and walk towards your room before turning around.

"Good night, Samira. Sweet dreams."

A part of her wants to say something to make you stay, but she swallows that down before simply nodding.

"Night," she responds softly, her own words feeling foreign to her ears. With that, you give her a smile that makes her stomach flip and disappear into your room, closing the door behind you.

The moment you're gone, she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding, and moves to flop face first into her designated pillow, causing Victoria to groan next to her. When the girl's snores become audible, Samira rolls onto her back, staring at the dark ceiling and willing for sleep to come rescue her.

The next morning, she wakes to the sound of crackling, eyes bleary as she raises a hand to rub the drowsiness from them. Smelling the distinct aroma of pancakes, she sits up, letting the blanket slip from her shoulders just as you turn around to begin placing plates on the kitchen table.

Eyes flicking up as you register movement from the living room, a bright smile overtakes your features, causing Samira to mirror it on instinct.

"Morning, sleepyhead."

The continuing ease of your demeanor from last night causes some of her lingering anxiety to fade, so she gives you a real smile as she stands up and pads over to the kitchen table. "Morning. Guess I was more tired than I thought.''

You point at the pancakes on the table, giving her a playful look in the process. "Grab some breakfast, it'll help you wake up."

"Right, let me brush my teeth first."

As Samira leaves to the bathroom, you hear your bedroom door open and a pair of footsteps thumping until they stop directly behind you and you feel a forehead press against the back of your neck.

"Please tell me you have headache medicine."

Turning to look over your shoulder, you catch a sliver of Trinity's hair and chuckle before facing to the stove. "Yeah, it should be in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom."

She lets out a low grunt but doesn't move from her current position, leaving you stuck in place as you continue cooking.

"Oh. Good morning, Trinity."

Your friend finally stands up and turns around to see Samira standing at the kitchen table, looking at the pair of you with a tight lipped smile, nothing like the one she had on a minute ago.

Trinity's eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly before smiling at the other woman warmly, observing the rigid way Samira's standing. She walks closer until she's a few feet away before telling her, "Morning. I hope you slept well."

Samira's smile becomes genuine as she seems to remember something, before taking a seat in the empty chair to the right of your designated one. "I did, thank you."

Whitaker and Javadi wake up soon after, and when Trinity returns, the four of them sit down to enjoy the fruit of your labor while you quickly wipe down the counter. As you take your seat next to Samira, you slide a mug in front of her before reaching out to grab a couple of pancakes for your own plate. "Your tea."

It takes her a second to realize you made her specific concoction in your own home, and her stomach flutters at the thought. You then tell everyone to dig in before the food gets cold, but as Samira does, she can only think of how since that morning last week, you began having the drink ready for her at the beginning of every shift without fail. And now you're doing the same outside of work.

Her heart palpitates at the possibilities.

Shaking her head to stop from overthinking it further, she tunes back into the conversation around her, looking at each of her friend's faces and reminding herself to enjoy the moment and the presence of her favorite people.

She slips into the discussion easily after that, Trinity and Whitaker teasing Victoria for her behavior the night before and the younger woman whining in embarrassment as you laugh and tell them to leave her alone. Soon enough, breakfast is wrapping up and everyone disperses to begin getting ready for the day.

As you head to your room, you see Samira out of the corner of your eye heading into the bathroom with a stack of clothes. When she emerges a few minutes later, she peeks into your room, looking around before turning towards the living room.

"You need something?"

"Oh, I was just, um, looking for Trinity."

"She just went down to grab something from her car, she should be back soon." You quirk an eyebrow at your friend, taking in the nervous look on her face and the way she fiddles with her thumb. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah! Nothing to worry about." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, but you don't push any further.

Less than a minute later, the aforementioned woman walks through the front door and Samira makes a beeline for her.

"Hey, I know it's last minute, but would you...happen to have an extra outfit? All the ones I brought are pretty simple, I didn't realize everyone would be dressed so nice."

Trinity clutches both of Samira's hands in her own and squeezes her eyes shut before bowing her head and whispering something to herself. The curly haired woman stands there confused before her friend looks back up with a gleam in her eye and a huge grin.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this day."

She drags Samira to your room, grabbing her luggage and rifling through her belongings. "I literally packed extra clothes for you and Javadi just in case."

Right then, you fail to stifle a giggle, and Samira feels her cheeks warm.

"Yes! This is perfect." Standing up and spinning around, Trinity holds up two pieces of pink fabric, closing one eye as she pictures how it will look together. "Okay, try this on and let me know if you like it."

Samira slowly makes her way to the bathroom before seeing that the door is closed and purses her lips before moving off to the side to wait.

"Dennis just went in, he said he might be a while," Victoria calls from the living room.

"Here, you can change in here, we'll leave." You move from your spot by the nightstand and head towards the door, grabbing Trinity who shoots the other woman an encouraging smile and a thumbs up on the way.

After slipping the borrowed clothes on, Samira stands in front of the long mirror in your bedroom, adjusting the strap of her top and taking a deep breath to steady herself. The fabric feels soft and almost intimate on her skin, clinging to her form in a way she's unaccustomed to. A wave of self-consciousness washes over her, and she nervously heads out to the living room to get the others’ opinion on her outfit.

"Shit."

Your low curse goes unnoticed by her, but she looks up from fiddling with her waistband to see the four people in the living room staring at her with wide eyes. She lets out a nervous laugh and rubs the back of her neck. "Too much?"

Trinity and Victoria's jaws hang open for a few seconds, before they're both shaking their heads vehemently.

"That color is perfect on you." Trinity finally responds, beaming with pride and her comment snaps you out of your stupor.

Whitaker and Victoria both compliment her immediately after, smiling at the change in her usual look before Samira's eyes land on you.

"You look...really nice."

Despite the overwhelming support of the others, it's your words that cause a warm fuzzy feeling to spread through her stomach. She bites her lip and looks down, mumbling a shy 'thank you' before her head shoots up as she tries to act unaffected.

"We should head out, the picnic is gonna fill up pretty fast and I wanna get a good spot," Trinity announces to the group, standing from the couch and raising her eyebrows at you before discreetly nodding her head in Samira's direction, causing you to roll your eyes.

Gathering your supplies by the door, you walk out one by one and make your way out of the building before heading down the sidewalk towards the park. Luckily, the first of today's events was within walking distance of your place, which saved you time trying to find parking.

Upon arriving, your group sets up an ample amount of space, laying down blankets and pulling out the food you prepared. As the others go about setting up, Samira stands to the side unsure of how to help with the process, watching as the rest of you move around, laughing and chatting.

She feels Trinity poke her in the side playfully, causing her to jump and turn. Following her line of sight, Samira's gaze lands on you and Trinity clears her throat. "Maybe you should go lend a hand."

She hesitates for a moment, wondering if you'll actually want her help, but with another nudge from her friend, she finally decides to step up and approach. "Hey, need any help with anything?"

Looking up towards the sun, you squint a bit before smiling and waving Samira closer. "Yeah, you wanna help me set up the little tent?"

Samira breathes a sigh of relief, always worried about going where she's not wanted but happy to be of assistance. "Sure thing."

You both crouch down next to the picnic spot and begin unloading a small tent and a couple of poles. Samira looks around the area, noting the number of people also beginning to settle in for the festivities. A few minutes pass in comfortable silence as the two of you construct your little makeshift shelter, and you miss the way the brunette steals glances at you every so often.

Soon, all the materials have been put in place and the two of you crawl out of the front, surveying your work. "Looks pretty good, huh?" You sit back on the edge of the blanket and take in the atmosphere surrounding you. People are beginning to set up blankets closer to the stage, music wafts down the sidewalk from people's speakers, and the late spring breeze fills the air.

The rest of your group is done setting up, so you all take a seat and begin enjoying the festivities, conversing amongst yourselves. A couple of hours later when the park is almost completely packed, a group sets up in the only empty space beside yours, and you don't pay them any attention until you happen to be looking around and catch one of their eyes.

It's then that Samira takes notices, a look of confusion crossing her features before the woman closest to you leans over and begins saying something. Victoria nudges Whitaker lightly, laughing into her hand as he simply raises his eyebrows, looking over at Trinity, who's cautiously observing Samira.

You entertain the woman for a bit, eventually shaking her hand when she raises it in your direction, and she introduces you to her group as the rest of them all wave and begin including you in their conversation.

The change in your focus causes Samira's stomach to clench, and she tries to distract herself, but she can't help glancing over, watching as you chat with the woman and her group. She sees your easy smile, the way your eyes crinkle at the edges, and wishes that that was her being bathed in your attention, having a conversation that's making you laugh. She can't help but notice how effortlessly comfortable you are, the natural way you interact with these strangers, the charming way your body leans forward when speaking to others.

Soon after, you turn around to your friends and begin introducing them, going one by one until you get to Samira, who stiffly waves at the group, causing Trinity to stifle a laugh. The other women return her greeting, before one of them speaks up, eyeing you all individually. "Wow, I love your guys' vibe. Are you all friends from school or...?"

Her eyes bounce around to each of you before landing on Trinity, a questioning look on her face. Trinity takes the cue and responds, "Actually, we met through work."

"That's cool, what do you guys do?" Another voice pipes up, belonging to the woman who's been flirting with you. She looks to you expectantly, the corners of her mouth lifting.

"We're all doctors. Emergency medicine," Samira interjects matter-of-factly, brushing an invisible crumb off of her pants.

"Well, technically, not all—" Whitaker starts explaining but is quickly cut off with an uncharacteristic glare from Samira and sheepishly smiles instead.

One of the girls’ eyebrows raise at the revelation, while the flirty one turns her head over to look at you with new interest. "Wow, so we're in the company of heroes," she smiles, a coy edge to her tone.

"I don't know if I'd use that word exactly, but we do what we can," you chuckle.

The woman's eyes light up. "Modest, too. That's a good look on you." The others around her laugh loudly, and Trinity tries to hide her amusement by coughing into her hand.

Shaking your head at the compliment, you grab the water next to you and take a sip to divert the focus away from yourself. "So what do you guys do?"

They begin explaining, but Samira tunes them out, choosing instead to stand up while adjusting her pants. "I'm gonna go do a lap. I'll be back."

That catches your attention and you immediately look up from your conversation. "Alone? I can go with you."

"No, it's fine, you’re busy." She shoots you a closed mouth smile before turning to Victoria. "You wanna come?"

Victoria nods in relief before standing up, shaking her legs and groaning slightly as she follows after her friend. As they walk away, the woman who's been flirting with you speaks up. "Sorry if this is too forward, but, are all of you guys single?"

You're still watching Samira walk further and further away when Trinity clears her throat and brings your attention back to the conversation.

"Oh! Um, I am, and he is," you point to Whitaker, "and so is our friend with the curly hair. The other two are seeing someone."

"That's cool, most of our group is too, this is the first time in a while we've all been able to go out together."

You can tell the girl is trying not to be so obvious anymore, but you entertain her to try and stop from thinking about what Samira's doing. "Nice! What else do you guys have planned for this weekend?"

One of the other girls says that they're thinking about going to a specific club, the same one that your friends had planned on for tonight.

"That's funny, that's where we wanted to go later," Whitaker pipes up, and he's immediately pinched by Trinity, who pretends like nothing just happened.

The girl that had been talking to you lets out an excited squeal, gently placing a hand on your arm. "Oh my god, really? This is meant to be, we should totally meet up!" Her friends all nod in agreement, and she looks at you with hopeful eyes.

You look over to Trinity to gauge her reaction, but she just shrugs nonchalantly. Turning back towards the other group, you nod. "Yeah, that could be fun."

"Great! Let me get your Instagram so we can stay in contact for later."

"Yeah, sounds good." The two of you trade handles, and she beams as your friends intermingle and chat for a while.

Eventually, she and her group begin gathering their things and move to leave, the woman cheerily calling out, "It was nice to meet everyone, hopefully we'll see you guys tonight!"

After waving goodbye, Trinity quickly turns toward you. "What was that? You're actually gonna meet up with that girl?"

You shrug nonchalantly, popping a grape from the fruit salad into your mouth before replying. "What was I supposed to do, say no? I didn't wanna be rude," you chuckle, "and she seems harmless enough."

Trinity exhales through pursed lips before placing her hands behind her and letting her head drop back to soak up some sun. "Can't wait what your girl is gonna say when she finds out."

"You're still on that?" you sigh, throwing a piece of strawberry in her direction.

Her head snaps up when she feels something bounce off her chest, looking around until she identifies the culprit. Snagging it off of her leg, she chucks it at you before responding. "I'm just saying dude, I wouldn't rule it out. Anything is possible."

"Easy to say when a hot attending flirts with you on your first day."

Trinity beams at that, sighing contentedly. "Damn, I did manage that, huh?"

You shake your head at her, a small grin appearing as you take in the smug expression on her face. "Yeah. The rest of us don't have it so good."

"What can I say? I'm irresistible," she smirks, doing a quick hair flip for emphasis. "Seriously though, you can't deny the chemistry between you two. No matter how much you guys try to act like it's not there, it's obvious to the rest of us."

Whitaker finally chimes in from his place on the ground, eyes closed. "Yeah, it's not very subtle."

Trinity waves her hand in the man's direction. "Hello! Even Huckleberry can see it."

You groan and run a hand over your face, taking a deep breath. "Look, I'm not saying you guys are liars or anything, but as far as we all know, she's straight so I'm not gonna hope for any kind of miracle. I'm too old for that shit."

Trinity gives you a sympathetic smile, reaching out to pat your knee. "Fair, fair. All I'm saying is to keep an open mind. You only live once."

Whitaker chooses then to chime in, sitting up and grinning at you. "And you've got quite a few years left, so what's the rush anyway?"

Ripping a blade of grass up from the ground next to you, you toss it at nothing in particular, resigning from the conversation before you can get your hopes up. "Whatever."

As if you summoned her, Samira walks back up to the group with Victoria in tow.

The two women sit back down, and it's obvious Samira's a bit flushed from the heat, her chest heaving just slightly. Victoria grabs a bottle of water, taking a grateful sip after the walk, before turning to Trinity and raising an eyebrow. "Did that group from earlier leave?"

"Yeah, like maybe five minutes ago," Trinity's face betrays nothing as she answers the question, her gaze shifting over to you before looking towards your friend. "But it turns out they're going to the same club we are later."

Samira's head whips up, her gaze landing on Trinity with a slightly accusatory look in her eyes. "You guys told them about that?"

The short haired woman purses her lips before nudging Whitaker's foot with her own. "He did, actually."

"It just kinda slipped out," he defends, slouching a bit and rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

Samira bites the inside of her cheek and swallows a sigh, knowing she could never truly be upset at the man. "Well, I guess we have that to look forward to, then..."

Noticing the slight tension, Victoria chimes in. "Hey, there's no guarantee that we'll even see them, right? It's a big club."

She opens her mouth to speak again but stops as Samira cuts her off. "Yeah, and even if we do, it's not like we're obligated to interact with them." The woman then shrugs and looks around to play off her discomfort, failing to notice the way you and Trinity make tense eye contact.

The silence that follows is thick with uncertainty, causing Whitaker to clear his throat and turn to you. "I don't think it would hurt to say hi if we do, though. Right?"

Everyone else follows suit and suddenly there’s four pairs of expectant eyes waiting for a response, and you let out a sigh. "I mean, I don't see the harm if we happen to run into them. We're all there to have fun, right?"

That seems to ease the slight tension that had built, your friends going back to discussing the night ahead, but you're stuck in your head thinking about how to navigate all the possibilities that could occur with it.

After a couple more hours, you collectively decide it's time to wrap up and head back to your apartment to wind down and get ready for the night ahead. Moving a bit slower than when you arrived, eventually you're all back in your living room, relaxing on the couch while a rerun of a 90's sitcom drones on in the background.

You nod off without realizing, startling yourself awake and causing your friends to laugh at you before you shake your head and stand up from the couch, groaning the whole way. "Okay, we gotta start moving or I'm gonna knock out for real."

Victoria lets out a loud yawn as she sits up, stretching her arms over her head before rolling onto her stomach and burying her head in her favorite throw pillow. "Can we just stay in for the night? I'm already so tired."

A chorus of "no"s and "get your ass up" follows her statement, and she whines in protest, the sound muffled by the pillow. Trinity stands up in response, placing her hands on her hips and staring daggers down at her friend. "Get the hell up, Javadi, no one told you go that hard last night, come on."

She whines one final time before standing up and heading towards the bathroom, Trinity trailing behind and making sure she doesn't take forever. Turning around, you see your other two friends laying in various positions on the couch, both of them on their phones. "I think I'm gonna change into something else, I'll be back."

You don't catch the way Samira stares after you until you disappear into your room, eyes gazing at your door long after it's closed.

Rifling through your closet, you decide on something a bit dressier, slightly nervous about meeting up with the girl from the picnic for reasons you can't explain.

Reemerging into the living room a few minutes later, you see that Whitaker and Victoria are now sitting on the couch while the remaining women are nowhere to be found.

"Where's the other two?"

"Bathroom. Trinity's doing Samira's makeup," Whitaker explains before pouring the crumbs of the chip bag into his waiting mouth.

You nod and cross the living room to sit on the couch next to them, mindlessly scrolling on your phone. As you're laughing at a video of someone falling down stairs, the bathroom door opens and your eyes dart up to look.

Trinity steps out first, followed by Samira, and you can't help but notice how different she looks. Her curls are even shiner and more defined, and her eyes are accentuated with a bit of black eyeliner, bringing out their depth. The pink outfit from earlier is replaced with a sleek, flowy black and green dress, drawing your eyes down and then back up. It ends mid-thigh, showcasing her long, lean legs, and her gut twists as she sees you ogling.

The two of you stare at each other for a beat before Trinity begins slow clapping and wipes a nonexistent tear from her eye. "Two different looks in one day, I'm so proud of myself."

You force yourself to look away, cheeks heating up as you nod and clear your throat. "Yeah, it's definitely...different."

"Now that you're done, can I use the bathroom? I've been holding it this whole time," Whitaker asks, and the two women immediately separate to leave room for him to speed past and shut the door.

Victoria springs up from the couch to get a closer look at Samira's makeup, ooh-ing and ahh-ing before turning to Trinity with an excited look. "Do you think you can touch up mine too? The eyeliner looks so pretty."

Trinity presses a hand to her chest and waves the woman over with the other as she replies, "Of course, Crash, get in here," clutching her makeup bag and dragging the younger woman into your room, leaving you and Samira alone.

Without the presence of the other two, a bit of the tension returns, a slightly awkward silence descending upon the space. You fidget in your spot, and Samira stands with her weight on one foot, looking out the window while drumming her fingers against her thigh to the beat of the faint pop song flowing through your speakers.

Choosing to break the stalemate, you stand up and walk over to the side of the coffee table closest to her, grabbing your glass from earlier and taking a sip before turning to the other woman. "That's a really good color on you, is that Trinity's too?"

Samira looks down, running a hand over the fabric to smooth it down, as if she's forgotten what she's wearing. "Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. She somehow has a Narnia sized closet in her suitcase."

The joke makes you chuckle, intentional or not, and you can feel the friction between you begin to fizzle out, Samira joining in on the laugh. You tease her for the reference as you normally would, and she throws a light jab back, the two of you falling back into your usual state of existence. By the time the rest of your friends return from their respective ventures, you and Samira are on the couch cackling away like nothing had happened, much to the relief of the three people standing in front of you.

"So...baddie baddie shot o' clock?" Trinity asks with a grin, pointing to you both. Without waiting for an answer, the short haired woman grabs the bottle from the day before out of the fridge and begins pouring a decent sized amount for all of you. Despite Victoria's attempt to protest, you all down the first one with little issue, Trinity already starting the second round.

You all spend the next hour joking with each other, the ambience light and full of laughter, and you think that this might be the happiest you've ever been.

"Wait, we have to take a picture to send to Mel!" Samira exclaims, pulling out her phone and trying to position the front camera in a way that will capture everyone.

Once she has it, she tells everyone to squeeze in and smile, and without hesitation, you prop your chin on her shoulder from behind and throw an arm around her waist, using the other to give a peace sign while grinning the entire time. The other three follow suit and pile in, smiling and waving in Whitaker's case, before Samira sends the photo off in your group chat and places her phone on the table.

You don't budge from your current position, opting to continue the conversation while wrapped around Samira, and she makes no move to push you away. A couple of minutes later, her phone begins to ring and when she picks it up to see who it could be, you see Mel's contact photo on the screen initiating a video call, squealing as Samira answers. "Hi King, we miss you!"

"Hi guys, I miss you all too!" Your blonde friend waves at the camera and Samira passes it around so everyone can say their individual hellos before it gets back to her.

"Everyone looks so nice, are you still going out to that club tonight?"

"Yeah, we're gonna head out in a few but we're so happy you called, we can't wait to see you tomorrow," the woman in front of you explains, beaming at the screen while you chuckle from your place on her shoulder.

The conversation ensues for a bit longer, Mel even handing the phone to Becca so you can all say hi to her before the blonde bids goodnight and reminds everyone to hydrate in between drinks.

Victoria speaks up after letting out a heavy sigh, "We should probably head out so we don't get there too late, yeah?"

A chorus of agreements echo around the room before each one of you begin moving, shoes getting slipped on, purses getting grabbed, and one more shot being poured. Samira picks her glass up while Trinity sets up yours, handing it to you with a smirk before all of you meet in an effortless cheer. Knocking it back, the warmth of the liquor slides down your throat before settling in your stomach, and the group files out of the door, the beginnings of another memorable night coming into focus.

You arrive at the venue quickly, thanking the driver before closing the door and turning towards the entrance, Samira slipping her hand into yours and tugging you towards your friends. Once in line, Trinity leaves to see if she can expedite your entry yet again, and the woman next to you shivers just enough to grab your attention.

"The liquor blanket not doing its job?" You chuckle, rubbing one of her arms while her other hand does the same.

"Not enough, I guess." She attempts to play it off, but you can tell she's genuinely cold, so you step closer and tuck her into your side while moving your hand to her back, hoping that will help.

Samira immediately relaxes as your body heat seeps through her dress, and she lets out a content sigh, laying her head on your shoulder. You continue like that until Trinity returns, informing your group that she has successfully finessed your way to the front of the line and into the venue. Your group cheers before heading through the entrance, music flooding your eardrums and bodies already beginning to move to the beat.

After adjusting to the dark atmosphere, you all head to the bathroom, wanting to take advantage before the line gets out of control. When you're next, Samira leans in to your ear, her alcohol-induced courage already kicking in. "I wanna dance," she shouts over the music.

You look over to see her face lit up from the neon wall lights, the sparkle in her eyes and carefree expression making your heart jump. "Yeah?" You manage to yell back, your dangling hand grazing her own.

Samira takes a step closer to you, lips nearly touching your skin. "Yeah. Come with me?"

You give a slight nod, and she clutches your hand, pulling you through the sea of people towards the dance floor before you can say anything to your other friends.

The club is packed, and the song becomes clearer the deeper you enter, but Samira pulls you into the middle of the crowd and starts to move her body to the beat. You follow her lead, letting the music take over your mind, the alcohol making your movements extra fluid.

The two of you dance in sync, mere inches apart, keeping up with the other's movements and feeding off each other's energy. A bead of sweat begins to run down your neck, and your eyes wander over Samira once more, gaze sweeping over her face, down to her hips, and finally landing on the curve where her thigh meets her torso, the way the dress clings to her skin making her look even more enticing.

Samira catches your stare and sees the way your pupils grow while your bottom lip is trapped between your teeth, feeling a shiver run down her spine. Emboldened by the attention — and the alcohol — she moves even closer, only a whisper away. She's sure you can feel the heat from her skin as she presses her body into you, moving in time with the beat.

Without warning, she turns to lean back into your chest, and her breath hitches, the feeling of you pressed so close intoxicating in a way liquor couldn't hope to compare. She feels her hips being pulled in time with yours, and her mind slows to a stop from the rush of sensations coursing through her body, eyes closed as she lets herself go completely.

Staying that way for what feels like an eternity, everything disappears when she spins around to face you again, arms immediately wrapping around your neck and bringing you closer. Moving together, you're lost in your own little world, the sounds and people around you fading to a faint hum. Your hands come up to rest on her waist, keeping her locked against your body. A wave of desire washes over you as you register the way her eyes are blown out, mouth slightly parted as she looks at you through dark lashes.

She feels electric under your touch, skin warming where your fingers are pressing into her sides, and leans into you on instinct. Feeling her heart pounding in her chest, the noise of the club buzzes in the background as the heat of your skin sticks against her own. The feel of your hands on her and the adrenaline coursing through her veins drown out every thought except for the one screaming at her to get closer. So she gives in.

Leaning in until your noses are touching, breath mingling together in the limited space between you, she runs a velvety hand over the nape of your neck and your eyes flutter shut. As her gaze roams your face and she decides to finally close the gap and fulfill her deepest desire, she sees something over your shoulder that stops her in her tracks.

A dumbfounded Whitaker is standing less than a yard away, two drinks in hand as he scrambles to turn around and bumps into Trinity and Victoria behind him.

"Whoa, what the hell, Huckleberry, be careful!"

"Um, I just—" His wide eyes flit around the room nervously and that's when the other two women see what caused his reaction.

Samira then jerks away from you, causing your eyes to snap open in confusion as you take in the flustered look on her face.

"I— I have to go to the bathroom, I'll be right back." Weaving through the crowd before you can register what just happened, Samira disappears and everyone else is by your side in a heartbeat.

"Was that what it looked like?"

You turn to Trinity in shock when you realize they must've seen you two, running a hand over your face in frustration.

"I'll go check on her," Victoria declares, slipping past and heading in the direction of the bathroom.

"I texted to see where you guys went, I would've kept us at the bar if I had known," the green eyed woman explains, and you pull your phone out to see that you indeed had an unread message. Noticing that the notification above Trinity's is an Instagram DM from the girl at the picnic earlier, you decide to ignore it until your group leaves and pretend you saw it too late. Instead, by a stroke of horrible luck, someone walking behind you bumps your hand and you accidentally tap on it, opening the thread.

"Fuck me."

Debating on what to do now that she'll be able to see you read her message, you decide to be truthful and tell her you're here, not wanting to lie in case you run into her later. She responds before you can close out of the app, letting you know she’s walking in with her friends, so you simply double tap the message and shove your phone back in your pocket.

"What was that about?" Trinity nods toward your phone after seeing the look on your face.

"The girl from earlier is here and wants to meet up." Your tone is clearly exasperated, and your friend winces as she tries to think of how to help. "What do you wanna do?"

Squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, you attempt to gain control of your spiraling emotions. "I don't even know at this point, this is so fucked, dude."

As you try to process everything that's happened in the last few minutes, Whitaker tries to provide some guidance. "She seems cool, why not use this as a distraction?"

You huff out a breath, staring him down in disbelief before reminding yourself that he's well-intentioned and only trying to help. "Dennis, normally I would, but I was literally about to kiss one of my closest friends, who just so happens to be straight, this girl is the last person I want to see right now."

As if the universe decided to open floodgates of hell just for you, you see a waving hand above the crowd, eyes flicking up to catch the gaze of the exact person you were hoping to avoid.

"Hi! I didn't think I'd run into you so fast!"

Plastering the best fake smile you can manage at the moment, the girl from earlier closes the distance and gives you a hug, surprising you before you reluctantly return the gesture. Pulling back, she signals behind her as the rest of her group walks up.

"You remember my friends!"

"Yeah, it's good to see you guys again." Giving them a curt nod, they begin a conversation that you want desperately to escape, your eyes scanning the crowd for one specific woman. Seemingly hours later, you finally catch a glimpse of the curly hair you’ve been searching for.

All smiles and dragging a concerned looking Victoria behind her, Samira finally makes an appearance, and you're immediately concerned.

"Oh my gosh, hi!" She goes up to each person in the group and introduces herself again, the complete opposite of her reaction earlier, and you look at your younger friend with a worried expression.

Victoria walks over until she’s close enough to whisper in your ear. "She had a moment in the bathroom, not exactly crying, just…in shock, I guess? Then she said she wanted a drink, but I lost her on the way to the bar and she was downing shots by the time I finally found her.”

Glancing back at Samira, she looks elated from this view, but you know better. She barely said two words to these people earlier, and suddenly she was best friends with all of them? This wasn’t going to end well.

"Jesus," you exclaim. You run a hand over your neck, frustration bubbling up. "She's gonna drink herself into a coma because she almost kissed me."

Victoria rubs her eyebrows helplessly, eyes flickering back to the group where the picnic girl is still talking to Samira and now Whitaker. "I tried to stop her, but she's quick when she wants to be."

Handing two cups of water to you, she adds, "I managed to grab these, she wouldn't take them from me but maybe you'll have better luck."

"I'll give it a try," you say grimly, taking the drinks from her. You step over to the edge of the circle, where Whitaker is now taking a selfie with the other group of girls and a grinning Samira. You call her name and she looks over, face lighting up.

"Hi!" She leaves the cluster to come stand in front of you, swaying on her feet. "What're you doing?"

"I thought you might want some water," you reply simply, not wanting to risk saying too much and causing her to react in front of everyone.

She cocks her head curiously, studying you intently, but the look fades just as quickly as it arrived. She grabs the waters from your grip and chugs the first one with ease, wiping her mouth before raising the second. "Thanks, I was feeling a little dehydrated." Her words are slightly slurred, and the look in her eyes with her overly perky attitude have you on edge.

"You doing okay? Victoria said you had a few more shots while you guys were gone." You're hoping against all odds she'll say she wants to leave, but luck is not on your side tonight.

She shakes her head vehemently, waving off your worries. "No, I'm fine. Just wanted to get my buzz back." When she smiles widely at you, your heart drops, hoping you won't have to drag her out of here and make a fool out of both of you.

"Promise?" You try to keep the doubt out of your voice, but your worry is obvious. “I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret in the morning.”

She then puts her hands on your shoulders and leans forward, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on her breath. "Don't worry," she reassures you, nose scrunching up. "It's too late for that." She pats your cheek with a little too much force before walking back towards the group, leaving you speechless.

Trinity comes to your side, a solemn expression covering her features. "This went sideways fast," she mutters, watching the other group laugh hysterically at something Samira said.

At that moment, she leads them all further into the crowd as a song she loves comes on, raising her hands in the air and whooping loud enough to hear over the music. You follow right behind, wanting to keep as close an eye on her as possible without letting her know you are. Everything seems to be going as well as it can for a while, but then some man you've never seen before sidles up behind Samira, and you're instantly on edge.

You push your way over until you can see that he has a hand on her waist and it’s rapidly lowering. Rushing up to them, you immediately remove the offending limb away, moving Samira behind you as the man sizes you up. "We got a problem?"

"Yeah, you need to keep your hands to yourself." You can feel your heart rate increasing, hands beginning to shake as you clench them into fists, already preparing for the worst case scenario.

He looks you up and down, clearly undaunted by your hostile stance. "Or what?"

His cocky response brings all attention to your group, the members of his crew approaching to stand by his side and see what all the commotion is, trying to convince him to let it go once they realize what happened.

Whitaker sees the situation escalating and gets between you, trying to diffuse the tension. “Dude, just leave. There’s no need for this right now.”

The guy ignores him, eyes locked on you as he assesses the circumstances. “I don’t think you understand. I asked what you were gonna do if I didn’t keep my hands off her, and you never answered.”

"Break your fucking jaw, that's what. Now go listen to your friends and get the fuck out of here."

He huffs out a laugh, pivoting to walk away, and you turn to the side to say something to Trinity when you suddenly feel a searing hot pain on the side of your face, squeezing your eyes shut as an intense throbbing begins to bloom behind your eye.

Stumbling back, you finally open your eyelids to see the man in front of you shaking his hand, a smug look on face as his friends stand there frozen. Trinity immediately jumps in, shoving him backwards as you regain your balance. Feeling a hand on your arm trying to pull you backwards, you shrug it off before rushing forward and pushing past your friend, hooking a clenched first upwards and connecting with your assailant’s nose, hearing a satisfying crack and subsequent cry fall from his mouth.

He collapses onto the ground, clutching his face as a stream of red begins to trickle between his fingers. "You bitch, you broke my nose!"

You smirk as you stand above him, savoring the sight of an asshole like him receiving the consequences of his actions. "It’s not your jaw but that works for me."

The man's friends pick him up and begin dragging him away, one of them apologizing for his actions before disappearing into the crowd.

"Okay, we need to get the hell out of here before security shows up, come on," you hear Trinity speak into your ear, and you suddenly remember where you are, the grin slipping off of your face as you look around in panic. "Where's Samira?"

"She's with Javadi and Whitaker, they're probably outside by now, let's go meet them."

The two of you quickly make your way outside, the brisk night air instantly cooling you down, but you wince when you go to wipe your temple and make contact with your eye socket.

"Oh my god, are you okay?!"

Two warm hands cup each of your cheeks, and you flinch at the pressure before opening your eyes to see a wide brown pair looking back at you.

"I'm fine, he barely made contact." Your attempt to brush Samira off is futile, and when you remove her hands from your face, she clutches the one you just punched that man with and begins examining as best she can in her drunken state.

"And your hand! What were you thinking, we're doctors, these are literally our most important tools!"

"I'm fine," you emphasize, Victoria coming up to the pair of you and looking around nervously. "Um, guys, I think we should get out of here, what if someone called the cops? Or that guy comes back and he still wants to fight you?"

Whitaker chimes in as well, putting a hand on your shoulder. "Yeah, I'm with her on this one, it's probably best if we get out of here." He casts a cursory glance around the area, keeping an eye out for potential threats.

Samira's fingers are skimming over your already-bruising knuckles, a crease forming between her brow as she takes in your injuries with clear concern.

"Fine, let's walk to the next block and call a car from there," you concede. The adrenaline is still pumping through your body for the moment, but you know you'll be hurting very soon.

Your driver arrives quickly, and when you all pile in, Samira makes sure to sit right beside you, squeezing both of your cheeks in one hand and turning your head every which way.

"Ow. That hurts."

"Well, you should've thought of that before starting a fight!"

"I didn't start shit, that asshole hit me first!" Trinity shushes you, and you realize how much your voice was raising in volume. Meeting the driver's eye in the rearview mirror and mumbling out an apology, you turn back to Samira to continue defending yourself. "He was being creepy as fuck and he had his hands all over you, obviously I was gonna step in."

"Did you ever stop to think that I had it handled?" Samira tells you in a stern tone like she was scolding a child.

You scoff, briefly looking out the window before resuming eye contact. "Do you even realize how drunk you are? I wasn't gonna leave that up to you, I'm sorry."

That seems to get through to her for a second before she shakes her head, trying to compose herself and come up with a coherent response. "You need to be more careful, he could have seriously hurt you. I think we should take you to the hospital and get you looked at."

You look at her in confusion before vigorously shaking your head. "What, so Ellis or Shen or someone can see me like this? Absolutely not, there’s four other doctors in this car who can check me out."

Samira rolls her eyes at your stubbornness, leaning back in her seat and shutting her eyelids as she lets out an exaggerated sigh. Trinity catches your attention and nods her head at Samira before raising her eyebrows, and you let out a quick huff before flipping her off and laying your head against the window, watching the city lights pass you by.

Victoria and Whitaker try to keep the conversation lighthearted during the rest of the ride, but the tension is palpable as you all finish the drive back to your place.

Once the car pulls up to your building, you all make your way out, with Samira sticking closely by your side and Whitaker on the other. Trinity and Victoria walk a little ahead of your group, and you can see them glancing over their shoulders every few seconds.

Now that you're out of immediate danger and the worry has worn off, the alcohol regains control of Samira and she stumbles on the walk to your front door, causing you to throw an arm around her waist to keep her from falling.

Once you hand Victoria your keys and she unlocks your apartment, you're quick to sit the drunk woman on the couch and move to grab her a glass of water when Trinity stops you. "Let Javadi handle that, I wanna check your eye out and make sure it's okay."

With a groan, you still comply, plopping down onto a kitchen chair while your short haired friend grabs your first aid kit, slipping on a pair of medical gloves and pulling out a penlight. “Well, it’s bad, but it definitely could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah, he hits like a bitch.” You groan out, annoyed that the man managed to catch you by surprise.

Trinity laughs, and after checking your pupil response and feeling around your orbital socket, she decides you're cleared of any major trauma and releases you to start getting ready for bed.

"Thank fuck, I’m exhausted," you reply tiredly, standing up and slowly making your way over to the bathroom. As soon as the light flips on, you're met with your battered reflection and flinch at the sight of your bruised eye socket, swelling already setting in. Through the door, you hear Trinity whispering and Samira mumbling out a response, causing you to sigh.

After washing your face as gingerly as possible, you brush your teeth with haste and slip into your room to change into a pair of old sweats and a t-shirt before heading back out into the living room. Samira is still sitting on the couch, a pillow now behind her head, and she grins when she sees you emerging. "Come here," she slurs, waving you over to sit next to her.

You groan and head over to the couch, maneuvering around a sleeping Victoria and Whitaker, sitting next to her and slouching forward with your elbows on your knees. "Yeah?"

The woman pats her legs, and you follow her silent demand, laying your head in her lap.  She begins running her fingers over your scalp, massaging it every few seconds and causing your eyes to flutter shut, a blissful sigh escaping your parted lips. She does this for several minutes, and eventually one of her hands moves from your head and starts tracing the bruise under your eye. "Does it hurt?" She asks softly.

"Uh...it’s pretty sore," you admit, slowly opening your eyes to find her staring down at you in concern. The hand on your face moves to your cheek before gently grazing your jaw. “You have a scratch too,” she says, barely above a whisper, her other hand continuing to run over your scalp.

You bring your hand up to feel where she was talking about, indeed finding a scratch right where described. You hiss upon accidentally pushing it too hard, and Samira takes your hand in hers, running a thumb over your knuckles. "That needs some ointment, I think I have some arnica in my bag."

"Yeah, okay," you acquiesce, giving in as you sit up and she pats your shoulder as if asking you to stay put.

She returns with the gel and a bandage, sitting back down next to you and beginning to unscrew the jar. She gently lifts your chin to get a look at your injury, and a chill races down your spine when her other hand begins to apply the gel to your face.

"Hold still," she murmurs, the pad of her thumb gliding over the cut, leaving a thin line of cooling gel in its wake. You stay as still as possible, trying to ignore the goosebumps raised on your skin. Her other hand grips your jaw once again, tilting it back to assess her work. Once she deems it satisfactory, she begins to apply the bandage to your face, the touch of her fingers on your skin feeling better than the actual medicine.

When she leaves to put the ointment away, you pull out your phone to see her handiwork in your front camera, not fully trusting that she managed to do a professional job in her current state, but not wanting to say anything to her directly.

After a minute, she returns to your side, flopping back down to her spot on the couch and pulling you back into your previous position, her hand immediately resuming its earlier ministrations. You lay there in silence without complaint, simply enjoying the sensations created by her touch. In the middle of your silent bliss, Samira asks "Are you mad?" from her place above.

Squinting to look up at her, you take in the slight pout on her lips and shove down the urge to run your knuckles along it. "Why would I be mad?"

She shrugs her shoulders slightly, moving her hand from your head to the couch. "You got injured because of me, and I was ignoring you before that." The guilt is evident in her voice, and the way she won't meet your gaze makes it even worse.

"Whoa, Samira. This wasn't your fault at all, that guy was being an asshole and trying to take advantage of the fact that you were drunk, don't apologize for that."

The other woman looks away in the middle of you talking, but when she looks back, her eyes are glossy with unshed tears, and you do your best to sit up quickly, body aches slowing you down.

"I just—" she hiccups, "It was so scary seeing him attack you like that, if something more serious had happened to you, I would never forgive myself."

Tears begin running down her face now, and you don't hesitate to pull her into a hug, sighing when she immediately curls into you and begins sniffling into your neck. You feel her tears soaking your shirt, and your heart splits all over again. Knowing how sensitive and empathetic Samira is, this will loom over her for a while, and that thought alone makes your chest ache.

Once her breathing evens out and you hear soft snores coming from below, you pull back to see the woman in your arms fast asleep, having finally succumbed to the alcohol and her exhaustion.

Laying her down as gently as possible, you cover her with a blanket and turn the lamp in the corner off, escaping into your room and quietly shutting the door.

"She okay?"

Seeing Trinity look up at you from where she's lying in bed on her phone, you gingerly nod, letting out a long sigh as you do. "She was feeling guilty about what happened at the club, but she's asleep now."

Trinity puts her phone down, giving you a sympathetic look. "That's rough. It's not her fault and I'm sure she knows that, but the girl's heart is so big it's going to take her a while to forgive herself."

You sit down on the edge of your bed and run your hands over your face, groaning at the prospect of dealing with the sober repercussions of this in the morning.

"Yeah. That's what I'm worried about." Sliding under the covers, you roll onto your side facing away from Trinity, signaling that you were done with the conversation.

Your friend takes the hint, putting her phone away and falling asleep soon after, but you weren't as lucky, tossing and turning for hours to come.

The next morning, you drag yourself to the bathroom after waiting for a reasonable time to climb out of bed, standing under the running water of your shower and praying for it to wash away all the conflicted feelings swirling inside of you. Once you hear Trinity moving about in the next room, you realize you've taken longer than planned and hop out right away, sliding into autopilot mode and emerging from the bathroom soon after, feeling slightly better but nowhere your usual self.

Your eye is considerably more sore than the previous night, so you grab an ice pack from your freezer and hold it to your face as you attempt to make breakfast.

"How about you sit at the table while I handle this, Rocky?"

Quirking your unaffected eyebrow, you huff at your green eyed friend before doing as you're told and releasing your duties to her. "You're not giving me a damn nickname."

Trinity only smirks at you, turning around to grab the necessary equipment from your cabinets. "If you didn't want me to call you that, you shouldn't have gone after that dickwad like you did."

You glare daggers at her back, but remain seated as you let out a long sigh through your nose. Not bothering to respond to her, you lean back in your chair and resume icing your wounded eye, checking your phone's unanswered notifications. Seeing a DM from the picnic girl asking if you're okay, you groan as you realize you completely forgot about her after the fight. Debating how you should answer, you're interrupted by quiet groaning coming from the living room, seeing that both Whitaker and Victoria are waking up.

"Well, good morning sunshines. You're just in time to help with breakfast, come on." Trinity waves them both over, and the pair comply after freshening up, setting placemats and utensils on the table in front of you before moving to take their own seats at the table.

"How're you feeling?" Victoria asks, wincing when you pull the ice pack away from your face.

"Just peachy."

She frowns at your response, causing you to smile then quickly groan when it pulls at your injured skin.

Breakfast is finished a short while later, the four of you now sitting and beginning to dig into your food, not a single word being uttered over content sighs and chewing noises.

Your gaze keeps drifting over to the living room, part of you eager and anxious to check on the only missing member of the group. The clock on the wall tells you it's close to ten now, and you begin to wonder if she'll awaken anytime soon. A little under ten minutes pass and you're about to get up and check on her when the tell-tale sound of feet hitting the floor reach your ears and the sight of a disheveled Samira appears moments later.

"Sleeping Beauty finally decided to grace us with her presence?"

You kick Trinity under the table for that remark, watching as the curly headed woman in front of you rubs her eyes and looks around the table embarrassingly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sleep in so late."

"Don't worry about it, go wash up and come join us, there's plenty of food left," Victoria tells her with a smile before Samira returns it with a tight lipped one of her own, disappearing for a bit before taking a seat across from you.

The tension is instant, the feeling enveloping everyone at the table and leaving you all to wonder who will break the silence first.

"I, um, don't remember everything from last night, it's broken up into bits and pieces."

Your heart simultaneously lifts and deflates at Samira's explanation. On one hand, you're elated she might not remember that she cried in your arms or what led up to the fight, but on the other, you almost hope she remembers the near kiss you shared and would miraculously admit romantic feelings for you. The thought suddenly makes you sick and you push your plate away, no longer interested in eating.

"But from what I do remember..." She finally looks up from the table and around at everyone, locking onto you for a moment before casting her gaze to the side. "I am so sorry for putting you guys in that predicament. We were supposed to have a fun night, and I ruined it."

Victoria shakes her head quickly and assures her she's being too hard on herself. "You didn't ruin anything, we still had a blast." Whitaker nods in agreement and gives her a reassuring look as well. "Yeah, it's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

Trinity chimes in as well, telling her not to beat herself up over it, and you all manage a small smile in response, not saying anything else and going back to eating. Once everyone is finished, they leave one by one until it's only you and Samira. Not a word is spoken between the two of you, and after letting out a small sigh, you move to stand, the sound of your chair moving along the floor.

Purposely taking your time putting your dishes away, you wait to see if Samira will say something, anything to you, but her eyes stay locked onto her plate, pushing around her food until you have no reason to stick around and sullenly retreat to your room.

At the table, Samira swallows the lump in her throat and blinks the unshed tears away.

When you close your door, you head to your closet, seeing Trinity sitting and applying her makeup in the full length mirror next to it.

"The parade starts at twelve, and I know Mel likes to be early, so we should leave kind of soon to get a decent spot."

Your friend looks up from her spot on the floor, hairbrush in hand and nods in agreement. "Yeah, sounds good."

She finishes soon after and heads into the living room soon after to let everyone else know the plan, leaving you alone. Feeling the beginning of worst case scenarios sneak into your head, you physically shake them out and try your best to focus on the task at hand. Trying a couple of different outfits on until you find one that you feel most comfortable in, you complete your look in the mirror, wincing at the discoloration decorating your eye, and head out to your friends.

Everyone is waiting in the living room, and Trinity stands up with her bag in hand, looking over everyone's outfits to give a final stamp of approval. She looks you up and down, nodding her head in satisfaction as her lips move into a smirk. "Simple but sexy. I like it." You attempt to roll your eyes as you swat at her arm, but you don't disagree.

You catch Samira looking at you in your peripheral vision, but she says nothing as you move to grab your shoes at the entrance, leaving you to quietly sigh to yourself. Victoria texts Mel that you're starting the walk over to the beginning of the parade, and the five of you make your way out of the building and onto the sidewalk, the sun a welcome addition to your somber mood.

The walk takes a little under twenty minutes, and by the time you all arrive, a large crowd has already gathered. Trinity leads the way until she finds an acceptable amount of open real estate, dramatically stretching her limbs to mark the territory, everyone following suit before making yourselves comfortable.

"Guys! Hi!"

All of you turn around immediately upon hearing a certain voice, cheering when you identify the person it belongs to. A huge smile lights up Samira's face at the sight of Mel, the woman running up to your group and getting engulfed in an enthusiastic group hug. "We missed you this weekend," Trinity states, still holding her friend in her arms.

"I missed you guys too, I'm so happy we get to hang out today," Mel replies, moving from person to person and giving individual hugs.

When she gets to you, her hands shoot up to her mouth as she stares at your face in horror. “What happened to your eye?!”

Feeling heat creep up your neck as people around you turn to see what the commotion is, you clear your throat and give Mel an embarrassed smile. “It’s…a long story, I’ll tell you later.”

She nods in understanding, patting you on the shoulder as Trinity grabs her attention, much to your relief.

Chatting amongst yourselves until the parade starts, each of you begin waving the respective flags you brought and enjoy the floats going by. The event lasts well over an hour, and your group cheers excitedly the entire time, making sure to take pictures and video here and there. Once the last float passes, Trinity turns to the group, hands on her hips as she gauges everyone's expressions.

"What do you guys feel like doing now?" She questions, the others throwing out ideas while Samira's eyes seem distant, clearly lost in thought.

"I'm hungry," Victoria says, checking her watch quickly to get the time. It has been a while since breakfast and she's already eyeing a nearby food truck, looking around for approval.

"Yeah, let's grab lunch," Whitaker agrees with a smile, and everyone murmurs out varying degrees of consent before beginning the walk over.

After getting food and finding a small patch of grass, your group starts up a new conversation, and you glance over at Samira, noticing her expression is still far away. Not being able to stop yourself, your concern wins out and you nudge her shoulder softly. "You okay?"

She jolts, snapping out of her daze to look over at you and nodding her head before plastering an overly enthusiastic smile on. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

"We can head back to the apartment if you're not feeling it out here. I don't think anyone would be opposed to a nap after the last couple days." You chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, but Samira only scratches her cheek and reassures you that she's okay before turning to everyone else and joining the conversation.

Being brushed off stings more than you'd like to admit, reminding you of her demeanor at the club last night, but you choose not to dwell on it and instead enjoy the company of your entire friend group.

The afternoon goes on relatively normally, the six of you gelling as you usually do, and you can't help but notice how animated Samira is in conversation with the others. She laughs and interacts with each person with a smile, and her mood from earlier seems like ages ago now. You don't get much time to dwell on the matter, the sun chasing the horizon before long. Victoria yawns loudly as the group slowly begins to pack up, agreeing that it was time to head back to your place.

The walk back is much more cheerful, Samira and you both being active participants in the conversation this time, though rarely with each other. Everyone walks through your entryway at a more relaxed pace, the energy from earlier now dissipated as everyone begins to mentally prepare to begin a new week. When Mel enters your living room, she lets out a noise of excitement, and you remember that she hasn't been here before.

You give her a quick tour of the place, and when you show her the balcony, she immediately loves it, complimenting the view. She eventually wanders back into the main area, plopping down on the couch and looking around some more, taking in all the little details you put into the place. With everyone now winding down, you know your weekend together has officially come to an end.

Several minutes later, Victoria is the first to break the comfortable silence, standing up and stretching her arms out in front of her. "Well, I know it's still kind of early, but I think I'm going to call it a night."

"We should too," Trinity adds, slowly rising to her feet and nodding to Dennis. "I'm ready to pass out."

"Yeah, I could get a couple of errands done before the work week starts up again," Mel explains with a sigh as she stands from her spot.

The goodbyes are heartfelt, and even though you'll all be seeing each other in only a few hours, the atmosphere is still melancholic. Eventually, everyone heads out of your apartment, waving over their shoulders in promise of another group hangout soon, and as you shut your door, your heart deflates a bit. Samira said goodbye and even hugged you, but you can’t shake the feeling that she remembers more about last night than she’s letting on. The apartment feels lonely without your friends' happy chatter, and you sigh deeply as you sit down at the kitchen table with your laptop, catching up on emails while you have the time.

After a restless night and nervous morning, Samira is back at the hospital for her next shift, determined to put the weekend behind her and focus solely on her patients. She's always been able to separate her work life from her personal, and though there hasn't previously been much of a personal life to separate, she doesn't doubt her ability to.

The challenge proves easier said than done, Samira being greeted with the sight of you walking alongside Dana the instant she steps onto the floor. The older woman is reminding you to ice your eye, causing you nod bashfully, and she feels a flutter in her stomach before internally cursing herself.

Samira wastes no time walking over, intent on not showing how emotional she truly feels, to you or anyone. Reaching behind the counter to grab a tablet, she stands barely a foot away, seeing how you look up at her from where you're also reading patient charts.

"Good morning." Giving her a small smile, you slide the usual paper cup over to her, watching as a slightly surprised look graces her face.

"Oh. Thank you." The brunette grabs the cup from you and takes a sip, shooting you a closed lip smile. It's not quite as warm a thanks as she's given you the previous couple of weeks, but it's a Monday morning, and you've both had a tumultuous last few days, so you brush it off as that and nothing else.

She honestly wasn't sure if you'd still keep up with your morning routine after the events that unfolded between you, but she finds that she's more ashamed than anything that you don't hesitate to continue it, unsure of how to move forward.

Rounds start soon after, and with it, the inevitable looks and questions that come with your coworkers asking what happened to your eye. You brush them off, simply explaining that it's a long story and you don't feel like talking about it. Inevitably, rumors and guesses float around the floor anyway, and when you see Samira standing behind a whispering Princess and Perlah with a pinched expression, you sigh and wish for the day to end as quickly as possible.

Over the next few hours, you notice that while Samira isn't avoiding you, she's not as talkative as she usually is, with you or anyone. You're unsure how to feel about the realization, but you focus on your cases instead, not wanting to let yourself get so distracted that they slip through the cracks.

Eventually, you respond to picnic girl's message from the day before to tell her that you're fine and gently shut down her request to meet up again, citing scheduling difficulties due to your job. She seems to get the hint, only letting you know to reach out if you're ever free, and you breathe out a sigh of relief at having one less thing to worry about.

Finally, it's the end of the day, and you clock out generally unscathed. You managed not to lose any patients that day, and that's always a huge win in your book. Walking out with the rest of your friends, the conversation is quiet but steady, everyone being tired from the weekend.

Your gaze keeps being drawn over to Samira, and you see that while she doesn't seem as drained as the rest of you, she's definitely distracted. Her shoulders are tense, her gaze is fixed on the ground, and she's uncharacteristically lagging behind. Eventually, she comes to walk even with you, glancing over but immediately looking away. Feeling the tension, you look around and notice Trinity watching you, sending you an encouraging look as she walks ahead.

"Hey." You lightly bump Samira's arm with your own, capturing her attention the way you have countless times before. "How are you doing? You were pretty quiet today, even Robby didn't nag you."

She nods quickly, still not meeting your gaze. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night." It comes out quickly, more like her own thoughts being spoken aloud than having a conversation.

Peeking over at her again, your heart drops at how closed off she seems, and you swallow the lump forming in your throat, giving her a small smile even though she's not looking at you. "Yeah, me too. I almost feel like we could all use a vacation."

She nods at your joke, but the movement is jerky, and your gut tells you there's something else going on. As you open your mouth to ask another question, she suddenly stops walking, and it's then that you realize you've reached her car.

You stop as well, turning to face her while still keeping some space between the two of you. You're unsure of what you should do, if you should push or leave her alone, and you shift awkwardly on your feet while the silence stretches out. Finally, when you can't take the quiet anymore, your mouth opens and the question you've been wanting to ask falls out before you can stop it. "Are we okay?"

Her gaze darts over to meet yours, holding your gaze with a thinly veiled look of hurt. "Of course we are."

Clenching and unclenching your hands from their place in your jacket pockets, you take a deep breath in an attempt to soothe yourself. Your initial reaction is to press further, but you know it wouldn't achieve what you want, not at this current moment. So, you accept Samira's answer, patting her shoulder as you walk past and telling her you'll see her in the morning.

She whispers a reply before getting in her car and shutting the door, and you resist the urge to look back. Reaching your own car, you call out a good night to your friends across the parking lot, not in the mood to entertain anymore conversation.

Over the next few days, Samira is back to her usual self, and she's interacting with everyone as she ordinarily would. The pair of you are back to normal for the most part, talking and exchanging inside jokes, but you can't help but feel that she's still being cautious around you. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes when you say something witty, and you've noticed that she doesn't initiate as much physical contact as she did before.

You try to convince yourself that you're being paranoid, but something in your gut tells you that you're right, and you can't shake the feeling. Even talking with Trinity and Whitaker doesn't completely settle your mind, but after a few weeks, you've accepted this as your new normal.

It's now another Friday night, and your friends are all gathered in your living room, on the second movie of a double feature. Trinity had suggested Bottoms first, and Victoria then mentioned wanting to watch I Can't Think Straight. No one beside you and Trinity had seen that, but Whitaker, Mel, and Samira said they were up for it, so twenty minutes later, you're all tuned in to your TV once again.

You're trying to pay attention to the screen, but you're finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything but the woman sitting on the opposite end of the couch. You've been sneaking glances at Samira ever since the movie started, unable to keep your eyes away from her face for more than a few minutes at a time. The emotions that fill her eyes as she watches the characters on the screen are mesmerizing, and the urge to ask her what she's thinking is so strong that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from acting on it.

During the sad scenes, you see what looks like Samira wiping her cheeks, and though the room is barely bright enough to see clearly, your chest still clenches. By the time it finishes and the credits begin to roll, you begin to stretch your arms above your head, facing the group to ask their opinions. You pause when you see Victoria and Samira sporting watery smiles, laughing at each other when they realize that they've both been crying. Mel and Whitaker look charmed, and you're glad everyone seems to have enjoyed the movie.

Looking across the room again, you notice that Samira is still wiping away tears, her head leaned back against the couch and her arms wrapped around herself, a sight that causes you to chew on your bottom lip in contemplation. "So...how did you guys like that one?"

Victoria is the first one to answer your question, launching into the themes and representation, and Mel quickly follows with her opinions on certain shots and the soundtrack. When Trinity and Whitaker join the conversation, you scan the room and notice the lack of input from Samira, who's gazing off into the distance with a faraway look in her eyes. After a few minutes, she stands from the couch and causes everyone to look up at her.

"I'm gonna get some air." With a tight lipped smile, she clears her throat and makes her way to your balcony, closing the sliding door behind her.

You turn back to your friends, not wanting to blatantly stare after the other woman, but Trinity catches your eye as you do, causing you to purse your lips and shrug. Glancing at the clock a short while later, you see that it's been half an hour since Samira's been outside, and you decide to finally check on her.

Rising to your feet and rolling your shoulders, you tell your friends you're going to join the other woman and to keep helping themselves to your snacks. As you move the curtain aside and step out onto the balcony, you're met with the sight and sound of a sniffling Samira who startles when she realizes she now has company, and you quickly begin stuttering out an apology.

"Oh shit, um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"No! It's okay." She's turned away from you, wiping her face with the sleeves of her zip up hoodie and trying to steady her voice. "I'm sorry, you shouldn't have to apologize for walking around your own home."

You nod before remembering she can't see you and think about how to respond. "I just, uh," you fumble for the right words before finding them. "I just wanted to check on you, you've been out here for a while and I needed to make sure the raccoons hadn't gotten you. There's an aggressive one I've had to fight for my plants a couple times." You internally smack your forehead for making such a lame joke at an obviously inappropriate time, but when you hear a broken laugh choke out from the brunette, you figure it wasn't that bad.

Samira wipes her eyes one more time before turning around to face you, smiling at your failed attempt at lightening the mood. "Thanks. Sorry, I really didn't mean to be out here this long, I just..." She trails off before rubbing a hand across her face and mumbling, "I guess the movie just hit a little close to home."

Feeling emboldened by her admission, you take a few steps closer to her, your body stopping once you reach the railing, leaving a couple of feet between you both.

She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and the words begin flowing. "There were just some things that felt— I just related to a few parts more than I thought I would, and it brought some personal stuff up." She gives you a small, rueful smile, a hand returning to her face to wipe away a stray tear. "I guess...I guess I've just been thinking about something...in specific lately."

Your heart speeds up at the thought of what that could be, but you keep your expression neutral. Nodding to let her know you're following along, she continues.

"It's just..." Her words keep dying off, and it's obvious she's struggling to articulate what's on her mind. You're tempted to speak, to offer possibilities of what she's alluding to, but your brain wins the battle to have you shut up and listen. Finally, Samira lets out a deep sigh and turns to face you head-on, looking you dead in the eyes. "Can I ask you something?"

Your heart stops and your mind starts racing, the air in your lungs feeling stuck and like it's dissipating all at once. You clear your throat and adjust your posture before responding, praying your voice wouldn't betray your nerves. "Yeah, of course, anything."

"It's pretty personal, so if you don't want to answer it, I won't be offended, but..." Her eyes turn downcast for a long moment before she looks up at you with the most vulnerable expression you've ever seen her wear. "How did you...know? That you were gay." She whispers the second part so quietly that you could've chalked it up to the wind, but when it registers in your brain, the seriousness of the moment grabs you in a chokehold, and you know your next words will make or break it.

"Well…honestly, it was like, a series of moments that led up to one night. And the next day and night, actually." Her eyebrows furrow slightly at your response, and you push down the urge to smooth away the crease between them. "It's kind of a long story, but if you're open to it, I can tell you what happened."

Samira looks at you with those impossibly doe-like brown eyes and nods her head, causing you take a deep breath and mentally prepare yourself to relive that part of your life. You look behind her at the forgotten pair of chairs you set out here when you first moved in and gesture for her to take a seat before you follow suit.

Thinking about where to start, the memories start flashing in your mind like a deck of cards, and you have to close your eyes to keep yourself from getting overwhelmed. Opening them once you feel safe to, your eyes flit about the space before locking with Samira's. "Well, I'll start at the beginning, I guess."

The other woman slides one leg under the other, wringing her hands in her lap as she sits back in the chair.

"I had this best friend growing up, like most lesbians do," you huff to yourself, the noise between a cross between a laugh and a scoff, "and we were super close, from elementary school to our freshman year of high school. Did literally everything together, hung out after school, the whole nine." A small smile adorns your face as you recall those years, and Samira finds it sweet, a fluttering feeling blooming in her own stomach.

You begin telling her story after story of this girl, for no other reason other than the memory of her resurfacing a specific happiness that you wish you could live in. The nerves on the brunette's face have since eased, her expression now curious and attentive, and you occasionally find yourself side tracked by it while speaking.

"So, our freshman year, this one Friday night, we're in my bed after we had just watched a movie on my DVD player, Stick It, of all the movies in the world." Samira's eyebrows quirk in confusion but she says nothing to interrupt you. You tell her how you had scooted closer together, a faraway look in your eyes as you're transported back to that exact moment.

"All of a sudden...she kisses me. Quick, just a peck on the lips, it lasted probably a tenth of a second. And we start giggling, like teenage girls do, and I thought it would be funny to kiss her back, so I did. It lasted longer than the first one, and when I pulled back, neither of us were laughing." Samira's knees are pulled to her chest now, her eyes laser focused on your face and the sad smile gracing your lips.

You tell her how you had both confessed your feelings for each other later that night, barely able to sleep because of how excited you were. Recalling that next evening when it was time for her to leave, you walked her home, stopping at the park between your houses and sitting on the swings, eventually laying in the grass to gaze up at the stars.

At this point, the woman next you hasn't said a single word, and you're grateful because you need all the strength you have to spit out the last part of the story. "We kissed again then, talking about how we'd be together through the rest of high school and after. I dropped her off at home before it got too late and she got in trouble, and I walked home on cloud nine."

You feel tears begin forming at the corner of your eyes, and you look away to wipe them. You tell Samira how you weren't allowed to have cell phones at the time, so you had to wait for the following Monday to talk to her again. "I was waiting for her like I did every day, but when she walked out of the house, she looked more sad than I had ever seen her. Turns out, her dad's job transferred him to another branch and they were moving that coming weekend. The company would take care of everything, so they didn't have to wait around for the house to sell or whatever."

The tears begin to fall now, and you wipe them away as you talk, no longer bothering to hide it. "I saw her at school that week, and then she was gone. I gave her a slip of paper with my house number, and we talked that away for a while, but she started calling less and less, and eventually, she stopped calling at all, and when I tried to call her, it said the number was no longer in service."

You take a deep breath then, leaning your head back to ease the pressure starting to build. "I've looked for her on social media over the years, but never found anything. I just assumed she got married and changed her name or something." Sniffling, you wipe the last of your tears away, and Samira finally breaks her silence a few moments later. "Can I hug you?"

You hear the crack in her voice and when you look over at her, you see that she's crying too. That causes your eyes to well up again, and when you simply nod, the other woman rises from her chair to climb in your lap and engulf you in a hug. Reciprocating immediately, you let her warmth and steady heartbeat soothe you, staying in that position for what's probably several minutes.

Once you've calmed down, you raise your head from its position in the crook of her neck and begin to shake your head. "I'm so sorry, I did not mean to trauma dump like that, you asked me a question and I took over the conversation." A hoarse laugh slips from your mouth as you try to brush off the vulnerability you've just showed, especially when you realize the position you're both in, but Samira doesn't let you off the hook that easy. "No, don't say that. I'm honored, actually, it takes so much courage for someone to be that open, and it means a lot that you felt safe enough to tell me that story."

She pulls back to look you head on, the eye contact keeping you in place as her eyes scan your face, no doubt noting the tear tracks decorating your cheeks. "Thank you for trusting me."

Your own hand is lifted to your face, fingertips gently ghosting along your skin as you try to figure out how your eyes are still producing tears. "Yeah," is all you can manage for a moment as you study her expression, noting how she's no longer crying but regarding you with a look you're afraid to decipher. "Of course."

Samira then removes herself from your lap and takes her previous spot on the chair next to you as you try to figure out what direction to take the conversation in. "So, um," you clear your throat, "Can I ask why you wanted to know how I knew?"

Her eyes dart to the ground as she rubs the back of her neck, and a small frown appears on her face. "Well," she starts hesitantly, struggling to vocalize what she's been feeling. "I've just been...wondering? About myself lately, I guess."

Nodding in understanding, a memory of pride weekend flashes across your mind. "I can relate to that."

She shoots you a small smile, hands fiddling with the hem on her pant leg, and you sense the nervous energy coming off of her in waves. Clearing her throat again, she lets out a deep sigh, the sound causing you to raise an eyebrow questioningly. "I've just never really allowed myself the space to question my sexuality really, and now that I'm an adult, it almost feels like it's too late."

You bite your lip then, wanting the brunette to let out everything on her mind the way she allowed you to.

"There's all kinds of what-ifs in my head, I guess. What if I'm wrong, what will people think, what will my family think..." she trails off, a frustrated huff following.

"Seeing that movie tonight really put things in perspective for me. I related to aspects of both of them, never feeling truly comfortable with a man, but worried what that meant for me, and my future. It was helpful to see adults realizing their true selves and coming out, and not just teenagers. The pieces are finally starting to fall into place, but it's terrifying, honestly." Her hands come up to cover her face then, and your heart drops, knowing that feeling all too well.

"It is," you reply softly, keeping your voice free of judgment.

Her hands drop to her lap, and she gazes at you with vulnerable eyes. "How did you handle it?" She whispers, her voice overcome with emotion.

You take a few moments to collect your words before answering her seriously. "Honestly, not well at first. Having to accept I didn't like boys was the harder part, personally, and it definitely took me longer, but I've never felt more free than when I did."

She takes in your answer, eyes fixed on you as you speak, and the small frown on her features fades slightly. You continue, feeling the words flow like they did earlier. "My advice is to listen to yourself. Don't push these feelings aside because you're scared." Her gaze falls from yours to the floor as you watch the wheels turning in her head, wondering what thoughts are going through her mind.

Her eyebrows furrow as she chews on her lip, your words weighing heavily on her shoulders, and you see the way she's tensed up. Feeling the need to comfort her, you reach out and place a hand over hers, the gesture catching her off guard as she snaps out of her thoughts.

"I know it's easier said than done, but don't think of all the what-if's at once." Her fingers gently curl around yours, sad eyes returning to your face as you speak again softly. "You'll drive yourself crazy that way."

Samira nods in acknowledgment, and you can tell that she's still hesitant, but her shoulders lower and she relaxes into her chair, all while holding your hand. "Yeah, you're probably right."

She takes a deep breath, slowly exhaling through pursed lips as she attempts to compose herself. Your gaze is still on her, roaming over every one of her features in silent admiration as she tries to find her place again.

Eventually she speaks up, asking you more questions about your journey, which you answer openly and honestly. You both laugh, you cry, you share personal stories no one else has ever heard. While telling you about a girl she knew in college, Samira glances behind you in confusion before her eyes widen. "Oh my god, is that the sun?"

Following her gaze, you look over your shoulder and see the first hints of dawn stretching over the horizon. Your eyebrows raise in surprise and you look back to her in shock. "Damn, how long have we been out here?"

Samira looks around in confusion while patting herself down. "I have no idea, I just realized I must have left my phone inside."

"Shit, me too." You laugh to yourself at the realization that you just spent the entire night talking with the other woman, a warm feeling settling in your chest. Rising from your seat, you suddenly remember your other friends that you left inside several hours ago.

Upon entering your apartment, you see that the rest of your group is nowhere to be found, and you look around in confusion when Samira speaks up from her place next to the couch. "Trinity text us around midnight to let us know everyone was leaving and didn't want to interrupt."

You finally locate your phone on the floor and when you unlock it, you see the same message in the group chat, but above it, a private one from Trinity.

[Yesterday, 11:57 pm] Baby Apple 🍏💚:

go get ur girl 😜

You roll your eyes with a smile before locking the device and sliding it into your pocket while facing Samira. Seeing the other woman yawn makes you realize how tired you are, and it suddenly becomes impossible to keep your eyelids open, an idea popping into your head at the same time.

"Hey, I don't know about you, but I'm beat."

Samira suddenly looks bashful, catching on to what you're implying. You see the way she begins gathering her things and avoiding eye contact with you before realizing it sounded like you were kicking her out, your next words rushing out all at once. "And, um, if you're too tired to drive yet, you're more than welcome to crash here."

She freezes in her haste to grab her purse, turning slightly towards you and studying your expression, like she's trying to see if you're being sincere. When you give her a small smile, a wave of relief seems to wash over her before she responds. "Are you sure? I don't want to impose—"

You quickly shake your head and wave your hand through the air, dismissing her concerns. "If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have offered. Plus it's dangerous to drive in that condition anyway, so all the more reason." Samira's smile is timid, but she nods and sets her belongings back down.

Realizing you were backed up on laundry, you scratch the back of your neck as you navigate how this will work. "Well, I just remembered that I don't have any clean blankets for the couch right now, so if you're okay with it, you can sleep in the bed with me. It's super comfy, I promise, I've gotten great reviews." Heat begins to creep up your cheeks when you realize how that sounded, but Samira seems to ignore it as she nods and tells you to lead the way.

The two of you are already in comfy clothes from the night before, and you both have a routine of showering as soon as you arrive home from work, so you wordlessly slip under your comforter and settle into your preferred sleeping positions. Your blackout curtains bathe the room in a pleasant darkness, and it doesn't take long for either of you to succumb to your exhaustion.

You sleep more soundly than you have in quite some time, and when you finally crack open your eyes, you catch a sliver of sunlight casting itself onto your closet door. A small groan escapes your throat as you attempt to roll over, but you realize that something around your waist is stopping you. Your eyes widen as reality catches up, and you look over your shoulder to see Samira snuggled up against you, face pressed in between your shoulder blades. While you're frozen in place, she sighs in her sleep and burrows even closer, a warm leg sliding between your own.

You're suddenly wide awake, the weight of her body pressing into yours causing your heart to pound against your rib cage. You can feel the rise and fall of her chest touching your back, her hand having snuck under your shirt and gently clutching at your skin. The intimate position causes butterflies to start swarming in your stomach and your eyes stare straight ahead, your mind warring with itself. You know it's wrong to enjoy this the way you are while the other woman is unaware, but you also don't want to wake her up and cause an uncomfortable situation.

Before you get a chance to decide what to do, Samira begins to stir behind you, and your eyes are shutting immediately while you pretend to be asleep. Her close proximity means you hear the hitch in her breath as she fully awakens and realizes the way she's holding you; you feel the way her arm gently slides off of your waist as to not wake you. Once she fully untangles herself and slips away from the bed to the bathroom, your eyes slip open when the door clicks, rolling onto your back and covering your face with your hands while thinking, What the fuck was that.

In the next room, Samira is sure she's going to have a heart attack. She's never known herself to be clingy in her sleep, always one to establish clear boundaries anytime she happened to share a bed with someone. With no prior experience on how to handle the flurry of sensations ripping through her body at the moment, she turns the faucet on and begins splashing water on her face. "Come on Samira, get it together," she whispers to herself.

Locating her spare toothbrush she's left here since her first sleepover, she slowly brushes her teeth as she tries to understand what it is she's feeling. Though a huge part of her would love nothing more than to crawl back under your covers, the more rational side accepts that she should go home and not take up any more of your time. Once she's finished, she presses her forehead against the door, hyping herself up to go back in your room to grab the hoodie she somehow took off in her sleep and slip out of your apartment undetected.

Little does she know, you're currently staring at the ceiling, trying to wrap your head around what just happened. All you can picture is the way she felt behind you, the way you fit together so easily. It takes every ounce of self-control you possess to not get up and pace the room, to get all of the newly built-up energy out. You're still lying there with your gaze fixed above you when the bathroom door creaks open and Samira reenters the bedroom, freezing in her tracks upon seeing that you're awake.

Lifting yourself up onto your elbows, you stare back for a moment before asking, "Hi. You sleep okay?" You don't know what compels you to say that when you saw the answer for yourself firsthand, but once it slips out, you find that you're nervous for her reply.

She's shifting her weight from one foot to the other, picking at a nonexistent piece of lint on her shirt before she responds. "Yeah, thank you. It was as comfy as you said it would be," she answers calmly, but there's a tentativeness in her voice that make you want to scream into a pillow. "Did you um, did you sleep okay? I didn't kick you or anything, did I?" She gives you a sheepish look, and the corner of your mouth turns up at the nervous energy she exudes.

"No, don't worry, I slept well. Better than I have in a long time actually."

She lets out a huff that sounds a little bit like a laugh, fidgeting with her sleeve and avoiding your gaze. "Well, I don't want you to feel like you have to get up or anything, so I'm just gonna—" She begins to motion towards the front door, but you feel a pang in your chest at the thought of her leaving, blurting out your next words before you can think better of it. "You don't have to go yet. We can hang out, if you want. I have more frozen TV dinners than I know what to do with." You chuckle to make it seem less awkward, and though you're hyper-aware of the fact that this is the second time in mere hours that you've tried to keep her from going home, something inside you isn't ready to part just yet.

She stops mid-step and you see a look of hope cross her face. Her gaze is fixed on yours as she asks, "You're sure?"

The words echo her earlier hesitation when you said she could sleep over, and you have to force down an affectionate laugh. "Yeah, the least I can do before I kick you out is feed you."

Her full lips spread into a wide smile, dimples on display and all, causing your heart to stutter momentarily as she replies, "Okay, then, I guess I don't have any choice."

"Perfect." You match her grin, swinging your feet off the bed and grabbing your phone to check the time as you head to the bathroom to freshen up.

A short while later, you and Samira are sitting in front of your coffee table, having lunch as promised, watching The World Unseen. One of the things you two had discussed the previous night was the lack of lesbian media she consumes, and you willingly offered your vast knowledge of movies, television, and books to her. Seeing how much she liked I Can't Think Straight, you informed her that the two lead actresses had starred in another film together, to which she immediately asked about watching.

Every so often, you sneak a look to see how she's enjoying it, and you're pleased to see her so enraptured. Your thoughts are so laser-focused on her reactions that it takes you a moment to realize that the credits are rolling and she's looking over at you in question, tears in her eyes. "Wait, that's how it ends?!"

You look at her sheepishly as you push a box of tissues across the table. "I didn't wanna give anything away..."

A disbelieving laugh escapes her as she grabs one and dabs at her eyes. "I can't believe you let me get so invested for that." She attempts to give you a mock offended look, but the way she's fighting a smile undercuts it.

"Good news is, you have another lesbian movie under your belt, you're practically an elder gay now," you joke before popping a chip into your mouth.

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far," she snorts, shaking her head as she leans back on her elbows, the action stretching her t-shirt across her chest and causing you to divert your gaze, suddenly finding the floor interesting.

"So what's next on your list?"

Whipping your head back toward the woman, you give her a curious look, pausing the TV before turning to her. "You're down to watch another one?"

Samira shrugs, trying to look nonchalant while reaching for the bag on the table. "I mean, we're kind of a roll, and I trust your movie taste more than the people on Reddit."

"Well," you sigh dramatically and placing a hand over your heart, "I'm honored you trust me more than random strangers on the internet." She throws her head back and begins giggling, the sound filling the apartment, and you think that you could listen to her laugh forever.

Before you get too distracted, you pick up the remote and begin looking for the next title, already having a few in mind. Over the next few hours, you watch D.E.B.S. and The Watermelon Woman, explaining the cultural significance and random facts about each movie. What you fail to realize in between your comments is the way Samira looks at you with wonderment and affection, a shine in her eyes she's never had before.

When you finally look back at her to ask if she wants to watch another movie, her expression is neutral, looking past you to the TV. "So what's your #1?"

Thinking for a second, the answer pops into your head but you look at the other woman with a hesitant expression, prompting her to ask you what it is. "Um, I don't really wanna bring down the mood." You scratch your cheek as Samira insists you put it on, and after she finally convinces you, the opening scene of Portrait of a Lady on Fire is playing.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," you whisper, both of you now settled against the back of your couch.

2 hours later, Samira's crying into one of your throw pillows as you unsuccessfully try to wipe up all of your tears with your hands. Once you've both calmed down, you look over at the other woman, giggling once you see the redness of her eyes and tear marks on her cheeks, knowing you look the same. "I told you."

A watery scoff leaves her mouth as she grabs tissues from your table and does her best to clean her face off. She takes a deep shuddering breath and shakes her head, trying to collect herself before speaking. "What a way to end the night."

That phrasing brings you back down to earth, and you run your tongue across your upper teeth as you realize the entire day has passed. "Yeah, what a finale."

Samira checks her phone and lets out a quiet sigh, placing her feet on the floor. "I should get going, I've taken up enough of your time."

Your heart sinks hearing her words and your eyes dart to the ground, mentally chiding yourself for acting like a child. You force a smile, attempting to keep your face indifferent, as you respond, "Yeah, I guess you're right."

She rises from the couch, and you follow, the two of you now standing in front of one another, the silence growing more and more oppressive by the second. Just as your brain supplies a thought to break the silence, Samira beats you to it. "I had a lot of fun tonight."

"Even though you cried a bunch?" You can't help but tease the other woman, enjoying the way she playfully rolls her eyes at you. She lets out a huff that sounds more like a laugh and gently pushes your shoulder. "Shut up, you cried just as much."

Turning around to grab her bag from your kitchen table and sling it over her shoulder, she walks towards your front door as you trail behind. Once she finishes putting her shoes on, she turns to face you and is slightly taken aback by the sad look in your eyes.

Twisting her hands together, the movement catches your gaze as she speaks. "We should do this again, honestly." You look back up at her, keeping eye contact. "I, um, wanted to thank you for...making me feel so comfortable and listening to me and answering all the questions I had. I know it was a lot, but I'm really grateful that I have someone like you in my life." Her eyes are misty now, and your lower lip juts out before you pull her in for a hug.

"Of course, Samira, I'll always be here for you." You're rubbing her back gently as her arms are wrapped around your neck, and you're reminded of how she held you earlier in the day. "Anything you need, day or night, you can get ahold of me, okay?"

The feeling of her body against yours is calming, and you have to fight the urge to pull her closer, taking comfort in the weight of her in your arms. She leans in more, burying her face against your neck, and you feel yourself melting at the affection. Your eyes are squeezed shut as you commit every inch of the moment to memory, taking in the scent of her as much as your heart can take. Before pulling away, you hear a whisper of, "I will."

Once you've separated, you reach past her to open the door, eyes flitting between her own as a small smile graces your lips. "Let me know when you get home, yeah?"

She matches your expression as she steps into the hall and turns to face you, walking backwards towards the elevator as she replies, "Promise. Have a good night, and don't stay up too late."

She pushes the 'down' button and gives you a thumbs up, making you laugh at her cheerfulness. The two of you hold each other's gaze the entire time she steps into the elevator and the doors close, catching her final wave as they do. Heading back inside and locking the door, you amble towards your room while replaying the previous 24 hours in your head.

The whole drive back to her apartment, Samira's hands are gripping the steering wheel as she stares ahead with a look akin to shell shock. That was the first time she spent that much continuous time with you since Pride weekend, but with wildly different results. The emotions she'd spent so many hours combing over were becoming clearer and clearer, but something was still keeping her from seeing the bigger picture.

When you see Samira at work the next week, you were unsure of how she'd act around you once the two of you were outside the little bubble of your apartment and back in your regular environment, but she seems like herself, an elevated version, even.

Your group interactions are a little longer, and the conversations feel different, more personal; each of you seems like you know your friend a bit more than before. It makes you happy to see Samira comfortable in her skin, and more often than not, you catch her looking at you as you talk, her gaze open and honest.

A few weeks later, the curly haired woman asks you to help her come out to the group, which you quickly agree to. She tells you that she's now comfortable enough to come out to the people she considers family, and you're more than happy to be part of something so personal to her.

For your next shared movie night, everyone is at Samira's apartment for a change, the woman wanting to do it in an environment she's fully comfortable in. She gives you nervous looks throughout the night, in which you wordlessly reassure her every time.

During a lull in conversation after dinner, Samira clears her throat to catch everyone's attention, and a slightly nervous feeling settles in your stomach. "Hey, guys?" With all pairs of eyes on her now, her heart is beating so hard she's afraid it'll burst, but she reminds herself of the times you told her that everyone here loves her and only wants the best for her. "I have something to tell you all."

You feel Trinity nudge you under the table but you ignore it and bite the inside of your cheek, not wanting anything to ruin Samira's moment.

After taking a deep breath, the curly headed woman looks around at everyone individually, eyes lighting up when they land on you before letting them slip shut. "I'm...a lesbian."

There's a pause as everyone processes the news, but not a second later, the room erupts in cheers and as you all rise from your seats to engulf Samira in a group hug, tears running down her face as she feels the acceptance and love surrounding her. Your pride in the strength it took for her to get to this point is evident, and you have to wipe a tear from your own eye, grin so wide it almost hurts. Looking down at her, she meets your gaze with a watery smile of her own, mouthing thank you as everyone pulls away to give her room to breathe.

"I knew no one in this group would turn out to be straight," Trinity is quick to joke, earning her a smack to the shoulder from Victoria as you let out a quiet sigh. "Seriously though, we all know the journey it takes it to get here, and we all love you, Samira. Welcome to the club." She wipes a tear from the crying woman's face, her own eyes misting over as she does.

The look on Samira's face is one of pure relief, the tears flowing freely as she looks around at the circle of friends who all hold copious amounts of affection in their eyes. "Thank you guys. It really feels good to get that out." Everyone responds in various ways, the consensus being that they love her and are happy for her being true to herself. Samira finally manages to stem the tears when her eyes land on you, smiling as you send her a reassuring wink.

Later that night, you're all spread around her apartment, talking amongst yourselves with Samira's calming playlist looping in the background.

"So that night we left you guys on the balcony, did she come out to you?" Trinity asks during a pause in your private conversation.

Chewing on your bottom lip, your gaze moves past her to the woman in question before moving back to your green eyed friend. "Uh, yeah. We actually ended up talking until the sunrise."

"No shit." Trinity takes a swig of her beer before nodding slowly. "So, did you tell her about you-know-what?"

A short laugh leaves your mouth, shocked but not surprised that she's bringing this up now. "No, I didn't, obviously. That would've been the worst timing ever." You rub your fingers over your eyebrows as Trinity shrugs her shoulders and purses her lips. "Yeah, true. That was weeks ago though, you haven't tried bringing it up since?"

Pausing for a moment, you think back to the opportunities you had to admit your feelings for Samira before shaking your head. "Honestly, I don't even care about that now. Like, yes, I still have feelings for her, and all the time we've spent together lately made them even deeper, but the main thing I care about is just making sure she's okay and that I'm a safe space for whatever she needs."

Trinity blinks once at you, then exhales deeply as she pats your knee. "You're in deep shit, dude."

Groaning softly, you let your head fall back against the wall as you take in what you just said. It definitely sounded more intense than you thought it would, but you find that it's true to how you feel, and your lips quirk at that.

Trinity is looking at you with an amused expression, and you feel yourself squirm inwardly, uncomfortable now that you've admitted the weight of your feelings. She opens her mouth to add something further, but the sound of giggles reaching your ears causes you to look up, and you see that Samira is currently engaged in conversation with Mel and Whitaker. The way she looks so casual and carefree causes you to smile involuntarily, and when she looks over, you forget to look away, gaze lingering a moment too long.

Your expression must have revealed your inner thoughts, as Trinity lets out a chuckle while shaking her head, causing you to finally look over at her. Raising her eyebrows, she tells you, "If you don't stop looking at her like that, she's definitely gonna figure it out."

The blunt statement causes your eyes to widen slightly and you let out a scoff of your own, attempting to play it off. "I wasn't even—" You're cut off by Trinity's disbelieving laugh, shaking your head as you avoid her gaze again.

Later that night, your friends file out of the apartment one by one, tired from the week but happy to have been part of such a special occasion.

"See you on Monday, Samira. Sweet dreams." Victoria gives the hostess a hug and waves past her to where you're sitting on the couch, with you reciprocating the gesture and telling her to get home safe. Once your friend is gone, and it's just the two of you, the brunette plops down next to you, letting out a long huff of air. "I'm so exhausted."

Your eyes roam over her face, noting all the angles and planes of it, filing them away in your memory. "Yeah, it was an eventful day."

She sinks further into the couch and her head lolls to the side, eyes closed as she relaxes fully for the first time. You're still watching her, admiring the way her eyelashes lie on her cheeks, the way her lips are parted ever so slightly, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. A few moments of silence pass before she speaks, not opening her eyes as she does so. "I can feel you staring at me."

A quiet gasp leaves your mouth and you're about to argue when you realize she's right, chuckling softly at being caught. "How can you even tell, your eyes are closed."

Her eyelids flutter open then, regarding you with a look that pins you to your seat. "I always feel it."

Your breath hitches in your throat at the intensity of her gaze, your own eyes locked with hers as you try to form a response. "You're...very observant," you finally manage to mumble, your attempt at normalcy failing miserably. Samira doesn't seem to mind, though, as her lips quirk up in a small grin of her own. "And you're a bad liar," she counters, a hint of playfulness in her tone.

This had become a recurring theme over the past few weeks. Every since Samira had come out to you, she felt more comfortable joking around with you to the point where it could be interpreted as flirting. You've gotten used to it for the most part, throwing your own little digs back, but on certain occasions — like now — she catches you off guard, and it takes you a second to recover.

She takes your silence as an opportunity to keep going, her wide smile bordering on sly as she adds, "I can read you like a book now."

You feel heat flood your cheeks at the implication of her words, a lump forming in your throat as you become hyper aware of her proximity to you, her eyes still boring into yours. Taking a deep breath, you force yourself to respond despite the fluttering in your stomach. "Oh, can you?"

"Mm hmm." She opens her mouth to say something else when a yawn escapes instead, causing you to laugh and let go of of the breath you were holding. "I think it's time for you to head to bed."

A huff leaves her mouth when you interrupt her, but the stern expression she was attempting to convey is ruined by yet another yawn. "Fine," she groans, "but only because my couch isn't as comfy as yours. My back will be tweaked for days if I fall asleep here."

You snicker at that, pushing off from the couch and holding your hand out to her at the same time. "Come on, sleepyhead."

She rolls her eyes at the nickname but still places her palm in yours, letting you pull her up to her feet. You accidentally use more force than necessary because Samira crashes into you, causing you to stumble backwards before she steadies you by your waist.

Her hands are surprisingly firm as the two of you stare at one another. You can feel the heat from her hands seeping through your shirt and you have to stop yourself from shivering, heart thudding in your chest at this new position. Clearing your throat, you try to play it cool as you tell her, "You gonna let me go, or are we just gonna stay like this all night?"

That seems to snap her from her daze, and she quickly steps back while clearing her throat. "My bad, I think the delirium must be settling in." She gives you a shy smile before scratching the back of her neck, unsure of what to do now.

"Yeah, I think we should both call it a night." Outside, you look calm, but your pulse is still beating wildly and your voice comes out a bit hoarse, betraying your real emotions. Thankfully, Samira doesn't comment on it, instead nodding in agreement and yawning again. "Definitely."

Once you're standing at the front door with your belongings, you suddenly find yourself not wanting to leave, but knowing the other woman deserves some privacy after the events of the day.

"I'll text you when I get home. And I'll let you know which movies are next on our list." Our list. You had begun calling it that instead of 'my' list, and though the change was subtle, it tugs at Samira's heart, feeling touched at how easily you include her newfound identity. Her eyes soften at your words, and you observe the way the corners of her mouth curve upwards, flashing those distracting dimples. "You better."

Giving her one of your exaggerated salutes, you barely squeeze out a "Yes ma'am" before her arms are wrapped around your waist yet again, and you hear an emotional, "Thank you for tonight," whispered in your ear. Barely able to reciprocate the gesture, Samira quickly pulls away and plants a kiss to your cheek, the affected skin tingling immediately as she continues. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Forcing yourself to focus, you reply with an astounded expression. "Of course. Like I said before, I'm always gonna be in your corner."

Her answering smile is bright and genuine, your heart swelling at how the woman in front of you is glowing with happiness. Once you finally part after exchanging a few more quips, you're on your way out of her building and settling into your car, cheeks sore from how wide you're beaming. Catching a glimpse of yourself as you check your mirrors, your face drops as you realize that Trinity was right, and you're in deeper than you previously thought. "Shit."

At work, you find yourself constantly stealing glances at her in between patients, taking in every detail as she works. You hope you're not being obvious, but then you think about the night she said she can always tell when you're looking and wonder. During any breaks and spare moments you have with the rest of your coworkers, talking and laughing, your eyes always find their way back to the woman constantly occupying your thoughts, a trace of hope coloring them.

Unbeknownst to you, Samira is having very similar thoughts, though hers are also intertwined with ones of self doubt. As much as she's becoming more confident in her identity, she also is struggling with her burgeoning feelings for you, more so doubting that you return them. As caring and attentive as you've been since the brunette came out, she's convinced herself that it's strictly platonic, because in her mind, who would want to take on someone who doesn't truly know what they want yet?

The next several weeks pass by uneventfully, the only difference now being that Samira began to make your inside jokes in front of your other coworkers, and you're worried someone will misconstrue them and think something is going on between you two. Yet, as much as you try to fight it, you can't help but feel charmed by the other woman, her natural attentiveness and sincerity a light on even the darkest of days. Your continuous movie nights don't help your predicament, though you're aware that you'd be happy with Samira in your life in any capacity, romantic or not.

One day, she told you she wanted to try going out to more gay clubs and events around the city, and you were more than happy to oblige, different variations of your friend group joining on occasion. The pair of you spend quite a few nights at a plethora of different spaces as Samira figures out she is and isn't comfortable with, and you can see the way she blooms before your very eyes.

Unsurprisingly, she's very popular wherever she goes, plenty of women chatting her up and offering to buy her a drink or give their own contact information. Your jealousy flares every time it happens, but as you have no real reason for it, you push it aside and focus on having as best of a time as you can manage. More than once, people would ask if you two were a couple, and after denying that that was the case, you made sure not to hover so close to the brunette for fear of limiting her prospects or making her feel uncomfortable.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't catch a hint of something in her eyes each time you had to shut down the assumption, but you were never quite sure if that was the case or just wishful thinking on your part. Either way, the look was quickly wiped away, and the two of you would spend the rest of the night with an acceptable amount of space between you.

The first time Samira tells you she had a date lined up, you feel sick but still had to put on a brave face and pretend like you were happy for her, while inside it felt like someone was taking a knife to your chest. That date turns into two, which turns into three, which turns into the other woman telling the brunette that she was no longer feeling a connection.

In all your life, you've never felt anger like you do when Samira explains what happened with teary eyes and a dejected tone to her voice. You feel nothing but white-hot rage bubbling up in your chest at the thought of someone treating her so callously and your hands shake with the force of it, but you know you wouldn't be any use to her that way. Taking a deep breath and pulling her in for a hug, you tell yourself to control your emotions and rub her back as she mumbles her anxieties and fears into the side of your neck.

Samira goes on a few more dates with other people but eventually pulls back from the social scene altogether, electing to go back to regular nights in at your apartment. You can't deny that the selfish part of you is happy about it, but you don't let that show—instead, you're patient, present, and kind. Movie marathons resume like they used to, soft conversations about identity, heartbreak, and healing comfortably woven in. You speak as much as you listen, Samira always making sure you feel like you can share what's on your mind the way you allow her. The curly headed women feels the instant relief when it's just the two of you, and she attributes it to being more naturally introverted, but somewhere in the back of her mind, the real reason lingers relentlessly.

Fall is giving way to winter now, and the underlying tension between the two of you has been steadily rising with no end in sight. The hospital's holiday party is looming on the horizon, and your entire department has been talking about it for days. Most of the chatter has been complaints about management and how they allegedly don't have money for staff but can pull this off. The rest has been murmurs of excitement from the younger employees, mainly you and your friends. Though you do share similar sentiments as the senior personnel, you always look forward to any reason to get dressed up and spend time with the people you love outside of life or death situations.

The day of, your group agrees to get ready at your own places and meet at the venue, giving each other time to decompress beforehand. You're one the first employees to arrive, having gotten ready quicker than you expected, and stroll in to the entrance with a look of awe. The hall is decorated beautifully, much more lavishly than you expected given management's constant budget excuses, and you quietly scoff to yourself. Walking in a bit further, you see Dana and Robby talking animatedly at the bar and decide to join them.

"Hey superstar!" The older woman spots you first, giving you a hug and a kiss to the temple when you reach them. After also greeting you, Robby asks you what you'd like to drink, and after letting him know your poison of choice, he turns to face the counter and flag the bartender down while you and Dana begin catching up on life outside of work.

At her apartment, Samira is practically yanking her hair out as she looks over all of the outfit choices laid on her bed. She's been on edge the entire day, and it's all coming to a head as she looks at the three dresses she's been considering spread out in front of her, groaning in frustration. Realistically, she's aware it's just a work party and that no one will truly care what she's wearing, but no matter how much she tries to tell herself that, it doesn't stop the anxious thoughts that she needs to look perfect.

As if struck by lighting, she suddenly remembers something long forgotten in the back of her closet, the result of a shopping day with Trinity months ago. Samira had instantly fallen in love with the dress, though she had nowhere to wear something so formal at the time. With a bit of convincing from her friend, she purchased it with excitement before bringing it home and letting it collect dust since then. Pulling it out with a squeal, she hangs it up behind her door and gets to work on her makeup and hair, overcome with a renewed sense of enthusiasm.

A short while later, the rest of your friend group are trickling into the party, all of you ooh-ing and ah-ing at each other dolled up in your fanciest looks. Trinity and Whitaker joined soon after you, while Victoria walked in shortly after Mel, and upon seeing the look on her face while walking alongside her parents, you could tell she needed this.

Ordering her a drink when she reaches your little huddle, she begins to vent about an argument she and her mom had on the drive over, and all of you are listening intently as you pass a glass her way. Downing it instantly, she places it on the counter and takes a deep breath, to which everyone widens their eyes and nervously chuckles. "Careful Crash, we don't need a repeat of pride weekend." Trinity giggles when the younger girl huffs and continues with her story, hands moving about animatedly as she does.

Half an hour later, Mel is in the middle of asking you a question about a book recommendation you gave her when she looks past you with a big smile. "Oh, there she is!"

You freeze, drink halfway to your lips as you turn your head toward the entrance. It's like time slows down as you take in the sight; Samira, clad in a long burgundy dress that leaves her shoulders uncovered, curls pulled back minus a couple defined tendrils framing her face, gold jewelry complimenting her gorgeous skin. She’s scanning the room, looking lost — until her eyes land on you.

And oh, the smile that lights up her face when they do. It’s like someone flipped a switch inside her, and she begins making her way over, heels clicking softly against the floor, every step matching the beating in your chest.

“Hey,” she greets when she reaches the group, slightly out of breath like she’s been rushing. “Sorry I’m late.”

The girls immediately begin gushing over her look, inspecting her outfit and complimenting how flawless she looks. The curly haired women covers her mouth shyly but accepts the praise with a beaming smile, giving them all of the details with a proud look.

The previous conversation picks up again, Samira standing next to you now, and it's then that you realize you didn't greet her when she showed up. Leaning in toward her ear, you whisper low enough that everyone else can't hear, "You look beautiful, by the way."

Your breath on her ear causes goosebumps to appear on her skin, her head turning to look at you with sparkling eyes, and she replies back, "Thank you. Though, I'd argue you look better."

You both hold one another's gaze, neither breaking contact until someone bumps into her from behind, jolting you both back to reality and turning to see a slightly inebriated coworker apologizing profusely to the woman before stumbling away with his drink. Chuckling awkwardly, you tug at the fabric near your collar before looking around the room, feeling like you've been caught doing something wrong.

Samira turns back and observes the way you avoid eye contact, itching to reach for your hand and reassure you. Normally you're the more collected one while Samira calculates her way through most social interactions, but for reasons she can't name, she feels unusually secure of herself tonight.

Sliding her hand over your forearm and gently squeezing, your eyes snap up to hers and your lips part just enough to bring her focus to them. Before she can ask if you're okay, a voice from the front of the room announces that the food is ready, giving you an excuse to pull your arm away and follow your retreating friends to a nearby table.

Samira lingers behind a moment longer, collecting her thoughts as she watches you walk away before biting the tip of her tongue. Taking a deep breath, she shakes her head slightly and makes her way over, slipping into the seat beside you without hesitation. Every once in a while during dinner, Samira's knee brushes against yours, but you do your best to ignore it, chalking it up to the size of the table.

Eventually, Trinity is off talking to Yolanda, and Mateo asks to steal Victoria away while Whitaker and Mel are engrossed in a heated debate about the physics in comic books. The woman next to you catches your eye and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth when you don't look away. Staring at each other for a long beat, Samira finally breaks the stalemate. "Um, I was thinking about getting some air. Wanna come with me?"

The question sends a slight shiver down your spine, but you nod your head without reading too much into it. "Yeah," you reply, sounding casual despite the blood now rushing through your veins, "that sounds good."

After grabbing your coats from the check in area, you follow her out of the nearby glass doors. Both of you inhale the cold air at the same time, breaths curling into visible clouds against the night sky.

"Damn, it's chilly."

The other woman laughs at your comment before noticeably shuddering, and you direct her towards one of the outdoor heaters stationed in a more private area of the patio. The difference in temperature is a welcome change, but the two of you are still facing each other awkwardly, hands shoved in your pockets. Glancing around, you notice that the space is completely empty aside from you both, and your stomach begins to twist.

Beginning to lose her nerve that compelled her to bring you out here, anxiety begins creeping up Samira's throat as she tries to refocus. Her gaze lands on one of the heaters, and she concentrates on the way the fire dances behind the glass screen. When she looks back up, the wind is the only source of sound as the two of you stand across from each other, gazes locked in another staring contest that you're determined to win this time. It proves to be extremely difficult as the heater casts a warm glow over her features, highlighting her dark eyes and the soft angles of her face.

You can't help but think she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

After what seems like hours, she exhales sharply, breaking the silence. "I kind of had a whole little spiel in my head earlier," she says, voice quiet yet steady, "of things I wanted to tell you."

Breath catching in your throat, the determination in her words knocks the wind from your lungs. You take a small step closer. "Yeah?"

Samira swallows hard, fingers now twitching at her sides. "I’ve been trying to convince myself I was just projecting or reading too much into things," she admits shakily. "'Cause I tend to do that a lot," she lets out a nervous laugh, "But lately, every time someone assumes or asks if we’re together, I feel this…ache. When I have to deny it."

Your blood is rushing in your ears.

She lifts her chin slightly, eyes searching yours for something—confirmation maybe, or courage—and finally whispers, "I don't think I want to anymore."

Eyes widening slightly in shock, you exhale harshly before raising a hand to cover your mouth. "Samira, I..."

She interprets your reaction negatively and rushes to continue. "Please, just hear me out," she says softly, taking a hesitant step forward. "Every time I'm around you, it's like this...tug. A pull." She lets out a quiet sigh before continuing. "And at first, I thought maybe it was because you were the first person I trusted in a really long time but...."

You can't move or speak, only staring at the woman in front of you and waiting with bated breath.

“But it didn’t go away,” her voice trembles with emotion. “The more time passed, the stronger it got. And I kept thinking...what if the reason I never felt like this before is because I was waiting for you?”

A beat of silence passes, heavy with questions and insinuations. Then ever so slowly, she reaches up and brushes the back of her hand against your cheek, touch lingering against your skin.

“I never expected any of this,” she admits, eyes glistening under the soft glow of the fire. “But somewhere between the movie nights and bad dates and you holding my hand through it all...I fell for you.”

Your breath hitches. You’ve imagined this moment countless times but never thought it would actually happen.

And now that it is?

You step forward until your bodies are flush, left hand coming up to cover the one on your face and the other intertwining itself with the one at her side.

“Samira…” Your voice cracks saying her name. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Her bottom lip trembles as her eyes search yours for any indication that you're lying. When she doesn't find it, she inhales harshly and parts her mouth in shock. "Wait, really?"

You chuckle softly, leaning into her touch and feeling your heart soar as she presses her forehead against yours. "Yeah," you breathe, freeing your right hand to gently grip the back of her neck, your thumb brushing across her pulse point. "The day I met you, I never stood a chance."

Hearing those words, the woman lets out a noise of disbelief before leaning in and capturing your lips in a kiss that leaves you feeling lightheaded. It's tentative at first, both of you familiarizing yourselves with the other. After a few seconds, Samira gains the confidence to open her mouth and deepen it, which you happily accept.

You kiss back fiercely, fingers sliding under her jaw as your other hand pulls her closer by the waist. She gasps softly, the sound muffled by your mouth, and your tongue takes the opportunity to sweep over her bottom lip before biting it.

When you finally pull apart minutes later, both are of you are panting softly, lips swollen and shiny with saliva. The other woman stares at you in disbelief, a shaky laugh escaping her lips as she cups your face in both palms. "God, I've wanted to do that forever."

You grin, breath uneven as you bump your nose against against hers. “Took you long enough.”

A shiver runs through her and you're reminded of the brutal chill surrounding your little bubble. Without breaking contact, you slide your hands over her upper arms and begin rubbing them gently. “C’mon,” you whisper, voice rough with emotion. “Let’s go back inside before we both freeze…or someone walks out here and catches us. Trinity would have a field day, oh my god.”

Samira laughs softly, fingers trailing down your neck as she nods. “Yeah…definitely don’t want that.”

But neither of you make a move to leave—staying under the flickering warmth of the heater a moment longer, stealing another, longer kiss; slow and sweet this time, as if promising, this is just the beginning.

"Besides, we're just casual, right, Santos?" Garcia says on the other end of the line, her nonchalance stabbing into Trinity's already-punctured stomach. 

"Totally," Trinity bites down on her tongue, the physical pain embracing her like an old friend. She rattles off a half-assed goodbye, then slams her phone down onto the oak picnic table. 

The patio of Shirley's Temple Bar & Grill is cast in a warm, twinkly glow from the jar lights dangling from the pergola. The transition from summer to autumn comes later and later every year, so rather than ending up too warm in a pumpkin-spiced-sweater, Trinity's arms are exposed by her red, flowy halter top. 

She scoffs to herself, sucking in a sharp breath. She'd picked this top because she thought Yolanda —Garcia— might like it. Thought it might garner a lingering look or even the illusive compliment from her… 

Nothing. Garcia isn't anything to Trinity, as she's made abundantly clear. She didn't even apologize for flaking out. 

Trinity slides her hands down the ruched fabric of her pants, giving herself no quarter for being such a fucking idiot. 

"Excuse me?" 

Trinity's eyes snap up to the waitress, who hovers over the edge of the table, carrying an offended expression and a gin and tonic. 

"What?" Trinity asks, furrowing her brows. 

You set her drink on the table, then cross your arms over your chest. "Did you just call me a fucking idiot?" 

The color drains from your customer's face. "Oh, my god, no, I'm so sorry," she waves her hands up effusively. "I was calling myself one, I-I didn't realize I said that out loud." 

Now it's your turn to feel bad. "I know," you whisper, eyes shifting conspiratorially as you lean down, just an inch closer. "I was just fucking with you." 

The silence between the two of you is deafening, you hunched over her table, her face looking up at you, void of all expression. Two animatronics, broken down mid-scene. 

In a desperate attempt to reboot the conversation, you force out a laugh. It's something caught between a self-deprecating chortle and a maniacal cackle reserved only for world domination. "That's what I get for pulling pranks on my first day, huh?" 

An unsettled titter stumbles out of the girl's throat. She's about your age. Uniquely pretty, with inky black hair and glassy, cream-colored skin. Tattoos scattered about her arms, and a short, gold chain dangles around her neck. 

She seems stuck in place, too stunned by the blip in the matrix that was this entire interaction. 

You pop your lips together, then gesture fruitlessly to the drink at the edge of the table. "I'll, uh, leave you to your drink. Let me know if you need anything else." 

You shift your weight to turn back inside, with every intention of begging your trainer to switch tables with you. Before you can make a not-so-graceful exit, the woman blurts out, "I was just ditched for the night." 

Halting mid-pivot, you flick your gaze to her phone, still face-down on the table. "I, uh, heard, actually. Your side of the conversation, at least." 

The color returns to her cheeks in a subtly pink flush. 

"So I'll probably just take the check and get out of your hair," her glossy lips flatten into two straight lines. "I'll leave a good tip, I promise. You don't even have to flash me." 

The crack of her smile sends you reeling, teeth baring in a kindred grin.

"Aha!" You point at her in the embodiment of a 'gotcha!' moment. "I knew there was some fire under that pout! Let me guess… an Aries?" 

She shakes her head.

"Scorpio," she admits, pulling the drink towards her. 

"Ah, thus the air of mystery," you waggle your fingers playfully. You extend your hand, and recite your first name. "Though, you could have probably guessed," you add, chin dipping towards your nametag.

It's pinned to your black, long-sleeved t-shirt, your name written in pink and yellow chalk pen. Swooping, girlish letters, which Trinity thinks is meant to match the rubber bands holding together your bubble braids. They curl out the back of your head like devilish horns, which makes a lot of sense. 

You're trouble. She can practically smell it on you. 

She shakes your hand, then follows suit. "Trinity."

"Well, Trinity," you keep your hand clasped to hers a few moments longer than necessary. Trinity notices the flicker in your eyes, finally recognizing it for what it is: flirtation. "I'll be back with your check." 

As you head inside, Trinity takes notice of all the details she missed before, when she was still buzzing on the possibility of Garcia sitting down across from her at any moment. 

You sport brightly colored Brooks, the same shoes she wears at the hospital, and a little black apron tied around your waist.

Your black jeans, seemingly the uniform, judging by the other servers, hug your hips snugly. They outline your frame in a way that makes Trinity purse her lips. 

They —your jeans, not her lips— are decorated with hand-sewn patches of fabric. She counts four, all varying in shapes and patterns, before you disappear behind the glass door. 

Trinity makes note to ask you about them when you return, which is about eight minutes, and half of a gin and tonic, later. 

A red, plastic basket of curly fries materializes onto the table, notably unaccompanied by a check. 

"Oh, I didn't order these," Trinity chirps, already feeling lighter by way of the gin. 

"I know," you mimic her perkier tone, propping a foot up on the end of the bench she's sitting on. "On the house. So's your drink." 

"Your first day and you're already stealing from the kitchen?" Trinity cocks her head to the side, placing a dramatic hand over her chest, clutching invisible pearls.

"I bought them for you," you admit without an ounce of bashfulness. That adorable red flush crawls across Trinity's cheeks.

Her button nose, akin to that of a cartoon woodland creature, twitches happily. "That was nice," she says dumbly. 

"You won't think so when I tell you why," you slide your fingers absentmindedly down one of your bubble braids. When her eyes cut to yours, you smile again. Warm and inviting, with just a hint of delicious mischief. "I'm kinda hoping I can hold you hostage until ten o'clock." 

"Why's that?" 

"Because that's when I get off," your heart flips acrobatically in your chest, but you school your expression into something cool and unaffected —two words you'd absolutely never use to describe yourself. "So if you're still here by then, it'll make it a lot easier for you to ask me out." 

Amusement softens the lines of Trinity's face. "Oh-ho-ho," she chuckles. "I'm gonna ask you out?" 

"It's the least you could do," you push your weight forward on your knee, still propped up on the bench beside her. "After all, I just bought you a drink and a snack. Broke my oath as a waitress to do so."

"An oath, huh?" Something about the word hits her in a way you can't quite translate, her seagreen eyes never leaving yours. 

God, if eye contact with her is this titillating…? 

You don't let yourself go there, instead shooting her a winsome wink before disappearing back inside for another forty minutes. 

After you've clocked out and hung up your apron, you trail back outside to find Trinity now perched against the locked gate separating the patio from the rest of the city. 

You've only shed your apron and replaced it with a denim jacket and a pink cross-body bag, but Trinity looks at you like a whole new person. 

There's something so familiar about you, she thinks maybe she's met you in another life. Warmth radiates off of you like a fireplace, drawing her in from the blizzard she so often locks herself out in.

She can't belive herself —having stayed past a restaurant's closing to wait on some woman she doesn't even know.

Then again, she argues with herself, this whole thing with Garcia is just casual. 

She straightens when you approach. You hold out two styrofoam cups.

"A little water for the road?" You offer, and Trinity accepts with a nod of thanks. 

She's less bubbly now that the alcohol's had a chance to course through her veins, leaving her feeling oddly wistful.

"I meant to ask you about your pants," she says, then gestures to the patchwork over your black jeans. 

You follow her extended finger to the small square of yellow and orange plaid over your left thigh. No busier a pattern than the ditzy blue flowers on your right, or the red stripes over your knee. All bordered in purposefully clunky, bright-colored stitches.

Suppressing the urge to tease her about her interest in your pants, you hum. 

"I like to sew," you say. "They told me black jeans were the uniform, so I thought I'd personalize 'em a little bit. Help me stand out." 

"So it really was your first night?" Trinity asks before taking a sip of her water. Under the streetlamps, now your only source of light since the patio's been closed down, you have the fleeting thought that she looks like a mermaid out of an old storybook. "You seemed so… comfortable there."

"It's not my first service job," you explain with a noncommittal shrug. "Plus, I've been coming here with my family since I was a kid. Shirley's was a Monday Night Football staple growing up." 

Trinity tugs on this new thread of information. "You're from Pittsburgh?" 

"Mmhm," you hum again. The sound buzzes through Trinity's arms, tingling all the way down to her fingertips. "I just moved back a couple weeks ago. From Boston." 

"What was in Boston?" 

Another shrug. "It wasn't Pittsburgh," you give a little laugh, then look around. "You wanna go to Midnight? It's a bar just down the street. Maybe two blocks. You can continue your interrogation there." 

Trinity laughs, then starts in that direction. 

"I'm not interrogating you," she explains as you fall into step together. The warm summer haze has tapered off since Trinity arrived at Shirley's Temple, now more of an autumn crisp. "I'm just trying to get to know you better." 

You notice her shiver when the breeze picks up, gooseflesh bumping along her bare arms. 

"Stop for a sec?" You murmur, and she does as she's told. You hand her your drink, then remove your cross-body and your jacket. 

With your bag secured back to your chest, you hold out your jacket. When Trinity just stares at you blankly, you take back your cup, and replace it immediately with the denim, Indiana-Jones-style

"God, you're really not used to people being nice to you, are you?" you ask, adjusting the long sleeves of your shirt. 

"I can't take your jacket," Trinity holds it out at you with what she assumes is the same expression as that of a dumbfounded basset hound. 

"You didn't answer my question," you challenge, propping your hip out and pursing your lips at her. Trinity wonders fleetingly what flavor lip gloss you're wearing.

A scoff rolls out of her, and she takes the bait, handing you her cup so she can slide your jacket on over her shoulders. It's one size too big, but its warmth immediately satiates her chill. The aroma of jasmine and vanilla isn't a terrible bonus, either. 

"People can be nice to me," she mutters stubbornly, untrapping her hair from the jacket's collar. It falls around her shoulders in quick but silky waves. 

"Yeah, but you're not used to it," you point out with a smirk. 

"Go easy on me, Dr. Phil," Trinity teases before stepping back out on the sidewalk. You follow her lead. A beat passes, then she asks, "So what brings you back to Pittsburgh?"

"Decided to be closer to family," you answer, then take a sip of your water. Over the top of your cup, your eyes meet Trinity's cloyingly. "Helps that the people are more interesting around here, too." 

"What, Steelers fans?" she jokes.

"Pretty girls," you parry, garnering yet another soft, pink blush from her. 

"Are you always such a shameless flirt?" She switches her cup to her other hand. 

"Only when the person I'm flirting with melts into a pretty, flustered mess," you quip, and at the same time, she scoops your hand into hers. 

Your knees wobble beneath you as you continue down the sidewalk, knocked into surprise by the forwardness of the gesture. 

Trinity shoots you a sideways smirk.

"Two can play," she tuts, the human embodiment of the cat that ate the canary. 

You have to look away, shoving down a girlish giggle while you tangle your fingers with hers. 

Midnight, as the name suggests, is a darker bar in terms of lighting. Cool-toned, blue stars project from can lights in the ceiling onto the floor, illuminating your path to the bar itself. 

Trinity reluctantly tears her hand from yours to buy you a drink. 

The clink from your overenthusiastic cheers sends both of you into a fit of laughter. 

Then the smooth, fruity taste of whatever the special of the night is —Berry Into You, an appropriate name, you decide— rolls down your throat. 

Trinity tells you about her roommate, some guy she works with that she took pity on when she found out he didn't have a place to live, and traces her fingers up under your sleeve, pressing soft, tingly touches along your forearm while you pretend to listen. 

"You wanna dance?" You ask once your glasses are both empty, nodding to the small crowd in the corner. Someone's hooked up a laptop to a speaker, a cheap spotlight ensconcing the area in a turquoise sun. 

There's probably ten or twelve other people on the dance floor, but you can't say you looked at any one of them once Trinity's hands found your hips. The songs alternate between soulful bedroom pop and more upbeat, mainstream numbers.

You don't think you could name any of the songs if you tried. 

Your stomach churns under your ribs. You rub your hands along Trinity's arms, which you can barely feel beneath the bulk of your jacket. 

She plays with you, spinning you around like a top until you're giggling, grabbing your hands and stretching them out with hers. The music lifts her spirits in a bubble, floating incandescently all the way up to the ceiling. 

It feels so freeing after all the goddamn mind games with Garcia, Trinity thinks. Looking at you and seeing her own want reflecting in your eyes equates to inhaling a breath of fresh, clean air. 

Time slows down for a while, your forearms eventually settling in the crooks on either side of her neck. Trinity teases the bottom hem of your shirt, just barely riding it up but oh-so-scintillatingly. 

Her silky hair tickles your cheek as she whispers in your ear, sweet, meaningless words that poke that kindling in the pit of your tummy, stoking the fire in a steady, thrumming heat. 

Trinity didn't think it was supposed to be this easy. Warmth from your jacket, from the cocktail, from the dance floor, from your smile. It seeps through her and unlocks all the chains she's had wrapped around herself, at least temporarily. 

When you invite her back to your place, her answer is an unequivocally eager yes. 

Your apartment is teeny-tiny, tucked in the corner of your floor. A sad excuse for a kitchen looms to the right of the door, then a bedroom and a bathroom to the other side. 

You've made strategic use of each inch of space, Trinity notes, from the floating shelves to the sliding totes under the loveseat in the corner. A few pictures and books are dotted around the space, but she doesn't pay too much attention to any of them. Surrounding details don't feel very important right now. 

"Can I get you anything?" You offer, hanging your bag on the hook on the back of the door, then latching the deadbolt. 

"I'm okay," Trinity hums, the energy between you buzzing but not quite as intense as it was back at Midnight. 

It feels like the moment right before you go down a waterslide, Trinity thinks. The anticipation, the rushing water, not knowing exactly the right moment to let go. 

You gnaw on your lip, approaching slowly to where she's perched against the wall. You're both glistening in a thin sheen of sweat from all the dancing, but somehow it makes her look even more beautiful. Stripped back and unfiltered. 

"You're so pretty, Trin," you murmur, sliding two sets of fingers down the lapel of your jean jacket loosely drooping over her shoulders. 

The gloss of your lips has since faded since leaving Shirley's, but Trinity's still curious. 

"Can I kiss you?" she asks in a whisper, fingers splaying over your hips.

She's not a doctor right now. Not needed in fifteen different places at once, not triggered constantly by reminders of her own hurt, not clamoring to prove her worth at the detriment of others. 

She's just Trinity. 

Trin, like you called her.

She hasn't been called that since she was a little girl.

"Please do," you nod, using your hold on the jacket to tug her ever closer. 

Trinity's hands slide around to the small of your back, her head angling to the side.

Your first kiss with Trinity is strawberry-vodka-flavored, slow and chirring. She snakes her hands around you, lips slotting over yours. 

Trinity's stomach flutters as she deepens the kiss, coaxing out of you the most tender little purr. Her tongue exploratorily requests access into your mouth. 

It's all softness and femininity until you pull away because —annoyingly— oxygen is imperative for survival. A string of spit bridges your lips to Trinity's, until she chases after your lips for one last, slow kiss. 

Helicopter blades chopper through your insides as you tug your denim jacket off of Trinity's shoulders. The shiny skin of her clavicle catches against the warm glow of the lamp in the corner, her hair spilling over it the same time the jacket hits the floor. 

You trace your two fingers under her angular jaw, tilting your head to the side to trail along with your lips. 

Trinity's back pancakes against the wall, tipping her own head to the opposite side to grant you better access. Sounds of your lips puckering over her skin fill the shoebox apartment, crowding the walls. 

"I didn't think this would…" Trinity speaks in exhales as you ministrate over the column of her throat. "I just thought you were being nice because I got stood up." 

You hum indignantly, peeling your lips away to run the tip of your nose under her ear. "I'm berry into you, Trinity," you joke, referencing the drink at the bar and earning a breathy laugh. 

"Mmkay, good," Trinity's hands cap your shoulders, squaring your face in front of hers. "Me too." 

She backs you into the loveseat propped up on the other wall, cramming her knees into the claustrophobic slots on either side of you once your ass hits the cushion. Straddling you, her hands skate under the fabric of your shirt and across your tummy. 

You exchange moans and saliva and these perfect, fleeting little smiles, like you're trying to soak up as much of her as you can before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin. 

"Fuck, Trin," you whisper, dazed from a lingering buzz that's only further agonized by her touch. 

Her dark hair falls over both of you in a short curtain, her back arched in a feline manner.

"I don't think we should…" she murmurs between kisses before finally withdrawing long enough to look you in the eye. Her thumbs swipe over the apples of her cheeks. "I don't think we should have sex tonight." 

The words deflate you, stilling your touch at her hips. Your bottom lip flips out. "You don't want to have sex with me?" 

Your disappointment shoots rockets through to Trinity's core. Fuck, your pouting is maybe even more arousing than your advances. "Shit," she whispers, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I don't think we should have sex tonight." 

The emphasized tonight tingles at the base of your spine. "I just mean, we've both had alcohol tonight," she explains, trailing her fingers down your bubble braids, pinching the ends affectionately. "And I was… well, you know. I was going to meet somebody else at Shirley's tonight." 

"Before they stood you up," you point out, and though it lacks any real bite, the reminder still smarts a little. 

"Before they stood me up," Trinity shifts up on her haunches, still effectively pinning you to the loveseat. But now her seafoam eyes are more parallel to yours. "I just… I want us both to be in our right heads," she explains. "I think it'll be really special with you, and I don't want something stupid like a hangover to ruin the memory of it." 

Her explanation untangles the tangled telephone cord wrapped around your heart. "Okay," you whisper, rubbing her hips in agreement. 

"Okay," Trinity, presses forward, and kisses you again. More tenderly this time, humming softly into your mouth. "Do you want me to go?" 

You shake your head. "You could sleep here tonight," you offer, breaking one hand from her hip to thumb along the front drape of her hair. "If you wanted to."

"Do you want me to?" she anchors her forehead against yours. Under the red halter she picked out for someone else, her heart is glowing. 

You close your eyes briefly. "Yes, I do." 

Trinity borrows a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. She showers, quickly, unable to comprehend that you didn't even exist on her radar until four hours ago. She brushes her teeth with her finger. 

You shower after her, then settle into the bed beside her. 

It's all very new and exhilarating, but safe and soft and disarming all the same. 

You stay up another hour, nose-to-nose, just talking. She tells you about the music she grew up listening to. You rattle off cozy anecdotes about your niece and nephew. Her hand slides up and down your arm, while your thumb draws circle into her hipbone. 

It feels like kindergarten, holding out little pieces of yourself without fear that they might be rejected. 

When you drift off, tucked into her chest, with her chin in your hair, you don't think this apartment has ever felt so much like home. 

Morning ekes in slowly, accompanied with more adoring, swollen kisses, and discovering new, ticklish spots of each other. Then when Trinity finally peels away, you follow her out of the bedroom. 

"I'll call you, after work, okay?" She promises, cradling your jaw and kissing you again. She's still in the same bubble she was in last night, drifting alongside you.

It's then that you realize you've never exchanged numbers, so you swap phones to do so.

You tilt Trinity's phone back to her, the contacts app still open. 

"What'd you say you did for work?" You ask casually, stretching your arms over your head. A laugh flutters out of you. "Can't even remember if you told me or not." 

"I'm a doctor," Trinity explains. "At the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center." 

"No kidding!" You exclaim, the surprise in your voice setting off Trinity's spidey sense. "My older brother works there! Or, well, he's kind of… on leave, for now, I guess. What department are you in? Maybe you know him!" 

She glances down at her phone, spies your first name, then your last name. Her stomach drops hard and fast.

"Who's your brother," she asks flatly, watching with a festering nausea as you cross the crowded, suddenly too-small, airless room. 

You pluck a picture frame from one of the shelves, then present it to her.

Trinity's fingers curls around the picture frame. It's you, a little younger than you are now, locked in an embrace with an imposingly tall, brown-haired man with a friendship bracelet around his wrist and strikingly blue eyes.

"Dr. Frank Langdon," you chirp, tapping your brother's face over the glass of the frame. "Do you know him?" 

You’d spent your one day off scrolling through listings, chasing anything that even remotely fit your budget. Nothing did. Or at least, nothing that felt livable. 

One place had walls so thin you could hear every car passing by like it was in your living room. Another reeked of damp, with pipes that looked like they might burst if you so much as turned on a faucet. And then there was the eighth-floor walk-up—no elevator, of course—as if hauling yourself up eight flights after a twelve-hour shift was somehow reasonable.

At this point, you told yourself you’d take anything. A bed, a door that locked, a space that was yours. But even that felt like too much to ask.

You also hadn’t told Jack.

You’d only been seeing each other for a month, and it felt too fragile, too new, to drop something like this into the middle of it. The last thing you wanted was to scare him off with the mess your life had suddenly become. Because then you’d be left with nothing—no apartment, no safety net, no him.

And then, because the universe clearly had a sense of humor at your expense, you lost your first patient at 7:29 a.m.

You’d worked her for over ten minutes, refusing to give in even when the odds had already slipped out of your hands. Compressions, meds, another round, your voice steady even as your chest tightened. Until Robby finally called it.

Just like that.

He didn’t soften the aftermath, didn’t give you a second to breathe before tossing out a sharp comment about how you should be better at catching STEMIs.

All in all, things weren’t going well.

It was now 17:28, barely two hours left on your shift before you’d be forced to face everything you’d been trying to outrun.

You had lost two patients so far.

And both times, Robby had made sure you felt it with sharp comments.Each one chipping away at whatever confidence you had left.

People had noticed.

They also noticed that for the past few days something about you had been off, like a storm building just beneath the surface. Today, it was impossible to ignore. 

Even Dana had pulled you aside, her voice softer than usual as she asked if you were okay, if you needed a breather. You did. But admitting that felt like handing Robby another reason to hover, another excuse to dissect every mistake you made.

So you shook it off and kept going.

Now, the pressure sat heavy in your chest as you worked a GSW to the chest alongside Whitaker and Robby.

The patient was crashing too fast. Blood everywhere, slipping through your hands no matter how quickly you moved. Garcia had been paged less than a minute ago, but even in that short span of time, you could feel it—you had already lost him.

Wrong place, wrong time. That’s what the paramedics had said when they rushed him in, the police echoing the same hollow explanation. His family had been called, but they were still an hour away.

Your eyes locked on the monitor and didn’t even flinch when it flatlined.

No rush of adrenaline, no frantic movement to fix it but instead just a quiet, hollow stillness as you stepped back, letting Whitaker take over. Robby would guide him. Whitaker would listen.

You were just in the way.

So you left.

Like a ghost, you moved through the room, ignoring your name sharply being called. Ignoring the looks, the movement, the noise of the ER around you. Your feet carried you on autopilot, straight out to the ambulance bay.

You tried to breathe.

In. Out. Slow. Controlled. The way Jack had shown you once, his voice steady, his hands warm where they’d rested over yours.

It didn’t work.

The air wouldn’t come.

Your chest tightened to the point of pain, your airway closing as if something inside you had finally snapped. 

The realization hit fast: you couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Not nearly enough.

Tears blurred your vision, spilling over before you could stop them, your cheeks drenched as everything you’d been holding in finally broke free.

One of the paramedics in an ambulance rushed to your side, his voice cutting through the noise, though you couldn’t make out a single word. Strong hands steadied you before lifting you up, carrying you back into the ED and drawing the attention of everyone in your path.

Langdon was there in an instant, a wheelchair already in front of you.

“What happened?” he asked, voice sharp but edged with worry.

“Can’t…” you wheezed, fingers clawing weakly at your throat and chest.

“Dana, what’s open?” He called over his shoulder.

Dana’s eyes landed on you, concern flashing across her face before she snapped back into motion. “North 5’s open!”

Langdon didn’t waste a second, guiding the wheelchair once the paramedic helped settle you onto it. The world blurred as he pushed you down the hall and into the room.

Once inside, he moved immediately.

Vitals, pupils, airway—his hands moved steadily, efficiently, practiced as he checked everything, only to find nothing wrong except your heart racing too fast and your breaths coming too shallow.

He didn’t need to call psych to know what this was.

A panic attack.

You had started to settle, focusing on matching his breathing as he reassured you that, physically, you were fine.

Once you could finally string a few words together, you thanked him.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” he said, offering you a soft, easy smile. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Still… thank you.” you whispered.

He exhaled, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go let Robby know you’re alright.”

You nodded faintly, already dreading the inevitable.

Would he care that you were barely holding it together? That with each passing day, you felt like you were unraveling a little more? You wanted to believe he would.

But wanting didn’t make it true.

“So, I hear our doctors are just abandoning their patients over a little panic attack?”

Robby’s voice cut through the room as he stepped inside. He let out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head as his eyes landed on you lying on the gurney.

“Robby, that’s not what—”

“I don’t care what happened,” he snapped, cutting you off. “I care that I trusted you to help me with a patient—a critical patient—and you walked out without a word.” His jaw tightened. “What would’ve happened if you’d been alone with that patient, hm? How is it that a first-year resident can handle the pressure better than a fourth-year?”

“Things have just been difficult—”

“Welcome to life,” he shot back. “Things get tough. But you’re a doctor. People depend on you, so you put it aside and you do your job. Who the fuck cares what you’re going through? Do you think that guy who just died cared?”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking as tears slipped free.

“Don’t you dare cry,” he hissed. “I think you should go home—and seriously consider whether you’re actually cut out for this. A breakdown like this from a med student? Fine. Expected, even. But from a fourth-year resident?” He shook his head, eyes cold. “It’s pathetic.”

“I still have an hour left,” you managed, your voice quieter than you intended.

He let out a sharp breath. “Then stay in triage. Or finish your charting. I don’t even care at this point. And if you’re going to have another panic attack, do it off the clock.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, swallowing everything down, and nodded.

Robby didn’t say anything else before turning and walking out.

For a second, you just sat there, forcing yourself to pull the pieces back together. You wiped at your face, steadying your breathing, willing the last traces of it to disappear.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart again.

When you finally stepped out, the shift in the air was immediate.

People were looking.

Quick glances, not-so-subtle ones—everyone who had been within earshot now pretending they hadn’t heard a thing. You exhaled slowly, pushing past it, past them, making your way to the board.

Focus. Just focus.

You scanned for a patient, anything to keep your hands moving and your mind occupied.

As the clock ticked by, the night shift began to roll in.

The worst of it had passed—at least on the surface. Your eyes were no longer swollen, but a faint redness lingered.

The cases coming through triage were manageable. Surface-level, almost mercifully so. A chronic headache. A deep but clean laceration. Nothing critical. Nothing that could slip through your fingers and haunt you later.

No way to lose anyone now.

At 18:49, you heard Jack Abbot’s voice, and it felt like a lifeline—like something solid cutting through the noise and pulling you back to shore.

You focused on your last patient, careful and thorough, even as something in you itched to go find him. To just see him. But you didn’t rush. You couldn’t. Not after everything.

A few minutes later, you heard his voice again.

But this time, it was different.

He was using the kind of tone you’d only ever heard him use with combative patients.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Your hands stilled.

“Excuse me?” Robby scoffed.

“What makes you think that berating your residents for having emotions is in any way helpful?”

Your chest tightened at the words. Before you could stop yourself, you excused yourself from your patient and followed the sound, your pulse quickening with every step.

You found them just outside the nurses’ station.

Jack stood rigid, his finger pointed at Robby’s chest, his jaw tight, brows drawn together in a way that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.

“I don’t know why that’s any of your business,” Robby shot back, crossing his arms.

“You mistreating residents isn’t my business?” Jack challenged. “Maybe you’ve forgotten what your job is, but you’re not just a doctor—you’re supposed to be teacher, too.” His voice was controlled, but the anger underneath it was unmistakable. “If they’re having a hard time, you help them. You don’t tear them down until they start questioning whether they even belong here.”

“This isn’t therapy, and I sure as hell am not their therapist. This is an ER, and they’re doctors.” Robby fired back.

“And that gives you the right to what? Humiliate them?” Jack stepped closer, his voice dropping, more dangerous now. “Push them until they break?”

Robby let out a dry laugh. “If they break, that’s on them.”

Something in Jack snapped.

“No,” he said, firm, unwavering. “That’s on you.”

The space around them had gone quiet, the usual chaos of the ED dimming as people pretended not to watch.

And then Jack spoke again, his voice cutting clean through the tension.

“You want to be an asshole? Talk to me like that. Try it.” Jack snaps, “But you don’t get to talk to her like that.” 

Robby let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh. “So that’s what this is about?” He shook his head. “And here I thought you’d suddenly become some kind of advocate for residents. Guess it’s just the ones you’re involved with.”

“You need to back off,” Jack said, his voice low, controlled. “Now.”

“No, no—let’s be honest,” Robby pressed, gesturing loosely to the room. “Let’s make sure everyone knows just how noble you are.” His smile was thin, biting. “You don’t care that I went off on a resident. You care that I went off on your resident. It’s almost impressive how quickly you claimed the moral high ground when you’re the one who should be reported to HR.”

“Then report me,” Jack shot back without hesitation. “I’ll return the favour.”

Robby scoffed, shaking his head like the whole thing had suddenly bored him. “You know what? Fine. If you want to deal with that mess, be my guest.”

His gaze swept across the onlookers, lingering just long enough to remind everyone they’d been seen—before it landed on you.

A slow, cutting smile spread across his face.

“You’re officially on night shift, sweetheart,” he sneered. “Hope you don’t have a panic attack about that, too.”

You were left stunned, mouth slightly open as you watched Robby storm off.

“Back to work, people! There are lives to save,” Jack called out, his tone leaving no room for argument. Slowly, the tension broke, and everyone dispersed, slipping back into the rhythm of the ED like nothing had happened.

Then he turned to you.

He crossed the distance quickly, his hands coming up to rest on your arms, grounding you where you stood, still stiff at your sides.

“You okay?” He asked, his gaze softening as he took in your tear-bright eyes.

You shook your head, a hollow laugh slipping out. “This is a nightmare.”

“Hey—no,” he said immediately, his grip tightening just slightly. “This isn’t your fault. What he said was completely out of line, and I’m glad Dana told me. You should never have been put through that.”

“We’re so going to get reported to HR,” you whispered.

“You let me deal with that.”

You let out a shaky breath, your thoughts spiraling faster than you could keep up with. 

“I’m going to have to find a new job,” you murmured. “And I definitely can’t afford that.” You closed your eyes for a second before looking back up at him. “But… thank you. For defending me.”

“Someone had to,” Jack said, worry written all across his face. “Robby’s been out of line for a while now. But today…” He shook his head slightly. “Something snapped when I heard how he was talking to you. How often it’s been happening.”

“I’ve been off my game,” you admit quietly.

“That’s not an excuse,” he countered gently but firmly. “And even if it were, it still wouldn’t justify any of that.” His expression shifted, concern settling deeper into his features. “I’m more worried about why you had a panic attack. Langdon said you haven’t been yourself for a while.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Well, I’m always worried about you,” he replied softly. “So help me understand what’s going on.”

The words sat heavy in your chest for a moment before they finally spilled out.

You told him everything.

About the rent. About how you weren’t sure where you’d be living next week. About the apartments that didn’t work, the exhaustion, the patients you’d lost. About how you hadn’t given yourself even a second to process any of it—just kept going, pushing it down, pretending it wasn’t catching up to you. And how now, you would probably have to start looking for a new hospital to work at after Robby’s words.

As you spoke, the frown in his brows deepened, his hands moving slowly up and down your arms, a quiet, steady attempt to soothe you as everything unraveled.

After a moment of quiet, he spoke.

“You’re not going to lose your job. I won’t let that happen.”

“Jack…”

“I’m not finished,” he cut in gently. “I just… I wish you’d let me help you. You know I would do anything for you. I’d throw myself down a flight of stairs if it meant making things easier for you.”

A small, disbelieving breath left you. “I thought it would scare you off,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“The day I ever say you’re a burden, you better slap some sense into me,” he said, completely serious. “I mean it. I want to be there for you. I want you to trust me with this kind of stuff—to let me carry some of it with you.”

You reached up, wiping away a tear before it could fall.

“Move in with me,” he said suddenly.

You froze.

“I know it’s fast—too fast, probably—but I can’t just stand by while you’re this stressed when I have a perfectly good place you can stay at,” he continued, his voice softer now, but no less certain. “You can take the guest room if you want. Or I will, if you like my bed more. I don’t care how we do it, just…” He exhaled, searching your face. “Please. Move in with me.”

You stared at him, your mind struggling to catch up with what he was offering.

Everything in you wanted to say yes—to fall into the safety he was offering, to let someone finally take some of the weight off your shoulders. But there was still that hesitation, that voice in the back of your mind reminding you how new this was, how quickly everything was moving.

“Jack, it’s only been a month,” you said quietly, searching his face. 

“I know,” he admitted, not even trying to argue it. “It is. But this isn’t about how long we’ve been together. It’s about you needing somewhere safe to land. And I can give you that.”

You swallowed, your gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to his.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whispered. “Whatever this is between us… I don’t want to ruin it by rushing into something.”

“You won’t,” he said without hesitation. “We’ll take it at your pace. Separate rooms, space, whatever you need. Nothing has to change unless you want it to.”

There was no pressure in his voice. No expectation.

Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was something softer, something that made your throat ache for a completely different reason.

“…Okay,” you breathed.

His expression shifted instantly, relief flickering across his face. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeated, a little more certain this time. “I’ll… move in. At least for now.”

A small smile pulled at his lips, something warm and genuine, like you’d just handed him something he wasn’t going to take lightly.

“Good,” he murmured.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then the noise of the ED filtered back in, grounding you both in reality.

Jack exhaled, glancing over his shoulder before looking back at you, something sharper slipping into his expression again. “I should get back to work.”

You nodded, though your hand instinctively caught his wrist for just a second before letting go.

He hesitated, then leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping.

“I also need to go find Robby and punch him for making you cry,” he muttered.

Despite everything, a weak huff of laughter escaped you.

“But,” he added, straightening, his tone shifting back to something steadier, “we’ll talk later. We’ll figure everything out, okay?”

“Okay,” you said softly.

He then leaned in—and slightly hesitantly—placed a tender kiss to your forehead, before slipping back into doctor mode as he turned and disappeared into the chaos of the ED.

You stood there for a minute taking it all in. Still shaken, still overwhelmed, but no longer feeling completely alone.

This is inconvenient for a number of reasons, the most pressing of which is that Jack Abbott works in the same emergency department as you, approximately fifteen feet away from you on any given shift, and has done for the better part of a year. You have tried, on multiple occasions, to file him under colleague and boss and leave him there, and your brain has rejected the filing every single time with the cheerful persistence of a system update you keep postponing.

You haven't told anyone this.

Except Santos, who found out by accident four months ago when she caught you watching Jack cross the floor from the nurses' station and said, completely unprompted, oh, you've got it bad, in a tone of such serene satisfaction that you'd wanted to dissolve into the linoleum.

And Dennis, who hadn't said anything directly but had handed you a coffee one morning right after Jack walked past and said, you okay? with such gentle and transparent knowing that the effect had been essentially identical. Dennis sees a lot of himself in you, falling in love with superiors at a distance.

So: Santos and Dennis know.

Dana, you suspect, has always known, but Dana Evans knows everything and has the particular grace never to weaponise it, so you've decided she doesn't count.

Jack himself does not know.

Or if he does, he has given absolutely no indication of it, which is its own particular kind of torment, because Jack Abbott is the most unreadable person you have ever met in your life and you have been trying to read him for eleven months.

This is, more or less, the situation as it stands.

Or was, anyway.

Before the work night out.

Before everything got considerably more complicated.

It had been Dana's idea, which meant it had been non-negotiable.

Charge Nurse Dana Evans did not suggest things. She identified them as necessary and then made them happen through the sheer force of her own certainty, and so when she had looked at the assembled staff of the Pitt at the end of a particularly brutal Friday and said, drinks. tonight. all of you, there had not been a great deal of discussion.

You had gone, obviously. You'd changed in the locker room and met Santos at the entrance and walked the four blocks to the bar that the Pitt crowd tended to migrate toward, which was loud and warm and had cheap cocktails and a bartender who knew Dennis by name.

"Is he coming?" Santos asked, with a studied casualness that you recognised as the exact opposite of casual.

"I don't know who you mean," you said.

"I mean Abbott."

"I assumed he'd skip it."

"He's not going to skip it."

"He hates these things."

"He'll come," Santos said, with the absolute certainty of someone who had already checked, and you elected not to ask how she knew that, or if it was one of those 'speak it out into the world and it will happen' manifestation rituals she often talked about.

The bar was already half full of Pitt people when you arrived, nurses clustered at one end, Robby nursing a beer in the corner with the expression of a man who had shown up entirely for Dennis, which was accurate. Dana was at the bar with a glass of wine, somehow managing to look completely at ease and slightly supervisory at the same time.

You got a drink. You let the evening settle around you. You talked to people you genuinely liked, which was one of the better things about the Pitt, that beneath the fluorescent lights and the impossible hours and the particular weight of the work, it had given you people. Real ones. The kind that showed up.

You were midway through a conversation with one of the ER nurses about something you'd later be unable to recall when the door opened and Jack walked in.

He was late, fashionably so, and he was still in the particular clothes that Jack wore when he was not at work, dark and unremarkable and somehow still doing everything, and he stood for a moment at the entrance doing the thing he always did, the quiet sweep of the room, cataloguing before committing.

His eyes found you and stayed for a couple of seconds. Your neck grew warm under his gaze, and you turned your head so that he couldn't see the effect he had on you.

"Oh," Trinity said, from beside you, very quietly, in a tone of immense personal satisfaction.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you thinking it."

"I'm thinking many things," she agreed pleasantly, and went to get another drink.

He found his way to the bar eventually, the way he always found his way to the edge of things (ie the morning you found him on the rooftop literally right at the edge and ran back down the stairs), and you ended up beside him because the bar was crowded and the space beside him was the available one and you were not going to rearrange your entire evening to avoid standing next to a colleague.

"You came," you said, because something had to be said.

"I was told to."

"By Dana?"

"By Dana."

"She has that effect."

"Mm." He glanced at you, briefly, and smirked. "You're loud."

You turned to look at him fully. "I am not loud."

"You were laughing from across the room."

"That's called having fun. You should try it."

"I have fun."

"You actively avoid fun."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

You considered this. "Fair point. Barely."

He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh but lived in the same neighbourhood, and took a sip of whatever he was drinking, and you stood beside him at the bar and felt your heart doing its familiar and inconvenient thing.

"Why do you always do that?" you asked.

"Do what?"

"The sweep. When you walk into a room. You always check the whole room before you do anything."

He looked at you with an expression you couldn't fully parse. "Habit."

"From what?"

A pause. "Just habit."

You looked at him for a second, this man who gave so little away so consistently, and felt the familiar frustration and the familiar fondness in equal measure, which was, you had come to understand, simply what it felt like to know Jack Abbott.

"Depends who's asking," you said, after a moment.

He blinked. "What?"

"You said earlier, when Dana tells you things, you said it depends who's asking." You looked at your drink. "I was just, I noticed."

A beat.

When you looked up he was watching you with something careful and very still in his expression.

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "I did say that."

Neither of you said anything else.

But you didn't move away from him.

The outside part happened later, which was the thing you kept returning to, the fact that it hadn't been impulsive exactly, that there had been an hour of standing beside him at the bar and talking in the particular way the two of you talked, which was always slightly combative and somehow always entirely easy. The night air when you both drifted outside was cool and quiet and a complete relief after the noise.

You didn't remember who moved first.

You were fairly certain, in your more confident moments, that it had been mutual, one of those things that happened in the space between two people before either of them had consciously decided to do it.

What you remembered was his hand at your jaw, warm and deliberate.

The way your breath had caught before his mouth reached yours.

And then the kiss itself, which was, not what you'd imagined, which was remarkable given how many times you had accidentally imagined it. Not tentative. Not gentle in the careful way of someone uncertain. It was the kiss of someone who had thought about this and was finally, with complete intention, doing it. His hand was steady against your jaw and you had grabbed a fistful of his jacket without thinking and kissed him back with approximately eleven months of accumulated feeling and thought, distantly, oh, this is a problem. His hands had wandered a bit too low and when he grabbed your ass with one of his strong hands, he cockily smirked at the gasp you let out against his mouth. It was messy, and unpredictable, and hot.

When it ended you were both quiet for a moment, foreheads nearly touching, breathing slightly uneven.

"Okay," you said, because your brain had apparently died a massive death during that kiss and you needed anything to fill the silence between you.

"Okay," he said back.

And that — catastrophically, humiliatingly — was it.

He didn't text.

Not that night, not the next morning, not at any point in the following forty-eight hours, and you did not text either, because you had convinced yourself with increasing conviction that you had somehow misread the entire thing, that he had simply, been in a moment, and the moment had passed, and the look on his face afterward had been polite rather than significant, and you had made it deeply weird by meaning it so much.

By the time your next shared shift arrived you had constructed a complete and airtight narrative of your own humiliation and were wearing it like a second set of scrubs.

Trinity found you at the nurses' station six minutes into the shift.

"Why is your face doing that?" she said.

"My face isn't doing anything."

"It's doing something."

"I'm fine."

"You just tried to hand me a chart and said here you go, buddy."

You closed your eyes briefly. "I'm tired."

"You're not tired."

"Trin—"

"Is this about Abbott?"

"No."

"It's about Abbott."

"It is genuinely not—"

"You're lying, and you're bad at it, and I say that with love." She leaned on the counter, dropping her voice. "Did something happen?"

You opened your mouth. And closed it again.

"Nothing happened," you said.

"Y/N."

"Something happened," you said.

Santos's eyes went wide with the specific delight of someone receiving exactly the information they have been waiting months for. She grabbed your arm. "Tell me everything, right now, immediately—"

"Not here," you hissed, because Jack had just walked through the bay doors.

He looked exactly the same.

This was deeply unfair. You had spent forty-eight hours in varying states of internal crisis and he looked exactly the same, calm, composed, the steady particular presence of him filling whatever room he was in without him seeming to try. He did the sweep. His eyes moved across the floor, checking, cataloguing.

They landed on you for just a moment.

Something shifted in them, briefly, and then he moved on.

"Morning," he said, to the room in general.

"Morning," you said, to the middle distance, in a voice that was perfectly fine and completely normal, and then slapped a hand against your forehead and turned away. Hard to get was not your thing.

Santos, beside you, made a sound only you could hear.

You told her at the vending machine at eleven-fifteen, in a rapid whispered account that she listened to with the focused intensity of someone watching a very good television programme.

When you finished, she was quiet for approximately three seconds.

"He kissed you," she said.

"Yes."

"And then said okay."

"We both said okay."

"And then neither of you texted."

"Correct."

Another pause.

"You are both," Santos said, with great care, "absolutely unbelievable."

"I know."

"Like genuinely — two supposedly intelligent medical professionals—"

"I know, Trinity—"

"Not a single text between you—"

"I was scared he regretted it!"

"Did he look like he regretted it?"

You thought about his hand at your jaw. The intention of it. The way it had not been uncertain at all. The low groan that came out of him when you seperated - how he pulled you back by the belt loop in your jeans.

"No," you admitted, quietly.

Santos pointed a pretzel at you. "Then what are you doing."

"I don't know," you said, honestly, which was the most accurate thing you'd said all day.

The supply room was where it finally happened, which was not exactly the setting you would have chosen, but you were learning that with Jack Abbott the setting was never quite what you'd have chosen and somehow it never seemed to matter.

You had gone in for gloves and he had followed you in, because of course he had, and the door had swung shut behind him and the supply room was not a large space and you were suddenly very aware of both of those things.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," you said, to the glove shelf.

"You're avoiding me."

"I'm getting gloves."

"You've been getting gloves for four minutes."

You turned around. He was closer than you'd accounted for, which did not help anything.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You haven't looked at me properly all shift."

"That's not—"

"You just looked at the shelf behind my head."

You had, in fact, just looked at the shelf behind his head.

"It's a very organised shelf," you said.

Jack looked at you with the expression he sometimes had that you'd privately categorised as deeply unimpressed but paying close attention, which was somehow worse than actual displeasure.

"Did I do something?" he asked.

"What? No."

"You're acting like I did."

"You didn't do anything, Jack."

"Then why—"

"Because you didn't text," you said, and it came out louder than you'd intended, and then it was in the room and there was absolutely nothing to do about it.

Jack looked at you.

"I didn't—" he started, then stopped. Something shifted in his expression. "You didn't text."

"I thought you didn't want me to!"

"I thought you didn't want me to."

You stared at him. "What?"

"You said okay and then you were just — gone, and I thought—"

"I didn't leave, I was standing right there—"

"You said okay," he said, with the emphasis of a man who had apparently been sitting on this for forty-eight hours. "What was I supposed to do with okay?"

"I didn't know what else to say! You kissed me and then you said okay back—"

"Because you said it first—"

"Because I was nervous—"

"So was I—"

You both stopped.

The supply room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked at you. The air between you had the particular quality of something that has been wound too tight for too long and has just, finally, released.

"You were nervous," you said, slowly.

"Yes."

"You." You pointed at him. "Jack Abbott. Nervous."

"I'm capable of being nervous."

"I've never seen you nervous."

"You've also apparently never seen me looking at you across a room for eleven months, so your observational skills are not at their peak today."

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"Dennis told you," you said.

"Dennis told me nothing. I told you." His jaw shifted. "Did you mean it? The kiss."

The question landed like it always did with him, direct, undecorated, asking for the real thing and nothing else.

"Yes," you said. "I meant it."

"Okay."

"Jack, if you say okay again I'm going to—"

"Did you mean more than the kiss?" he said, and his voice had dropped into the quieter register, the one that meant he was not managing what he was saying anymore, just saying it.

You looked at him.

At the careful, open, slightly-wrecked quality of his face, which you had never quite seen before and which was going to live in you for a very long time.

"I'm kind of in love with you," you said, which was not how you had intended to say it, but was, you supposed, accurate. "I've been — it's been a while. And I know that's a lot, and if you don't—"

"I'm there too," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

"I'm there too."

"You—" You searched his face. "For how long?"

He looked at you with an expression that might, on someone else, have been sheepish. "A while."

"A while," you repeated. "That's all I get."

"You're not subtle," he said. "I noticed you a long time ago."

"I confessed that I love you and you're telling me I'm not subtle—"

"You called me pretty once. In front of Dana."

"I was delirious, I had a twenty-hour shift—"

"You told Whitaker my hands were nice."

"They are nice, that was an objective observation—"

"Y/N."

"What."

"Come here," he said.

And this time you didn't say okay.

This time you closed the distance yourself, and when his hands found your face they were warm and certain and exactly where they were always going to end up, and you kissed him in the supply room of the Pitt under the fluorescent lights with gloves in your hand and eleven months of accumulated feeling finally, completely, nowhere left to go but here.

He kissed you like he meant it.

He kissed you like he'd been thinking about it.

And when you finally pulled back, foreheads together, both of you a little unsteady in the best possible way, you looked at him and he looked at you and neither of you said okay.

"For the record," you said, quietly, "your hands really are nice."

Jack Abbott closed his eyes briefly in the manner of a man exercising considerable restraint.

"Yeah?" he said.

You laughed, and he made that sound — quiet, low, tucked away — and the supply room was small and the lights were terrible and it was, somehow, exactly right.

Santos was waiting outside the supply room door.

She was not even pretending she hadn't been.

"Well?" she said.

You looked at her.

Your face did something you had absolutely no control over.

Her eyes went wide. She pointed at you. She turned to find Dennis, who was approaching from the other end of the corridor with two coffees and the expression of a man who had timed his arrival extremely deliberately.

"Hey" he said.

He held out a coffee. His face did the warm slow thing. He said nothing, because Dennis never needed to say anything, and somehow that made it the best response in the room.

Santos, however, was not Dennis.

"I need every single detail," she said, "immediately, right now, starting from the beginning—"

"There are patients," you said.

"The patients can wait—"

"They cannot—"

"Five minutes—"

"Trinity—"

"Three minutes, I just need the highlights—"

Jack appeared in the supply room doorway behind you.

Santos looked at him.

"There are patients," he said, mildly, and walked past both of you back toward the floor.

Santos stared after him.

Then at you.

"I cannot believe," she said, "that you are in love with that man."

You watched him go, steady and unhurried, and felt your whole chest do its thing.

So Jack saddles himself with work — however temporary this fix is, he’s got no other in the meantime. He picks up extra hours, covers extra patients. It isn’t nearly enough. And he is mildly annoyed at this predicament he’s stuck in, at the repeating cycle of the same bland days — nothing to challenge him or bring a speckle of relief. Or keep his mind from wandering back to that moment with you — it’s not the filthiest he can remember but the one he wishes to relive the most:

the hair around your face is damp, and you’re a little breathless — he feels your chest heaving, still pressed to his, arms wrapped around his neck, a tight embrace neither of you wants to break. The bedroom’s dark but he forgot to draw the curtains, and the gloaming light traces your curves and sparkles on your skin that’s glistening with sweat, still heated in every place he touched it. And Jack’s completely spent but something’s kindling in his ribcage — a fire breathed into the embers, the warmth he thought he’d never feel again — it’s growing every time he looks at you — and every time you glance right back at him, and smile at him, and kiss him, and—

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Dana snaps at him mid-yawn. “It’s 7 am, and just looking at you gives me a headache.”

“Then look somewhere else,” Jack flings back. He instantly feels guilty and puts the tablet down. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, fingers unwittingly tapping on the table.

“Oh, someone’s snappy,” but she doesn’t take offence — instead she turns her chair to him, eyes slightly narrowed. “You’ve been walking around all tense and brooding these past few weeks, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s nothing,” Jack mumbles. He almost grimaces at his own lie, at how far from reality it is. So he grudgingly sprinkles some truth in: “I guess I’m just bored. Haven’t got much to do. It’s been too qui—”

Dana springs out of her chair and covers his mouth with her palm. “Nope. My shift just started and you already want to jinx it? How about you save that enthusiasm until the night rolls in, and then you can have planes falling from the skies for all I care.”

“I see you finally took matters into your own hands,” Robby strides in with his backpack and takes off the sunglasses, his brown eyes on Dana. “Was he trying to pass on his existential crisis?”

“Can we muzzle him?”

“And put him on a leash? I thought about it. But he will probably escape, and we’ll have an angry dog on the loose and barking,” he grins, gaze darting to Abbot, and Dana laughs.

“You think you’re so fucking funny,” Jack mumbles.

His agitation ebbs a little — enough for him to take a breath as he stretches his back. But your touches must be etched into his muscles because he’s momentarily reminded of your fingertips ghosting his shoulder blades, of your lips trailing for the pulse point on his neck — and what was once a bliss is now a torment he is powerless against. Abbot exhales with exasperation.

The phone rings. Dana loses her smile and gives Jack a glare. “This better not be a mass casualty event,” she whispers before picking it up. But her concerns aren’t brought into existence — her face is only half-focused, mostly apathetic as she informs:

“A shooting at the county court. One victim, GSW to the chest and —” her brows knit together at whatever details she’s receiving. “So it’s two?... Well, it ain’t nuclear physics, just count them. I’d like to know how many people we’re getting... Alrighty, we’ll do the counting ourselves,” she hangs up and clicks her tongue.

McKay runs by to say hi before resuming the heated conversation she is having on the phone. Langdon comes in unhurriedly, hands in his pockets, his eyes drawn to the board. Santos is next, Whitaker trailing after her — he’s always half-asleep, she’s never not excited to get to work.

“Any interesting cases this morning?”

“Waiting for a GSW. Apparently, the main witness on some case — shot in the chest and leg, it’s not looking good. Said they couldn’t use a D-fib on him because he’s coming with a company.”

Robby sends Dana an inquiring glance. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Fuck if I know. I haven’t even gotten my first cup of coffee yet,” she looks at Jack — pensive, stiff, barely listening to her — and snaps her fingers in his face. “Hey, midnight ranger, isn’t it time for you to clock out? We’ve got a whole team, we’ll manage. Go home.”

“I plan on doing that once I finish the paperwork,” he replies flatly, tapping on the screen.

“If that’s what you are into, you can do mine too. Wanna also file my taxes while you’re at it?”

“I’ll gladly tell the IRS to lock you up for tax fraud to get you off my back,” Abbot deadpans, earning a dry laugh from her.

“Gunshot is boring,” Langdon muses.

Dana’s laugh turns into a groan. “Not this again. Why can’t you guys enjoy the peace and quiet?”

“I mean, if he doesn’t die, he’ll go straight to the OR, not much for us to do. I was hoping for something more—” he suddenly stops talking. There is a sound of wheels gliding across the floor, and a pause sweeps over the hall — the conversations die down, the movements halted — and then Jack hears Frank muttering: “What the hell?”

So Abbot absentmindedly follows his gaze. And just like everyone around him, he is left speechless.

The gunshot victim is a man: mid-sixty, stubby-looking, pale-faced and breathing only by some miracle. But he isn’t wheeled in alone — there is a woman sitting right on top of him, her stark white blouse doused with blood, one of her hands pressed to his chest, three of her fingers shoved into his wound. The crimson droplets glisten in her hair, the same color smeared over her hands up to the wrists, but she’s not scared or appalled. There’s not a single crack in her composure, no quiver in her body or her face —

Jack recognizes you in barely a heartbeat.

And he is frozen not out of surprise. He’s marveling at you like you’re under a spotlight and he’s in a daze, and there is no one else left in the hall. Because you look the exact same you did all these days back, the first time that he saw you. The one time he’ll never forget.

Jack met you over three weeks ago (24 days to be exact, not that he’s been counting). It was supposed to be a one-night stand—

No, actually, scratch that.

It was an evening Abbot didn’t plan on spending with anyone but a glass of whiskey. It was the only remedy that he could think of after the shift he had.

A couple was brought in at 4 am: in their early thirties, newlywed — their car swerved off the road, rolled over four times before hitting a tree. The guy died at the scene, his wife crashed twice on the way to the ER. She was three months pregnant. Jack spent oven an hour coding her; she spent twice as much time in the OR. Two blood transfusions, one kidney out, three broken ribs, dozen of stitches on her stomach and her head. He watched her being transferred to the ICU, then he made calls to notify both families: there were heartbreaking cries, prayers he feared would be left unanswered. Jack came up to the roof to catch his breath — the air outside was moist and stifling, the sky draped with the clouds the sun couldn’t plough through. It was his day off but he didn’t leave — instead Jack walked the stairs and halls until his legs ached, until he could do nothing else but pass out in the call room.

He wakes up in the evening, hardly rested — the female patient still hasn’t woken up. And there is a chance she never will. But if she does, he knows that the reality will hurt her worse than broken ribs and bruises.

When he walks out of the ER, the rain is pouring and his head is pounding, and he thinks if he just goes home, the silence would feel too suffocating to let him fall asleep. He’s too distraught to change out of scrubs, he cares not about the cold droplets hitting his face like needles. He wipes them off and runs into the closest bar — he’s met with semi-darkness and cool air, no blaring music and no flashing neon signs. The quiet is comforting, veiled with the faint sounds of jazz, the place smelling of wood and orange peel and liquor. It’s too early for the crowds to swarm it, but Jack pays no attention to the few people that came in. He strides straight to the counter and orders whiskey — double with no ice, then picks a small table in the farthest corner. He’s a few steps away from reaching it when his eye catches on your blouse — silk, silvery, fitted so well around your waist. But he doesn’t allow his gaze to linger. That’s not what he came for, that’s not what he is interested in.

He sits down with a heavy sigh and a heavy heart. He takes the first sip, then the second one. The alcohol spreads slowly through him, wicks up the bitterness of disappointment threatening to clot his blood like poison. Jack breathes a little easier by the time he drinks half of his glass. His gaze sweeps over his surroundings — distractedly, uncaring — before it’s drawn to you again.

You’re sitting on a bar stool with your back to him. You brought your work with you — a small black laptop on the counter, the keyboard soundless under your fingers, eyes on the screen. Occasionally, you reach for the same lowball glass — with ice and lemon, half-full — he guesses it’s a gin tonic. You are too locked in to take notice of what’s going on around you. With each new minute Jack finds it harder to look away.

He tells himself the lighting is to blame — it scatters all over your blouse, drips over every crinkle, making the fabric look like molten metal, like white gold. It’s neatly tucked into the waistband of your pants: dark blue, formal, perfectly tight around your thighs. His eyes snag on them — he feels a flash of hunger, a heat that swiftly spills into his bloodstream.

On the periphery of his vision, Jack sees a guy coming your way. He wears a smirk, eyes roaming over you — he takes a moment to appreciate your curves too, before his gaze lazily moves higher, to your face and to whatever you’re working on —

And then he yelps.

A few heads turn in his direction, but you don’t move a muscle, don’t even send him a half-glance. The guy abruptly loses all his feigned determination. But Jack’s determined like no other.

Because now he is curious. Now he has a better reason to keep looking.

Jack straightens on his seat. He searches eagerly for clues — but you don’t give them out easily: no badge, no uniform, no logo of the company you work for. And there’s confidence in your relaxed pose and posture, a hint of cockiness in the slight curve of your back. Two more guys try to hit on you: the first peeks through your shoulder and retreats with a horrified grimace, the second one manages a word or two before you cut him off, and he has to leave with nothing.

And Jack doesn’t even try to rationalize his actions — the pull he feels is the mere reason he stands up, glass in his hand, eyes fixed on you.

He gets the explanation for everyone’s dismay when your laptop’s screen comes into his view. It’s crime scene photos — bright, brutal, bloody: a dead body, deep and frantic wounds left by a knife. Jack’s seen enough of those in real life to not be bothered. But he thinks it’s impressive how unbothered you are.

He leans on the counter, one stool in between you, his voice nonchalant. “That looks like someone’s getting buried in a closed casket.”

“Yes, 17 stab wounds do that to a person,” you reply curtly, fingers flying over the keys.

His eyes flick down your profile and over every feature of your face — your cool demeanor invites no conversation. His gaze darts back at the stained flesh and scattering of cuts.

“It’s not the stabbing that killed her though.”

“Correct,” you still refuse to spare him a glance.

But Jack’s not used to giving up so fast. And maybe he is champing at the bit to glimpse a part of you no one in here was in luck to see.

“Most wounds are in her stomach area. Was she pregnant?”

Your fingers pause at his remark — for just a moment, yet he notices. A corner of his mouth curls. You keep typing but your voice loses a layer of indifference.

“Careful, you already sound smarter than the entire defense team.”

“Now I am tempted to continue. The suspect is a male, I reckon? A boyfriend or a husband?”

You huff a laugh at his insistence. Jack takes half a step closer. And then you turn to get a look at him, at that man who dared to move into your space.

Your gaze is direct, dissecting — like he is on the operation table, and you’re about to masterfully cut him into parts. It is a gaze that doesn’t make apologies for bluntness, it can effortlessly give warnings and make treats. But you choose to show him mercy.

“She wanted to get married. Naively hoped a baby would encourage him to.”

“And he never wanted kids,” Abbot deduces, not hiding his disapproval. “Did he try an impromptu mix of pills for an abortion?”

“That would require some research and also him having more than one brain cell,” your disapproval sounds like dislike. “He just emptied half a bag of heroin into her tea. She, unsurprisingly, OD’ed. Instead of calling 911, he tried to cover it up.”

“So his one brain cell wasn’t present,” Jack gives a snort of disgust. “And what’s his lawyer’s take?”

“He claims she took the drugs herself, then caused a fight. While being on the brink of death, yes,” there is a furrow in your brow, your tone sharp, simmering. “He wants it classified as a third-degree murder, so in a decade his asshole client can walk out on the promise of good behavior. I want him charged with two counts of first-degree murder. Life sentence with no parole.”

You take your cocktail and finish it in barely two sips, then ask the bartender for a third one. You catch Jack’s gaze, and he notes incredulously: “You seem stone-cold sober.”

“Can say the same about you.”

He looks down at his whiskey like he almost forgot he had it. “It’s actually my first.”

You look at him like you are making an incision and carefully assessing his internal damage. When you get your drink — poured over lemon slices and crushed ice — you swiftly move the glass to him. “You should give mine a try.”

“I’m not sure mixing drinks is a good idea—”

“Trust me on this,” you insist, eyes darting to the badge on his black scrubs, the syllables of his last name softly rolling off your tongue. “Dr. Abbot.”

The sound ripples through his chest, like you just pulled a heartstring that no one’s touched in years. “Jack,” he corrects. “Less formal.”

He asks for your name in return and takes your cocktail, gives it a swirl then has a sip. Jack raises his eyebrow at the taste. He tries some more to get a confirmation.

“This is... plain water?”

You nod with a small smile, without a hint of shame. “I don’t enjoy being drunk. But if I sit here with a bottle of Perrier, that would raise questions.”

“So you ask to make it look fancy, like a cocktail,” Jack figures out, then chuckles. “And you suggest that I stop drinking.”

“You haven’t touched your glass in the last 10 minutes. My guess is that you don’t really want to.”

When your eyes meet, he feels like you can see right through, bypassing all the locks he’s been meticulously putting over his emotions. It’s strange, it’s very new to him. It’s also somewhat thrilling.

Jack finally sits on the bar stool next to you. There is a small space between his legs and yours — he doesn’t cross it. You don’t move away. His hand stays clasped around his glass.

“The first half of it felt nice. Like maybe it could dull things down a little. But I don’t like getting drunk, too.”

“Having trouble at work?” you ask simply, with no pity and no pressure.

He thinks it over like he is looking at the baggage — of his past and present, bad and worse, deciding what bag he can open first. Which one’s less scary. “I work night shifts. The last one was pretty rough.”

But you prefer to start with the worst one — eyes trained on the ring he’s wearing. “So you came here to blow off some steam instead of coming home to your wife?”

The words hit him — not like a punch but like a stream of ice-cold water. He isn’t hurt, he’s startled — by how fast you notice things, how straightforward you are with voicing them. Nothing escapes your eye, no matter how deep it’s been buried. And it’s the grave that he almost laid himself in.

The ring was once a promise, then a wound — after his wife’s death, the metal band only reminded of the pain, of how impossible it seemed to ever heal. He knew the exact time she passed, he counted days and hours he managed to survive alone. It was unbearable and crushing, it felt hopeless. Now he only thinks about her once a year.

Jack doesn’t ponder over his answer for too long. He shares the truth as if he’s offering his palms — so you can read the lines and see the scars he usually keeps hidden.

“I’m a widower. This is just...” he twists the ring slowly with his thumb. “Out of a habit, I suppose.”

You turn your whole body to him, your back straight and hands locked together. Like you are about to interrogate him. “And how long you’ve been a widower?”

Jack doesn’t break eye contact. “Five years.”

“What happened?” you hold his gaze with ease.

“Glioblastoma. She was gone in seven months.”

He sees it flicker across your face — the ache of sympathy for him after what he’s been through. The unexpected understanding of what it feels like.

“That is a tough one. It doesn’t leave much at the end,” your voice softens and so does your gaze. “It’s hard to watch someone die like that. I’m really sorry.”

“Someone you knew also had it?” he takes another guess.

He’s on a lucky streak — you drop your gaze because he’s right again. He wishes that he wasn’t.

“My mentor, the first man I worked for. The best one, I think,” your finger traces the cold rim of your glass. Jack almost reaches out to take your hand. “He was too busy to take care of himself, got diagnosed when it was too late for any treatments. He made it to eight months.”

Jack moves his whiskey to your water, clinks his glass with yours. The look you give him offers an apology. He doesn’t need it — the words he gives you only offer kindness:

“I’m sorry you had to see that too.”

There is a lull in your conversation but it’s not awkward, isn’t heavy. It feels like clearing up the space the grief used to take up. It feels a little bit like hope.

Jack clears his throat and points at the gruesome photos on your screen. “Are you even allowed to open these in public?”

You chuckle dryly and roll your eyes. “The case’s been all over the news because his daddy is some pop music producer. You can find the photos on TMZ.” Then you consider him — a night-shift doctor, a tired man, a stranger who tasted the same pain you did. “Although you are probably too busy for stuff like that.”

You close your laptop with one hand, your sharp attention now all on him. Your knees brush his, and you don’t seem uncomfortable with it.

“What happened to you at work?”

Jack lets out a sigh, twiddles with the black band of his watch. “Got a car crash victim. Not sure she will pull through. She also lost her husband and her baby so waking up won’t be much of a relief either.”

“Was there anything you didn’t do? That could’ve saved any of them?”

“No,” he says without a doubt, although with sadness. “He died on impact. She was three months pregnant, so the baby didn’t have a chance.”

“Which means that none of it is your fault. You didn’t kill anyone, you are actually the reason she did get a chance to live,” you tell him calmly.

Jack shakes his head. “Maybe she won’t.”

“Maybe she will.”

“You are being optimistic,” he argues, a tad glum.

“I’m being rational. Give it a try,” you retort.

“Yes, I’m sure that some good-old rationalizing will make me feel a lot better,” his words don’t bite, but there’s frustration in his gaze, in how he rubs the back of his neck.

“Okay, I’ll do it for you,” and then you lean to him, one knee sliding in between his two, your perfume redolent of bergamot and jasmine, fresh and a tad sweet. Jack is dumbfounded by how close you are, how casually you do it. He makes an effort not to follow the streak of light that sneaks down your neckline. Your eyes are set firmly on him like you’re dead set on changing his whole world. He lets you.

“How many patients did you treat this week? I don’t need the exact number, an approximate will do.”

“I don’t know, over 40. Maybe 50.”

“Let’s say it’s 45. How many of them died? Just those two?” — he gives you a short nod. You move an inch closer so he can hear you over the other voices that already fill the bar. “How many of them were women of fertile age?”

“What?” he blinks with pure puzzlement, his hand going from his neck back to the counter, bumping into yours. “How would I know that, I don’t really—”

“In the US, females outnumber males by less than 1%, and about one-third of them are over 65. Which means around 16 women you treated probably can have kids,” the space between you is shortened by another inch. “Let’s say 10 of them want to and they will. That’s at least 10 babies that will be born because you didn’t fuck up. 10 babies after just one week of you being a good doctor. 40 babies after a month and 480 in one year.”

He doesn’t bother with the counting — instead, he notices: the fragrance you’re wearing also has notes of peach and lilies. And your close presence and your voice make all the noise around him disappear.

“You’re good with numbers,” Jack says with quiet fascination.

“I’m good at recognizing shitty people,” you tell him plainly, your thumb brushing his wrist — on accident, he thinks, but his whole arm warms up. “I’ve dealt with doctors who maimed their patients like it meant nothing. I’ve seen them make the stupidest mistakes they didn’t think twice about. But if you care too much, you need to rewire your brain to make it easier to function,” and when your palm covers his hand — it’s unmistakably intentional, it is a feeling he forgot existed: the comfort of a simple touch. “So next time things don’t work out — not even because of something you did, but because shit happens, — instead of wearing sackcloth and ashes, think of the dozens of chubby babies and dozens of families you gave a chance at happiness because you did everything right.”

You tell it to him like it’s indisputable, the truth that’s carved in stone. Deep down, he is aware that he’s good at what he does and bad at taking credit for it, sometimes downright refusing. But he couldn’t argue with you even if he wanted. Because Jack’s struggling to get his head together — the struggle comes from your hand still being pressed to his. And now that he knows the feeling of your skin, it’s hard to act like just one touch will be enough. Like he isn’t in dire need of more.

“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Jack manages, and it isn’t a lie. The truth lies deeper: he never thought he’d want someone like that, never imagined feeling so touch-starved.

“You should. Maybe you’re single-handedly responsible for keeping this city’s population up,” you smile at him, and it’s sincere. But you’re looking at him like he’s an open book and his feelings are as clear as ink on paper.

And you don’t take your hand away, and Jack can feel the pull again. He welcomes it.

“You keep saying things like that, and it will get to my head,” his voice gets low too — and it’s him who is leaning forward.

Your gaze isn’t wavering from his. “And what’s the worst thing that can happen?”

He doesn’t waver when he says: “I’ll dare to take more risks.”

“What will the first one be?”

“Asking if I can take you home.”

You aren’t surprised and aren’t scandalized. You don’t even take time to think. “Are you suggesting I should wrap up my work session?”

“I think you already did,” a smile ghosts Jack’s lips.

The effect whiskey had on him was fleeting. You are way more intoxicating. Your palm is at his elbow, and his pulse is racing, and for how rational and logic-driven he usually is, this time he doesn’t want to be: he thinks of taking you away from prying eyes, he thinks of kissing you, he thinks he can give one-night stands a go —

There is a sound of sottish laughter, then something splashing and someone cursing. Not much liquid gets on your blouse but Jack gets on his foot like he’s about to get into a fight. The guy who spilled his cocktail on you is too slow-witted to access the threat. You quickly put yourself between them, your hand blindly finding Jack’s, your fingers on his wrist. And instantly his anger goes down by half.

The clumsy partygoer sends you a smirk. “Your man looks like he wants to say somethin'.”

“And you look like someone who doesn’t want to be thrown out of the bar on a random Thursday. Keep walking,” you tell him in a tone so cold, he sobers up, losing his smirk. The guy apologizes incoherently and darts away to blend into the crowd.

When you turn to Jack, he is already looking at you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m pretty sure it was a Mojito, and he mostly spilled the ice. It won’t even leave a stain. I’m just gonna pay a visit to the hand dryer in the bathroom,” you put the laptop in its slim black bag and leave a few bills on the counter. “You probably should wait outside,” and then your hand glides lightly over his chest, like you’re smoothing out his shirt. “Wouldn’t want any drinks spilled on you.”

And as Jack watches you walk — each step with purpose, hips swaying — he surely feels like he needs some air.

By now, the rain has eased, and through the thinned-out clouds he can see wisps of sunset, beads of pink and yellow. And in the chill of the approaching night, his confidence wanes just a little. Isn’t he too old for this? Aren’t you too good for him? How long has it been since he had someone in his bed? The last one he actually knows a clear answer to. It’s hardly reassuring.

Jack catches the sound of your heeled boots before you come out — with no stain on the blouse, no hesitation in your gaze. He knows the more he waits, the less likely he is to go through with it. So he says it — quickly, like ripping off a bandaid:

“My apartment is just around the corner.”

And he thinks you are about to decline. His misperception lasts for barely five seconds — and then your face splits into a smile: not pitying, not forced, but bright like the sunlight he’s been missing. Your words come out a tad pensive:

“You know, I was having such a bad day when I came to the bar.”

“Was?” Jack echoes, eyes on you, all his uncertainty replaced by skin-prickling excitement. He will have you, even if only once. Because you want this, too.

“I think my night might be way better,” you come closer as you give him confirmation: it’s in your mellow gaze, in fingers raring to touch him — they graze his arm, shoulder, base of his neck. The smile never leaves your face. “Your apartment sounds like a good start.”

And Jack wants to kiss you so fucking badly. But not on the steps of some overcrowded bar.

Not while you’re rushing through the drizzle, and your hand catches his, and he holds onto it without thinking. Not at the bus stop where you take a break, and you soak up the fading sunshine with your eyes closed, your skin glowing, his heart skipping a beat, twice. Not in the lobby of his building you walk through hand in hand. Not in the elevator — not even when you press the top button without asking.

“How did you guess?” he wonders, his gaze focused on your lips. He catches you looking at his before you give a reply.

“I just prefer the top floor, too.”

Jack lets you in first and locks the door behind him, not in a hurry but a little bit on edge. He’s trying not to be self-conscious about every part of his apartment. You take your shoes off, your laptop and your phone left on the hinged shelf at the entrance. And then you take it all in, but you aren’t scrutinizing or perplexed or judging. You look around like it’s exactly how you pictured it, like everything about his place makes sense.

The contrast of light walls and dark parquet, a small amount of furniture — minimalistic, spotless, simple. But there is a scattering of things that catch your gaze. A stack of old CDs and a small Sony player, the plastic case already rubbed off at the corners. A tier of books with countless bookmarks tucked between the pages. A pile of med journals and printouts of studies with his jotting in the margins, a dozen multi-colored pens stacked into a whiskey glass. A coffee table that you can tell was made by hand — black walnut wood, coarse-grained, a few tool marks around the apron. You delicately trace them with your finger in silent appreciation of his dedication and his skill. Jack barely can remember why he was even worried.

And then you step into his bedroom, and he can think of nothing else.

It’s half-dark, the floor windows left uncovered because he was in a rush to leave. You keep the lights off. You walk to where the twilight is bleeding through the glass, the hues of red and violet covering the floor. The dim light contours the collar of your blouse, the specks of silver shimmering like moonlight on the water. Jack is so mesmerized, he doesn’t catch it right away — the way your fingers move down to the row of buttons. You turn to face him with the first one carelessly undone.

“I thought you’d want to take this off yourself,” you then unbutton the second one — and look him in the eye. “Do you?”

“You can’t seriously have doubts,” he rasps, his pupils blown wide, mouth craving yours — or any part of you that you can give him.

Your hands stop. And then your voice drops, beckoning. “What are you waiting for?”

Jack crosses the distance in a heartbeat.

It’s not a crash — it feels like it’s a fusion, your body molding perfectly against his as soon as he pulls you closer by the hips. You meet him not with hesitation but with need, your lips sure, soft, searing — he kisses you back so fervently, it makes his head dizzy. It makes him want you more. Your every move sets fire in him, and you tend to it with skill: you grip his shirt with one hand, the other tracing up his spine — until it settles at his nape, your fingers threading through his hair, and his breath hitches. You only pull away to give him air and guide both of his hands up to your blouse. His frail composure barely lasts another minute while he works the buttons — until he sees your bra: thin black lace.

“You wear this on a random Thursday?” Jack groans, then dips his head to leave hot open-mouth kisses down your chest. He tugs at the lace slightly with his teeth, and you tug at his hair.

“Try not to tear it apart,” you tell him, half a joke and half a warning; but your tone suggests that you won’t mind.

His lips find yours again because he can’t stop craving them, hands wandering under your blouse as he walks you blindly to the bed. You’re a step away, and his imagination already paints the picture — your body naked and writhing under his mouth — but then you grab into his clothes, maneuvering him to turn — and in a second he is pushed onto the mattress. Time freezes for the shortest moment as you look him over, your lips parted, your fingertips skating up his cheek, and Jack leans instantly into your touch. With the same hand you bring his mouth back to yours, and now you share the same hunger: you straddle him and tug at the black scrubs and the white t-shirt he wears under, and Jack is fumbling with your bra clasp, too eager and too lost in you —

The pain’s not sharp but sudden. It shoots from his knee up to the hip, and Jack flinches with a hiss, breaking the kiss.

“What’s wrong?” you instantly pull back, studying his face.

Jack feels blood rushing to his cheeks. He shifts uncomfortably in place. “It’s my leg.”

You look down. “Which one?”

He stifles an embarrassed sigh and grudgingly hitches up his right pant leg, revealing the prosthesis. “My muscles cramp up sometimes when I bend the knee,” Jack moves one hand down to help stretch his leg forward, the metal frame catching the light.

You keep your eyes on it as you say musingly: “Oh, you are full of surprises, Dr. Abbot.”

You make a face he can’t match to an emotion — is it regret? Are you disappointed? Will you leave now? But then you reach your hand to where the prosthesis meets the limb and carefully trace the scarred tissue. Your touch is light at first, but slowly you apply more pressure, your thumb and middle finger massaging the sides of his leg.

“Do you need to remove it?” you ask, not bothered in the slightest.

“Not yet,” Jack breathes out in relief, feeling the pain and tension fading — as is his shame.

And when he meets your gaze, you read him once again: his fears, his insecurities, everything he’s used to hide and overthink. And your eyes sparkle with an intent to prove him wrong. You move your fingers up his leg, unhurriedly, unwavering, making a teasing stop to dip your thumb under the waistband of his pants. He almost bucks up his hips. You hitch his shirts up and drag over his head, then throw aside with one quick motion — and when your fingertips skim under his navel, Jack lets out a quivering exhale. Your hands slide up his chest, his every muscle tensing under your touch, your body leaning closer inch by inch, until he feels your breath fanning his face.

Your words are quiet but they burn his mouth: “There isn’t a part of you I don’t find hot.”

Jack can’t think of a time he ever felt so wanted. He also can’t do much thinking when you are kissing him, your tongue darting between his lips, your hips grinding against him, and he is getting harder with each second, with each movement.

“Sorry, should’ve told you sooner,” he mumbles when you break apart. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

Your laughter tickles in the crook between his neck and shoulder, your lips mapping a route to the hollow of his throat. And then your kisses travel higher — the slope of his jaw, the spot behind his ear — and he is aching to get more, and he can never get enough.

“You can’t possibly ruin this,” your eyes are locked on him again so he knows that you mean it. “You barely touched me, and I’m already soaked.”

Jack sucks in a breath. His palm moves to lay flat against your stomach, then glides behind your waistband, to where you’re waiting for his touch. He feels the wetness through the lace — you spread your legs wider — and he pushes the black material aside to find you slick, warm, already throbbing.

His eyes look a shade darker in the amber of the dusk. “This all for me?” Jack asks dazedly, his finger teasing at your entrance.

“Wanna do something about it?” you murmur.

He slips a finger in, drawing a moan from your lips — the sound goes straight to his cock. His other hand moves to your hip, presses you into him so you can feel the bulge beneath his pants. And then Jack starts thrusting into you, precise and fast, his tentativeness melting away like ice on fire.

“How am I doing?” his tone teases.

And he already has his answer — it’s in the sounds you make, in how your hips are moving eagerly to meet his finger. He adds a second one and hears you gasp.

“Good, s-so— fucking good,” you babble. “Didn’t expect— o-ooh anything less.”

It fuels his confidence like nothing else. He leans to you a little, his voice is thick with lust. “Take the blouse off. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Although he sounds pretty ruined himself. And you aren’t shy about reveling in it. Slowly, you let the silver fabric fall halfway down your back — and then your fingers run over your bra and tug roughly at your nipples. Jack watches, spellbound, not blinking, as they harden under the lace.

At last, he yields to his desire since it can no longer be contained. And Jack is nothing if not ravenous for you.

He pulls your bra straps down with his teeth — one then the other — and then his lips are on your skin, leaving a wet trail between your breasts; he pumps his fingers in and out, and they go knuckles-deep. He adds a third, his tongue flickering over your nipple before he gives it a light bite — and you are withering, and struggling for breath, and pleading — yes, please, Jack, d-don’t stop — and he can cum just from you gasping out his name. It doesn’t take much longer: he hits the right spot, not randomly but expertly, his thumb pressed to your clit, his every stroke commanding you to let go — and you do. Your mouth falls slack and your whole body stills, like you are struck by lightning, electric currents rippling through your veins until your blood is sweltering like you’re caught on fire.

Your thighs tremble when he pulls his fingers out. And through the half-closed eyes, you watch as his tongue darts to taste your wetness that his hand is drenched in. You reach for it without warning and lick his fingers clean. Jack groans at the sight — and then you’re swallowing that sound with your mouth. The kiss is messy, tongues and teeth — your blouse and bra join his clothes on the floor before Jack lifts you off him and drops on onto the bed. He gets your pants and panties off, tosses aside and spreads your legs — you are left fully naked, and he drinks you up: your skin the heat is rising off, the parts of you he is desperate to put his mouth on. He readily bends towards you, his kisses climbing higher — from your calf to your knee to the inside of your thigh —

“Come up,” you whisper like an order, and he obeys with bated breath.

Your lips collide, and there is intensity that makes the world around him fade, the vestiges of his old doubts reduced to ashes. You don’t feel like a blaze that scorches and leaves marks — no scratches on his back, no bruises where you touch him — instead, your hands are tender. And he is melting all the same. So when you push him on his side, then on his back, and sit on top of him, Jack voices no complaints.

You aren’t hasty with his remaining clothes — you drag the pants down first, careful around his prosthesis, curios about the traces of his past: your fingers run over the scar on his left knee, over the other on his thigh. And then your eyes move to his briefs, to the sharp outline of his cock. You pull the fabric down to free him — thick, leaking, reddened at the tip. It takes you one — two — three slow strokes — and Jack is trembling all over, his quiet exhale breaking into a low moan.

He points at the bedside table, stumbling over the words. “I forgot to— You should— Top drawer.”

You find them in the bottom one — a couple of condoms shoved into the corner like he thought they’d never be of use. You pick one, sit back on the bed, and tear the wrapper open. And then you put the condom in between your lips and teeth. You purposefully keep eye contact as you get lower — and take him in your mouth, pushing the condom slowly over his cock. Jack flinches, and his head falls back, a loud gasp ripped from his throat.

“F-fucking hell.”

You hollow your cheeks on your way up, then pull off and use your fingers to roll the condom down to the base. He stays still, hands clutching the sheets so hard, the lines of veins pop on his arms, his stomach muscles tense — as is his voice. “Don’t,” Jack pleads through gritted teeth, “I won’t last a minute.”

A grin touches your lips like you already knew he wouldn’t. Your hands go higher so he can take a breath. Your fingertips ghost across his chest, unspooling stiffness from his body and waiting for his reticence to vanish like dew in heat. And when it does, Jack pulls you closer by the arm, pulls you into a kiss that steals the air from your lungs and tastes like pure need. And it’s a need you share.

You promptly grind your hips against his, coating his cock in your arousal, only a few quick moves before you lift your thighs and slip him inside. A shudder travels through your body as he stretches you, as he finally fills you, the pleasure so intense it stuns you both. It takes you a good minute to regain your senses. You roll your hips a couple of times and then start riding him — and almost effortlessly, you find the rhythm that leaves Jack in raptures. It feels electrifying, all-consuming, desire flaring up his every cell, spreading down to his bones. And then you’re both aflame.

Jack sits up, hands roaming over you — his fingers on your hips to help you move, then toying with your nipples to make you gasp. His lips are on your throat where your rugged breath mixes with moans. You try to find the words for it — this feels s-so — fuck, Jack, you are sooo — but you are too overwhelmed to speak, and he is too transfixed on you to care. He feels that you’re getting close — your pace quickens and your voice quavers, hands clinging to his shoulders for support. And he is barrelling toward his orgasm just as fast. He breathes you in and holds you tight, heat trapped between your skin and his as you are arching into him, so soft and pliant and cock-drunk.

It is the friction of your body against his that throws you over the edge — you cry out, face buried in the curve of his neck like you are seeking shelter, unraveling so helplessly and willingly like he’s the only one allowed to have you like this. And in a second the orgasm rips through Jack — euphoric, blinding, emptying, the closest that he’s ever been to ecstasy and to losing his mind.

You are both panting, limbs entangled, your chest still pressed to his.

“I think I need a moment,” you mumble, your fingertips grazing his shoulder blades.

“Yeah, same,” Jack breathes out. “Feeling a little rusty after all these years.”

He doesn’t register the meaning of his words until you slightly pull away. The room is slipping into darkness, but he can see emotions in your eyes, like glints of the sun setting: amazement first, too obvious to hide — was he alone for five whole years? But then there is empathy and an unspoken gratitude — for you being the one that he decided to let in.

You move your hand to cup his face, a smile pulling at the edges of your mouth. “You are very far from rusty, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack leans in first, like he can’t help it — your lips meet his like you want nothing else. And you kiss him so softly, so unhurriedly, it is the kind of fondness that soothes wounds. When he draws back, he is suffused with peace, like all the damage he’s been carrying no longer weighs on him.

Jack puts the blanket over you, up to the very shoulders, and pecks your lips. “Stay right here.”

Begrudgingly, he slides out of you and snaps off the condom, then pulls up his briefs and staggers to his feet. He finds your panties and helps you put them on, his palms following the contours of your thighs like he’s appreciating art. Jack chugs some water in the kitchen, then pours you a glass — and on his way back, he rummages through his wardrobe and drags out a clean t-shirt.

“In case you want something to sleep in,” he offers as you empty the glass. “I don’t know if—”

You take the shirt without question and put it on — and then you take his hand and pull him into bed. He lies down on his back and takes off the prosthesis, letting it slide down to the floor. You drape your arm over his chest and snuggle up to him, already heavy-eyed. You trace his shoulder with your finger, then press a small kiss on it.

“I really like your arms,” you murmur sleepily.

He really likes holding you in these arms, Jack realizes. He is amazed at how easy it comes, of how much he doesn’t want to let you go.

And it feels ridiculous to ask but he can’t help it. “What about my arms?”

He can tell by your slowing breath that you are dozing off. Still, you manage in a whisper: “They are very... steady.”

He thinks about asking for your phone number. And then his mind is flooded by the faded fantasies that promptly take on color: tables for two at restaurants, fresh flowers wrapped in kraft paper, your hands that fit so well in his. Jack gently brushes a stray hair from your forehead when his eye catches on his wedding ring. He looks at it for a few seconds — but the metal band has long lost its meaning. So Jack takes the ring off and carefully turns in bed to put it in the top drawer. And then he tugs you closer, your body warm against his as he falls into the comforting embrace of sleep.

When he wakes up, the warmth’s still there.

His legs are humming, but he isn’t weary, like all the tension’s been unweaved from his sore muscles. Like he’s just had the best sleep in months. But when his hand moves to the side, he finds the bed empty — and instantly he’s overcome with what feels like loss, although he knows it shouldn’t. Because one-night stands aren’t supposed to last. Your scent still lingers on the pillowcase — crisp, clean, raindrops caught in the petals at the sunrise. He turns his head to breathe it in, eyes slowly falling shut —

And then Jack hears it.

The clinking.

The sound usually made by forks, knives, plates. The sound that’s coming from his kitchen.

Jack rubs his eyes and sits up, the remnants of his sleep dissolving in the air. He notices his clothes left neatly folded on the dresser, the prosthesis propped against his side of the bed. And his heart rushes at the thought: you did this for him. And you didn’t leave.

He gets up and gets dressed — but his every move is quiet. Quieter than usual. It is anxiety that turns into anticipation with every step he takes to where the small noises come from. And then he walks into the kitchen like he is walking into a dream he never thought would come to life.

The place is sunlit, the bright rays sprinkling specks of gold on every surface: the metal handles of the cupboards, the scuffed edges of the chairs, the glass table, and the plates on it. And then there’s you, bathing in sunlight, legs bare and hair loose — and his breath catches at the sight. You move around like you’ve already been here, like it’s a habit you just naturally follow: preparing a breakfast for him, in his kitchen, in his clothes. You are still wearing the t-shirt — it hangs loosely around your shoulders but sits tighter at your hips. Jack thinks he’d like to see all of his shirts on you.

“Did I wake you up?” you ask without turning to him, still stirring something in the pan.

“No,” his voice is hoarse from sleep. His nose picks up the smells of sizzling bacon, of something frying, sweet and spicy. “I see, you found the spatula. I genuinely thought I lost it.”

Jack hears the smile in your voice. “It’s not too complicated of a system you’ve got in here.”

Is there a system? He wasn’t aware. He unintentionally says it out loud, and you laugh softly.

“I mean, I see the logic behind it. Knives in the top drawer because you use them the most. Sometimes instead of forks, I’m guessing, because the forks were pushed so deep into the second drawer, like they hadn’t seen the light in weeks. Teaspoons stored in one of your three mugs since you only use them to stir coffee. Two tablespoons were probably left there by accident — and these are all you have, so I suspect you are no fan of soups,” you turn the stove off and move the pan onto the metal trivet, the sun beams skimming up your legs. “I do appreciate that you store all plates and bowls in one place. Although that is the only cupboard that doesn’t creak, so I am a little bit concerned by how often you actually use your dishes. The spatula was in the frying pan, by the way.”

Jack feels his heart swell with a feeling he is yet to name. You look at him over your shoulder as if you didn’t sort through his decades of chaos in a minute. “Come here, try this.”

And you don’t have to ask him twice because he’s always eager to cross the distance.

Jack walks closer, his chest brushing your back, arm circling around your waist. You scoop some food and bring it into his mouth. And almost instantly, involuntarily, he can’t hold back a hum of satisfaction.

“Wait, what is this?”

He sees your lips curling into a smile. “Food, Jack. Eggs and bacon and the two tomatoes that looked edible.”

“That’s not how they usually taste.”

You fully turn to him, another spoonful disappearing into his mouth. “Ever heard of the word flavor? You do know spices exist, right?”

He is a little torn between wanting to kiss you and stealing yet another bite. “I just use salt.”

“I figured. Your salt container is almost empty,” your smile grows wider. You wipe the corner of his mouth with your finger. “But I found a jar of Taco Seasoning in your top cupboard, so I guess you have your moments of enlightenment.”

“Got it for free when I bought a new frying pan. Half a year ago,” and you two move as if you share an instinct: he takes you by the hips, and you step back, ass pressed against the counter — and then you swiftly sit on it, and he stands in between your legs.

You pick a crispy bacon strip — he bites off a half and you eat the rest. His hands stay on your thighs as you give him two more.

“What did you do with the bacon?”

“I baked it,” your phone buzzes nearby but you ignore it, instead reaching for the pan. Jack takes it, and he doesn’t bother with the plates: he feeds you scrambled eggs himself with the utmost diligence. On the fourth spoon you lean to peck his lips, and a smile breaks across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. And suddenly he is so palpably aware of how much he wants more mornings spent like this. With you.

You give him more bacon, and he can’t refuse it, your fingertips brushing his lips as he takes hungry bites. “It feels less greasy. In a good way.”

“Because I didn’t add too much oil. There is already fat in bacon,” you take the spoon from him and scrape the leftovers off the pan, maneuvering the food into his mouth before he can protest. “Just so you know, I think that not having toasted bread at breakfast is a crime. I’m only cutting you some slack because you had a tough shift.”

He’s struggling to hide a grin. Jack drops the dishes in the sink, then moves closer to you, hands clasped around your waist. He leaves a light kiss on your shoulder.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“A lot of my clients are immigrants. They often bring me meals as a thank you, and I always ask what they put in,” you gently comb your fingers through the grey curls framing his forehead. Jack leans in, and you bump your nose into his. “Now, I’m not gonna open a Mexican restaurant anytime soon... But I do know my spices.”

Your phone buzzes again, and when Jack’s gaze falls on the screen, he reads the words out loud without a second thought.

“You just received a file called SA (identified 14/01–20),” and then his smile fades. “Does that mean sexual assault?”

Immediately, your face changes — from relaxed to focused: you quickly get off the counter and grab your phone. Jack manages to catch the names of two more files: 10/21–40, 18/41–60.

“That’s classified,” you don’t sound angry but your tone loses its warmth.

You get another notification, your face tensing with concentration. Jack doesn’t want to interrupt but there’s an inkling tugging at his chest.

“It must be something bad,” he remarks.

“It is,” you tell him matter-of-factly, eyes on the screen. It takes a long moment for you to add. “Involves sex trafficking. That’s all I can say.”

A bad feeling creeps over him like frost. He’s got no explanation for it, no real reason to ask questions. So he keeps them to himself. “Sounds like a difficult case.”

Jack isn’t sure you can hear him, your finger sliding over the screen as you keep reading, mindless of the minutes flying by. In about ten you finally look up, gaze distant, wheels in your head turning, some kind of critical decision taking shape. And then it’s not exactly a relief — but clarity that he sees in your eyes, courage and sharp resolve.

“For almost a year it was an impossible case. Now I think I’ve got a real chance at it,” you share with him, half a confession, half a hope. “I have to go,” you sigh, then put the phone down and move to take the clean plates left forgotten on the table.

Jack catches your hand. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll do it.”

He watches you run toward the bedroom, then he pensively takes the plates away. And the unnerving questions keep swarming his head: how dangerous exactly is your job? Are there any safety measures you should take? Do you? It’s probably not his place to ask. It doesn’t make him any less concerned.

He looks at the jar of Taco Seasoning. He thinks of you folding his clothes, easing his fears. Of your laugh brushing his shoulder. Of how easily you fit everywhere in his life, like you are the only part that he’s been missing. He really should ask for your number.

You run back fully dressed — the pants you look sinfully good in, the blouse glistening like liquid silver. Your collarbones peek through, and Jack wants to place a kiss on each.

“You’re now out of mouthwash, so here’s a reminder,” you place a post-it note on his fridge, a few words you wrote in cursive. “And I almost forgot my phone.”

You rush to take it, you are just about to leave. But then you turn on your heels and quickly walk back to Jack, eyes on his mouth — until your lips are too. The kiss is soft for barely a second — and then it’s hot and deep, and Jack’s mind instantly goes blank.

“Don’t forget you’re the best doctor in town,” you smile against his mouth.

You walk out, and he’s left standing in the kitchen, wrapped up in pure bliss. His lips still tingle from the kiss, his body warm all over, the time melting away under the bright sunlight. But soon the realization cuts through his oblivion like a knife through cotton:

he didn’t get your number.

He has no clue where to find you.

Jack literally facepalms himself. And unsurprisingly, he doesn’t find you outside when he runs out of his flat, out of the building. And there are no crumbs that he can follow. Of course, he goes back to the bar — you paid in cash, no card info, they didn’t even ask for your ID. The bartender assures that you’ve never visited before. When Jack learns there are over 7000 lawyers in Pittsburgh, it feels like a lost cause. But he’s not used to giving up so fast. So he spends his free time searching the web: he googles law firms in the area, looks through the countless photos on their sites. And every time he’s in his kitchen, he stares at the blue note left on the fridge:

Buy a mouthwash (and some bread. Carbs are good for you!)

He buys both. One of his pillows smells like you, and he sleeps on the other; your perfume fades in 11 days. And in two weeks his hope starts fading too. He does attempt to look for the bright side of things — now he has something to remember, a reassurance that he isn’t too old for trying something new — but all the memories inevitably lead to one conclusion: he doesn’t want to try again. He just wants you.

And maybe there is a slim chance that you will come back to the bar, Jack tells himself. He goes there in his free evenings, his order boringly the same: just water, but throw some ice and lemon in. The bartender takes pity on him and doesn’t charge him half the time. And Jack keeps looking through the faces on the streets, in the ER, even while he’s driving down the road.

But never in a million years he expected this.

The people he’s surrounded with also find your current situation unexpected. You look up at them, gaze filled with the same unswerving perseverance. Your tone carries just the right amount of sharpness:

“Doesn’t E in the ER stand for emergency? Can we move?”

You don’t see him yet. Jack still can’t look away.

Langdon comes to his senses first. He grabs fresh gloves and rushes to you. “Okay, what am I looking at?”

You glance at him like he is looking stupid.

“Gunshot wounds. We stopped the bleeding from his leg, about 30 minutes ago. But the other one was worse, blood started spurting everywhere. And you can’t put a tourniquet over the chest. So I improvised.”

Frank quirks a brow. “And your first instinct was to stick your fingers in him?”

“You want me to remove them?”

“Do not!” Robby firmly cuts in. “Dr. Langdon just poorly phrased his appreciation for your quick thinking,” he glowers at him. Then finally, they wheel away the gurney you are on. “Let’s take you to trauma#1.”

Your shoulders fall a little — just enough for Jack to notice, your free hand holding tight to one of the side rails. He reads it in your body language: the tension from the inconvenient position, the stress of not knowing what happens next. As you pass by, for only a brief moment your eyes meet. And it’s pathetic how much he cares what you think. If you remember him. If you’ve been reliving that one night too. He discerns glimmers in your gaze — of recognition and surprise, of what he dares to believe is joy —

but then you break eye contact. And Jack follows you with zero hesitation.

The man’s blood pressure plummets on your way to the room. When you are all in, Robby does his best to navigate the turmoil:

“The bullet must’ve nicked an artery. We might need to open him up.”

“They’ll do that in the OR. If he lives for that long,” Frank says while intubating.

“Shouldn’t you take the bullet out?” Jesse is putting an IV line in.

“What are his chances?” you ask quietly. They don’t hear it, but Jack does. He’s standing at the doors, eyes darting from the patient’s vitals back to you. The one person that he cares for is not the injured man.

“We don’t have time to look for a bullet. Once she takes her hand out, he’ll bleed out within 5 minutes,” Frank notes grimly.

Robby is looking at the ultrasound image on the screen: heart and lungs miraculously unharmed. “Then we have 5 minutes to clamp the artery.”

“It can also be 2. We don’t know how much blood he lost,” Frank glances at the gurney doused with crimson. “My guess is that it’s a lot.”

“Do you have anything to offer apart from your pessimism? We’ll clamp the artery and hook him to another blood bag, that’s the plan.”

“And if he goes into cardiac arrest?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“We can’t use a D-fib while her hand is in.”

“Then she’ll take it out, that’s not exactly a complicated process.”

“Do we know if he’s a donor? Because chances are that —”

“He can’t die!” you snap, and there’s so much emotion in your voice, the room goes quiet for a moment.

Jack steps closer, then grabs a gown and gloves on autopilot, but his gaze is riveted to you. You’re only looking at the man who very much is on the verge of dying.

“He’s got a family. He’s been married since 22, she is the love of his life, they have two kids — both miracle babies, a boy and a girl, and they love them to pieces. And he knew that testifying publicly would be dangerous — but he still agreed. He said what if that was my baby, what if someone did that to her? How can I stay silent?” you recollect ruefully but your words are measured. “He can’t die. Not just because I have my whole case built on his testimony but because he was brave enough to do the right thing when no one else wanted to. I can’t let him die for that. Please, you have to do something.”

“Damn, I wish you were my lawyer,” Frank blurts out.

And you answer in an instant, not even looking at him. “Deal.”

“... Really?”

“Save him, and I’ll help any of you, doesn’t matter what’s it about. I take cases pro bono, so it will be one of those.”

Langdon narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t buy it, his voice a mix of skeptical and wry. “Can I have that in writing?”

If looks could cut, Frank would’ve been hemorrhaging on the floor. You glance at him from under your brows, your stare is withering and sharp, a blade that’s glowing red. His face changes like he’s regretting everything he said. And Jack can’t stop the thought: you can be drenched in blood and fuming — and he still won’t look at anybody else.

“My hands are a little busy at the moment,” you tell Frank dryly. “But you have my word. Now the ball is in your field.”

Jack makes a step to you. “You are into soccer?”

When your gaze darts to him, it isn’t cutting — but more so daring. “I’m into winning.”

“Makes two of us,” Abbot notes smoothly.

Robby’s eyes move from you to Jack, like he can glimpse something he doesn’t know what he should call. Frank looks between you like he’s connecting two big dots barely an inch apart. He bites back a smirk.

The monitors get loud as the man goes into cardiac arrest. Robby immediately pushes the ultrasound machine away. “You need to remove your hand now.”

“I’ll help her down,” Jack rushes up to you, and you watch as the others cut off the man’s clothes, preparing defibrillator pads, an intubation tube, clean cloths.

When they’re ready, Robby grabs a hemostat — and steps close. “Okay, move.”

You take your fingers out — Jack hooks his arm around your waist and swiftly drags you backward. Your legs tingle from the rush of blood, your feet a little bit unsteady when you stand. Jack’s palm lays firmly at your lower back, his voice quiet.

“You alright?”

You freeze for a few seconds, staring straight ahead — at the blood pouring, staining the skin, the metal pads, the gurney — the D-fib is charged once — twice — electric shocks sent to the heart. Then Jesse charges the machine again — and on the third attempt the loud beeping gives way to a more measured sound. The intricacies of dealing with a bleed are left to your imagination because you can’t see anything from behind the doctors' backs.

You slowly turn to Jack, as if you’re still thinking over the answer to his question. You can’t come up with a reply concise enough to fit all of your feelings in. You just nod — he doesn’t push for more, his hand on you drawing small circles.

“The bathroom is down the hall to your left. You can hang out at the nurse station while he’s in here.”

You look down at your blooded shirt, then at your palms. “Do you think he’ll make it?” you ask him in a whisper, unprompted, knowing full well that he won’t lie.

And Jack doesn’t.

“At his age and with how much blood he lost, it is a miracle he’s still alive. Which I think means he’s actually got a chance. If they manage to stabilize him—”

Robby half-turns to look at him. “Jack, we really need an extra pair of hands here!” and there’s an urging in his voice, a red splatter on his gown.

“Guess now I’m a part of the saving team,” Abbot mumbles, changing gloves again, wishing he could give you more — if not a promise then at least some hope.

Surely, Jack’s had his fair share of cases more unhopeful — he’s usually good at keeping a cool head, he’s skilled enough to keep his nerves in check. And yet, he feels a pinprick of anxiety: this case is different because he can’t allow himself to fail you.

But when Jack glances at you, the look you give him is not expectant — it’s encouraging. “Seems like his chances just got better,” you manage a small smile. “I’ll let you get to work.”

Him being able to shift focus to the patient is actually another miracle. And work he does: there is more blood because the artery’s too fragile — they change the clamps, they try the wound packing; it’s equally unhelpful. Jack ends up sticking his own fingers in while Robby calls Garcia. She shows up not only quickly but also uncharacteristically excited.

Yolanda flips open an instrument container she brought in. “Aortic hydragrip clamps, they’re gentler. Should work,” then she sees Jack and chuckles. “Of course, you’d be the one to clamp it with your hand. Just like in the good old military days?”

“Can’t say I’ve missed those,” Abbot remarks, and he is void of bitterness: the military did give him plenty of experience so it’s not something he regrets. But he is honest when he says he doesn’t want to go back.

And neither does he want any memories to pop up, so Jack’s mind hooks on the task that calls for his attention. They move with coordination honed over the years: he takes his hand out — Robby goes in with the clamp — Jack takes the second one — the ruptured artery is occluded in barely 20 seconds. They watch it for 10 more to make sure no more blood is coming out.

Robby allows himself a sigh of relief while Jesse suctions the excessive blood. Langdon inspects the leg wound: the bullet went right through, the bone’s intact. He checks the tourniquet — good placement, tight enough, so he just leaves it on.

Garcia comes closer, with an unbothered kind of curiosity, like a cat’s. “I heard the man made quite an entrance.”

Frank huffs. “You should’ve seen his lawyer.”

“The one in the blooded shirt? Oh, yeah, she’s hard to miss,” Yolanda smirks, dark eyes darting to you.

Jack can’t stop himself from looking in the same direction. You’re in the hall talking to Dana, your hands folded over your chest. The blood on you dried up; still, it strikes the eye — a big splotch of dark maroon on the white fabric, and every time Jack looks at you, it startles him a little.

“What now?” he asks. Mostly to make Garcia stop staring at you.

She does, her gaze on the unconscious man again. And her decision-making process is rather quick. “Suture the origin of the artery with pledgets on the aortic wall, then do a bypass between the ascending aorta and the subclavian. For the anastomosis, I’m thinking a termino-lateral type would do the job.”

It’s rare for Frank to be impressed by someone, yet his tone suggests that he most definitely is. “You can do all that?”

She stares him down silently. Then she looks at Robby. “You shocked him how many times? Twice?”

“Three times. 11 units of blood used so far.”

“This is one hell of a lucky man if I’ve ever seen one,” she notes, then looks down at her pager. “The OR will be ready in 5. Check the clamps again, I don’t want him to bleed out in the elevator. I’ll go talk to the lawyer and bring her up in the ICU. We’ve got a room for him so she can wait there.”

She turns to leave, and Langdon glances after her, then mutters, mostly to himself. “Why does everyone keep giving me weird looks today? Like I’m saying something stupid.”

“It’s because you are,” Garcia snickers before going through the doors.

Robby and Jesse check the vitals and the instruments' position, but Jack only catches bits of their conversation — because he’s watching you again: you listen carefully to Garcia’s explanation, the concern on your face dissolving slowly. But not entirely — it would be too soon for that. Garcia walks you to the elevators and out of Jack’s sight; still, his eyes stay on the spot you stood at.

He wishes that he was the one to talk to you. And he wishes he could do much more.

Jack comes back to reality when he catches movement — the gurney being wheeled out of the room.

“Wait, I can —”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll ride up with him,” Robby assures. “Your shift ended hours ago, just go get some rest, man.”

Jack needs no persuasion — he all but runs out, removes the gown and gloves, then goes to the staff’s kitchen. He’s out in five minutes but he stops at the stairs as an idea lits up in his head. Jack walks back to the lockers, unlocks his and takes out a spare clean shirt. He has to slow down then, imagining the likely steps: it takes a minute to get to the upper floor and get you to the right room; a few more minutes for you to ask more questions while the man is being prepped. The surgery will take at least 2 hours — he doesn’t want to waste a second of that time.

Jack finds you sitting in the hall, typing away at your smartphone, fidgeting slightly in your chair. And his determination is diluted with unease — should he interrupt you? Would you even want to chat? He tells himself that he can manage some small talk, that it’s not a big deal. He’s good at this.

Jack walks toward you, trying not to give away his haste. “So, do you stick your fingers into all of your clients?”

You turn to him, your face swept with confusion.

Oh no. He isn’t good at this at all.

“Fuck, sorry. I don’t why I said that, it was —”

And then you laugh. It’s quiet, more so a sound of relief, a little bit amused by him. But you aren’t irritated or displeased.

“Believe it or not, that was my first time. And hopefully, the last.”

Jack takes your calm voice as a good sign. Almost instinctively, he sits right next to you, as if the very thought of putting any distance in between you is downright absurd.

“Coffee. Figured you’d need it,” he hands you a plastic cup, and your fingers brush his when you take it.

And Jack is painfully aware that the brown-colored drink hardly tastes great. But you take sips with zero fuss.

“A caffeine IV would’ve been great, but this is the next best thing. Thank you so much,” your gaze warms up. Then it drops to the piece of clothing he is holding.

“I thought maybe you’d like to change into something that isn’t drenched in blood? I keep a clean t-shirt in case I get some fluids on me. It’s not the most fashionable choice, I know—”

You take it before he even finishes the sentence — your thumb gently brushing the folded cotton fabric, your face breaking into a grateful smile. Jack’s eyes are drawn to it, and he remembers so distinctly how your lips taste. And you look like you know he does.

“Wish I could put it on right now. But I’m counting on my blooded shirt to make me look more intimidating to the DA. Once he wakes up and deigns to text me back.”

Jack moves closer, lowering his voice like he’s protective of a secret you are about to let him in on. “What do you need the DA for?”

Your smile widens as if you find his curiosity endearing. “I need to get Bruno into witness protection. DA’s recommendation will help speed up the process.”

“Will the prosecutor back you up on this?”

“He passed out in the court at the sight of blood. He’ll back me up just fine.”

“So what’s the overall plan?” he drapes an arm across the back of your chair. You don’t mind.

“I’m Bruno’s legal representative, I can apply for the program on his behalf. They’ll also need his family to complete an application form. So once the DA gives me the green light, I have to make a beeline for the closest police station, then dash to their apartment, deal with the paperwork, and help his wife pack. Maybe she can visit him once he’s out of surgery.”

“She must be pretty shaken up,” Jack muses.

You reign your feelings well but he still catches hints of them: sadness, disappointment. Guilt. “The worst part is, she didn’t even sound surprised when I called her. Wasn’t upset with me either. She just asked, Will he pull through? And I had to make her believe that he would.”

He moves his hand up, his palm grazing your back, words sitting on the tip of his tongue: it’s not your fault, you aren’t the one to blame. You helped to save his life. But you shake off your misery, so easily like it’s a long-established habit.

“How’s your tough case, by the way? Did she wake up?”

You are deflecting, he can tell. He also has no wish to make you more upset so Jack holds back his consolations.

“She did, got her discharged a week ago. And the rehabilitation seems to be going well.”

Your grin very clearly says I told you so but you don’t say the words out loud. Instead, you place your hand above his knee — the right one, your touch not fleeting but reassuring and warm. The smile leaps out of him before he can stop it. “How’s the asshole with no brain cells?”

You let out a long-drawn sigh. “He fled the state. Which was a violation of the bail conditions. Then his attorney tried to flee, got wasted on the flight to Cincinnati — one of the CBP officers clocked him at the airport because he kept dropping his carry-on. Turns out, he snuck in a hunting knife, a whole-ass 6-inch blade. And then he got into a fight with them. Mind you, he is 5’3 and had a half-bottle of whiskey in him. I can’t even begin to comprehend that level of dumbassery. I had to visit him in jail four times before the court assigned a new lawyer to replace him. I don’t want to board another plane for at least a month.”

Jack doesn’t say anything at first, but his mouth twitches like he’s suppressing laughter. And then he can discern something unlooked-for in your face — the very evident abashment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to vent.”

He leans to you and caresses your back. He wishes he could kiss you — on your forehead and cheeks and corners of your mouth, to smooth out every line of worry on your face. So that you don’t hesitate to open up again.

“Wasn’t a vent,” Jack argues. “I am actually very invested now. How did he manage to bring a knife on board?”

“Bribed a couple of nut heads from the PIT security,” you share gladly. “I asked him, Man, ever heard about checked baggage? Who in their right mind puts knives in a carry-on? And he told me — dead serious — that TSA is infiltrated by a gang of international smugglers, so he can’t trust them.”

“Of course you asked,” Jack notes warmly.

“I mean, he’s absolutely useless as a lawyer, at least I had something to laugh at. Besides, the Boone county jail can easily rank first in the list of the dullest places in the States.”

“So it’s the lack of brightness that’s the main problem, not that it’s packed with criminals,” Jack shakes his head in disbelief. “Worrying about you must be someone’s part-time job.”

You are startled for a moment. And then you’re beaming. “Is this you casually trying to find out if I have a boyfriend?”

“Guilty as charged,” Jack’s hand stops at your back, his gaze a cautious revelation. “But I don’t do casual.”

“Neither do I,” you tell him quietly, resting your chin on his shoulder. “And I would’ve never come to your apartment if I had anyone waiting for me at home.”

Your faces are separated by some minuscule inches. This is your second meeting — and yet, to Jack it comes as second nature: holding you close and leaning in, settling into your space as easily as you do in his, like two stars that fall into each other’s orbit. His hand is on your waist and yours moved to his shoulder; he can smell blood on you but then your scent cuts through — jasmine and bergamot and peaches, things they don’t have in hospitals, the fresh sweetness that makes him think of spring and sun. And everywhere you touch him, he feels lighter. In just a second his lips will be on yours—

Someone blows into the hall — very decisive and walking toward you, by the sound of it — but stops midway, so suddenly you hear screeching of the rubber soles against the floor. Then the footsteps retreat, and everything is quiet again, no other visitors or interferences. And yet, the moment’s gone. Jack can’t hold back a groan. You bring your fingers to his face, your thumb skating over his jaw, your body still so close to his. But your watchful eyes dart behind his back.

“The redhead keeps coming back like she’s looking for an excuse to start a conversation. What does she need a lawyer for?”

“That’s Cassie. She’s in the middle of a custody battle over her son. Her ex-husband is a douchebag with a douchebag girlfriend, so it’s messy.”

You look at Jack again. “And what’s the deal with that other doctor? Dark-haired, overly confident. Mildly annoying.”

“Frank,” he chuckles, his index finger drawing numbers on your lower back. “His marriage is in shambles, been like that for a while. But Abby loves him, and he’s not a bad dad. If it ever gets to a divorce, I don’t think she’ll take the kid away from him.”

You ruminate on this but not for long. “Can you please tell Cassie that I won’t bite her head off?”

Jack doesn’t want to move away from you so he only tilts his head back, not in disbelief but in careful wonder. “You’ll help her?”

And he can tell from your firm gaze that you aren’t doing this to please him — you want that case, you are already going through the strategies and options in your head, you grab at every chance to help people like hungry dogs grab bones. “I have about half an hour before the DA gets out of bed. Plenty of time for her to give me the details. Besides, I really enjoy going against douchebag exes.”

“Why is that?” Jack asks with a grin.

You shamelessly grin back at him. “They usually come with douchebag lawyers. It’s always fun to kick their ass in court.”

And as on cue, there are footsteps again — your face confirms it’s the same visitor, and Jack gives in: it’s for a good cause, after all, and he will get more time with you later today. His palm brushes the side of your waist, one touch replacing all the words he is afraid to say too soon: I’ve missed you, I want to spend many more days with you. He has to get up, holding back a sigh, before his feelings burst out. Jack turns around — and, unsurprisingly, Cassie is standing sheepishly at the end of the hall.

“Sorry, did I interrupt you guys?” she asks him with an awkward smile when he comes closer. “Cause it seemed like—”

“Just go talk to her,” he grumbles. When she doesn’t move, Jack softens his approach. “She’ll be happy to help you out, McKay.”

Cassie’s smile turns grateful, and then she strides across the hall to you. Jack offers you some privacy and takes the stairs to the ER. And even though exhaustion is already nipping at him, he’s in no hurry to go home, he doesn’t even feel the weight of it. He also doesn’t notice Dana’s gaze that lands on him when he comes in. He’s blithely unaware for about 15 minutes — Jack gets himself a cup of coffee, relaxes in the quiet of the empty kitchen, stretches his legs and arms.

Dana walks up to him the second he comes back to the nurse station.

“Now, will look at that. A smile on your face? I must be dreamin',” she teases, always astute in her assumptions. “It’s the hot lawyer, isn’t it?”

He’s battling a smile, indeed. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Well, you see how my mouth’s moving? This means I’m talking, and you are giving me replies. Which does sound like a conversation to me,” Dana playfully bumps his shoulder. “Hey, she ticks all the boxes: smart, brave, stubborn. Did I mention that she’s hot?”

Jack doesn’t meet her gaze as his face gets warm. “Can’t argue with any of that.”

Princess peeks curiously at them from behind the monitor. Dana cackles. “Jesus, are you blushing? That’s so cute. I’m marking this day in my calendar.”

“What are we celebrating?” Perlah swings by.

“Dr. Abbot apparently got himself a date,” Princess reveals, wiggling her brows.

“With the lawyer? And she agreed?” Perlah asks in a doubtful tone.

“Frank said they were flirting in the trauma room,” Dana informs them conspiratorially, earning two hums of approval — and one groan from Jack.

“Are you aware I’m still here? Langdon has no clue what he’s talking about,” but his voice doesn’t sound angry — he’s in too good of a mood for that.

“I hear someone spreading slander behind my back,” Frank stops by.

“It’s hardly slander when you’re an asshole,” Princess glares at him. “Only a senile patient would flirt with you.”

“Is this open hostility at a workplace?” he fakes a gasp. “I don’t need anyone to flirt with me, I’m married. And if you’re talking about the lawyer, she surely seemed thrilled to leave this place.”

Both Jack and Dana look at him. She is the one who asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saw her at the parking lot. She ran out and got into a cab so fast, like someone’s chasing her. Or maybe she is chasing someone? Wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Well, no chasing needed for our cowboy,” Dana chuckles with her gaze on Abbot. “Did you choose where you’ll take her? Want me to ask around for recommendations so you can text her a couple of options?”

Jack wants someone to smack him in the head, hard. Because he surely needs to straighten up his mind. Not asking for your number the first time could be blamed on a lapse of sanity, but two times in a row? That’s what you would call a rare level of dumbassery.

As Dana sees his face fall, her own gets visibly confused — then shocked upon realization. “What, you don’t have her number?”

And everyone instantly mirrors her concern.

“You didn’t take it?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Jack is flabbergasted for a second. “Why is this a public discussion?!”

“Man, we were rooting for you!” Langdon throws up his hands.

“They were placing bets on how long it’d take you to get her number,” Dana snorts.

“They,” Frank mimics her. “As if you weren’t!”

Jack wearily covers his face with both palms, not in despair but with disappointment. In himself. There’s still some hope for him to cling to — they’ve got Bruno up in the OR, and you will probably come back to visit him. That was your plan, right? And what will his be if you never show up?

“What are we mourning over?” Robby nonchalantly comes by.

“My loss of 100 bucks,” Frank walks away, disgruntled.

“I only bet 15, you’re real bad at counting!” Dana shouts after him. Then she gives a joyless explanation. “No one won, though.”

Jack looks at Robby through his fingers. “Were you involved in this too?”

“Nah. I said you’d probably need a third chance.”

Abbot lowers his hands, brows furrowed in incomprehension.

“One of the ICU nurses saw you two getting all cozy with each other,” Robby keeps his voice down but still elicits a few giggles. He stares at Perlah and Princess, and they pretend to get back to work. “I figured you wouldn’t do that on day one. So there must be some history between you. And you know what they say, third time’s the charm,” he pats Jack’s shoulder reassuringly. “Do you at least know the name of her law firm?”

He is already taking lungfuls of air for a heavy sigh — because of course he didn’t ask about the firm, he is the top contender for the dumbass of the month award — but then the elevator dings. And Cassie walks into the hall, cheery as she hasn’t been in months.

Abbot gets an idea. And now he has more than a delusive hope.

“I know where I can find it out.”

McKay doesn’t take much convincing. She tells him that you gave her your assistant’s number — it’s not the answer he expected, but Jack’s grasping for straws. He makes the call with no delays, and the assistant picks up almost instantly. She’s got a thick accent that isn’t American, the vowels in her speech sound a little shorter. But her English is pretty good and so are her manners — because no one before has told Jack to fuck off so courteously. Whatever arguments he brings to get your number, she just refuses to relent: yes, sir, I understand the urgency. But you must know it’s private information, and I cannot verify your identity over the phone. Yes-yes, I’ll check the hospital website. But your photo doesn’t come with a voice recording, does it? That is unfortunate. You see, we really value our attorneys' privacy and safety. And there’s been a disturbing accident... Which I can’t talk to you about. Yes, I will let her know you called. I promise, sir. Yes, I’ll tell her that you called four times, that is an important detail, indeed.

And Jack is back to square one — still no clue where to find you, no last name and no address he can look up on Google. Bruno stays in their ICU for just one afternoon, and then Jack comes to work to learn he was transported to the other hospital — by helicopter and with a police escort that was too tight-lipped and fast to bother. Which robs Jack of the only hope he had, and he is too worn out to drown himself in work. So he takes two days off, gets eight hours of sleep, gets busy with mundane chores that make for a poor distraction.

His doorbell rings around 6 pm. He’s not expecting anyone — Robby is still at work, and a few other friends he’s got would’ve announced their visit. So Jack thinks someone must’ve gotten the wrong door, and he opens it without even looking in the peephole.

Instead of seeing some unbidden stranger, he sees you.

You’re standing at the door of his apartment. Wearing his shirt. The dark material is tucked carefully into your jeans, your hair undone. You greet Jack with a smile, a little tired and leaning on his doorframe.

“You made a lasting impression on my secretary.”

He has to take a breath and blink — once, twice — to make sure this is happening. There is a trace of a smile already on his face, he just can’t stop it. “You mean she was planning on filing a police report because she thinks I’m stalking you?”

“Actually, she liked you from the moment she figured you’re a doctor. Keeps asking if you are married or not.”

Jack puts his left hand up to show you — readily, happily, like he removed the curse that’s been tormenting him for years. “I’m not.”

And you see that he isn’t wearing the ring. He never put it back on — by now, there’s no mark left where it used to be, the white line faded with no trace. You watch his face for any hints of doubt or regret but he has none. The hint he gives you suggests the opposite: Jack steps back in a silent invitation, makes space for you to come in. To come back to.

You don’t rush in although it does look like you want to. Instead, you’ve got a suggestion of your own.

“I feel like I know more about you than you know about me. So ask me something. Anything, whatever you want to know,” your gaze is locked with his. “Before I come in.”

Because after you do, there will not be much talking. Not for the first few hours, Jack thinks. And he will gladly take ten times as long as to find out everything there is to know about you — he’ll take days, weeks, months, years. He is already sure there is nothing that can scare him away.

So what he asks about is not a deal-breaker — more so a mystery Jack can’t wrap his head around.

“How the hell are you still single?”

It’s not a hard question, and it’s the truth that you don’t shy away from — as easily as he once did, you open up to him, with honesty that he can read in your voice, eyes, face.

“I work a lot. There are always extra hours, sleepless nights, late calls from my clients who have no one else to talk to. I’m bad at taking breaks. I am... not good at asking for help. And I guess I’m used to prioritizing work because that’s what I’m left with when people leave. Not everyone will have the patience for that,” you try for your smile not to look sad but it’s the first thing that you fail at. “So I’m a handful.”

He’s quiet for barely two seconds. Then his lips curl into a grin.

“Well, I’ve got two hands. And some say that my arms look very steady,” he takes a step to you, and now instead of sadness, there’s glee — in your soft laugh and in your eyes that stay on him. “I will need one thing from you, though. Before you come in,” another step, so that he’s standing right in front of you. “I need your number.”

“Give me your phone.”

He does — you add the number to his contacts, then dial it so you can have his too. You hand his phone back, still smiling. “There you have it.”

“I plan on memorizing it,” Jack takes a quick look at the screen and then puts the device away.

He needs his hands free, he has no other words to add. He cannot tear his gaze away from you.

“Any other questions or requests?” you ask him quietly.

Jack shakes his head. And then it’s you who finally crosses the distance.

He reaches out a hand behind your back to close the door. As soon as you hear the locker click, that same hand pulls you into him. And then he kisses you — so ardently and deeply like he’s famished, like in your absence he struggled to survive. You let him take the lead — it’s your quiet surrender, it’s his most rewarding win; he savors it until you’re out of breath. Then you kick off your shoes, and Jack yanks off your t-shirt — you stop his hands and fold the piece of clothing and leave it on the first flat surface you can find — you aren’t sure if it’s a table or a shelf because he’s kissing you again, all the while you are stumbling your way through his apartment.

Jack does pause when you reach the bedroom — the city skyline stretched out behind the windows, the light already darkening from gold to copper as the evening comes. The rays cascade across the floor and walls — you are admiring the view, and he’s admiring you. It’s soft before it’s sexual: he lowers his head and drags his lips over your collarbone, then over another one. Then he moves higher — your throat, your jaw, your cheek.

“You’re staying,” he murmurs.

And even though it’s not really a question, you nod, fingers grazing the back of his neck. “Sorry for coming empty-handed. I should’ve brought some take-out.”

Jack moves one of his hands down to the button on your jeans, undoes it, two of his fingers slipping in, tracing the line of your lace panties. He didn’t get a chance to taste you last time, and now he’s twice as eager. “You brought me dessert.”

You laugh against his mouth and take his shirt off, your touches gentle but leaving goosebumps on his skin, making his heart race. He lays you down on his bed to get rid of your jeans, his voice muffled when he leaves a kiss on your hipbone.

“And breakfast is on me this time. It’s non-negotiable.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows. “You are saying there’s actual food in your fridge?”

“A terribly big amount of food. Also picked a bunch of spices from the Mexican aisle, and I have no clue how to use half of them,” his mouth comes back to yours, back to his new favorite flavors: of your lips, your smile, your moans he knows how to draw out. And you are both left breathless and desirous of more.

“So you were counting on us meeting again?” you tease.

“I was hoping for it,” Jack says truthfully. “Got pretty close to praying, actually.”

Pads of your fingers glide across his cheekbone. “You don’t strike me as a religious type.”

He doesn’t answer right away — but not out of hesitation or the lack of words. He doesn’t need many. He’s known the answer ever since he saw you in his kitchen, he’s been carrying his feelings for so long that now he’s threaded with them like the night sky with bright stars.

Jack tells you with raw candor, with a faint smile. “I’m not. But I believe you are a godsend.”

You trace the freckles under his left eye, your whisper and your gaze are filled with tenderness. “I kept thinking of an excuse to show up at your apartment.”

He lowers his face closer to yours and turns to place a soft kiss on your wrist, his hazel eyes with hints of green spilling more of his secrets: they say that he’s been looking for you everywhere. Then Jack speaks with words.

“I kept thinking I was a fucking idiot for not getting your number,” and his mouth hovers over yours before he adds, his voice hushed as if he’s still not fully convinced he has you. “I want to take you out.”

Jack looks at the specks of gold caught in your lashes and your eyes, the sunlight streaming through the glass, your bodies and his bedroom bathing in it. He feels his heart pounding.

“Am I being too old-school for aski—”

You close the gap between you, and this kiss is better than a dream: it feels like finding gravity and oxygen, like summer coming after years of winter, like now instead of hope there’s certainty, a future that is bright with possibilities. When Jack opens his eyes, he finds you smiling, and you’re brimming with it — the undeterred fondness, the warmth that says that you’ve been looking for him too.

“I’d love to go on a date with you, Jack Abbot.”

And he knows it will be just the first of many.

you’d never be able to tell but this was supposed to be porn with no plot... which I am apparently fcking incapable of. THERE WILL BE part 2!

two gifsets that inspired this fic: x, x ♡

SHOCKINGLY, I’m almost done with another Jack one-shot, and oh my god, I love it to pieces. reading it feels like a gut punch but in the best way possible. I can’t wait to share it ♡

MY MASTERLIST

dividers by @/cafekitsune, @/saradika-graphics & me.

You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”

“Extremely,” he deadpanned.

“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”

Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”

Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”

You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot. 

You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.

“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.

Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”

“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.” 

You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again. 

“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”

“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”

“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath. 

Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick. 

You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”

“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’” 

She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.

“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”

You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.

“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”

“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”

“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”

She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”

You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken. 

You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.

You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”

Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.

“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms. 

Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. 

He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.

“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.

“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”

He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting. 

“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”

“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.

Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”

“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”

“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”

“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.

“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.

“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”

You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.

“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. 

A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:

“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan. 

You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips. 

Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)

“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”

“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”

“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.

“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”

“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.

“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”

Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.

“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly. 

Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow. 

“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”

Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again. 

“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”

“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?” 

“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”

You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do. 

Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels. 

“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”

Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”

“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”

Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”

You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient. 

You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.

“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”

His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. 

Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R. 

Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.” 

Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy. 

You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.

Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room. 

You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.

“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.

“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.

“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”

The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name. 

“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”

You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.

“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”

He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.

You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”

“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”

“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”

His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”

You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is. 

You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness. 

You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile. 

“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”

“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”

“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”

You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.

“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.

“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.

“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”

Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.

“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.

“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”

“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”

“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”

“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”

“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”

Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.

You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once. 

The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.

You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.

You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him. 

Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.

You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.

“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”

“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth. 

He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.

“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”

You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.

“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.

 “…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.

“Dr. Abbot.”

Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”

His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”

Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.

“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”

It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.

“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”

Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call. 

You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better. 

The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.

“You can get that if you need to—”

“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”

The call ends before you can answer it. 

Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”

“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”

Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.

“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.

“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”

“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”

You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.

“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”

The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts. 

You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.

Jack smells you before he sees you.

He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder. 

By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.

“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.

“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.

“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.

“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.

“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”

Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger. 

“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”

Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.

Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s. 

“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor. 

“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.

He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.

“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.

Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”

“How was the, uh… The date?”

“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”

“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”

His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.

“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”

“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”

You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.

Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.

Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead. 

“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.

It clicks shut behind you. 

“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”

“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.

“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”

Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.

“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”

“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”

Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.

“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”

The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”

“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”

“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.

Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.

“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.

“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”

“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”

You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.

Jack follows your every move.

“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”

You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach. 

“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”

Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”

Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”

You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin. 

You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.

Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.

“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”

You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again. 

“Crystal,” you quip drily.

You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later. 

Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.

The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.

“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

You push the man away from you on instinct. 

“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.

Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.

Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile. 

“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.” 

  The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

“Which means I just lost all of my money…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”

It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.

“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”

“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”

You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.

“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”

“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”

He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.

“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug. 

“No?” Jack hums.

“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”

depression

If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.

He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.

He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This is why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.

"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."

Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"

Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."

Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.

She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.

For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?

He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.

She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.

It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.

Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.

It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.

Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.

She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?

A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."

"That's it?"

"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"

Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.

"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."

The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.

"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."

Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must be some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.

He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.

He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."

"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."

Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.

"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."

Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."

"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."