Karla

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

You rolled over fully, propping yourself up on one elbow to look down at him. Rafe was still half-asleep, his eyelashes fluttering against the bright sun, his buzzcut slightly frizzed from the pillows as he hummed at your movements.

"Well," you whispered, voice holding a small morning rasp. "Someone’s happy to see me this morning. Do you always carry a weapon around, or are you just happy to wake up with me again?"

Rafe’s eyes blinked open then, a sleepy, deep chuckle leaving his lips. He didn't even look embarrassed. Instead, he reached up, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck to pull you down until your forehead rested against his, pecking your cheek softly.

"Shut up," he muttered, his voice deep and rough from sleep. He rolled his eyes, but the grin on his face gave him away. "You think you're so funny.” He scoffed. “I’ll have you know I had one the entire time we were sleeping out here before, and your oblivious ass never even noticed."

“No, you didn’t.” You deadpanned, tilting your head at him.

"Swear," he teased, hands sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you against his body. "You were sleeping like somebody’s dad, and I was just lying here, suffering in silence because I didn't want to wake you up. So don't act like this is a new development, baby."

You couldn't help the giggles that bubbled up, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "You're a perv."

"Yeah, but only for you," he murmured against your mouth.

The playful banter dissolved into something much sweeter as Rafe’s hands moved up your back, fingers tracing the skin beneath your oversized t-shirt as he kissed you again and again—it was slow, lazy, and full of affection. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and down the side of your jaw, making you squirm and laugh against him, just so incredibly happy to be back where you belonged.

Eventually, you pulled back slightly, clearing your throat with a grimace. "Okay, okay, wait,” you said, hands on his shoulders. “As much as I want to stay here, we need to go inside. I know for a fact I am overly crusty, right now."

Rafe scoffed, rolling his eyes as he sat up with you. "I don't care.” He shrugged. “You look fine to me." He smirked, leaning in again before you pushed him back by the forehead.

"I’m serious!" you laughed, scrambling out of his grip. "Let me go get ready!"

"Fine," Rafe said, bottom lip held between his teeth as, before you could even process what he was doing, he threw the sheets off his legs and scooped you up into his arms. You let out a squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lifted you effortlessly into his arms.

As Rafe carried you into the main villa, the silence of the house hit you. When you were outside, the rustling palm trees, the warm air, and the sound of the ocean made it seem later than it was. But looking at the sky through the windows, the sun was only half way risen in the sky.

Rafe stopped right at the entranceway to the bedroom as you both peered inside—everyone was still knocked out.

JJ was sprawled out backwards on his bed with a pillow between himself and Haja, one leg hanging off the mattress. Pope had the covers pulled all the way up to his nose, Kaitlyn snoring next to him. Sarah was buried under a pile of pillows, looking like she was trying to hide, and the rest of the room was filled with the soft sound of heavy breathing and light snoring from everyone else.

"Geez," you whispered into Rafe’s ear, keeping your voice low. "I guess we could’ve stayed out there a bit longer." You shrugged in Rafe’s arms, hands clutched behind his neck as he held you in front of him, legs locked around his waist.

You looked up when he didn’t say anything, and the moment you saw the wicked smirk spreading across his face, you tilted your head innocently.

"What?" you whispered. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

But Rafe didn't say a word. Instead, he shifted his grip, quickly throwing you over his shoulder. You gasped, clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle a loud laugh as your head hung down past his back.

"Rafe!" you hissed, swatting at his lower back. "Where are we going? What are you doing?"

He just gripped the back of your thighs tighter, walking down the corridor away from the bedroom. "Keep your voice down unless you wanna wake up the whole house."

He pushed open the door to one of the bathrooms, stepping inside and locking the door behind him with a soft click. He lowered you down, letting your feet hit the cool tile floor. Before you could even question him, he turned around and reached to twist the knob behind the frosted glass of the shower, the sound of water filling the enclosed space, steam slowly starting to rise toward the ceiling.

Rafe turned back to you, a certain glint in his eyes. "No one's awake," he said, his voice low, shrugging with a lopsided, boyish grin on his lips. "And I wanna shower with you."

Your eyes drifted over his bare chest, the lines of his abs, watching as he reached down to untie his sweatpants, stepping out of them until he was standing there just in his grey boxer briefs, but when he looked up and noticed that you were still standing by the door, fully clothed and clutching the hem of your shirt, he stopped.

He arched an eyebrow, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You nervous or somethin’?"

You bit your lip, looking at the steaming shower and then back at him. "Lowkey... yeah, kind of."

Rafe softened then, and he stepped across the small distance between you, placing his hands on your waist. "You don't have anything to be nervous about with me. Ever.” He reassured. “And look, we don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable. I just thought it’d be fun, y'know?"

"No, I want to," you said, looking up into his eyes so he wouldn't think you were rejecting him. "I really want to. I’m just... I'm nervous.” You cringe. “You haven't actually seen me naked, I haven't seen you naked. It’s just…scary?"

Rafe let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as he leaned in closer. "Baby, I literally had my hand down your pants last night, and you had my dick in your hands.” He deadpans with a small smile. “But showering together is what scares you?” He muses.

An embarrassed laugh leaves you, your cheeks burning as you hid your face in his bare chest. "Do you have to say it out loud like that?"

"I'm jus’ sayin’," he chuckled, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you tight. He held you for a second, letting you get used to the feeling of your skin against his, before he gently pulled back. "C’mere, let me help you…"

His movements were gentle as his hands gripped the bottom of your t-shirt, slowly lifting it up as you lifted your arms, letting him slide the shirt off and discard it on the floor. When it came to your shorts, he knelt down slightly, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear until you were standing before him in just your bra. Rafe stepped closer, eyes boring into your own as he reached around, unclasping your bra with ease, letting it fall to the floor. 

Your heart was pounding as you instinctively brought your hands up, crossing your arms over your chest as he stripped himself of his underwear and your eyes darted to anywhere else, not wanting to stare.

Rafe stood up, straightening as his eyes locked onto you. There wasn't any judgment or lust in his gaze—just awe.

"You’re beautiful," he said, voice serious, hand reaching out to softly cup your jaw. "Seriously. You're perfect."

You only gave him a tight, nervous smile, not knowing what to say.

To prove it to you, Rafe leaned down and captured your lips in a deep kiss, his mouth moving against yours as his hands slid down to your wrists, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your chest. He guided your arms up and around his neck, and you leaned into him, the remnants of your anxiety melting away under his touch.

His hands settled onto the skin of your waist, thumbs digging into your hips as he slowly walked you backward, stepping over the threshold into the shower.

The moment the water hit your skin, you both let out a gasps, followed by light laughter. The water was splashing everywhere, running down your faces. Rafe wiped his eyes, laughing quietly as he pulled you under the stream with him, chest pressed against yours. It was a sweet moment, the kind of domestic intimacy you hadn't realized you were craving so badly.

Things stayed calm and sweet for a little while.

You grabbed the bottle of body wash from the ledge, squeezing a dollop onto his loofah.

"Hey," you said, turning your back to him and tilting your head forward under the water. "Help me since you’re here?” You asked. “I can never reach the middle properly."

"My pleasure," Rafe murmured, his voice sounding a lot thicker than before.

You laughed. “Okay, Chick-fil-a,” you teased. “You gonna tell me to pull forward and pay at the first window, next?”

“Y’know,” Rafe started, “It’s times like these I really wish I could threaten to fuck the attitude out of you.” He says, sounding far too casual for the words that came out of his mouth. They caught you so off guard that you didn’t have anything clever to say, swallowing harshly as he smirked behind your head. “But I guess I don’t have to.” He says cockily.

“Fuck you.” You hiss playfully.

“Soon,” Rafe smirks, sighing. “Hopefully.”

You scoffed as you felt him spreading the soap across your skin in slow circles. But as the suds built up, Rafe’s touch quickly shifted from gentle to lingering. His hands didn't just stay on your upper back, they slid down to your waist, tracing the curve of your hips, before moving back up.

And then, he stepped closer, and as he pressed himself against your back, his dick settled right atop your ass, hard and warm. You let out a soft breath, fingers gripping the tiled wall in front of you as Rafe leaned down, pressing his lips against your wet shoulder blade.

He bit down softly, making a shiver run straight down your spine, before his lips traced a burning path right down the center of your back.

"Rafe..." you breathed out, your voice shaking slightly. It was meant to be a warning, a reminder that people could wake up at any minute, but it came out sounding like a plea.

He didn't care. He let out a low groan against your skin, his hands moving around to the front of your body as he abandoned the loofah, gripping your hips and pulling your back firmly against his chest. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, voice raspy against your ear, breath hot against your wet skin. "Just tell me."

But you didn't say a word. You couldn't.

And, taking your silence as a green light, Rafe spun you around in one swift movement, backing you against the tile of the shower. The water was cascading over his head, dripping down his nose and chin as he looked down at you with a gaze so dark, it made your knees weak. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was different from before—hungry, dirty, and desperate.

His hands ran down your body as his mouth left yours, burying his face in the crook of your neck, biting and sucking on the sensitive skin there until you were panting, head tilted back against the wall. His hands cupped your breasts, squeezing them firmly, thumbs rolling over your aching nipples until a high-pitched moan escaped your throat.

"Rafe, please," you whimpered, hands flying to grip his shoulders.

He smirked against your skin, loving the way his name rolled off your tongue as one of his hands slid down your stomach, moving past your waist until his fingers buried themselves between your thighs. He found your clit easily, his thumb circling it with a pressure that had you lifting one leg to wrap around his hip.

Out of arousal, you bit your lip as your own hand reached down, fingers wrapping around his length. He was so hard, throbbing and hot, poking right against your stomach as your fingers traced the most prominent vein underneath. The moment your palm made contact with his skin and you gave him one solid stroke, Rafe’s body shook.

His knees buckled slightly, a curse ripping out of his throat into the skin of your shoulder. "Fuck," he growled, his grip on your hip tightening until it was almost bruising.

His fingers between your legs started circling harder, faster, matching the rhythm of your hand stroking him, occasionally stopping to squeeze the tip which ripped a grunt from him every time. The sound of the rushing water mixed with the lewd noises was overwhelming your senses. You were slick, dripping wet from the water and your own arousal.

And without warning, and after a particularly satisfying tug, Rafe pushed two of his fingers straight into you, your eyes flying open as a loud, sharp moan ripped from your lips. Rafe’s fingers were thick, stretching you perfectly, hitting a spot deep inside that made your core pulse around him.

"Gotta keep quiet, angel," Rafe whispered, though his own breathing was shot. He moved his mouth back to your neck, sucking hard on a spot right beneath your jaw, fingers pumping in and out of you relentlessly.

You tried so hard to stay quiet, but you couldn't help the broken whimpers, the heavy panting, and the desperate chants of his name that kept slipping out. You were grinding your hips helplessly against his hand, your walls clenching tightly around his fingers as the tension in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter. You were so close.

And right as you felt yourself about to snap, Rafe suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, his dick sliding out of your hand right when he looked like he was about to finish himself.

"Rafe? What—" you panted, looking at him in confusion and desperation.

He didn't say anything, just dropped straight down to his knees on the wet shower floor. His hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide, hooking one of them over his shoulder, and before you could even process it, he buried his face between your legs, shoving his fingers back inside, pumping them while his tongue sucked your swollen, sensitive bud into his mouth.

You were biting your bottom lip so hard, you feared you might bite it off as your fingers buried themselves deep into his buzzcut, nails scratching against his scalp as your orgasm washed over you.

You cried out, whimpering, riding it out before you started to grow too sensitive, trying to push his head away, but he wouldn't budge. He held your hips in place, fingers gone now but his tongue was still working, the sound of his mouth on you filling the bathroom until your legs started to shake.

Only then did Rafe pull away, standing up slowly, a satisfied smirk plastered across his wet face. His blue eyes were practically glowing as he stepped close to you, one hand coming up to lie loosely around the base of your neck, thumb wiping a stray drop of water from your lip as you still panted softly before he leaned down and kissed you.

When he pulled away, you leaned your head against his chest, exhausted, trying to catch your breath, your heart still pounding. "You’re an ass, you know that?"

Rafe chuckled, his hand sliding down to squeeze your butt in both hands. "You—"

He was cut off by the sound of muffled voices and laughter, and your eyes went wide as saucers.

"Oh my God," you hissed, frantically pushing him away.

Rafe sighed and twisted the knob, the sudden silence in the bathroom making the sound of footsteps outside sound incredibly loud. “Shit,” he breathed out in a laugh as you both scrambled out of the shower, grabbing towels and drying yourselves off as fast as possible.

You threw your t-shirt back on, gathering the rest of your clothes in your hands as Rafe threw his sweats back on, looking equally disheveled.

"Okay," you whispered, gripping the doorknob. "Just...walk out, and don't look at anyone."

"I got it, I got it," Rafe muttered, looking amused and not in any kind of hurry at all. 

You shot him a pointed look as you unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall only to run directly into JJ, of all people, who was standing there with his toothbrush in his hand.

He stopped dead in his tracks, tired eyes darting from you to Rafe, back and forth.

JJ slowly lowered his toothbrush, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "Looks like somebody took the early bird and the worm a little too literally." He jokes, amusing himself.

"Shut up," Rafe scoffed, his face turning slightly red as he pushed past him, his hand in yours as he dragged you with him.

"Hey, I won’t say nothin’!" JJ called out, laughing loudly as you both practically sprinted down the hallway. 

BY the time you made it to the glam room to actually get dressed for the day, you realized JJ had already opened his mouth exactly like he said he wouldn’t. And, because word travels faster than the speed of light in the villa, the moment you pushed the door open, all the girls stopped what they were doing and turned to look at you.

"Oh, look who decided to join us," Cleo piped up from the corner, a smirk on her face.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands as you walked inside. "Please tell me JJ didn't."

"Oh, he did," Rima chuckled, shaking her head as she curled a strand of her hair. 

Cleo walked over, grabbing your arm as you whined like a child, pulling you into the bathroom connected to the glam room. She nudged your shoulder with her own, her eyes full of mischief. "Alright. What happened? And I want details.”

You let out a breath, a small, helpless smile forming on your lips. "Nothing really happened…” You dragged out. “I think we're just...happy to be back together, you know?” You shrugged shyly. “After everything with Casa and Theo, it just feels like our hormones are completely out of whack or something."

You leaned closer, lowering your voice so only Cleo could hear in case any of the other girls may have been eavesdropping. "We were out on the daybeds and just, like, touching each other everywhere."

Cleo’s eyes went wide, a gasp leaving her mouth as she smacked your arm. "No!” She gasped. “Right out there in the open? Girl, you’re a freak." She leaned in closer, her eyes glittering. "...But I gotta ask. Is it... you know…big?"

You felt your cheeks heat up, but you couldn't suppress the proud, dirty little smirk that slipped onto your face as you bit the inside of her cheek. "I don’t wanna say too much out of respect, but…” you teased, rolling your eyes. “I don’t know how he hides that shit.”

Cleo burst out laughing, clapping her hands together. "I knew it!” She cracks herself up. “He got that energy about him. Good for you, girl."

The laughter died down into a softer, more comfortable silence as you grabbed your toothbrush. "Yeah... it just feels right." You shrugged one shoulder lazily. "I talked to Theo and ended things. We're back to normal, and I feel really, really good about us."

You paused, turning around to look at her fully. "But enough about me. What about you and your whole situation?" You asked, leaning against the sink, brushing your teeth.

Cleo’s playful expression softened, a sigh escaping her lips as she looked down at her nails. "I really want to pull Rima for a chat first.” She said firmly. “I don't want any drama between us at all. We’re all girls and I love every single one of you. And now that the day’s passed, I think my head is a bit clearer and I can kind of see where Rima was coming from. I just want to sit down and talk to her."

"I think that's really mature of you," you said softly, spitting into the sink and wiping your mouth, rinsing your hands. "But... where is your head at with Justin and Pope? Do you…know who you actually want?"

Cleo looked up, her expression certain. "Although I do really like Justin, and we had a good vibe... there’s just no point. Every single connection I’ve made after Pope, or every time I'm even tempted to make a connection, it doesn't matter. Pope is always in the back of my mind. I can't shake him...” Cleo shrugged as you washed your face and finished freshening up before moving to exit the bathroom with her by your side. “I feel like I'm just going to take it as a sign at this point to continue my connection with Pope and just see it through."

You opened your mouth to reply as you settled in front of your vanity, Cleo leaning on the table next to you, but before you could, the door to the glam room clicked open, drawing everyone’s attention.

Sarah walked in, and the moment she stepped into the light, your heart broke for her. 

Her eyes were puffy, surrounded by dark circles, and her nose was red. It was obvious she hadn't slept a wink and had spent the entire night crying her eyes out. She looked fragile, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she slumped onto one of the chairs.

You and Cleo dropped the topic of conversation, shooting each other pitiful glances, walking over to sit on either side of her.

"...Hey," you said softly, rubbing her back. "How you holdin’ up?"

Sarah blinked, a tear immediately rolling down her cheek as she shook her head, her voice cracking. "... I don’t know, I'm really heartbroken, you guys.” Her voice shook. “I just can't fathom the fact that me and John B were together for weeks. And within a matter of days, he showed some other girl every part of him... and then had the nerve to try and tell me that it ‘wasn't that serious’."

She let out a bitter laugh, wiping her face. "Like, if it wasn't serious, why did you lie to my face?"

"He knew he was wrong." Cleo squeezed her hand. "...Do you think you want to… try and continue things with him?"

"...No," Sarah whispered, looking up at both of you with honest eyes. "I don't. I can’t. I just feel so embarrassed and disrespected. Because, not only did he lie straight to my face when he walked back in, his lies came out in front of everybody. I was so blindsided...” She cries. “I don't think that's something I could ever put behind me in a relationship. The trust is just dead."

"We understand," you said, pulling her into a quick hug. "You don't deserve that, especially not after staying loyal."

Sarah sniffed, nodding as she pulled back. She quieted down for a second, her eyes darting over to you nervously. “Um,” She cleared her throat, shifting her weight. "I was planning on exploring…other people. And... I want to pull Theo for a chat, eventually." She took a deep breath, looking at you with a pleading expression. "Would you feel some kind of way if I did? Like, is that going to cause an issue between us?"

You smiled gently, shaking your head to reassure her. "Sarah, I ended things with Theo last night. I think everyone in here—including Theo—knew that my endgame was always Rafe. So please, go ahead. Feel free to talk to him." You paused, your expression turning a bit more serious as you placed a hand on her knee. "But... I do want to warn you, just because I care about you—There are definitely two sides to Theo. He can be super sweet, but he can also get very bitter and petty when things don't go his way, like we saw at movie night. So just... keep that in mind, okay?"

Sarah nodded, looking relieved. "Yeah, 'course."

Confessional: You "I really, really just want Sarah to be happy. I think her ending things with John B is probably the best move, because honestly? What John B did at Casa, and the way he lied about it afterward, is unforgivable. Or, at the very least, it's unforgettable if you're trying to build a relationship.” You say, sighing in disappointment. “But... I’m not entirely sure how I feel about her pursuing Theo. It’s clear to me now that Theo is capable of putting on a persona of someone he’s not when he’s trying to win a girl over. I just hope that maybe things will be different between him and Sarah than they were with me. But I really do wish the best for her, she's been through it."

The conversation was then interrupted by a knock on the door, all of you turning as the door swung open, and the boys walked in, each holding plates of food and smoothies. 

Rafe walked in first, and the moment his eyes found you, that soft smile returned to his face. He walked straight over to your vanity, waving you over as he set down a smoothie, and you couldn't help but snort as you came to a stop next to him, noticing he had cut a little slit into a strawberry and wedged it onto the rim of the cup. On the plate next to it were three small pancakes, but they weren't round—he had hacked them into the shape of hearts. Even the strawberries scattered around the plate were sliced into little hearts.

You looked up at him, arching an eyebrow, trying to conceal your own smile. "Oh, wow. Look at you, Chef Cameron.” You teased. “Did you accidentally walk into a Hallmark movie this morning?"

“Whatever,” Rafe’s face flushed, but he just smirked, leaning down to plant a quick kiss on your lips right in front of everyone. "Just eat your food. I spent like ten minutes trying to get those pancakes to not look like blobs."

"I love it," you laughed, picking up a heart-shaped strawberry and popping it into your mouth, perching yourself up on your tippy-toes to plant a wet kiss on his cheek. "It's sweet. Thank you."

Around the room, the other boys were handing out their plates. Pope walked over to Cleo, handing her a plate with a hopeful smile, which she accepted with a grateful nod. Justin, surprisingly, walked past Cleo and brought a plate over to Rima. Miles entered, carrying two plates—one for Sofia and one for Haja. Pope also made a plate for Kaitlyn, handing it to her with a friendly smile, which she smiled widely at.

Then, John B walked in.

He was holding a plate of eggs and toast, his expression cautious, meeting everyone’s lingering eyes as he walked straight toward where Sarah was sitting.

She avoided his gaze but he continued towards her anyway.

"...Hey," John B said, his voice quiet, tentative as he stood behind her chair now. "I know you're probably still mad, but I thought maybe you—"

Sarah didn't even let him finish the sentence. Before he could even place the plate down, she reached out behind herself, pushing her hand flat against the center of the plate, shoving it right into John B's chest.

The eggs smeared against his chest, and he had to awkwardly catch the plate to keep it from falling to the floor.

She didn’t say a word either, just started her skincare as he stood behind her and the rest of you looked at them with your jaws on the floor.

John B stood there, face turning red. He looked around the room, embarrassed. None of you girls offered him an ounce of sympathy, just stared at him with cold expressions. A couple of the guys winced though, feeling a bit bad, but they ultimately understood why Sarah was reacting that way.

So, defeated and humiliated, John B clutched the plate, turned around, and walked out of the dressing room.

"Well," Cleo muttered into the silence. "That went well."

BY the afternoon, the heat of the sun had driven most of you out to scatter the lawn. You and Rafe had claimed two of the loungers by the pool.

You were lying flat on your back, and Rafe was lying right next to you, his chair moved so that there was no space between you as his large body lay half-draped over yours. One of his hands was resting comfortably on your stomach, fingers stroking the skin beneath the edge of your bikini top while your fingers ran through the short, prickly hairs of his buzzcut.

It was quiet, peaceful.

"So," Rafe murmured, shifting his chin so he could look up at you. You couldn’t help but note how adorable he looked peering up at you. "What d’you think is gonna happen with Sarah and John B?"

You let out a soft sigh, shaking your head. "Well, Sarah’s done. Like, done.” You emphasized. “We were talking to her right before you guys walked in and I really don't think she's ever going to give him another chance, says the trust is dead."

Rafe sighed, his eyes drifting out toward the pool where John B was sitting by himself, kicking his feet in the water, looking miserable. "Damn. That sucks, man."

You fingers stilled in his hair, looking down at him with a slight frown. "Why do you say that?” You pressed. “Don't tell me you're about to defend him."

"No, no, I'm not," Rafe said quickly, shaking his head. "What he did was stupid as hell. I'm just sayin’... The guy’s been spiraling all morning, feels guilty about the whole thing. He’s just a mess.” He shrugs. “He’s thinkin’ of all these ways to try and make it up to her, talking about writing her letters ‘n shit."

You rolled your eyes, letting out a skeptical snort. "Well, he should feel bad.” You quip. “But he’s wasting his time. Sarah seems serious about moving on. She even asked me if it was okay for her to pull Theo."

Rafe’s body stiffened a bit at your words. He stopped stroking your stomach, head tilting up as his blue eyes locked onto yours. Even though everything between you two was resolved, Rafe was just a naturally jealous, possessive guy by nature.

"And what’d you say?" Rafe asked, his voice dropping an octave, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

You couldn't help the amused smile that grew on your face. You reached down, cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. "Relax.” You rolled your eyes. “I told her to do whatever she wants. I reminded her—as I am reminding you right now—that I am completely over Theo.” You reassure him. “I chose you. I want you. You don’t have anything to worry about."

Rafe’s face softened, the notch between his eyebrows smoothing over as a relaxed smile graced his lips and he leaned up, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss.

Though, the kiss was broken when the familiar sound of a text notification echoed.

Everyone sat up straighter wherever they were, Cleo grabbing her phone from the edge of the daybed where she was sitting, reading the text out loud.

"Islanders, it's time to find out who can really handle the heat in the kitchen! Get dressed and head to the Glam room for the Hot Girl Bakery Challenge! #BunsInTheOven #GetTheBag"

WHEN you walked into the glam room, you found a rack of themed, sexy outfits waiting for you all. 

And while you and the girls were pulling on tight, pastel colored corsets, thigh-high lace-trimmed socks, and little baker's hats, the guys were downstairs putting on matching baker's hats and matching pastel shorts. 

You were standing in front of the mirror, Rima helping you lace up your corset when suddenly, the door of the glam room slowly creaked open.

You expected one of the guys or even Ariana but when they stepped into the room, all of your heads turning, waiting to see who it was, your jaw dropped and you damn near stopped breathing.

"Oh my God!" you shrieked, throwing your hands over your mouth, accidentally jumping out of Rima’s reach as the entire room fell into high-pitched screaming and squeals. The girls were jumping up and down, losing their minds. 

It was Megan Thee Stallion.

Megan laughed loudly, her infectious laugh echoing through the room as she waved at all of you, equally as excited.

"What's up, hotties?!" She shouted, standing at the head of the vanity table with her hands on her hips, glowing. "Y'all look so cute!” She gushed, pointing at you all. “You know I had to come through the villa and check on my girls, because I've been watching the TV, and whew... y'all are going through it in here!"

You all laughed, still in awe as she fixed her face with a pointed look, going down the line of girls to address everything she’d been watching.

Her eyes landed on Cleo and Rima first, pointing a long, manicured nail at them. "First of all... I don’t know what is going on between y'all two over these men, but we got to figure it out real soon, ‘kay? Because hot girls stick together, we don't fight over no boys!"

Cleo and Rima both laughed, nodding quickly, the awkwardness between them still hovering.

Megan then turned her eyes to Haja, arching an eyebrow. "And Haja... girl, what are you doing sneaking around with that man? You ain't ever heard the saying 'exes for a reason'?" 

Haja bit her lip, looking embarrassed.

Megan then moved down to Kaitlyn, softening. "Now Kaitlyn, you are like the damsel of the villa, right now. You are so unproblematic. I love you, girl." Kaitlyn blushed furiously, mouthing a sweet 'thank you.'

Then, Megan fixed her sights on Sofia, her expression turning stern, almost motherly. "Sofia, baby... we have to let things go, honey, because green eyes do not suit you." Sofia forced a tight, incredibly defensive smile, shrugging her shoulders.

Megan turned to Sarah, pouting and trotting over to wrap her arms around the girl. "Sarah, my baby,” She cooed. “Do not waste your tears on no man who don't know how to act.” She reprimanded, pulling back, holding the girl by her shoulders. “You are so beautiful, baby, you’ll find a man to shower with sooner or later!"

The entire room burst into laughter at that, Sarah cracking a genuine smile for the first time all day.

Finally, Megan stopped right in front of you, a hand on her hip. "Girl..."

"I know, I know," you laughed, covering your face.

"You had two men fighting for you!" Megan hyped you up, shaking her head. "But, like, you knew it was gonna be Rafe though…” She shrugs, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. “We all knew it. The chemistry is crazy."

You grinned widely, feeling a flush of pride as she walked back towards the front of the room.

"Alright hotties," Megan said, heading toward the door. "I’m gonna go talk to these boys before the challenge starts. So, y’all get ready and get your minds right, because we are about to get down and dirty!"

You all said bye to Megan and the moment the door clicked shut behind her, all the girls lost it again—you, Sarah, Rima and Cleo grabbing each other's hands, fangirling. 

"Oh my God, I can't believe she's actually here!" you squealed.

"Bro, I am obsessed!" Cleo expressed her excitement, cheesing hard. "I was literally about to start singing 'Body'!” She laughed.

And you all couldn't wipe the smiles from your faces as you added finishing touches when suddenly, Megan’s voice echoed from the hallway. "Alright hotties, let's go! Bring them buns downstairs!"

YOU all filed out into the challenge area, which had been turned into a giant, pastel-themed bakery. There were giant sacks of flour, a table of cakes, comically large rolling pins, and a square platform in front of it all.

You and the girls were sitting on a set of bleachers opposite the guys while Megan stood off to the side of the platform, holding a pair of large, silver cymbals.

"Islanders,” she started, a bright smile on her face. “Welcome…to the Hot Girl Bakery!" Megan announced excited. "The first part of today's challenge is something I like to call… Musical Hot Cakes! It's very simple—it’s musical chairs. But with cakes.” She shrugged cutely. “When the music plays, you better shake what ya mama gave you. But when I clap these cymbals together? You better find a cake to sit on.” She explained. “And anyone left standing is eliminated. And we’ll keep goin’ until we have a winner!"

You all cheered as she called the girls to come up first—you, Sarah, Cleo, Rima, Sofia, Haja, and Kaitlyn making your way down to the platform.

The minute the bass-heavy music started pumping through the speakers, you all started dancing around the cakes—twerking, twirling around each other, dropping—when suddenly, Megan smashed the cymbals together.

You were all squealing as you threw yourselves onto a cake, the feeling of icing on your skin not the best thing in the world. Kaitlyn was a second too slow and got eliminated in the first round. 

In the second round, the competition got fierce, and a hell of a lot more slippery, and both Haja and Sofia were left standing and joined Kaitlyn on the bleachers. 

By the final round, it was down to you, Sarah, Rima, and Cleo. The floor was slippery with icing and crumbs and the feeling of cake between your ass wasn’t exactly the most pleasant. The music started, and you danced around each other, stopping abruptly when the sound of the cymbals rang out, and the four of you started slipping, sliding, and shoving each other trying to get the last seat, looking like baby penguins on ice, in a fit of giggles before Cleo managed to throw herself onto the last cake.

"And Cleo takes the cake!" Megan shouted, everyone clapping for her as you and the girls all went to sit down, trying to scrape as much cake off of your bum as possible.

Though, next up were the boys—John B, JJ, Pope, Rafe, Miles, Theo, and Justin all getting up from their seats once the platform had been cleaned and set up for them.

And the moment their turn started, they were ridiculous—JJ immediately started doing a terrible, hilarious twerk, making all the girls double over with laughter. Rafe was standing near you, catching your eye and doing a goofy little shoulder shimmy that had you giggling as you told him to ‘shake that ass’ and he flipped you off with a smile just before the cymbals smashed.

In the first round, John B missed a seat, getting eliminated. 

In the second round, both Justin and Miles were knocked out after a slippery wrestle for a seat. 

By the third round, it came down to JJ, Pope, Theo, and Rafe, and though all three of those men were much larger than him, JJ utilized his lankiness to slide between the triangle of men as they wrested for the seat and quite literally take the cake, winning the round for the boys as everyone cheered.

As the boys took their seats and the platform was cleared once again, Megan stepped forward. "Now, JJ won for the boys, and Cleo won for the girls.” She pointed to each of them. “But as the official judge of the Hot Girl Bakery, I gotta decide which side was actually more entertaining to watch…” She pretended to think, her eyes narrowed. “And... because my girls know how to twerk and actually get down, the point for this round goes to the girls!"

You all cheered, the boys clapping with smirks on their faces, still entertained despite the loss.

"But now,” Megan’s voice broke through. “It's time for part two." She smirked, pointing to a large structure that had been wheeled out. It looked like a giant, pink cake, but it had seven holes cut out of the top, exactly like a whack-a-mole game. “This is called Sweet Revenge.” She told you all dramatically. “Girls, go ahead and climb inside the cake!"

You all walked behind the structure, climbing inside, poking your heads through the holes. Only your heads were showing, the rest of your bodies trapped inside the pink wooden cake contraption.

A few feet away was a small, circular, raised podium. "Boys,” Megan began. “One by one, you’re gonna grab yourself a cake, pick a girl, and let her know what’s been pissing you off, and serve it...with a cake to the face.” She told them. 

The boys all clapped as you and the girls exchanged weary looks and eye-rolls, knowing not much good could really come out of this. 

“Don’t look like that, ladies,” Megan started, looking at you girls. “‘Cause y’all are gonna get y’all's time for y’all's sweet revenge.” She comforted, and you started nodding, smiling, concealed hands clapping.

“Hell, yeah!”

“Boys,” Megan turned back. “First up…is Justin.”

And Justin stepped onto the podium as the guys all cheered, a small cake balanced in his hand. As he took his place, he didn't even hesitate, locking his eyes onto Cleo. "I’ve chosen this girl,” He started, shifting on the spot. “Because I'm still pissed off at her for having to find out she kissed someone else behind my back through Movie Night, and it just made me feel like she was just playing with my feelings this whole time." He says honestly. “So, the girl I’m choosing is Cleo.”

“C’mon, then.” Cleo taunted, holding her head high.

He scoffed and took aim, launching the cake. It hit Cleo's hole in the structure, splattering across her neck and chin.

Megan winced, looking at Cleo. "Cleo, how do you feel about that?"

Cleo looked unbothered, stretching her tongue out and licking a dollop of the sweet frosting off the side of her mouth before looking at Justin. "I get why he's upset.” She took it on the chin. “But I also remember that Justin did the exact same thing. So, I guess we’ll call it even." She gave him a deadpan look, looking unaffected.

Next was John B, and it was incredibly tense as he stepped up the podium, looking straight at Sarah.

Everyone made a face, whispering to each other.

"I'm choosing this girl," John B said, his hands shaking slightly as he held the cake. "Because she’s super mad at me right now, and she won't even speak to me or look at me. So, honestly, I'm hoping a cake to the face will make her mad enough to at least curse me out or something. Because right now, something is better than nothing." He shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek.

And you all winced, curling your lips and squeezing your eyes shut as he threw the cake, and it hit Sarah dead in the face, icing covering her eyes, nose, and mouth.

Megan looked shocked, tentatively asking her question. "...Sarah... how you feelin’ about that?"

Sarah stood still, wiggling a hand through the hole to wipe the cream from her eyes so she could look John B right in the face. "...You know what? I was actually going to curse him out.” She says honestly. “But just because that's exactly what he wants me to do... I'm not going to." She stared at him, a bitter smile on her lips. "Sit down."

The entire villa went "Ooooooh," and Megan even stepped in, shaking her head at John B. "A cake to the face is definitely not the way to get a girl to talk to you." She reprimanded, shaking her head.

Then it was Theo, all of you watching as he stepped to the stand, looking directly at you. You arched an eyebrow in skepticism.

"Even though this girl and I talked it out, I still believe it’s only right," Theo said, shrugging his shoulders. "So, the girl I’m choosing is..." He declared, calling out your name, reeling his arm back before tossing the cake in your direction.

But you saw it coming, pulling your head back slightly as the cake splattered against the wooden border, missing most of your face.

Megan cringed, a hand on her hip. "That's the first one for you! How you feelin’?"

You shrugged, rolling your eyes. "I don't know if he was trying to throw shade by saying 'it's only right,' because it literally makes no sense.” You threw out. “We already agreed that I was honest with him from day one. But it’s whatever." You smirked, looking at Theo as he returned to his seat. "He missed anyway."

Pope was up next, walking up, looking serious with his eyes focused on Haja. “I feel like this girl played with the feelings of one of the guys I’m closest to in here, and seeing him actually get out of his old ways and try to form a genuine, real connection with someone, only for her to take advantage of that and sneak around is something I can’t respect. So," Pope shrugged. “Sorry, Haja.”

He launched the cake, hitting Haja right on the cheek as she turned her head to the side.

And when Megan asked Haja for her reaction, she just scoffed, rolling her eyes as she wiped her face. "I just feel like this is Cry Baby Island or something. I’m so sick of everyone acting like we are these married, real-world couples.” She snarls. “JJ isn't a baby, he's a grown-ass man, and he'll be fine." She dismissed his feelings, causing a few of the guys and girls to murmur in disapproval.

Then, it was JJ's turn. He walked up to the podium, his expression dropping into something mischievous.

"I’m choosing to cake this girl because, I don’t think it’s any secret that Y/N’s my girl in here, we came in together, and I hate seeing someone talk down on her when I know how much of a genuinely good person she really is." He offers, making you smile softly, mouthing a ‘thank you’. “Maybe this’ll sweeten up this girl’s bitter soul.”

And without another word, he tossed the cake forward, watching as it hit the side of Sofia's face, splattering into her hair.

"Sofia, how you feeling about JJ choosing you?" Megan asked.

Sofia just shrugged, her face twisting into a bitter, tight expression. "I'm used to everyone in here fighting Y/N’s battles for her, so it's really nothing new."

You didn't even bother giving her words life, just rolled your eyes, looking away.

Then it was Miles. He stepped onto the podium, a smug grin on his face.

"During movie night, I feel like this girl got super rowdy and loud for someone who jumped partners the first second she got.” He taunts. “In my opinion, she's not nearly as innocent as she likes to come off in here." He shrugs. “Sorry, Y/N.” He said, but the wink at the end of his words said otherwise as he threw the cake, but his aim was terrible. It sailed past your head, hitting the table behind all of your heads, knocking over a few of the other cakes.

"Second person to target you!” Megan threw out, surprised. “What’s tea?"

You glared at Miles, your voice dripping with venom. "Miles is the last person in this entire villa to talk about someone not being as innocent as they come off.” You shoot back. “He just needs to be quiet and sit his ass down. Maybe work on his aim while he’s at it."

"I've never tried to hide the fact that I'm not a perfect person." Miles tried to defend, acting unbothered.

Before you could even say anything back, the rest of the girls jumped in. Cleo, Rima, and Sarah all started taunting him.

"Buddy, that's literally all you do." Cleo laughed in his face. 

The small shouting match had the whole villa rippling, and Megan had to step in, laughing as she ushered Miles off the podium. "Alright, alright, sit down." She calmed, holding her head down as she laughed and walked back to her spot.

Finally, Rafe stepped up, gripping his mini cake and he took his place, bouncing the small dessert in his palm.

"I feel like this girl has been consistently trying to ruin something good that I have going on for myself.” He started, chewing the inside of his cheek. “And I just want her to get a taste of her own medicine for once, considering she’s been tormenting a girl who never deserved it since she got here. This one’s for you." Rafe teased, pointing at you like a celebrity at a concert as the other girls giggled before he threw the cake, the small dessert hitting Sofia right in the middle of her face, icing covering all of her features.

Your jaw dropped as you watched, along with the other girls, Rima trying not to laugh as Sofia wiggled a hand free to wipe the sugary cream from her face.

“Sofia, how you feelin’ about that?”

And the girl just took a deep breath, a tight smile on her lips. “I’m not surprised.” She bit out, not saying much more.

And since Rafe was the end of the line, you and the girls were allowed to climb out of the cake and wipe yourselves off a bit as the platform was cleaned and set up for the boys.

"Alright, switch it up!" Megan shouted once everything was reset. "Boys, get inside the cake!” 

The boys took their places, poking their heads through the holes and getting comfortable.

Megan then turned her gaze to the girls’ bleachers. “Girls, it's your turn for some sweet revenge!” She smiled. “And don’t worry," she starts, grabbing the comically large piping bag she had behind her, holding it up. “I brought backup.” She winks.

You all clapped and cheered at the sight of the bakery themed weapon. Sure, the guys had their fun, but this would make it a hell of a lot easier to aim. You could dodge a cake, you couldn’t dodge this.

Cleo was up first and she was all too happy as she marched up to the podium, lifting the heavy object in her arms.

"I feel like I was as honest as possible with this guy. I apologized for lying, but at the end of the day, he went ahead and kissed someone out of pure spite, and I don't respect that.” Cleo shrugged, aiming the gun straight at Justin. 

She squeezed the trigger, and a thick stream of buttercream shot out, blasting Justin in the face as he turned his head to try and dodge it but failed.

“Damn,” Megan hissed. “Justin! How’re you holdin’ up?”

But he just sat there with buttercream dripping off his nose, saying nothing as he wiped his mouth and Cleo took her seat.

Sarah was up next. She walked up to the podium with a purpose, her jaw set as she lifted the piping gun, her grip steady.

"I’m choosing this boy because he is the biggest liar I have ever met,” She starts, eyes locked on a certain brunette. “And clearly, his attraction to me was nothing but superficial. I want nothing to do with him anymore, and this is my get-back for him throwing a cake at my face." She smiled bitterly, lifting the gun and pointing it straight at John B’s face. “Say ‘ah’.” She snarked, pulling the trigger and blasting John B with a mountain of buttercream. 

He sputtered as the stream kept going, trying to move his head to escape the line of fire. And as the stream of icing died out, Sarah lowered the piping bag, a satisfied smirk on her face as she stepped down from the podium. "Have fun showering that off.” She quipped. “Alone."

You and the girls, as well as some of the boys, struggled to hold in your laughs and sounds of amusement as Sarah took her seat, high fiving all of you.

“John B,” Megan dragged out, her tone somewhat disapproving as she shook her head at the boy. “Tell us how you’re feelin’ after that one.”

John B wiped the cream from his eyes, looking miserable. "I mean, I won't make excuses for what I did. But I don't get why you're saying my attraction was superficial.” He looked to Sarah. “I don’t think that’s fair."

Megan suddenly stepped in, adding her input before Sarah could. "Well, when your head gets turned by the first girl that looks exactly like her in less than a week, I think it’s understandable for her to assume your attraction was only at a surface level, boo."

John B tried to defend himself, stuttering, "It—it wasn't just the way she looked that attracted me to Delaney, it was—"

Megan and all you girls cut him off in unison, faces twisted. "But that's what you said." You all laughed, amused and somewhat mocking his lies. 

“Don’t lie, now!” Megan shouted, pointing at him with a sharp look. "’Cause I watched you say it on the screen! I saw it!"

John B sighed, mouth slamming shut, admitting defeat as he hung his head.

Then, it was your turn. You walked up to the podium, a grin on your face as you lifted the piping bag. You decided to play with them a little bit, eyes going across the board, pointing the barrel at different boys.

You pointed it at Miles first. "I could cream Miles, since he tried to throw a cake at me and missed terribly... and honestly, I have more than enough reasons." Miles shifted uncomfortably.

You slid the barrel over to John B. "Or... I could cream him, since he likes to play with people's feelings."

Then you let the barrel drift to Rafe, a dark look in your eyes as he stared right back at you. “Or I could cream you just to have an excuse to lick it off later,” you teased, everyone making various noises of amusement as Rafe’s face flushed and he let his head hang to try and hide it. 

But finally, you swung the barrel around, pointing it straight at Theo and he just sighed, knowing what was coming. "I thought we put everything behind us, but clearly, someone’s still feeling a little bit bitter.” You taunted, shifting the piping bag to hold it correctly. “I think you need a little bit of sugar to even things out." You smiled, not wasting a second as you pulled the trigger, blasting Theo in the face with a thick stream of off-white frosting.

“Theo!” Megan called out, laughing. “Any words?”

He just wiped his eyes, shrugging calmly. "No hard feelings, I guess.” He said casually. “We're even now."

Then it was Kaitlyn’s turn, and she surprised everyone when she walked up, took aim, and pointed the gun straight at John B.

"Being his ex from the outside world, I really thought this boy was actually changing in here.” She said, shaking her head, disappointed, “He had everyone fooled, including me, and this is the least he deserves." She snapped, pulling the trigger, blasting him a second time.

John B just sighed through the frosting, speaking before Megan even had the chance to ask her signature question. "I'm just gonna keep my mouth shut."

All the girls, in sync, shouted as Kaitlyn returned to her spot, "Good choice!"

Haja went next. Surprisingly, she walked up and chose to cream JJ, her reasoning completely nonsensical, trying to paint JJ as the villain of their situation instead of herself or Miles.

As she prepared to shoot, you, the girls, and the guys started shouting at JJ from the side. 

"Just turn your head to the side and take that shit, bro! It’s alright!" Pope called out, annoyed. 

Haja shot him, and JJ just stood there perfectly calm, eyes squeezed shut and lips curled in as he let the frosting hit him without moving a muscle, Megan asking him how he felt afterwards.

JJ wiped his face calmly, looking at Haja. "I’m not bothered.” He shrugged, licking icing from his lips. “I know the truth. Every single person here does. But if you want to blame me so you can feel better about yourself, then feel free." You all clapped, applauding JJ’s words while Haja returned to her seat, looking furious that she didn't get a rise out of him.

Then it was Sofia. She walked up to the stand, that same irritating smirk on her face.

"I'm choosing this boy because I think he needs to come to his senses.” She said simply, hiking the piping bag up and aiming it at Rafe. “And... maybe this will remind him of just how sweet things used to be between us." She snarked, pulling the trigger, letting buttercream splatter against Rafe’s features as he just nodded through it, turning his head to the side near the end.

Confessional: You "Like... are you serious right now?" You deadpanned, scoffing. “This corny ass bitch…She’s actually so exhausting."

Megan turned to Rafe as he shook the frosting from his face, using one hand to pinch the sticky sweet substance from his eyes. "Rafe, how you feelin’ after that sweet reminder?" She teased.

He wiped a piece of cream from his chin, looking at Megan. "I think she’s a bit too bitter to be talking about sweet shit."

A chorus of chuckles and laughs rang out softly, the line shutting Sofia down as her face turned a bright, embarrassed red, and she stomped off the podium to take her seat.

Finally, Rima walked up. She aimed her gun straight at John B, making it his third time getting blasted. "Out of everyone, this guy really deserves it.” She says, a smirk on her face. “Seeing Sarah walk around looking miserable is heartbreaking. That girl is always so bubbly and lively, and she never deserved what he did. I really hate John B for taking the spark out of a girl who did nothing but give him the chance that he literally begged her for." She sighed. “So, the guy I’m choosing is John Booker.” She snarked, various reactions ringing out as she winked at him. “Open wide.” She teased, pulling the trigger, blasting him. 

Megan didn't even bother asking John B how he felt this time, muttering, "Yeah, I ain't even gonna ask him, because I don't think that boy wants to open his mouth anymore." She giggled to herself as Rima handed her the piping bag and took her seat.

Once the guys were semi-clean and sat, and the platform was cleared, Megan stood in the middle to announce the final results.

"The girls got down, they got dirty, and they did their big one on these boys today!” She hyped you all up. “And while you did your thing, boys, I gotta give the win to my ladies!" Everyone cheered—you and the girls celebrating while the guys clapped respectfully. “And, while it’s been fun, my time in the villa has come to an end.” Megan pouted. 

“All my girls, keep turnin' up, keep putting on, keep being hot girls doin’ hot girl things.” She pointed to you all as you blew kisses towards her, waving as she turned to the boys. “All the boys, y’all can step up the gentleman a little bit more.” She threw out, still lighthearted. “But keep havin’ a motherfucking hot boy summer turning it up!” She added, all of the boys clapping and cheering. “...And I’m gone.” Megan posed, throwing up two peace signs.

You all stood up, clapping as she made her exit, shouting after her, chanting ‘Megan’ as she did a little polite twerk and sauntered out of the villa. “Bye, yall!” She called over her shoulder, laughing.

You were all laughing, hopping down from the bleachers as you all started walking back inside the villa to clean yourselves up. As you and Rafe walked toward the stairs, covered in frosting and sticky buttercream, a few of the guys and girls started nudging you both, laughing.

"You gonna shower it off together?" JJ called out with a wink.

"Shut up!" you and Rafe both shouted back playfully, laughing as you headed to separate bathrooms to get clean.

BY the late afternoon, everyone was showered, fresh, and relaxing around the villa. 

You and Rafe were sitting on the daybeds, comfortably people-watching.

"So," Rafe said, shifting closer to you, resting his arm behind your head. "Update me," He inquired, fingertips brushing your shoulders. “What’s ‘tea’?” He mocked, the words sounding funny coming from him.

You giggled, settling closer into him. “You sound like someone’s dad trying to use slang.” You teased, looking up at him as he rolled his eyes at you despite the small smile on his lips. "But nothing much, to be honest.” You shrugged. “Well, actually, I talked to Cleo after I showered. She got a chance to talk with Rima, and they cleared the air. Rima admitted that she thinks she might still be in love with Justin, and she apologized to Cleo for the kiss. And Cleo apologized for her part, too, and finally admitted that her feelings for Pope are way stronger than her ones for Justin." 

“So, what now?” Rafe chuckles. “They’re just gonna swap guys?” He mused. “That’s funny.”

You shrugged, a small giggle on your tongue. “I guess,” You told him, pointing across the garden toward the kitchen. "Look,"

Rafe leaned forward, following your gaze to where Cleo and Justin were standing by the kitchen counter having a chat. Even from a distance, the body language was tense—Justin had his arms crossed tightly, and Cleo was speaking calmly but firmly, clearly letting him down.

"You think he's takin’ it well?" Rafe asked, rubbing his chin.

"Doesn’t seem like it," you sighed. "But I don't know Justin very well. Though, I really hope he does.” You told him. “Is it bad that I want Cleo and Pope back together? I think they were meant for each other, they've just had a really rocky road in here."

Rafe hummed in agreement, sitting back as you leaned against him.

You shifted, looking up at him. "Has JJ said anything to you guys about Haja?” You ask, concerned. “I haven't had a chance to talk to him."

Rafe’s expression turned a bit more serious, nodding slowly. "Yeah, he did actually.” He shifted beneath you. “He was pretty beat up about it last night. When we were getting ready for bed, he looked upset, like he could have cried right there.” Rafe explains, shaking his head. “But after the challenge today, he told us that he’s just gonna tell Haja that things aren’t gonna work out between ‘em, says he wants to explore other people."

Rafe shook his head, scratching his chin. "He just felt really disrespected and toyed with, you know? Says he doesn't want to be stuck in the middle of 'whatever weird shit she and Miles have goin’ on'."

"Good for him," you said, nodding in approval. "But who does he even plan on exploring? Because there really aren't many options in here right now. Cleo and Pope are obviously about to get back on track. Rima and Justin are probably gonna start a connection. Kaitlyn really doesn't seem like his type at all, and he obviously would never go for Sofia."

Rafe looked around the garden, lowering his voice. "...If I tell you, you gotta promise me you won't say a word...to anyone."

Your eyes widened with curiosity, sitting up straighter as you craned to look at him. "Okay,” you said. “I promise."

Rafe leaned in closer. "When he was talking to me and Pope earlier, he said he wants to try and explore other people, and he’s hoping a new bombshell comes in. But... he said he’s had an interest in someone in here..."

Rafe hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly dodging the topic.

You groaned, nudging him hard. "Rafe!” You scolded. “Who is it?"

Rafe let out a breath, looking at you. "He wants to try and see if there’s anything there with Sarah."

Your jaw literally dropped. "Sarah?!"

"Yeah," Rafe nodded. "He said ever since they kissed during that workplace challenge thingy, it’s been stuck in the back of his mind. He felt somethin’ after it, but he never felt like he had the right to explore it because he and John B were so close. But now? He feels like John B blew his chance, and Sarah is open to exploring other people now, so he thinks he should take his shot."

You sat there in shock, wrinkling your nose as you processed it. "...I don’t know,” You made a face of uncertainty. “I love them both, but I cannot see JJ and Sarah working out, at all. Like... they look like they could be related!” You laugh. “It’s just really weird to picture. And getting with someone who is that close to John B might not be the best for Sarah right now. But... at the end of the day, they’ve both been through so much shit in here. I just want them both to be happy. So, if it works out, it works out. I'll be happy for them either way."

Before Rafe could reply, footsteps approached the daybed. You both looked up to see Theo standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Hey," Theo said, his eyes darting between the two of you before locking onto Rafe. "Um... can I pull you for a conversation real quick?"

You felt your heart tighten slightly, but to your surprise, Rafe didn't hesitate or resist. There was no aggressiveness, no tension in his shoulders. He just nodded calmly, sliding from behind you and off the daybed.

"Yeah, ‘course man," Rafe said easily.

Before he walked away, he leaned down, planting a soft kiss on your lips. "I'll be right back," he murmured.

You watched them walk across the lawn, heading toward a spot near the edge of the pool. It was private enough, but still out in the open where you could see them. And, if you strained your ears against the quiet afternoon wind, you could catch pieces of their conversation, though you tried your best to pretend like you were just casually looking at your phone.

Theo cleared his throat, sitting down across from Rafe. "Look, I know things have been pretty...tense between us.” He started. “I don't expect us to be the best of friends or anything, but I also think there's no point in us being enemies."

Rafe nodded, leaning back, his expression open. "Agreed."

"I also wanted to apologize," Theo said, looking down before meeting Rafe's eyes. "For movie night, and some of the things I said to Y/N and to you. Honestly, I think I was just in my feelings about the whole situation.” He nods. “And... I'll admit, the second you walked back into the villa from Casa and I saw her face when she saw you were alone, I could just feel it in my heart that she was still with you.” He says honestly. “Whether it was emotionally or physically, I just had this gut feeling that you two weren't done with each other just yet. I think…I just buried that feeling down for those few days, and it reached a boiling point and just spilled over."

Theo took a breath, his voice sincere. "But I need you to know... she was honest with me the entire time. She stayed one hundred percent loyal to you up until they got that video.” He clarifies, retracting his statements from that night. “You have a really good girl on your hands, man. She really likes you, and I can see how much you care about her. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not here to get in the middle of that. Not anymore."

Rafe listened, his expression softening. He let out a breath, rubbing his hands together. "I appreciate that, man. Seriously.” He offers. “To be honest with you, I never planned on coming back into this villa with any animosity toward you. Even when I walked in and saw her standing there next to you... yeah, I was pissed. As hell.” He chuckles deeply. “But I never wanted to have an issue with you over it. Because at the end of the day, especially during that time... if you were going to be the one to actually make her happy, then I wanted to try my best to accept that. Because her happiness was all I ever wanted." He says. “Still is.”

Rafe looked back over at you on the daybed before looking back at Theo. "She made her choice. Whether it was me or you, at the end of the day, I was never gonna hold that against you. I’ve made a lot of enemies in my past over a lot of stupid bullshit, man, and I’m trying to done with shit like that.” He smiles tightly, though it is genuine. “We're cool. We're good."

Theo smirked, looking relieved as he stood up, extending a hand as Rafe stood up too, wrapping him into a quick bro-hug, patting his back.

Right as Rafe broke away from the hug and started walking back toward you, the afternoon silence was shattered by another loud text sound echoing out.

Everyone froze as you grabbed your phone, your heart suddenly dropping into your stomach as you stood on the daybed and read the words on the screen.

"Islanders, please drop whatever you are doing, get dressed into your best evening wear, and gather at the fire pit immediately for a surprise. #NoTimeToSend #ExpectTheUnexpected"

"A surprise?" JJ shouted from where he was swimming in the pool. "What the hell does that mean?”

“Maybe it’s a recoupling?”

“Or a dumping…”

“Or it could be another challenge?"

"We've never gotten a text this vague before," Cleo muttered, her face fallen as everyone looked nervous.

THE atmosphere in the glam room was chaotic, full of speculation. Everyone was silently panicking, applying lipstick with shaking hands, trying to guess what was in store.

When everyone was finally ready, the girls filed down the steps in stunning dresses, the guys already waiting at the bottom. 

Rafe stepped forward as your feet hit the grass, eyes widening as he took in your appearance, grabbing your hand tightly. His grip was firm, as if he was unconsciously afraid to let you go.

Before heading to the fire pit, everyone gathered around the table in the middle of the garden for the usual evening toast. JJ was the one to raise his glass, clearing his throat.

"Alright," JJ said, his voice a mix of humor and genuine emotion. Everyone had this weird feeling about tonight, that much was clear. "I know everyone is really fuckin’ nervous right now.” He admits, light chuckles going around the table. “We don't know what the hell’s ‘bout to happen tonight. There’s been a mountain of drama in this villa over the past few days, but at the end of the day, we’re a family, man. And I'm really glad to be here with every single one of you tonight, despite everything.” He smiles. “Cheers."

"Cheers!" Everyone clinked their glasses together, taking a sip.

But right as you lowered your glass, you spotted a figure walking into the villa and the silhouette of Ariana appeared, all of you watching as she rounded the corner in a jaw-dropping evening gown. 

"Hi Islanders," She said, her voice echoing through the quiet garden as you all greeted her back. "Will everyone please join me at the fire pit?"

Everyone exchanged weary, nervous glances as you all filed into the circular seating of the fire pit, the flames crackling in the center. You sat close to Rafe, his arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, your fingers laced together.

Ariana stood at the front, looking at all of you with her hands clasped.

"Islanders," Ariana began, her voice sending a chill down your spine. "I know you got a text today. And I know it was very vague, and you're probably wondering exactly what is happening tonight.” She started, meeting each of your eyes. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Tonight…one of you will be leaving the villa for good."

A collective murmur of shock broke out, you glanced up at Rafe, eyes wide with worry.

"Over the past twenty-four hours, the public has been voting," Ariana continued. "While Casa Amor was the ultimate test for everyone in this villa, the public believes that one boy failed that test the worst.” She drags out, face falling.

“Boys,” Ariana’s eyes scanned the crowd. "Can all who were present at Casa Amor please come stand next to me?"

Rafe, John B, JJ, Pope, and Miles all slowly stood up from the couch, Rafe giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he and the others walked over to line up next to Ariana. Rafe cast one quick look back at you, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. 

Your heart was beating out of your chest.

"Boys, before I reveal who the public has voted as the ultimate failure of Casa Amor," Ariana said, her voice dripping with suspense, "I want to go down the line and ask each of you... where are your heads at standing up there right now? And looking back, how do you truly believe you did during the test of Casa Amor?"

Ariana eyes scanned the line, stopping directly on Rafe. "Rafe, let’s start with you."

Rafe shifted his weight, his blue eyes flashing over to you for a split second before he looked at Ariana. He swallowed hard, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

"I'm not gonna lie and say it was perfect," Rafe said, his deep voice carrying across the silent fire pit. "I definitely had some ups and downs while I was there. But, I do believe that I stayed down. I believe I moved respectfully, as respectfully as possible given the environment. And look, I know there were some... misunderstandings that happened because of other people," he muttered, throwing a subtle, dark glance toward Sofia, "but I know in my heart that I was on my best behavior. I did right by my girl, and I'm just really hoping that the public sees that."

You let out a tiny breath, your fingers twisting in your lap as you offered him a small, encouraging nod.

Ariana nodded slowly, shifting her gaze to the next boy. "Pope, how are you feeling?"

Pope rubbed the back of his neck, looking serious. "Casa Amor was... it was a fun experience on paper, I guess. But for me personally? I only had my mind on one person the entire time. Because of that, it wasn't even really that fun for me. Every time I looked at another girl, I was just wishing I was back here. But I also believe that I moved with respect—not just for myself, but for the people who were here. I didn't do anything to jeopardize what I want, and I feel good about that."

Cleo bit her lip from the couch, her eyes softening as she watched him speak.

"JJ?" Ariana said, turning toward him. 

The blonde let out a heavy sigh, looking down at his shoes for a moment before he met Ariana's gaze. 

"I obviously have some regrets about how I handled Casa," JJ admitted, his voice rough. "My biggest regret in here is the fact that I wasn't able to sit down and have a real talk with Kiara before she left. I’ll forever regret being part of the reason that she's gone. And... yeah, I do regret moving so fast with Haja. Obviously, everything that happened with her and Miles afterward just came full circle right back around to me, and I believe that everything that went down was just straight-up karma for how I moved."

JJ shook his head, but his jaw set. "But even though it hurts, I’m still grateful for the experience. Because I definitely learned a lesson from it, and I can promise you, I will not be making those same mistakes again."

Ariana held his gaze, offering a small smile for a moment before moving down to John B. "John B,” She called out. “How do you feel about your performance at Casa Amor?"

John B cleared his throat, his eyes darting over to Sarah, who refused to even look in his direction.

"I mean... it's complicated," John B stammered, gripping his hands tightly behind his back. "In some ways, I felt like I did go about Casa the right way... but then in a lot of other ways, I know I went about it the wrong way. I feel like I made some really stupid mistakes, and standing here now, I realize that some of the damage that’s been done between me and Sarah is irreversible. But... I’m just really hoping that I’ll have another chance to show who I really am." He paused, taking a shaky breath. "I do regret my actions at Casa. Or... at the very least, I regret the way they came out in front of everybody."

From the couch, Sarah let out a quiet, unimpressed scoff under her breath, keeping her stare locked firmly on the fire.

Finally, Ariana looked at Miles. "And lastly... Miles?"

Unlike the other four boys, who looked like they were facing a firing squad, Miles had a relaxed smug smirk plastered across his face. He casually shrugged his shoulders, looking unbothered.

"Casa Amor was fun for me," Miles said, his tone casual. "I don’t have any regrets about anything I did there, to be completely real with you. I think that since I’ve been in this villa, I’ve done exactly what we are all supposed to do. You're supposed to follow your heart, you're supposed to make decisions for yourself, and you're supposed to find what’s best for you at the end of the day. That's exactly what I did."

The contrast between Miles's arrogant attitude and the emotional weight of the other guys made the tension at the fire pit spike.

"Thank you for your honesty, boys," Ariana said, her voice dropping into that formal tone. "The public has made their choice. And soon, one of you will be dumped from the island."

You gripped the fabric of your dress, air trapped in your lungs as you waited. You knew the chance of it being Rafe was low, or at least hoped it was.

Ariana let the silence hang before speaking. "The boy who has been voted the ultimate failure of Casa Amor, and as a result, has been dumped from the villa immediately…” She pauses.

“...is Miles."

The fire pit fell into a chorus of soft murmurs as Miles stood there, his hands shoved behind his back. Surprisingly, he took it on the chin, nodding slowly with an unfazed expression on his face, as if he had already expected it.

Ariana looked at him. "Miles, do you have anything you want to say?"

Miles let out a sharp chuckle, shaking his head as he looked at the rest of the boys. "I think I was definitely not the worst person to come out of Casa.” He snaps. “I think a lot of the other guys up here did way worse shit than me. You got JJ over here, who had sex with somebody while he had a whole girl waiting on him back here, leading her on when he wasn't even that into her.” He fires. “And then you got John B, who was leading Sarah on while showering with a whole other girl. So... yeah, I'm definitely confused about the public's vote, but,” He shrugs. “There isn't anything I can do about it now."

Ariana nodded slowly, turning her eyes to the couch. "Girls... do you agree with the public's vote tonight?"

Ariana looked directly at Sarah, letting her speak first.

Sarah started, her voice steady. "I do.” She nodded. “Although there were definitely other guys up there who did things and hurt people deeply... comparing everything from a...less personal standpoint, and not as someone who was directly hurt by one of them…” She shoots a pointed glance at John B. “I think Miles not only failed the test of Casa Amor, but I think he has failed Love Island entirely.” She muses. “He came into this villa manipulating people from day one, and he hasn't made a single true, genuine connection since he’s been here. Casa Amor didn't test his loyalty—it just showed his true colors, which is that he has loyalty to absolutely no one but himself."

All the girls on the couch nodded in agreement, murmuring their support.

"Thank you, Sarah," Ariana said. She turned back to Miles. "Miles,” She began. “As the boy with the most votes, you are now dumped from the island.” She says with a tight smile. “You may pack your bags, and get ready to say your goodbyes."

Miles just nodded, turning around and walking back toward the villa without a single word to anyone.

At that, the boys began to walk away and you girls began to stand.

"But Islanders," Ariana’s voice boomed, stopping everyone from moving. "There is…one more thing before we go tonight."

A collective groan of terror erupted from the couch. 

"Oh my God, what now?" Cleo whispered, letting her head fall.

"On top of tonight being a surprise dumping," Ariana revealed with a slight smile, "there will also be a surprise recoupling. And tonight... it is the boys' choice."

The girls all let out a breath, a wave of relief hitting you. Since it was boys' choice, you knew Rafe was going to choose you, meaning you were not only safe, but you’d also be back with him. Officially. 

You let out a small sigh, leaning back against the cushions.

"Girls, please come stand next to me," Ariana instructed. “Guys, you may have a seat.”

You, Sarah, Cleo, Rima, Sofia, Haja, and Kaitlyn all stood up, forming a line in front of the now seated men.

"One by one, the boys will tell us who they are choosing to couple up with and why." Ariana said, smiling. "Pope, you're up first. Please, tell us who you’re choosing and why."

Pope stepped forward, clearing his throat as he looked down the line of girls.. "I'm choosing to couple up with this girl because... I've done my fair share of exploring in here. I think we both have. But at the end of the day, no matter who I talked to, I always knew deep down that it was always going to be her.” He shrugged shyly. “She's the only one for me in here, and I'm really hoping that we can finally just get it right this time. So, the girl I want to couple up with... is Cleo."

Cleo grinned widely as you all clapped, walking over to wrap him in a tight hug as they sat down together on the couch.

“Congratulations, Cleo and Pope. You may take a seat.” Ariana prompted. “Cleo, what are your thoughts?”

“I'm happy,” she smiles. “I really am. I feel like I haven't been coupled up with Pope in a very long time, and I'm glad that I'm able to let my feelings, my true feelings, roam free, instead of laying dormant.” She laughed as Ariana called for the next boy. 

“Theo, please stand.” He stepped forward, looking down the line. “Please, tell us who you would like to couple up with.” 

"I'm choosing this girl because... she caught my eye the first day I walked into this villa. I feel like our journey together might have been a little delayed because of our different situations, but I am incredibly glad that I'm finally getting the chance to explore a connection with her now. Despite us only having a few chats, as of today, I believe that this girl has a lot of layers. She deserves the world, and I hope things go well between us. So, the girl I'm coupling up with... is Sarah."

Sarah smiled warmly, walking over and taking his hand as they sat down, looking genuinely happy.

“Congratulations, Sarah and Theo.” Ariana congratulated them. “Sarah, how’re you feeling?”

“I'm excited, definitely still a bit guarded because of everything that's happened in here with everyone, not just myself. Theo seems like a really good guy and I'm excited to be exploring someone else and be moving on.” She says calmly before Ariana calls for the next boy.

“Justin?”

Justin stepped forward, looking nervous. "I'm choosing this girl because... I actually met her in the real world before this experience, and I'm happy that I get another chance to be with her here. I'm really hoping that maybe this is our chance at another chance, and hopefully, our way of figuring out the kinks of our relationship in the right way this time around. So…I choose Rima." 

Rima walked over, joining him on the couch with a relieved smile.

“Congrats, you two,” Ariana smiled with her hands clasped. “Rima?”

“I'm happy. You know, me and Justin aren't strangers, so it's kind of a feeling of nostalgia, but at the same time, it does feel like something new. It does feel like another chance at another chance, like Justin said.”

Ariana smiled, telling the couple that “that’s beautiful” before calling for the next boy. “JJ, please stand.”

Then, JJ stepped forward. His expression was significantly less heartfelt, his speech lacking any romantic warmth. "I’m choosing this girl because... honestly, I was trying to explore other connections in here. And although a real romantic connection with this girl is no longer an option for me, and is completely off the table... I don't really have another choice of anyone else to couple up with tonight. But... I'm hoping that maybe we can be friends in here. So, I’m choosing to couple up with Haja."

Haja walked over awkwardly, the vibe between them icy as they sat down without even looking at each other.

“Haja,” Ariana called. “How do you feel about what JJ said?”

“I mean, I get he’s hurt, but I did what you're supposed to do in here. I explored and I never meant to hurt his feelings, but” She shrugged. “It is what it is. But I will say I'm grateful that he still chose me.”

Next was John B. “John B, please stand.” He stepped forward, looking defeated as he looked down the line. 

"...I'm choosing to couple up with this girl because... although I do have a connection that I desperately want to fix in here... that girl isn't open to giving me another chance right now, and I have to respect that for the time being.” He sighs. “But I’m choosing to couple with this girl because, even though we didn't work out romantically, she's a great person, and I want to keep her here so that way she can hopefully find the real connection that she came here for. So, because of that, I choose Kaitlyn."

Kaitlyn gave him a friendly, appreciative smile, walking over to sit with him, Ariana asking for her thoughts.

“I mean, I'm grateful…yeah, definitely grateful. I can't wait to hopefully see the day that I'm in a real romantic coupling,” She laughed. “But, hopefully, I can use this time to help John B do some much needed self-reflection.”

Finally, it was down to Rafe.

And the only girls left standing were you and Sofia. 

“Rafe, please stand and tell us who you would like to couple up with and why.”

Rafe stepped forward, and the moment he did, a proud smile broke across his face. His blue eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring Sofia, who already had her head down, looking defeated.

"I think my choice tonight is a no-brainer," Rafe said as he looked straight at you. "I think every single person here, and everyone watching, knows exactly who I'm choosing. I’ve just been so incredibly grateful for this girl, and for her patience and understanding with me.” He nods, chewing his cheek. “Even when things looked bad and weren't as they seemed... it took a while, but she still gave me the chance to actually sit down and explain myself. I’ll be forever grateful that we were able to jump over the hurdles together. Honestly, I think that with the way that we persevered through all the bullshit in here... it’s gonna be a breeze for us out in the real world. So, the girl I am coupling up with is... Y/N."

You let out a breath, a wide smile breaking across your face as you walked over to him. Rafe wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground, planting a passionate kiss on your lips. “Congratulations,” Ariana threw out as everyone cheered as you both walked over to take your seats on the couch, wrapped up in each other.

That left Sofia standing all by herself in front of the fire pit.

Ariana looked over at her. "Sofia... you are now single and vulnerable." Ariana paused, a sharp look entering her eyes. "But tonight... there is a twist."

Everyone on the couch froze. 

You looked at Rafe, a horrible knot forming in your stomach.

"When we opened the voting to the public," Ariana explained, "the viewers weren't just voting on which boy failed Casa Amor the worst.” She says. “We also prompted the viewers to vote on who they thought would be left single at the end of tonight's re-coupling.” She explains, her face solemn.

“What we didn't tell the viewers, however, is that if they guessed correctly... that single Islander would be given an advantage."

All of you seated started whispering, confused.

"What?"

“What advantage?”

“When did they start doing that?”

“This is some bullshit…”

"Tonight,” Ariana continued. “Fifty-one percent of viewers—just over half, taking the majority—guessed that Sofia would be left single. Because the public guessed correctly, Sofia, you now have a choice.” She led on, turning towards the girl standing alone. “Tonight, you can either choose to accept your fate, pack your bags, and leave the island... or, you can choose to steal one of the coupled-up boys tonight, keep your spot in the villa, and send his current partner home."

The entire fire pit went dead silent and you felt the air physically leave your lungs. Rafe’s grip on your hand tightened so hard it hurt, his entire body going rigid next to you.

"Sofia," Ariana said. "Now’s the time to decide. Has your time in the villa come to an end…or will you decide to swap fates?”

Sofia slowly raised her head. The defeated expression entirely gone, replaced by a heart-crushing smirk.

She looked directly at you, her eyes full of malice.

"...I feel like everyone came into this villa to find real love, and everyone should be able to do that. And even though I've had people left and right telling me to 'leave things in the past' and 'let things go'... I am always going to follow my heart, regardless of what anyone else thinks."

“I told you,” Her eyes narrowing on you, her smirk widening. "I’ll do whatever I have to.” She reminds you, voice low and steady. “I've decided…and I believe that I'm not done in this villa just yet. And so, I would like to swap fates…and the guy I want to couple up with…” She dragged out, mean and smug, her words sharp as if no one knew what she was about to say, the name that was bound to leave her lips.

“...is Rafe."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Rafe hissed, leaning forward until his head hung between his knees, head in his head. Everyone on the couch turned to the two of you, watching Rafe spiral while you sat, staring at nothing, hands clasped in your lap as you chewed the inside of your cheek. 

"Sofia, you have made your choice to swap fates with Y/N…and couple up with Rafe.” She informs. “Please, go sit next to Rafe.” Ariana said calmly but firmly, calling your name, pulling you out of your own thoughts as you slowly lifted your head”... Please, come join me."

Your legs felt like lead as you slowly stood up, the girls reaching out for your hand but you couldn’t even find the strength to reach back as tears blurred your vision as you walked to stand next to Ariana. Rafe was sitting there, his hands clamped over his face, chest heaving as he tried to hold back tears of pure rage and heartbreak. 

Sofia stepped over, sliding to sit right next to him with a triumphant grin. Some of the guys tried to reach over and pat Rafe’s shoulder, telling him that it would ‘be okay’, but he simply scoffed, trying to hold back his own tears, telling them, “no it's not fucking okay”.

Ariana looked at you, her voice full of genuine pity as she called your name. "... How are you feeling right now?"

A tear broke free, running down your cheek as your voice shook violently. "Um…” You struggled for words, still looking as if your mind was ten-thousand miles away from where you stood. “I... I came into this villa not knowing what to expect at all.” You spoke slowly, almost as if your thoughts were forming as you spoke, looking down at the fire the entire time you spoke. “And... I ended up finding one of the greatest connections of my entire life.” Your voice shook as your gaze slowly trailed up to find Rafe’s own burning one. “I think... I think every single person in here has made this journey worth it, from the girls to the guys... and down to Rafe himself." You spoke, voice wavering as you looked at everyone—finding tears building in everyone’s eyes, from JJ to Rima to Cleo to Sarah, even Pope and John B.

You choked back a sob, looking over at him. "I will never, ever forget the memories that I made here. I’ve tried my absolute best to be level-headed and mature in the face of everything that has happened.” You broke, sniffing. “And... yeah, I do wish some people would just leave things in the past and let people grow and move on, but I understand that not everyone is the same."

You turned your eyes to Sofia, your voice hardening through the tears. "I’m not gonna stand here and lie. I don’t wish the best for Sofia, I can’t…because I truly think she’s only here to bring Rafe down and ruin his happiness. But... I wish Rafe the absolute best in anything and everything he does. And um…" Your voice cracked, a heavy sob escaping your throat. "Fuck, I’m sorry— I can’t... I don’t have anything else to say, I’m sorry."

“Don’t cry, baby, it’s okay,” You heard Rima’s voice travel from the couch, shooting her a quick smile.

"Y/N," Ariana said softly, her own eyes shining with sadness as you cursed lowly under your breath, all of your friends head’s dropping as well. "You are now single…vulnerable…and dumped from the villa." You just nodded numbly, biting your bottom lip as the tears came rushing, even as you tilted your head back to the sky, trying to focus on the stars. “It was amazing to meet you,” Ariana stepped forward, pulling you into a small hug before stepping back. “You may now pack your bags and get ready to leave the villa.” She smiles sadly. “As for the rest of you, I will see you soon.”

Ariana exited the villa, and the fire pit crumbled into emotional warfare, you still standing in your spot, putting your head down as you started openly crying. The girls wasted no time, Cleo, Sarah, and Rima, and even Kaitlyn, flew out of their seats, sprinting to you in their heels, throwing their arms around you. They wrapped you into a tight group hug, all of them sobbing into your shoulders.

"This is so fucked" Cleo whispered hoarsely, her own tears soaking your dress. 

"You don't deserve this, babe, I’m so sorry,” Rima sobbed.

"I can’t believe this," Sarah sobbed, holding you tight as you got choked up on your own tears.

There was so much going on at once and, through your own emotions and the mess of your friends' emotions, your mind still went to Rafe, but your body couldn't catch up as the girls escorted you up the stairs, surrounding you like a human shield as they walked you straight inside so you could pack your things.

You couldn't even turn around to see the mess of Rafe being comforted by all of the guys as he tried his best not to cry, failing miserably. 

THE dressing room was the saddest it’s ever been. 

You were standing by your suitcase, tears streaming down your face as you tried to throw your clothes inside, but your hands were shaking too hard.

Cleo was sitting at a vanity, her face buried in her hands, trying to stop crying as she wiped every tear that fell. Sarah was leaning against the mirror, fresh tears ruining her makeup, while Rima was helping you fold your bikinis along with Kaitlyn, her own eyes rimmed red.

"I actually can't believe this bro," Cleo cried out, her voice broken. "You've been here since day one!” She cried. “Even though you came in as a bombshell, you've been here since the start. Seeing you go over something so stupid is actually pissing me off."

"It's okay," you tried to say, your voice cracking as you wiped your face. "Please don't cry. It's gonna be okay, I promise." But even as you said it, a fresh wave of sobs tore through your chest, and you sank down onto the floor next to your suitcase, overwhelmed by the mess of emotions.

MEANWHILE, downstairs, Miles had already packed his bags. The only people who walked out to the front driveway to say goodbye to him being Sofia and Haja. 

Goodbye Confessional: Miles "Honestly, I'm not too bothered about leaving. I think the public just wanted an excuse to get me out of the villa because I actually tell it like it is.” He clapped his hands together, his tone very matter-of-factly. “I'll be fine on the outside. Had a good life before this and I'll have a great one comin’ out."

Confessional: Sofia "Even though mine and Miles's coupling was... you know, means to an end... I’ll always be grateful to him for that. I definitely see him as a real friend."

Confessional : Haja "Me and Miles always have our ups and downs, honestly. I think that’s just how our relationship is gonna be for the rest of our lives.” She laughed. “ I’m sad to see him go, but I know I’ll see him on the outside."

BACK by the firepit, Rafe was losing his mind. He was pacing back and forth across the deck, his face a deep, burning red, chest heaving as he tried with everything inside his soul to hold back his tears. 

He was completely heartbroken, overly devastated, and utterly destroyed.

The guys were surrounding him, trying to pat his back and comfort him, get him to sit down and breathe but he wasn’t listening.

"Bro, it’s gonna be okay," Pope said softly, reaching out. "Just breathe, man."

"Just—stop touching me," Rafe suddenly snapped, moving away from Pope’s touch as he turned his back, burying his face in one of his hands. "You think I wanna hear that shit, right now? That jus’ because you say 'it’s okay' that it’s actually gonna be okay?"

He was inconsolable, face bright red, eyes puffy and swimming with tears. He raised his hand, pinching the skin between his eyes, his shoulders shaking as he let out a choked breath. He had his head down, refusing to let anyone see him break.

Slowly, JJ stepped forward. He didn't say a word. He just walked up behind Rafe, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

To everyone's surprise, Rafe didn't fight it. He turned around, letting out a shaky sigh, burying his face right into JJ's shoulder, letting out a broken sob as he slumped in the blonde’s hold. JJ was the only person Rafe really let comfort him, mostly because over the past few weeks, they had grown incredibly close—almost vicariously through you.

JJ was crying too, giant tears rolling down his cheeks as he held Rafe, patting his back. JJ was devastated about you leaving—you were his rock in this villa, and losing you felt like losing a piece of himself.

UPSTAIRS, you had finally finished throwing the last of your things into your suitcase when the door to the room pushed open…and Rafe walked in.

The moment your eyes met his, the girls quietly looked between you two before stepping out of the room, giving you space. 

Rafe looked wrecked. His blue eyes were bloodshot and swollen, his face flushed red, looking vulnerable in a way he never showed anyone else.

He walked straight over to you, grabbing your hand tightly. 

“Rafe—”

"Come with me," he whispered, his voice shaky and broken. "Please."

He led you out of the makeup room and up the small staircase onto the terrace overlooking the dark ocean. The moment you reached the top and turned to face each other, you both just fell into each other's arms, bawling.

"I hate her," Rafe sobbed openly, burying his face deep into your hair as he held you so tight you could barely breathe. "I hate her so much. I am so fuckin’ sorry for putting you in this situation. I'm so sorry that all my unresolved shit came in here and ruined this for you—"

"Rafe," you cried, pulling back slightly to cup his flushed face, your own tears spilling over. "Rafe, listen to me. You did not put me in any situation. This isn’t your fault, and I don't blame you for anything that she’s done.” You told him firmly, though your voice was still watery. “I can tell that she is still the same bitter person she was back then, even though I didn’t know her... but you aren't. Yes, you made mistakes and they came at the cost of hurting people like her, but you don’t have to let her confine you to them. You’ve made up for it, you’re still making up for it. You've grown so much, Rafe. I didn’t know you then, but I know you now. And even just looking back on the guy you were coming in here, you aren’t the same guy you were on that first night. Okay?” You told him, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Don't let her take that away from you."

Rafe swallowed hard, his eyes glassy as he stared down at you. His large hands were trembling where they rested on your hips, and he let out a broken breath, leaning his head into the warmth of your palms.

"I won't," he choked out, his voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears spilled over his eyelashes. He shook his head, his jaw clenching. "I won't let her take that away from me. I don't give a fuck about her, or what she wants, or any of the history she keeps trying to drag up. But... but it doesn't even matter, baby. It doesn't matter because she already took you away from me. That's what she wanted, and she got it—"

"No, Rafe, look at me," you pressed, your own voice cracking as you desperately used your thumbs to wipe the hot moisture from his cheeks. You needed him to hear you, to really understand that this wasn't over. "This isn’t the end of the world,” You smiled through your own tears. “I promise you it's not. It feels like it right now because we're in this crazy place, but I promise you, it’s not."

"How d’you know that?" Rafe mumbled, his blue eyes searching yours with despair. He reached up, wrapping his fingers tightly around your wrists, holding your hands against his face like he was terrified you would vanish into thin air if he let go. "How can you promise something like that? This is…a bubble. The second you walk out those doors, you're back in the real world, and I'm stuck inside this house. You can't promise me we're gonna survive that."

A soft, bittersweet smile broke through your tears, and you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his.

"I can," you whispered. "Rafe, we knew each other before all of this, and we didn't even really remember it when we first saw each other. But somehow... out of all the people in the world that could’ve been here, out of all the people that are here, and out of all the paths we could have taken, we still found our way right back here."

You squeezed his wrists back, your heart swelling even through the ache in your chest. "Something like that? A connection like that is unbeatable. It’s a once in a lifetime thing. We are a once in a lifetime thing. If the universe could bring us back together, this isn't gonna be the thing that breaks us."

Hearing your words shattered whatever tiny shred of composure Rafe had left. He let out a heavy, shuddering sob, his head dropping forward onto your shoulder. He buried his face deep into the crook of your neck, his arms locking around your waist so tightly it stole the air from your lungs, holding you like you were his lifeline in a storm.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled repeatedly against your wet skin, his voice muffled and entirely ruined by his tears. He was just rambling now, the words tumbling out of him. "I'm so fuckin’ sorry, baby. Just... please don't go."

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck as you both stood there on the dark terrace, holding onto each other and letting the tears fall.

You choked on a sob. "I don't want to go, Rafe...but I have to.” You cried softly. “I'm gonna miss you so much."

He was in shock, mind unable to process the reality of the situation. Without another word, Rafe sat down on the nearest couch, still crying, pulling you down into his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck as you wrapped your arms around his head, both of you just holding onto each other in the dark, crying until your chests ached, unable to accept that your time together in the villa was over.

Confessional: JJ "Y/N... man, she is just... she was one of the only people in here who would actually hold my ass accountable for the stupid mistakes I made, no matter what, but she still stuck by my side through everything.” He sniffs, wiping the tears that were rolling. “We came in together... I’m always gonna have a spot in my heart for her.."

Confessional: Sarah She was sobbing, a damp tissue in her hands. "She helped me through everything in here... literally everything. She was always that shoulder to cry on when I felt like everything was going wrong. I knew that if I had absolutely no one else to go to, I could always go to her. I’m just... I'm so upset she's actually leaving."

Confessional: Cleo "That was my girl, man!” She sniffed, shaking her head. "My actual sister in here. She deserved nothing but the best, and seeing her get ripped away because of something so...” She trails off, angry, before her face softens. “I've never met anyone like her before, and honestly, I don't think I ever will again."

Confessional: Rima "I remember the day I came in as a bombshell, and even though I was just doing my job and being a little bit bitchy... she never once made me feel unwelcome or excluded.” Her voice shakes, a tear escaping. “I admired that about her so much. And just... even watching her grow with Rafe, I was rooting for them so hard. And I am so sad that this is where their story ends.” She cries, looking down. “Honestly... I’m surprised Rafe isn’t walking out behind her tonight. But... I'm not throwing that out the window yet.” She says openly. “I just think he hasn't fully processed it all. Rafe hasn't made a single other connection in this villa besides her... so honestly? I think by tomorrow morning, Rafe is gonna be packing his bags and trying to leave… because he has no reason to stay here anymore."

Confessional: Rafe "I just…” He wheezed, looking exhausted. “I blame myself. I feel like I just dragged her into a situation full of my own bullshit, and I tried my best to keep her away from it.” His voice shook, eyes growing glassy again. "I kept trying to reassure her that nothing would ever come between us... and I just fuckin’ hate myself right now because I wasn't in a position to even do anything to stop it."

The loud sound of a car horn honked from the front driveway of the villa, signaling that your time was officially up.

Rafe cursed, slowly standing up, his hand tightly holding yours as he walked you back down to grab your bags and helped you carry your heavy suitcases down the stairs where everyone was waiting. The entire villa was waiting by the front door, even Sofia lingering near the back, though she looked significantly less upset than the others.

The heavy, awful silence was suffocating. You could hear the distant idle of the car engine waiting outside, a brutal reminder that your minutes were ticking down.

Suddenly, Cleo blinked through her fresh tears.

"Wait," Cleo choked out, wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand as she looked at Sarah and Rima. "Oh my God, no. We cannot let you leave this house without taking photos."

Before you could even protest, Cleo, Sarah, and Rima scrambled forward, grabbing your arms and dragging you away from your suitcases and towards the photobooth next to the Speakeasy as the others followed. 

They all piled into the small, curtained booth, crowding around you so tightly you could barely move. The camera started counting down, and the three of them threw their arms around your neck, squeezing you into a messy group hug.

The flash blinked, capturing the tear-stained smiles on your faces.

Right before the next countdown started, Sarah poked her head out of the curtain, scanning the crowd near the door. "Kaitlyn! Get in!"

Kaitlyn’s eyes widened in surprise, but a grateful, soft smile broke through her nervous expression. Out of all the new girls who had walked in from Casa, Kaitlyn had been by far the most welcoming, sweet, and respectful. She hurried over, squeezing herself into the back of the booth and throwing up a peace sign as the shutter clicked, cementing one last memory with you.

Once the girls filed out, sniffing and wiping their eyes, they practically shoved the guys toward the booth. "Go!" Cleo yelled softly.

JJ, John B, Rafe and Pope didn't hesitate. They crowded into the frame around you. JJ threw a protective arm over your shoulder, pulling your head against his chest as he gave a sad, goofy half-smile. Pope squeezed in on your other side, while John B stood slightly in the back.

The booth flashed twice, capturing a perfect, bittersweet goodbye with the boys who had your back since day one.

"Alright, clear out before the man kills us," JJ muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he patted your shoulder. "Let them have their turn."

The boys stepped out, drawing the curtain closed behind them, leaving just you and Rafe alone in the small, enclosed space.

The glowing screen in front of you reset, flashing a notification—New Session. Four Photos Remaining.

You looked up at Rafe, eyes still bloodshot, face still flushed from crying. The sight of him looking so broken made your heart ache. You wanted to give him something happy to look back on, something that wasn't just pure misery.

"Hey," you whispered, your voice watery as you reached up to weakly nudge his arm. "Let's do a couple of silly ones first.” Your voice was soft as you tapped the screen. “Don't look so serious."

Rafe let out a breathless, watery chuckle, nodding as he sniffled. "Okay. Whatever you want, angel."

Three... Two... One...

For the first photo, you both threw your hands up, sticking your tongues out and tossing up peace signs at the lens. But the fresh, wet tears still drying on both of your cheeks made the silly pose look beautifully tragic.

Three... Two... One... 

For the second one, Rafe tried to match your energy to make you smile. He puffed his cheeks out completely and crossed his eyes, making a ridiculous, goofy face right as you used your fingers to pull down the corners of your mouth into a dramatic frown. A tiny, genuine burst of laughter escaped your lips right as the camera clicked, a fleeting moment of normalcy.

But as the timer started ticking down for the third photo, the silly energy evaporated, the reality crashing down as you realized that once this was done…you’d be gone.

Three... Two... One... 

Rafe pulled you in, his massive arms wrapping around your waist and pulling your back against his chest. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his eyes closed tight, while you covered his forearms with your hands. You looked straight into the camera lens with a soft, incredibly sad, and longing smile, the intimacy of how he held you speaking volumes through the screen.

Then, the final countdown began. 

Three... Two...

Before the final number could hit, Rafe spun you around in his arms, facing you fully. His large hand came up, his fingers burying deep into the hair at the base of your neck while his palm cradled your cheek, thumb gently catching a stray tear that was falling down your nose.

Your hand flew straight to his chest, flattening over his shirt right above his heart, feeling it thudding beneath your palm.

One...

He leaned down and captured your lips in a heart shattering kiss. It was desperate, heavy, and raw—both of your faces wet with tears, mouths pressing together with all the unsaid promises and love you had left for each other but never got the chance to say. The bright white flash illuminated the booth, freezing your heartbreak and devotion in time forever.

He pulled back slowly, both of you opening your sad eyes as he took your hand and let you out of the booth where everyone was waiting. 

Rafe wanted you to keep the photos of you and him but you told him to keep them. So he wouldn’t forget your face.

Rafe and the others walked you to the entrance, his eyes fixed on yours. He didn't care about the cameras, or the other Islanders watching. He lunged forward, capturing your lips in one last, hard, desperate, passionate kiss, hands gripping you, holding you against him as if he was trying to imprint the feeling of you into his memory forever.

"I'll see you soon, angel," he whispered against your lips, voice trembling.

"Soon," you cried back softly, nodding.

You turned around, grabbing the handle of your suitcase. The remaining Islanders filed out, lining up to see you off.

You stopped right in front of the ‘Love Me Not’ sign, turning back to look at the crowd of faces that had become your family over the past month. Your voice was shaking so hard you could barely form the words.

"I... I just want to say that I love every single one of you," you said out loud, tears streaming down your face. "I love you all for exactly who you are... no matter what mistakes we've made in here, or what stupid arguments we've gotten into. I am just so incredibly grateful. And... I truly can't wait to see you all on the outside."

They all waved back, the girls blowing kisses, everyone crying as you turned and walked away.

Goodbye Confessional : You "I... I definitely didn't see my night ending this way. I really thought I had so much more time left in here... I was really hoping I’d make it all the way to the final with him. But... I guess sometimes, the forces of evil are just greater than the forces of good.” You joked, though it was sad. “...She got exactly what she wanted... and all I can do now is..." You stopped, fresh emotion overtaking you. You covered your face with your hands, leaning forward as you started breaking down, unable to even finish the sentence. You quickly wiped your eyes, looking into the camera one last time with a broken, watery smile. "I just... I love everyone in there. I really do." You choked out, making a heart at the camera. “Don’t forget about me.”

next chapter>

BEFORE YOU SEND THE MILITIA AFTER ME, PLEASE KNOW THAT THIS IS NOT THE END (also peep the TADC reference— oh not the time? okay, gotcha...)

His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.

He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.

That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.

The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.

She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.

"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."

He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"

She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."

The words hung in the air.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."

Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. He was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.

The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.

He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.

But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.

Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.

Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.

He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.

And then… he met you.

The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.

Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.

On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.

"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.

"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.

She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.

"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."

"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"

"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."

He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.

The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.

"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."

Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.

"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.

"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."

"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."

"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."

Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.

"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."

"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.

Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.  

"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.

Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.

"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."

Ellis groaned.

"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.

"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."

Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."

As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"

Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them

"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."

He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.

He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.

Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"

Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.

 "…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.

You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.

Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"

Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.

"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."

People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.

What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.

Ellis smirked.

The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.

"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."

Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.

"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"

A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.

"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."

The room laughed again.

"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."

Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.

"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."

The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.

"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"

You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.  

"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."

A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.

"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"

"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.

The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.

You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.

"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.

MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+

AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000

The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.

"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.

"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.

You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."

Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.

The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.

"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."

"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."

You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.

"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."

You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"

Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.

"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.

You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.

"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."

"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?

He decided to change topics.

"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."

"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."

"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.

"Incredible, thanks for asking."

He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.

"Who was the nurse?"

"Dana Evans."

At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.

"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."

The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.

"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"

"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.

"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.

"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."

"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."

Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.

"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."

"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."

"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."

Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.

"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:

Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management

"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."

He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.

"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."

"It's on the house."

He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."

"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.

You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.

You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.

You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.

And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.

You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."

He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.

"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."

When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.

Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.

Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.

"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.

You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."

He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Sure."

"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.

Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.

"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."

You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."

"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.

You leaned back in your chair.

"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.

He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love caramel frappuccinos—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—pickleball, and your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."

You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.

"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.

"I-I was hoping that—um—I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.

"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Good. That's... really good."

You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.

"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."

You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"

"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"

You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right? 

She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."

"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."

You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."

"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."

"I guess," you muttered.  

The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.

The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.

"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."

"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."

"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."

You snorted.

"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."

"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.

You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it

"Come home," she would say.

The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.

You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.

Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself

"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.

"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."

You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.

She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."

Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.

You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."

Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."

You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.

"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."

Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"

"You just what?" you pressed.

Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."

You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."

He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"

"Yeah," you shrugged.  "I guess I do."

He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.

"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."

Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.

In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with men until they hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.

"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."

You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.

He heard you.

Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.

Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.

"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.

Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.

"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."

Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.

"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."

Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.

"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.

Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.

The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.

The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.

"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.

"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."

Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.

High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.

But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.

Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.

Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.

Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.

There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.

His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.

Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.

You had changed.

The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.

You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.

"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."

"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"

"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.

So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finished talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.

"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."

He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."

Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?

Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.

"Bottom's up."

You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."

"What happened with your ex?"

You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."

He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."

The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."

"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I got a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."

You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.

"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.

"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. "A real man doesn't ask his girl to dim her light so he can feel big—he feels proud as hell watching her shine."

"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they’re drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.

Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."

You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.

"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."

"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."

You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."

Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.

"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."

He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."

"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.

"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."

He blinked slowly.

"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."

You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.

"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"

"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."

You snickered.

"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."

Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.  

You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was both softer and more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.

Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.

"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.

"Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.

You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.

"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.

His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"

After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.

But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.

He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.

"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.

He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."

Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.

"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”

"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.

"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."

You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."

Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.

The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.

"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.

Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.

Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.

"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.

Remmy barked in agreement.

Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.

Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.

You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.

"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.

Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.

After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up in his car, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.

It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.

You hadn't seen Jack yesterday—he was currently off for 3 days. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.

"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.

"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."

"I wasn't talking about the food."

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."

"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."

Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.

"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.

"I'm being honest about my intentions."

"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"

A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.

So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?

"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."

Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"

You were adorable.

"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."

"You weren't boring the other day when you—"

"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."

"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"

"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."

"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"

You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."

"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."

He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.

"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.

"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."

Girlfriend?

You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.

"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."

He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.

"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.

This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)

He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.

After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let dinner settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.

Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.

I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.

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.