imagine

Horny!Bucky who wanted you the second he saw you. The beast inside him clawed to get out and take you. 

Horny!Bucky who did everything the “right” way. He courted you, treated you well, and waited a reasonable amount of time before he slept with you the first time.

Horny!Bucky who got hard just from kissing you. It was like all the blood in his body went south because of your lips.

Horny!Bucky who spent a generous amount of time worshipping your breasts, alternating between pinching and sucking on your nipples. How could he not when you’re so responsive.

Horny!Bucky who wondered if you’d like him fuck your tits one day. He’s always wanted to try that with the right person.

Horny!Bucky who went down on you because real men appreciate the delicacy of eating pussy. Real men also put their partner’s pleasure above their own.

Horny!Bucky who humped the bed in time with his tongue because you tasted so good. Your sounds made you taste even sweeter.

Horny!Bucky who came in his pants when you came on his tongue, both of you moaning. And he didn’t stop tongue-fucking you until you begged for him to fuck you.

Horny!Bucky who felt a surge of pride when he fisted himself and your eyes went wide. He’d fit, even if he had to make it fit.

Horny!Bucky who was thankful you didn’t want him to use a condom because he didn’t want anything between you two. If by any chance he did knock you up, he’d be happy to have a family with you. 

Horny!Bucky didn’t realize he had a breeding kink until that moment. Or maybe it was just you. 

Horny!Bucky who had to grit his teeth when he pushed inside you, willing himself not to come from how wet and tight you were. He did anyway.

Horny!Bucky who swore he died when he painted your walls since his soul left his body. He’d happily spend the rest of his life deep inside you if he could manage it.

Horny!Bucky who then felt embarrassed for finishing so quickly until you shushed him with a kiss. Your perfect pussy gripped his throbbing cock like a vice until he thrust again. 

Horny!Bucky who held your chin gently so he could see your pretty eyes. He wanted to see how much you loved being fucked by him

Horny!Bucky who thinks you’re perfect, but even more so when you’re taking his cock. Parted mouth and tears in your eyes, you’re ruined and beautiful

Horny!Bucky who suddenly felt possessive and vowed that no one else would ever have you like this again. You were his and only his.

Horny!Bucky who almost blurted out that he loved you when you came with his name tumbling from your lips. He does love you, but the middle of sex may not be the best time to say so.

Horny!Bucky who kissed you when he came again and knew he was addicted. You had a hold on him that would never be released.

Horny!Bucky who wanted to make love to and fuck you. He wanted to watch you shatter so he could put you back together.

Horny!Bucky who fucked you into the early hours of the morning and only stopped because you needed rest. He cleaned you off and praised you. 

Horny!Bucky who held you while he slept and couldn’t sleep himself because he wanted you again. But it would be wrong to wake you after he wore you out.

Horny!Bucky who cancelled his plans for the weekend so he could fuck you on every surface of the apartment. He made sure you stayed fed and hydrated. 

Horny!Bucky who tries to calculate how long he can be away from you on a mission because he craves you that much. Does absence make the heart grow fonder or will it make him snap?

Horny!Bucky who leaves marks all over you. You joke that he’s marking his territory, and you leave little marks on him in return. 

Horny!Bucky who can’t have you in the kitchen without putting you on the counter. You’re basically a pre-meal before the food.

Horny!Bucky who humps you in his sleep and holds your breast like a security blanket. Cockwarming happens often, too, right before you fall asleep.

Horny!Bucky who thinks your mouth is just as perfect as your pussy. He knows your ass will be the same. 

Horny!Bucky who has a list of things he wants to try with you. He has the order listed alphabetically. 

Horny!Bucky who eventually has photos, videos, and audio so he can jerk off when he’s alone. He doesn’t need to fantasize about anyone else since he has you.

Horny!Bucky who constantly touches or kisses you because he needs the connection. It makes him feel needy, but you don’t seem to mind.

Horny!Bucky who loves when you tease him and grind on his lap or shove your chest in his face. You look so innocent when you do it, but you both know better. 

Horny!Bucky who loves when you initiate sex. He’s yours just as much as you’re his. 

Horny!Bucky who follows you around like a puppy because he adores you and doesn’t care if the gang teases him. They’d do the same if they had you, which they never will. 

Horny!Bucky who isn’t afraid to beg for it. He’ll get on his knees for you any day of the week.

Horny!Bucky who will have you anytime, any place. He doesn’t need a reason. 

Horny!Bucky who doesn’t stop even if someone walks in. He’ll shield you for your dignity, but he isn’t stopping unless you say so.

Horny!Bucky who is all about consent. You each have safewords and make sure to communicate.

Horny!Bucky who worries he’s too much and doesn’t want to push you away. But you’re just as crazy for him as he is for you.

Horny!Bucky who loves you and can’t get enough of you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️

Though I wonder when he said he loved you. 😏

Bucky was a tease—an insufferable one who knew exactly how to make you unravel. And as much as you swore you hated it, you craved it just the same.

He was always extra affectionate in the mornings, clinging to you like he couldn’t bear to let go. His arms would wrap around you, his lips brushing lazy kisses against your neck, a quiet warmth that felt almost boyish—like a teddy bear in disguise.

But this morning was different. This morning, he was restless. Aching.

Your back was pressed flush against his chest, his breath hot against the curve of your shoulder, his whole body molded to yours like he wanted to disappear into you. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric between you, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching the restless tension in his body. And with the weight of his arousal straining against his pajama bottoms, there was no mistaking how close he was to giving in.

Bucky chose to test the waters, to see just how far he could go before you stirred awake. With a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, his erection pressed firmly against the curve of your ass. A hiss caught in his throat, swallowed down as he buried his nose in the hollow of your neck, desperate to muffle the sound. Pleasure shot through him like lightning, leaving his body trembling with restraint.

So he did it again.

And again.

Each careful thrust sent a pulse of relief and frustration through him—the thin barrier of his pajama bottoms and the soft give of your body providing pressure, but not the release he ached for. His breath grew uneven, teeth gritting as he fought to stay quiet. You shifted faintly, a soft, unconscious sound slipping from your lips, your body reacting instinctively to the rhythm of his movements even in sleep.

Bucky’s hand slipped up to his mouth. He wet his fingers with spit, then slid them down your body, tentative and aching, until they brushed against the waistband of your pajama shorts. With infinite care, he eased inside, past fabric and heat, until his fingers found you.

You were already wet. Slick. Your cunt fluttered against his teasing touch, welcoming him before you were even fully awake. The sensation made his hips rut forward again, his control unraveling as he pushed two fingers inside you at the same time.

You gasped, sharp and startled, your eyes flying open as your body arched into his hand. “Bucky?” you breathed, voice thick with sleep and pleasure.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and reverent. His fingers worked inside you in a steady rhythm, each thrust matched with the growing hunger in his tone. You moaned, searching blindly for something to hold onto, your body tightening around him.

“I need you,” he groaned, hips pressing against you desperately. “I need to be inside you. Please—can I?”

Your head fell back against his shoulder, your breathless nod giving him everything. “Yes,” you whispered, the words breaking apart into a whimper. “Fuck me if you need to.”

A broken sound left him, half a groan, half a prayer. He pulled his fingers from your soaked heat, only for you to catch his wrist and bring his hand to your lips. Your mouth closed around his slick fingers, your tongue swirling against the taste of yourself. The sight of you sucking him clean made his cock twitch painfully, his entire body tightening with need.

“God, doll…” he rasped, his thighs trembling as your moan vibrated against his fingers. The clench of your legs, the heat of your body, the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation—it all coiled inside him like fire, threatening to consume him whole.

Bucky shifted behind you, tugging at his waistband with a desperation he could barely hide. His cock, flushed and aching, pressed hot against your skin as he freed himself. Every nerve in his body screamed for release, but all he wanted—needed—was to be buried inside you, to stay there and lose himself in your warmth.

He pulled your shorts and panties down. He nudged at your entrance with the tip, groaning low when your slick heat welcomed him. Slowly, carefully, Bucky sank into you, inch by inch, until he was fully inside, the heat of you wrapped tight around him. A guttural groan tore from his chest, muffled against your shoulder as his arms cinched around you. He held you there, as if any movement might shatter the fragile control he was clinging to.

“Fuck, doll,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I could stay like this forever. Just—just let me be here.”

He tried to stay still, tried to let the warmth of you soothe the ache that had been gnawing at him. But the way your cunt fluttered around him made it impossible. His cock twitched inside you, his hips giving a tiny, helpless thrust that sent a sharp groan ripping from his throat.

“Bucky…” you gasped, arching back against him, your sleepy haze melting into need.

His lips pressed to your neck, breath hot, words breaking apart between ragged moans. “I can’t—God, I need you too bad.”

Restraint snapped. He began to move, dragging almost all the way out before pushing back in with aching slowness, like he needed to feel every inch of you. Each thrust made you wetter, your body pulling him deeper, rewarding every stroke with a clench that made him groan. His rhythm wavered—sometimes slow and savoring, sometimes sharper, more desperate, as if torn between worshipping you and losing himself completely.

The sound of your slick, the bed creaking, his groans mixing with your breathless cries—it all built around you like a storm. Your fingers fisted in the sheets, body straining for more. “Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking.

“Can’t stop,” he rasped, hips stuttering as his hand slipped between your thighs to circle your clit. “You’re too tight—too perfect.”

Your climax hit like fire, your body spasming around him, a sharp cry ripping from your lips. The sudden squeeze dragged a guttural groan from Bucky as he slammed deep, pulsing hot and thick inside you. His arms locked tighter, pinning you to him as if he could fuse himself to your body. He trembled as he spilled into you, groaning your name like it was the only word he knew.

Even when the shudders faded, he didn’t move. He stayed buried to the hilt, cock still twitching inside your fluttering heat, his chest pressed flush to your back as he kissed your damp skin.

“Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice a low, raw vow. “Not pulling out. Not tonight. I need to stay inside you.”

You sighed, boneless and sated, your hand sliding down to cover his where it rested on your hip. “Then don’t,” you murmured, the words barely more than a breath. “Stay as long as you want.”

He hummed, pressing his face into your hair, his hips giving one last lazy roll to savor the way you held him so perfectly. “Forever sounds about right,” he murmured, possessive and tender all at once.

The firefighter came in bloody, pissed off, and trying very hard to pretend he was not in pain. It was just after two in the morning, which meant the emergency department had settled into that strange night-shift rhythm where everything felt too bright and too quiet until it suddenly wasn’t.

Crus was at the nurses’ station attempting to fix a jammed printer. Shen was half a hallway down, talking to a drunk college student about the emotional consequences of a fractured wrist. Ellis was already pulling gloves on when the ambulance bay doors opened. And Jack was beside you at the foot of trauma two, expression calm in the way that meant he had already started building a plan before the stretcher crossed the threshold.

“Thirty-four-year-old male, firefighter, injured on scene,” the paramedic said as the stretcher rolled in. “Partial ceiling collapse during overhaul. Took debris to the shoulder and left flank. No loss of consciousness. Vitals stable en route.”

The firefighter on the stretcher opened one eye. “You make it sound dramatic.”

“You got hit by part of a ceiling,” another firefighter said, walking in beside the stretcher with the run sheet in one hand. “It was dramatic.”

The patient frowned. “I walked out.”

His teammate looked down at him. “You were carried out.”

“I assisted,” the patient said.

“You complained,” the other firefighter corrected.

You bit back a smile as you stepped toward the bed. “Sounds like he’s alert.”

The teammate’s mouth curved. “Unfortunately.”

Jack’s mouth did not move, but you felt the almost-smile in him anyway. Jack braced one hand on the rail. “On three. One, two, three.”

The team transferred the firefighter to the trauma bed. He hissed through his teeth, jaw tightening hard as you helped guide his injured side down.

“I’m fine,” the firefighter said.

Jack looked at him over the end of the bed. “That usually means you’re not.”

You almost smiled again.

The firefighter’s teammate noticed. His attention shifted to you, quick and interested, and his mouth curved like he had decided the night had improved.

You held out your hand for the run sheet. “And you are?”

“Mason Brooks,” he said, passing it over. “Station Four.”

You glanced down at the paperwork. “Patient’s name?”

“Ryan Hale,” Mason said. “Lieutenant. Stubborn. Hero complex. Bad at following directions unless there’s active fire involved.”

Hale turned his head on the pillow. “I can still hear you.”

“Good,” Mason said. “Maybe this time it’ll sink in.”

You scanned the sheet. “Any meds? Allergies?”

Mason shifted closer to the end of the bed. “No known allergies. No daily meds. Unless coffee counts.”

“At this hour, it does,” you said.

Mason’s grin widened. “See, I knew I liked you.”

Jack’s hand paused for half a second on the bed rail. Half a second. Nothing more.

You kept your attention on the patient. “Lieutenant Hale,” you said, leaning into his line of sight. “I’m going to cut through your shirt so we can look at your shoulder and ribs, okay?”

Hale grimaced. “Whatever you need.”

Mason leaned a little closer, eyes still on you. “That offer extend to the rest of us, or just him?”

Crus, who had just stepped into the room, looked up immediately. Shen appeared in the doorway at exactly the wrong time, chart in hand. Ellis stopped opening a pack of gauze. You did not look at any of them. You also did not look at Jack. You could feel him perfectly well without that.

“Patient first,” you said, sliding the trauma shears through the fabric of Hale’s shirt. “Flirting never.”

Mason laughed, low and pleased, like you had given him exactly the answer he wanted. His eyebrows lifted. “Never?”

Jack reached over and adjusted the monitor lead near Hale’s shoulder. He did not need to. You knew that because you had already placed it. Still, his forearm came briefly into your space, a clean line of muscle and restraint under fluorescent light.

“Brooks,” Jack said.

The room went still in the way a room could only go still while everyone inside it kept working. Mason glanced at him.

Jack did not look away from the patient. “She needs room.”

Mason lifted both hands, grin still there. “I’m out of the way.”

Jack finally looked at him. “More.”

Crus looked down at the supply cart with sudden, religious interest. Shen pressed his lips together. Ellis coughed once into her shoulder. Mason took one step back. But he did not stop smiling. That was probably what did it. Because he was not being creepy. He was not interfering. He was not saying anything you could not handle. He was just obvious. Obvious enough that everyone in the room knew exactly what he was doing. Obvious enough that Jack had to stand beside you and pretend he did not care.

You palpated carefully along Hale’s shoulder. “Left shoulder tenderness. Possible clavicle involvement.”

Jack moved with you. Again. He stepped in at Hale’s other side, close enough that the two of you fell into the old rhythm before you could think about it. You checked the shoulder. Jack checked the ribs. You reached for gauze, and he passed it to you before you asked. Your fingers brushed. Barely. It was nothing. It was everything. 

Jack kept his eyes on Hale. “Any trouble breathing?”

Hale shook his head. “No.”

Jack’s hand stilled near the bruising along Hale’s side. “Pain when you take a deep breath?”

“Some,” Hale said.

Jack nodded once. “Chest X-ray. Shoulder films. CBC, CMP. Pain control.”

You reached for the tablet beside the bed. “Already paging X-ray.”

Jack’s gaze cut to you. For one second, there he was. Your Jack. Not Dr. Abbot. Not the attending pretending he had not kissed you against your apartment door less than eight hours ago. Your Jack. The one who knew how you took your coffee on the night shift. The one who texted you to make sure you got inside when you drove home after dark. 

Then he blinked, and the wall came back up. “Good,” Jack said.

Not thank you. Good. Professional enough to pass. Intimate enough to make your stomach turn over.

Mason glanced between you again, and even though he could not possibly know, you hated that he sensed something. 

“So,” Mason said, looking at you while Jack checked the bruising along Hale’s flank, “you always make trauma look this easy?”

You reached for tape. Jack got it first. Again. He handed it to you without looking away from Hale. You stared at the roll in his hand for half a second before taking it.

“Only when men in uniform behave,” you said.

Crus made a strangled noise. Shen turned halfway toward the door like he needed a moment.

Ellis muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under her breath.

Despite yourself, your mouth curved. It was small. Barely there. The kind of smile you would have swallowed immediately if you had realized anyone was watching.

Mason saw it anyway. His own smile turned delighted.

“There it is,” Mason said.

You looked at him. “There what?”

Mason leaned lightly against the wall, still at the distance Jack had ordered him to keep. “That smile. I was starting to think you were going to make me work for it all night.”

Jack set the chart down. Quietly. Too quietly. Crus froze. Shen looked at Ellis. Ellis looked at you.

You kept your voice light, but final. “Mason.”

Mason held your gaze for one second, then nodded like he knew he had found the line.

“Too much?” he asked.

You gave him a pointed look. “Yes.”

Mason lifted one hand in surrender. “Got it.”

And he did. He stepped back, posture still easy, but his mouth finally closed, which you appreciated more than you wanted to admit. Jack moved to Hale’s other side, all precise hands and unreadable expression.

Jack glanced at Mason. “Anything else clinically relevant from the scene?”

Mason looked at him. This time, he did not smile. “No, sir,” Mason said.

Jack nodded once. “Good. Then we’ll take it from here.”

Mason looked toward Hale. “I’ll check back when they decide you’re not dying.”

Hale closed his eyes. “Bring coffee.”

Mason huffed. “You don’t deserve coffee.”

You smiled despite yourself. Mason saw it. Jack saw Mason see it. You knew because Jack stepped closer to the bed, blocking Mason’s line of sight like it was an accident. It was not an accident. Your breath caught. Mason’s gaze flicked to Jack’s back. Then to you. Then he nodded once, like something had finally clicked enough to make him curious.

“Nice to meet you,” Mason said.

You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”

Jack did not move until Mason left the room. Then the trauma bay exhaled. Crus was the first one brave enough to breathe like a person.

He looked at the supply cart. “I’m going to take these somewhere else.”

Jack did not look at him. “Good.”

Crus picked up a pack of gauze. “Great.”

Shen backed toward the doorway with the chart still in his hand. “I have a wrist fracture.”

Ellis gave him a look. “You personally?”

Shen ignored her and left. Ellis glanced between you and Jack, then dropped the unopened gauze onto the counter. “I’ll check on X-ray,” Ellis said.

Jack’s eyes stayed on Hale. “Thank you.”

Ellis left, too. Which left you with Jack, the patient, the beeping monitor, and the awful knowledge that Jack was standing close enough to touch you and still refusing to do it. Hale opened one eye.

“I’m on pain meds,” he said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice any of that.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. 

You pressed your lips together. “Notice any of what?” you asked.

Hale looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at you.

“Exactly,” Hale said.

The corner of Jack’s mouth almost moved. Almost. Then the wall came back up.

“Rest,” Jack said.

Hale shut his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

The trauma bay emptied out in pieces after that. Hale went to imaging. Mason left with the rest of Station Four. Crus disappeared the second Jack gave him another look, though you knew he would be back the moment he thought it was safe to breathe near you again. Shen pretended to have somewhere to be. Ellis actually did. Which left you at the counter outside trauma two, finishing the chart with one hip pressed against the cabinet and the leftover adrenaline of the call still humming beneath your skin.

Jack stood a few feet away, reviewing Hale’s orders on the computer. He had not said much since Mason left. That was not unusual for Jack during a shift. It was unusual for Jack with you. You were still trying to decide whether you should say something when another night shift nurse, Drew, slid up beside you with a fresh roll of tape in one hand and a grin already working its way across his face.

“So,” Drew said.

You did not look up from the chart. “No.”

Drew laughed. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to,” you said.

Drew leaned his shoulder against the cabinet. “I was about to say Station Four was looking very heroic tonight.”

You paused. Across the counter, Jack’s typing stopped. Only for a second. Then it resumed. You felt your stomach tighten. Drew did not notice. Of course, he did not notice. He lowered his voice in the exact way people did when they thought they were being subtle and absolutely were not.

“Brooks was flirting hard,” Drew said.

You sighed. “He was doing a handoff.”

“Please.” Drew rolled his eyes. “He was doing a handoff, making prolonged eye contact, and trying to get your number through trauma paperwork.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. Tiny. Controlled. You saw it anyway.

“Drew,” you warned.

Drew smiled wider. “What? He was cute.”

“I’m not dating a firefighter,” you said.

Drew frowned. “Okay, but we love a man in uniform.”

Jack went still. Not enough for anyone else to call it that. Not enough to be obvious. But the air around him changed again. You hated that your first instinct was to look at him. You hated more that you could not. Because looking at Jack right now would say too much. Instead, you kept your eyes on the chart and forced your voice to stay light.

“We?” you asked.

Drew pointed the roll of tape at you. “As a community.”

You gave him a look.

Drew shrugged. “A broad and beautiful community of people with eyes.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Almost. Jack closed the chart on his screen. A little too carefully. You heard the click of the mouse. You felt it somewhere behind your ribs.

“I’m good,” you said.

Drew made a face. “You’re still doing that no-dating thing?”

You swallowed. The no-dating thing. Right. The harmless lie you had told people months ago when you and Jack had started becoming something neither of you had wanted to expose to hospital fluorescent lighting.

No dating. Too busy. Not worth the complication. 

A clean little excuse that had felt easy at the time.

Now, with Jack standing five feet away while another nurse encouraged you to go for a firefighter who had made him spend an entire trauma case pretending not to know you, it felt cruel.

“I’m good,” you repeated, softer this time.

Drew studied you for a second, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if Brooks comes back asking about you, I’m telling him you’re single and mysterious.”

“Drew,” you said.

He lifted both hands. “What?”

You pointed at him. “Do not do that.”

Drew grinned. “Fine. Single and terrifyingly unavailable.”

Jack looked up then. You felt it. His gaze on you. Not long. Not enough. Just a brief, controlled flick of his eyes that landed like a hand around your wrist.

Drew finally seemed to register the temperature of the room. His gaze shifted from you to Jack, then back again.

“Oh,” Drew said.

Your heart kicked once. Jack’s expression did not change.

“What?” you asked.

Drew blinked. “Nothing.”

“Drew,” you warned. 

“Nothing,” he repeated, suddenly fascinated by the roll of tape in his hand. “I’m going to restock three.”

He left too quickly. You stood there with your pen in your hand, your chart unfinished, and the awful knowledge that Jack was still looking at you. For one second, neither of you moved. Then Jack lowered his gaze back to the computer.

“Patient in four needs discharge papers,” Jack said.

Professional. Careful. A clean line drawn in the middle of the hallway.

You nodded, even though he was not looking at you anymore. “Okay.”

Jack clicked into another chart. You watched the muscle in his jaw move once. Then nothing. No comment about Drew. No sharp little confession. No hint that he cared whether Mason thought you were single, mysterious, available, unavailable, or anything else. Just Jack going quiet in the exact way that meant he was locking something down before it could get loose.

That was worse, somehow.

Because you knew him well enough to hear everything he refused to say. I know you are not going to go for it. I know you do not want him. I know this is not your fault. I still hated every second of it.

For the next twenty minutes, Jack stayed close. Not close enough for anyone to call it anything. Close enough that you noticed. He took the chart from your hand before Shen could reach for it. He stepped in beside you when Hale came back from imaging. He passed you gauze before you asked, tape before you reached, a fresh pair of gloves when yours tore at the wrist. Every touch almost happened. His knuckles almost brushed yours. His shoulder almost grazed your back. His hand almost settled at your waist when he moved behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the supply cart. Almost. Almost. Almost.

And each time, Jack pulled back before contact could become evidence. It was maddening. It was careful. It was so painfully him that you wanted to scream.

When Mason came back to check on Hale, Jack was already at your side. 

Mason stopped near the doorway, gaze flicking from Hale to you. “How’s he doing?”

“He’ll live,” you said.

Hale groaned from the bed. “Barely.”

Jack looked at the tablet in his hand. “No fracture. No pneumothorax. Observation for pain control and repeat exam.”

Mason nodded, but his eyes came back to you. “Good. I’d hate to think I left him in the wrong hands.”

You opened your mouth. Jack answered before you could. “She has it handled.”

The room went quiet. Mason’s brows lifted slightly. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you. His eyes stayed on Mason, calm and unreadable.

Mason’s mouth curved, slower this time. “I can see that.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. You set the tablet down before either of them could say another word.

“Lieutenant Hale needs rest,” you said, voice light but firm. “And I need both of you to stop having whatever conversation you think you’re having over his bed.”

Hale opened one eye. “Thank you.”

Mason laughed once, lifting both hands. “Fair.”

Jack finally looked at you. There was heat there. Frustration. Something too sharp to be professional and too controlled to be anything else. You held his gaze for half a second too long. Then Jack looked away first.

“Brooks,” Jack said, voice even. “You can check back in after he’s had some rest.”

Mason nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

He looked at you one last time. “Good seeing you again,” Mason said.

You gave him a polite nod. “You too.”

Jack moved before Mason fully cleared the doorway. It was subtle. A step to the side. A shift of his body. Nothing anyone could call possessive. But it put him directly between you and Mason’s line of sight. Your breath caught. Mason saw it. You knew he saw it because his expression changed just enough. Curiosity. Recognition. Not understanding, exactly. But close. Then Mason left.

Hale looked between you and Jack from the bed.

“I’m still on pain meds,” Hale said carefully, “so I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice that either.”

Jack’s eyes closed again. You pressed your lips together. From the doorway, Crus made the mistake of appearing with Hale’s updated paperwork. He looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Hale.

“I can come back,” Crus said.

Jack turned his head. “Crus.”

Crus nodded. “Coming back.”

He disappeared immediately. You exhaled through your nose and grabbed the tablet from the counter.

“I’m going to restock,” you said.

Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”

“Yes,” you said, not looking at him. “Now.”

You made it halfway down the hall before Jack caught up. He did not call your name. He did not say anything at all. He just reached past you, opened the supply closet door, and said, low enough that only you could hear, “In.”

Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Please.”

That was worse. That was much worse. You stepped inside. The second the door clicked shut, Jack’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to turn you back toward him before you could take another breath.

“Jack—”

He kissed you. 

The word disappeared against his mouth. For one stunned second, you froze, caught between the metal shelf at your back and the heat of him in front of you. Then your body caught up faster than your brain did. Your hands found his scrub top, fingers curling into the fabric as Jack stepped closer and kissed you like he had been holding himself back all night. Because he had. You knew it in the way his mouth moved over yours.

Controlled, but only barely. Careful, but not calm.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you in once before he seemed to remember where you were and stopped himself from dragging you fully against him. When he broke the kiss, his breath was uneven. You stared up at him. Jack’s eyes were dark.

Your lips parted. “Oh.”

His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“You’re jealous,” you said.

Jack looked toward the closed door like it had personally offended him. “I’m not doing this here.”

“You pulled me into a supply closet and kissed me,” you replied.

Jack exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”

You lifted your brows. “That wasn’t talking.”

Jack’s eyes cut back to yours. There he was. Irritated. Wound tight. Too handsome for your peace of mind.

“You’ve been acting strange all night,” you said.

Jack dropped his hand from your waist, but he did not step back. “I’ve been working.”

Your eyes narrowed, “You’ve been keeping me within arm’s reach.”

Jack did not answer. That silence landed harder than a confession.

You softened your voice. “Jack.”

His gaze stayed on yours, stubborn and hot and miserable.

“Is this because of Mason?” you asked.

Jack laughed once, short and humorless. “Mason,” he repeated, like the name tasted bad.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack looked away, but this time there was something grumpy and sharp tucked into the movement.

“Drew had plenty to say about him,” Jack said.

The memory came back immediately. Station Four was looking very heroic tonight. He was cute. Okay, but we love a man in uniform.

Your mouth curved before you could stop it.

Jack saw it. His eyes narrowed. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing,” Jack replied. 

You tilted your head. “You’re mad about what Drew said.”

Jack replied instantly. “I’m not mad about what Drew said.”

You gave him a look.

Jack’s mouth tightened. “He said you should go for it.”

You sighed softly. “He was teasing.” 

“He said everyone loves a man in uniform,” Jack replied, short, slightly clipped. 

You stepped closer, letting your hands smooth slowly up his chest.

“And you think I was looking at Mason in uniform?” you asked.

“I think,” Jack said, each word too controlled, “Brooks knew exactly what he looked like walking into that room.”

You hummed. “Did he?”

Jack's tone sharpened into a warning, “Baby.”

There it was. The first slip. The first crack in the professional distance he had forced between you all night. 

Your stomach flipped, but you did not let him off the hook. “He’s not the man I want to see in uniform.”

Jack went still. Not tense. Not cold. Still. Like the words had gone straight through him.

“No?” Jack asked.

You shook your head. “No.”

The supply closet felt smaller suddenly. Too quiet. Too warm.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Careful.”

You continued despite Jack’s warning. “You are.” 

His mouth parted slightly. You let your gaze move over him, slow enough to be cruel.

“And you know exactly what you look like in your SWAT gear.”

Jack’s hand braced on the shelf beside your head. He was not touching you. Not yet. But his body crowded yours, all heat and restraint, and your pulse jumped like it had been waiting for permission.

“I pulled you in here because I was jealous,” Jack said, voice rough. “And now you’re talking about SWAT gear.” 

“No,” you said, fingers curling in the front of his scrub top. “I’m telling you, Mason could never.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hands.

You tugged him closer by a fraction. “He could never make me feel like you do.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.

“He could never kiss me like you do,” you said.

Jack kissed you again. Harder this time. The shelf pressed into your back as his mouth found yours, and you made a soft, startled sound that disappeared into him. Jack swallowed it like it belonged to him. His hand returned to your waist, fingers tightening once, and the possessive edge of it made your knees go weak. He kissed you like a man trying to prove a point he had no business proving at work. 

Then he pulled back just enough to breathe. You should have stopped. You did not. You caught his wrist before he could move his hand away.

Jack’s eyes sharpened. “Baby.”

You held his gaze and guided his hand back to your waist. “He could never touch me like you do.”

Jack’s fingers flexed against you. You moved his hand lower, slow enough that he could stop you if he wanted to. He did not. His palm settled over your ass, firm and hot through your scrubs, and his jaw went tight enough to make your stomach flip.

Your voice dropped. “Never.”

Jack’s breath left him roughly. His hand tightened once before he forced it still.

“You need to stop,” Jack said.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his scrub pants and pulled him closer. Not much. Just enough. Jack’s hips pressed into yours, and the sound he made was low, wrecked, barely controlled.

You looked up at him. “He could never fuck me like you do.”

Jack snapped.

His mouth was on yours before you could take another breath. This kiss was not careful. Not at first. It was hot and rough and immediate, his hand tightening on your ass as he pinned you back against the shelf with the solid heat of his body. Your fingers twisted in his waistband, pulling him closer while his mouth opened over yours, swallowing the small sound that slipped out of you. For one dizzy second, there was no hospital. No night shift. No Mason. No Drew. No secret. Just Jack’s mouth, Jack’s hands, Jack’s body pressed hard against yours as if he needed you to feel exactly how much he had been holding back.

Your hand slid up his chest. Jack’s hips pushed into yours again, and your breath broke against his mouth.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He kissed you once more, deep and hungry, and then stopped like it hurt. His forehead dropped to yours. Both of you were breathing too hard. His hand stayed on you for one more second. Then his fingers loosened.

“Not here,” Jack said.

Your eyes opened slowly. “Jack.”

His voice was rough, almost unsteady. “Not because I’m jealous.”

Your fingers were still hooked in his waistband. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint pulled tight through every line of his body. He lifted his head enough to look at you.

“Not at work,” Jack said. “Not where anyone can walk in and make you pay for it.”

Your chest squeezed, even through the heat still crawling under your skin. “You think I’d regret it?” you asked.

Jack’s expression softened for half a second, but his voice stayed wrecked. “I think I care about you too much to find out in a supply closet.”

You stared at him. “That is so annoying.”

His mouth twitched, though his eyes were still dark. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” You let go of his waistband slowly, even though it cost you. “Responsible. Principled. Deeply inconvenient.”

Jack’s hand slid from your ass back to your waist. Just once. Firm. Careful. Then he let go. He leaned close again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Finish the shift,” Jack said.

Your eyes fluttered. “And then?”

Jack stepped back, putting space between you like it physically hurt. His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your mouth before coming back to your eyes. “Then you come home with me.”

Your pulse jumped. You tried to smile. “And?”

Jack reached for the supply closet door, but he looked back before opening it. “And then you can say all of that again.”

You stepped out of the supply closet first. That had been Jack’s idea. He gave you thirty seconds, like that would somehow fix your mouth, your breathing, your pulse, or the fact that your whole body still felt marked by his hands. You made it three steps before Crus appeared at the end of the hall. He looked at you. You looked at him. Crus’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he looked at the supply closet door behind you.

You lifted a finger. “Don’t.”

Crus nodded immediately. “Wasn’t going to.”

Your eyes narrowed, “You were thinking.”

“I can stop,” Crus said.

You nodded once, “Do that.” 

Crus pointed vaguely toward the nurses’ station. “I’m going to go over there.”

You nodded. “Great idea.”

Crus took two steps backward before turning around completely. You waited until he disappeared, then pressed the heel of your hand beneath your collarbone like that would keep your heart where it belonged. Thirty seconds later, Jack came out. You did not turn around. You did not need to. You felt him behind you the same way you had felt him all night. Close. Controlled. Ruining your life with restraint. Jack passed you without touching you, but his voice dipped low enough that only you could hear. “Breathe.”

Your eyes closed for half a second. “Don’t start.”

Jack paused beside you, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “I’m not starting anything.”

You looked up at him. “You absolutely started something.”

His mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the hall. “Finish the shift.”

You exhaled shakily. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

Jack’s gaze cut to yours. For one second, the supply closet was there again. His mouth on yours. His hand at your waist. His voice against your ear. Then Jack looked away first.

“I didn’t say easy,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. He walked away before you could answer. You stood there for one more second, furious with him for being principled and even more furious with yourself for finding it attractive.

 You lasted eleven minutes. That was generous, considering the state Jack had left you in. Eleven whole minutes of pretending you could chart, restock, answer Drew’s question about room six, and not think about Jack’s mouth on yours in the supply closet. Eleven minutes of watching him move through the department like he had not just pinned you to a shelf and then ruined your life by being responsible about it. He was at the nurses’ station when you looked up again, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee, the other scrolling through something on his phone. His shoulders were relaxed. His face was calm. He looked controlled.

That annoyed you. It annoyed you enough that you reached into your scrub pocket for your phone. The photo was not new. You had taken it two nights ago in Jack’s bedroom, sitting on the floor in front of his mirror while he was in the shower. Your face was hidden behind your phone, one knee bent, your other leg folded beneath you. Lace hugged your hips, one strap sitting soft against your shoulder, the whole thing intimate and quiet and unmistakably meant for him.

It did not show everything.

It did not have to.

Jack knew what that set looked like in person. Jack knew what it looked like on his bedroom floor. You stared at the photo for half a second. Then you looked across the department. Jack lifted his coffee to his mouth. You selected the photo. Underneath it, you typed: For the record, Mason never got one of these.

You pressed send. Across the station, Jack’s phone lit up. He glanced down. His thumb moved over the screen. For one second, nothing happened. Then his coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. Your stomach flipped. Jack lowered the cup slowly. Very slowly. His jaw tightened.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Jack: Fuck. You’re beautiful.

Your breath caught. For half a second, all the smugness drained out of you. Then another message appeared.

Jack: And you know exactly what you’re doing.

Your mouth curved. You typed back. You: Good.

Across the station, Jack looked up. His eyes found yours immediately. Dark. Focused. Not even close to calm. Your phone buzzed again. Jack: Careful.

You slipped your phone back into your pocket and picked up the chart in front of you. Jack kept looking at you. You did not look back. That was the point.

For the rest of the shift, you behaved. Mostly. You answered call lights. You updated Hale’s chart. You helped Drew turn over room three. You gave Ellis the lab results she had been waiting for and listened to Shen complain about discharge instructions with the appropriate amount of sympathy. And every so often, you made Jack’s life worse. Not loudly. Never obviously. You were smarter than that. You brushed past him in the narrow hallway with just enough space between you for plausible deniability and not nearly enough for mercy. Jack’s hand tightened around the chart he was holding. You did not smile until you were past him.

Five minutes later, you reached around him at the counter for a roll of tape you did not actually need. Jack went still when your chest nearly touched his arm.

You kept your voice sweet. “Excuse me.”

His eyes cut to yours. “There are three rolls on the other side.”

You looked down at the tape in your hand. “I like this one.”

Jack’s mouth tightened. Drew passed behind you with a stack of blankets, looked between you and Jack, and immediately changed direction.

“Nope,” Drew said.

You turned toward him. “What?”

Drew kept walking. “I have no questions.”

Jack leaned closer under the cover of reaching for a pen. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear. “You’re being a brat.”

Your pulse jumped. You looked up at him, all innocence. “Am I?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Yes.”

The word landed low in your stomach. You swallowed. Jack noticed. For one second, the corner of his mouth almost moved. Then he straightened, professional mask sliding back into place like he had not just knocked the air out of you with one word.

“Room four needs vitals,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, doctor.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth. “Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled because you had no survival instinct left. “Trying.”

You were not trying. You both knew it.

By six, the department had thinned into the gray, half-awake quiet that came right before day shift started filling the halls with fresh voices and clean coffee. Hale had been admitted for observation. Mason had not come back. Drew had given you exactly one suspicious look and then wisely chosen to become fascinated by a supply cabinet. Shen had avoided the trauma hallway entirely. Ellis handed you a stack of discharge papers without comment, then looked at your face for half a second too long.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

Ellis lifted one shoulder. “Nothing.”

You exhaled. “That sounded like something.”

“It was internal,” Ellis replied. 

You nodded. “Keep it that way.”

Ellis nodded in return. “Absolutely.”

From the attending station, Jack signed off on a chart and handed it to Crus. Crus took it carefully, like it might explode.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Crus shook his head. “Nothing.” Jack stared at him. Crus swallowed. “Lots of nothing this morning.”

You pressed your lips together and turned away before you could laugh. Jack’s gaze found you anyway. It landed on the side of your face, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. You looked down at the chart in your hand and tried to remember how to read. When your shift finally ended, you made it to the staff room before Jack did. 

A little after seven, you changed out of your scrub top with fingers that were not as steady as you wanted them to be. You shoved your things into your bag, checked your phone, then checked it again, even though nothing had changed. Jack had not texted. He did not need to. You both knew where you were going. Still, when you stepped into the hallway and found him waiting near the exit, your breath caught. He had changed into a dark jacket over his T-shirt, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding his keys. He looked tired. He looked composed. He looked like the man who had stopped himself in a supply closet and expected you to survive that information.

Jack’s eyes moved over you once. “You ready?”

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Are you?”

His jaw shifted. You watched him fight a smile and lose by half an inch. “Car’s this way,” Jack said.

You followed him into the parking garage without another word. The walk to his truck felt longer than it should have. Neither of you touched. Neither of you spoke. Your hands kept brushing close enough that you could feel the almost of it, and by the time Jack unlocked the truck, you were so aware of him it felt embarrassing.

He opened the passenger door. You looked up at him. “Still being responsible?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Trying.”

You quirked a brow, “How’s that going?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Poorly,” he said.

You slid into the seat before you could do something stupid in the parking garage, too. Jack closed the door with more care than necessary. The drive to his place was quiet. Not awkward. Just charged. The kind of quiet that had weight. The kind that pressed between your ribs and reminded you of everything waiting on the other side of his front door.

Jack kept one hand on the wheel. The other rested near the gear shift. Halfway there, you reached over and touched his wrist. Jack’s fingers flexed once, but he did not look away from the road.

You traced your thumb over the inside of his wrist. “You okay?”

His throat moved. “No,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened. He glanced at you then, quick and honest in the dark cab of the truck. “But I will be.”

You nodded and left your hand where it was. Jack turned his wrist beneath your touch and threaded his fingers through yours. It was the first real contact since the closet. His thumb dragged once over your knuckles. Slow. Controlled. The way he did everything when he was trying not to lose his mind. You looked down at your joined hands and felt your pulse jump. He was touching you now. He was still holding back.

Jack pulled into the small driveway behind his townhouse and cut the engine. For one second, neither of you moved. Your hand was still in his. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself you were there.

You looked over at him. “Jack.”

His eyes stayed forward. “I know.”

You waited. Jack exhaled through his nose, then turned his head enough to look at you. The porch light cut across his face, catching the tired set of his eyes, the rough edge of his restraint, the stubborn line of his mouth. He looked like he had survived the shift. Barely.

“You coming inside?” he asked.

Your heart kicked. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then he opened his door. You watched him get out, watched him come around the front of the truck, watched him open your door like the silence between you was not doing half the work for him. He held out his hand. You took it. Jack helped you down, then let go immediately.

You frowned. “Really?”

He shut the passenger door. “Inside.”

The word landed low in your stomach. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and followed him toward the back door. He did not touch you while he unlocked it. He did not touch you when he stepped aside to let you in first. He did not touch you when the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked into place. That was how you knew you were in trouble. You stepped into the familiar quiet of his townhouse, and something in your chest softened before you could stop it. His boots were lined up neatly by the door. Your shoes from two nights ago were tucked beside them. The mug you always stole was upside down in the drying rack. The blanket you liked was folded over the back of the couch, neater than you had ever left it.

The sweatshirt you kept stealing was draped over the stair railing. Evidence. Everywhere. Tiny, domestic evidence that you belonged here. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the door. You watched his hands. Slow. Controlled. Infuriating. Then he turned back to you.

“Bag down,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

His eyes held yours. “You heard me.”

You stared at him for a second. Then, because apparently you had learned nothing from the supply closet, you smiled. “Is this the part where you get bossy?”

Jack stepped closer, not rushing, not touching, just taking up space until the air between you felt thinner. “This is the part where you listen.”

Your stomach flipped. “Because I sent you a picture?”

Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “Because you sent me that picture at work.”

“You liked it.”

His eyes darkened. “I loved it.”

The honesty in his voice nearly ruined your smugness. Nearly.

You tilted your chin up. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

Jack’s mouth curved, but it was not soft. Not yet.

“The problem,” he said, “is that you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop gently beside your feet. “There,” you said. “I listened.”

Jack glanced at the bag. Then back at you. “Good.”

The single word moved through you like a hand. You swallowed.

His expression shifted by half a degree, the corner of his mouth barely moving.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

Your pulse jumped. “What?”

Jack stepped closer. “You were very brave at work,” he said.

You held his stare. “Was I?”

His hand came to the wall beside your head, not touching you, not yet. “Sending pictures. Brushing past me. Reaching for things you didn’t need.”

Your back met the door. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You had a lot to say for someone who still had a shift to finish.”

Your breath came shallow. “You told me to finish it.”

“I did,” Jack replied.

You inhaled. “So I did.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “You made it difficult.”

You smiled, slow and sweet. “Good.”

His hand finally came to your waist. Firm. Warm. Possessive enough to make your knees feel unreliable. Jack leaned in, his mouth near your ear.

“That’s the last time you say that without thinking first,” he said.

Your eyes fluttered shut. For one second, the brat in you went quiet. 

Then you opened your eyes and turned your face toward his. “Or what?”

Jack went still. The room changed. His hand tightened at your waist once, not enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he had heard every bit of challenge in your voice. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. But there was something else there, too. Something tired. Something honest. Something that made your chest ache even while your body was still humming from the way he had you against the door.

“Or,” Jack said, voice low, “you’re going to make me forget what I actually need to say to you.”

Your smile faded. “Oh.”

His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah,” he said.

You softened under his hand. “Jack.”

He looked at you for a long second. Then the confession started, quiet and rough and bigger than the jealousy. “I hated it,” he said.

Your chest went still. You searched his face. “Mason?”

Jack shook his head once. “No.”

You waited. His jaw worked like the words were fighting him on the way out. 

“I hated standing there like I didn’t know you,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. He looked away, but only for a second. When his eyes came back to yours, there was no professional distance left in them.

“I hated hearing him talk to you like you were available,” Jack said. “I hated Drew saying you should go for it and knowing I couldn’t say a damn thing.”

You lifted your hand to his chest. “Jack.”

“I know why we’re careful,” he said.

His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold anymore. Never cold. “I know why it matters. I know what people can be like, and I know your career matters more than me needing to prove a point in a trauma bay.”

You stepped closer. “It’s not more than you.” Jack’s expression shifted. You held his gaze. “My career matters. So do you.”

He swallowed once. “I know you didn’t want him,” Jack said.

“I didn’t,” you agreed. 

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “That was never the problem.”

You took another careful breath. “Then what was?”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said it. “Careful felt a hell of a lot like pretending tonight.”

Your breath caught. 

His eyes stayed on yours, tired and dark and finally honest. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

The room went quiet. The kind that settled around the two of you and made every other sound disappear. You stared at him. Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. For the first time all night, he looked uncertain. That did something worse to you than the jealousy had. Worse than the supply closet. Worse than his hand on your waist, his mouth at your ear, his voice telling you to finish the shift.

You slid your hand up his chest. “You’re in love with me?” you asked.

His eyes searched your face. “Yes.”

The word was simple. No defense. No sarcasm. No place to hide. Your heart folded in on itself.

You touched his jaw. “Good.”

Jack’s brows drew together. “Good?”

You nodded, your thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble along his cheek. “Because I’m in love with you too.”

Jack’s breath left him slowly. Your chest ached with it. “With me?” he asked.

You gave him a look, even though your eyes were starting to sting. “Jack.”

His mouth curved faintly, but the vulnerability in his eyes stayed. “I had to ask.”

You shook your head. “You did not.”

“I did,” Jack replied. 

You shook your head again and stepped closer until your body nearly touched his. “You are a ridiculous man.”

Jack’s hand finally settled more firmly at your waist. Like he had needed to hear it first. Like he had been waiting for permission to believe you. You covered his hand with yours and pressed it harder against you. His eyes darkened.

“There,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “You have been a problem all night.”

Your mouth curved. “I have?” He gave you a flat look. You widened your eyes. “Was it the photo?”

Jack’s hand flexed at your waist. “Among other things.”

“I took that for you,” you said. 

Jack nodded once. “I know.”

You slid your hands down his chest, watching the restraint settle back into his body for a very different reason now. “No one else gets that,” you said. 

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

His thumb moved once against your waist. You let your voice soften into something sweet enough to be dangerous.

“No one else gets me in your room,” you said. “No one else gets your shirt on my floor. No one else gets those pictures.”

Jack’s breathing changed.

You lifted your chin. “And no one else gets to touch me the way you do.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. There he was. The same heat from the supply closet. The same jealousy. The same need. But now there was no hospital around it. No door someone could open. No chart waiting. No secret making him stand five feet away. Just Jack’s townhouse. Jack’s hand on your waist. Jack looking at you like he had finally stopped pretending.

“You said something like that earlier,” he said.

Your stomach dipped. “I said a lot earlier.”

His mouth curved, slow and rough at the edges. “You did.”

You held his gaze. “Which part?”

Jack’s other hand came to your hip. “The part where you said he could never.”

Your pulse jumped. You let your hands slide lower, fingers catching lightly at the waistband of his jeans this time.

“He couldn’t,” you said.

Jack stepped into you. Your back met the door again. The sound was soft. The shift in him was not. He crowded you slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, every chance to push back, every chance to choose something else. You chose him. You hooked your fingers more firmly into his waistband and pulled him closer. Jack’s breath caught.

You looked up at him. “He could never make me feel like you do.”

His hand slid from your waist to the door beside your head. 

You smiled, because apparently you had not learned a single thing. “He could never kiss me like you do.”

Jack leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. His voice was low. “You’re still being a brat.”

Your stomach flipped. You held his stare. “Maybe you’re still jealous.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “Yes, baby,” he said. “I’m jealous.”

Your breath caught. His mouth brushed yours, barely a kiss. “But I’m also in love with you,” Jack said. “So if you want to keep being a brat about it, you’d better be very sure.”

Your fingers tightened in his waistband. You smiled against his mouth. “I’m sure.”

Jack kissed you then. Not like the supply closet. Not like a man trying to steal something before the rest of the world noticed. This was slower. Deeper. Worse, somehow, because there was nowhere for either of you to go now. No alarms. No monitors. No hallway footsteps. No coworker who might round the corner and force Jack to become Dr. Abbot again. There was just his townhouse. The locked door at your back. His hand at your waist. His mouth moving over yours like he finally had permission to take his time. You made a small sound into the kiss and felt his fingers tighten.

Jack pulled back just enough to breathe. “Say it again.”

Your eyes opened. He was close enough that his nose brushed yours, close enough that you could see every careful piece of him coming apart.

You swallowed. “I’m sure.”

Jack’s gaze darkened. “Not that.”

Your chest went soft. Oh. You slid your hand up the side of his neck. “I’m in love with you.”

His breath left him. For one second, he did nothing but look at you. Then Jack kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other pressed at your waist and pulled you fully against him. You went willingly. Of course you did. You had been going willingly all night, even when you were being impossible about it. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and Jack made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled. You did it again, just to hear it.

He broke the kiss with his lips still brushing yours. “Careful.”

You smiled against his mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep not listening,” Jack replied. 

You tugged at his shirt. “Maybe you should do something about it.”

Jack went still. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to feel the air shift.

Then his hand covered yours, stilling your fingers against his chest.

“You are really committed to testing me tonight,” he said.

You opened your mouth, but Jack kissed whatever answer you had been about to give right out of you. Your back hit the door again, softer this time, his body crowding you in. He did not trap you. Not really. The space was there if you wanted it. You did not want it. You wanted him closer. You slid both hands beneath his jacket and shoved it off his shoulders. Jack let you get one sleeve down before he helped, shrugging out of it and dropping it somewhere near your abandoned bag. Your fingers went right back to his shirt. Jack caught your wrists.

You huffed against his mouth. “Jack.”

His grip stayed firm. “Slow down.”

“I waited all shift,” you replied. 

Jack exhaled. “You teased me all shift.”

You lifted your chin. “You survived.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. Your pulse jumped. “That mouth,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “You like my mouth.”

His gaze dropped to it. “I love your mouth.”

The words went straight through you. Before you could recover, Jack’s hand slid to the hem of your top. His eyes lifted to yours. You nodded. Only then did he pull it up. You raised your arms, and Jack drew the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without looking away from you. His gaze moved over your bare shoulders, your chest, the rise and fall of your breathing. Not rushed. Not careless. Like he was taking inventory of every inch he had been denied all night.

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

“I know,” he said.

His hand came back to your waist, his palm warm against your skin. His thumb brushed the line where your bra met your ribs, slow enough to make your stomach tighten. You reached for his shirt again. This time, he let you. Your fingers dragged the fabric up his stomach, over his chest, and Jack ducked his head enough for you to pull it off. You dropped it beside your scrub top and forgot about it immediately. Because Jack was there. Warm skin. Bare chest. The muscles in his stomach shifting as he breathed. The dark look in his eyes when he realized you were staring. Your mouth went dry.

Jack’s hand slid up your side. “Still thinking about Mason?”

You almost laughed. It came out breathless instead. “No.”

His brow lifted. “No?”

You set both hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I told you. He could never.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. You felt it under your fingers, that tiny fracture in his control.

“He could never what?” he asked.

You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted to hear it. You also knew you had spent the entire shift making him wait. 

So you gave it to him. “He could never make me feel like this.”

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. “Good girl,” he said.

Your knees nearly gave out. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss turned messy for the first time. Not uncontrolled. Jack was never uncontrolled. But rougher. Hungrier. His hand slid to your back, unclipping your bra with a practiced motion that made your entire body go hot.

You broke the kiss to look at him. “That was fast.”

His mouth brushed the corner of yours. “I’m a doctor.”

You laughed once, breathless and ruined. “That is not a medical skill.”

Jack slid the strap down your shoulder. “It is today.”

Your laugh caught when the bra slipped down your arms. Jack’s gaze followed. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Not in some obvious, theatrical way. But enough that your teasing vanished. 

His thumb brushed beneath your breast, barely touching. “Fuck.” Your breath shook. Jack looked back up at you. “Beautiful.”

Your chest tightened at the softness in his voice. You reached for him again, but Jack caught your wrist and pressed your hand back to the door beside your head.

“Not yet,” he said.

You stared at him. “Not yet?”

His mouth curved faintly. “You heard me.”

You swallowed. Jack leaned in, his lips brushing your jaw, then the sensitive place beneath your ear. His hand moved slowly down your body, over your ribs, your waist, your hip, stopping at the waistband of your scrub pants.

“You were very brave at work,” he said against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered. “Was I?”

“Sending that picture,” Jack said. “Brushing past me. Reaching around me for tape you didn’t need.”

You gripped the doorframe with your free hand. “I liked that tape.”

Jack’s teeth grazed gently beneath your ear. Your breath caught. 

“You liked making me watch you pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose,” he said.

You turned your face toward his. “Maybe.”

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. Your hips shifted toward him before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s mouth curved against your jaw. “There she is.”

You hated how much you loved when he said that. You hated more that he knew.

Jack drew back enough to look at you. “Say my name.”

Your lips parted. “Jack.”

His eyes darkened. “Again.”

You swallowed. “Jack.”

He kissed you once, deep and slow, then hooked his fingers in your waistband and started to pull. You lifted your hips from the door just enough to help him. Jack lowered your pants inch by inch, taking your underwear with them, his eyes on yours until the fabric slipped down your thighs. You stepped out of them. He stayed standing. Still half dressed. Still in control. Still watching you like he had all the time in the world. You were bare in front of him, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Jack followed your gaze. His mouth twitched. 

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s cold.”

Jack’s hand slid to your bare hip. “Baby, you are shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.”

Your face warmed. “You’re very smug right now.”

“I’m very patient right now,” Jack corrected. 

You gave him a look. “Are you?”

Jack’s eyes moved over you once, slow and devastating. “No,” he said. “But I’m trying to make a point.”

Your stomach dipped. “What point?”

He stepped closer, his jeans brushing your bare thigh. “That you are going to remember exactly who you came home with.”

Your breath left you. Jack’s hand came to the back of your neck, tipping your face up.

“Who did you come home with?” he asked.

You stared at him. “You.”

His thumb brushed the side of your throat. “Say my name.”

“Jack.”

His mouth ghosted over yours. “Good girl.”

You surged up to kiss him, but Jack pulled back before you could catch his mouth. You made a frustrated sound. He smiled then. Just barely. Mean enough to make your pulse trip.

“Upstairs,” Jack said.

Your body went still. “What?”

His hand slipped from your neck to your jaw, holding you there gently. “Upstairs,” he repeated.

You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Like this?”

Jack’s gaze dropped over you. Then came back to your face. “Yes.”

Your breath caught. You glanced toward the stairs, then at his jeans, still very much on, still entirely unfair. “You’re dressed.”

“I am,” Jack replied.

You glared. “That seems uneven.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “You had your fun at work.”

You blinked at him. “So this is revenge?”

His expression softened for half a second, just enough to remind you that underneath all of this, he loved you. Then his thumb brushed your lower lip. “No,” Jack said. “This is me taking my time.”

Your stomach flipped. You turned toward the stairs, trying very hard to pretend your legs felt steady. They did not. Jack stayed close behind you as you started up, close enough that you could feel the heat of him without him touching you.

You looked back over your shoulder halfway up. “You coming?”

His eyes dragged over you, slow enough to make you regret the question. “Keep walking,” Jack said.

You faced forward immediately. Behind you, Jack made a low sound that might have been amusement. You gripped the railing and kept going. By the time you reached his bedroom, your skin felt too tight, every nerve lit with the awareness of him behind you. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway and the weak morning light edging around the curtains. You had been in this room before. You knew the dresser. The bed. The chair in the corner where Jack folded his clothes too neatly. The mirror where you had taken the picture that had started all of this. But with Jack behind you and your clothes scattered downstairs, it felt different. It felt like a consequence. Jack stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. You turned toward him. He looked at you for one long second. Then his gaze flicked to the bed. “Sit,” Jack said.

You sat. Jack did not move right away. He stood near the closed bedroom door, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, hair slightly mussed from your hands, and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting all night to get alone. Your knees pressed together on instinct.

His gaze dropped briefly, then came back to your face. “Don’t hide from me now,” he said.

Your breath caught. You eased your knees apart. Not much. Enough.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Good girl,” he said.

The praise went straight through you. You gripped the edge of the mattress. “Jack.”

He stepped closer. “What?”

You looked up at him, bare and aching and already tired of him being so controlled. “Come here.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That sounded like an order.”

You lifted your chin. “Maybe it was.”

His eyes darkened. For a second, you thought he might make you take it back. Instead, Jack crossed the room slowly, each step measured, until he was standing between your knees. Close. Still too dressed. Still too smug. You reached for his waistband. Jack caught your wrist. Your pulse jumped.

His grip was gentle, but it stopped you completely. “No,” he said.

You blinked up at him. “No?”

Jack’s thumb moved over the inside of your wrist, the same place you had touched him in the truck. “You’ve had your hands where you wanted them all night.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You sent me a picture at work,” Jack said. “You brushed against me every chance you got. You reached around me for tape you didn’t need.”

“I liked that tape,” you murmured. 

“And now,” he said, ignoring you completely, “you think you get to decide when you touch me.”

Your mouth went dry. Jack looked down at your hand, still caught in his. Then his other hand moved to his belt. The buckle clicked open. Your fingers went still.

His gaze lifted to yours. “There she is.”

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

He slid the belt free slowly, leather dragging through denim, the sound quiet and devastating in the dark room. Your thighs tensed around his legs. Jack folded the belt once in his hand. Then he stopped. His expression changed, just enough that the heat in the room made space for something steadier.

“Tell me no, and it goes on the floor,” he said.

Your chest rose and fell once. Then again. You looked from the belt to his face. He was not smiling now. He was waiting. Making sure. Letting you choose.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack did not move. “Yes, what?”

Your pulse beat hard beneath his fingers. “Yes,” you said, quieter now. “Use it.”

Only then did Jack move. He brought your hand to your other one, gathering your wrists together with a care that made your throat tighten. He looped the belt around them once, then again, not tight enough to hurt, not tight enough to frighten you, just enough that when he held the end in his fist, your hands belonged exactly where he put them. Jack slid one finger beneath the leather, checking the space. Your stomach fluttered.

“Too tight?” he asked.

You shook your head. His eyes held yours. “Words.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not too tight.”

“Good.” He lifted your bound wrists and kissed the inside of one. The gentleness almost ruined you. Then he guided your hands above your head and pressed them to the mattress as he leaned over you. Your back met the bed. Your breath left you. Jack hovered above you, one hand holding the end of the belt, the other planted beside your head. His body did not cover yours yet. Not fully. He was making you feel every inch of space. Every second of waiting. Every consequence of what you had done to him all night.

“You still feel brave?” he asked.

You swallowed. “A little.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “A little?”

You tugged experimentally at the belt. His hand tightened. Not rough. Certain. Your body reacted before you could pretend it hadn’t.

Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Oh,” he said softly. “More than a little.”

Your face warmed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes,” Jack said. The honesty made your stomach drop. He leaned down, mouth brushing your jaw, then your throat. “I loved the photo.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

“I loved knowing you took it for me,” he said against your skin. “Loved knowing no one else gets that.”

His mouth moved lower, over your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Your wrists shifted above your head. Jack held them there.

“But you knew exactly what it would do to me,” he said.

You arched when his mouth brushed your breast. “Jack.”

He paused. His eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again,” he said.

Your mind felt slow. “What?”

“My name.”

Your breath shook. “Jack.”

His mouth closed over you. Your back arched off the mattress. Jack’s grip on the belt held firm, keeping your hands above your head while his tongue moved over you with the same patience that had been ruining you all night. You pulled against the restraint. He did not let you move. You made a frustrated sound.

Jack lifted his head. “What do you want?”

You stared at him. “You.”

“You have me,” Jack answered. 

You exhaled, “Jack.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Use your words.”

Your thighs shifted restlessly. “Touch me.”

He kissed the center of your chest. “I am touching you.”

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to never stop hearing him sound like that. “More,” you said.

Jack’s eyes darkened. “There you go.”

He kissed lower. Slowly. Too slowly. Down your stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh until you were trembling before he had even put his mouth where you needed it. You tried to reach for him. The belt stopped you. 

Jack looked up from between your thighs. “Hands stay there.”

Your breath caught. “You’re holding them there.”

“I know,” he answered. 

You huffed. “Then why are you telling me?”

His mouth brushed your inner thigh. “Because I like hearing you try to listen.”

Your eyes closed. “You’re impossible.”

Jack kissed higher. “You love me.”

Your chest went soft and hot at the same time. “I do,” you whispered.

Jack went still. Not completely. Just enough. Then his eyes lifted to yours. “Say it again.”

Your breath caught. His hand loosened on the belt slightly, not enough to free you, just enough for his thumb to brush over your knuckles.

You looked at him, your chest tight, your body aching. “I love you,” you said.

Jack’s expression shifted. For one second, all the teasing left him. All the controlled heat. All the jealousy. There was only Jack, looking at you like he had heard something sacred. Then he turned his head and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“I love you too,” he said against your skin.

Your eyes burned. Then his mouth found you. Your thoughts scattered. “Oh—” Your back arched. “Jack.”

He hummed low, one arm hooking beneath your thigh to hold you open, the other still keeping the belt steady. His mouth moved like he had been waiting all night for this too, like every second of restraint had sharpened into focus. You tried to close your thighs around him. He did not let you. “Jack, please.”

He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Please what?”

You made a sound that was almost a sob. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s better,” he said.

Then he went back to you. You lost track of the room after that. There was only Jack’s mouth, his hand, the belt around your wrists, the rough warmth of his voice when he told you to keep saying his name.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His fingers joined his mouth, careful at first, then certain when your body opened for him. Your hips moved. Jack held you down with one forearm across your lower stomach.

“Stay,” he said.

You shook your head against the mattress. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Jack replied. 

You started to say, “Jack—” 

“You wanted to make your point,” he said, voice rough. “Make it.”

You blinked down at him, dazed. “What?”

His fingers curled. Your whole body jerked. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours. “Who makes you feel like this?” he asked.

Your breath came in short, broken pulls. “You.”

He did it again. You cried out. “Say my name,” he said. 

“Jack,” you said immediately. 

His fingers curled inside you. “Again.” 

“Jack, please,” you moaned. 

His mouth returned to you, and the sound you made was not quiet. You pulled hard against the belt, your body tightening, thighs trembling around his shoulders. Jack did not stop. He did not rush. He kept you there, right on the edge, until you were almost crying with it.

“Tell me,” he said.

You could barely think. “Only you.”

Jack’s fingers slowed. Not stopping. Threatening to.

Your eyes flew open. “No, no, please.”

“Only me what?” he asked. 

Your breath broke. “Only you can make me feel like this.”

His eyes flashed. “Keep going.”

You shook beneath him. “Only you can touch me like this.”

“Good girl.”

Your body tightened at the praise. Jack felt it. His mouth curved against you, and then he gave you exactly what you had been begging for. 

You came hard.

Hard enough that your vision went white at the edges. Hard enough that your voice broke around his name. Hard enough that your wrists strained against the belt and your back bowed off the mattress while Jack held you through it, mouth and fingers working you through every second until you were shaking too much to do anything but take it.

“Jack,” you gasped. “Jack, Jack—”

“That’s it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “There you go.”

You were still pulsing around his fingers when he lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. He looked absolutely ruined. And somehow, somehow, he was still wearing his jeans.

You stared at him through the haze. “That is so unfair.”

Jack’s mouth curved. He withdrew his fingers slowly, and your whole body twitched. “Careful,” he said.

You laughed once, breathless and weak. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack kissed your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, moving back up your body with devastating patience. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply. You tasted yourself on him and whimpered. Your wrists shifted above your head. The belt held.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His eyes searched your face. “Tell me.”

Your chest rose and fell beneath his. “I’m okay.”

The last bit of tension in his jaw eased. His thumb brushed over the inside of your bound wrist. “Still good?” Jack asked.

Your throat went tight at the care in it. “Yes,” you said. “Still good.”

“Any pain?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “No.”

His gaze stayed on yours for one more second. Then the heat came back into his face. Slow. Certain. Dangerous. “Good,” Jack said.

You reached for him on instinct. The belt stopped you. Your breath caught. Jack looked at your wrists, then back at your face.

His mouth curved faintly. “I didn’t say you were done listening.”

Your stomach flipped. “Jack.”

He stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless and still in his jeans, the loose end of the belt wrapped securely in his hand. You were naked beneath him. Still shaking. Still trying to catch your breath. Still so sensitive that the way he looked at you felt like another touch. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Then he said, “Watch me.”

Your mouth went dry. He kept one hand on the belt as his other moved to his jeans. The button was already open. The zipper followed. The sound moved through the room like a warning. Your wrists shifted again.

Jack’s eyes flicked to them. “Hands stay there.”

You exhaled, “They are there.”

His mouth curved. “Good girl.”

Your breath caught. Jack pushed his jeans lower on his hips, just enough, and your whole body went hot. He was hard. Thick. Flushed. Affected. For all his control, for all his patience, for all the ways he had made you fall apart first, there was no hiding what you had done to him.

Your voice came out thin. “Jack.”

His hand wrapped around himself. You pulled against the belt before you could stop yourself.

Jack’s gaze snapped to yours. “No,” he said softly.

You swallowed. “I want to touch you.”

“I know,” he replied. 

“Please,” you said, barely a whisper. 

His hand moved once, slow and firm. Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Jack watched your face as he touched himself, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, the muscles in his stomach shifting with the effort of his restraint.

“This is what that picture did,” he said. Your body clenched around nothing. His mouth parted slightly as his hand moved again. “This is what you did every time you brushed past me,” Jack said. “Every time you looked at me like no one else in that hospital knew what you were thinking.”

“Jack,” you whispered.

His grip tightened around the belt. “Say my name again.”

You obeyed. “Jack.”

His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened, and the look on his face nearly ruined you all over again.

“Only me?” he asked.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. “Only you.”

His hand moved over himself again. You whimpered. Jack’s gaze dragged down your body, then back to your face. “Only I get you like this?”

You nodded quickly.

His eyes narrowed. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Only you get me like this.”

Jack’s breathing changed. You could see it now. The crack in him. The place where his control had thinned to almost nothing. He touched himself once more, slower this time, deliberately enough that your thighs shifted apart without you meaning to. 

His mouth curved, rough and pleased. “Look at you.”

Your face went hot. “Jack.”

“You came two minutes ago,” he said, his hand moving over himself again. “And you’re still looking at me like that.”

Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.

Your breath shook.

His mouth curved. “Tell me.” Jack’s thumb moved over the head of himself, and your wrists strained against the belt. You glared at him weakly. His hand slowed. You made a small, desperate sound. Jack’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me what you want,” he said.

You answered immediately. “You.” 

Jack grinned. “You have me.”

Your breath shook. “I want you inside me.”

Jack went still. There it was. The shift. The end of patience. He let out a rough breath, then leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding the belt.

His mouth hovered over yours. “Say it again,” he said.

You lifted your hips toward him. “I want you inside me.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Good girl,” Jack said.

Then he kissed you. It was not gentle. It was not patient. Not anymore. Jack kissed you like the last piece of his restraint had finally snapped, one hand still gripping the belt above your head while the other braced beside your shoulder. His body came down over yours, hot and solid and finally close enough that you could feel how much he wanted you. You arched into him. Jack groaned into your mouth. The sound went straight through you.

Your wrists pulled against the belt on instinct. “Jack.”

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “I know.”

You gasped. “You don’t.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t I?”

You shook your head, already gone enough to be honest. “I need you.”

Jack’s expression shifted. Something hot. Something pleased. Something almost undone. His hand tightened around the belt. “Say my name.”

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

His mouth brushed yours. “Good girl.”

You whimpered, hips lifting toward him. Jack’s gaze dropped between your bodies. Then he cursed softly under his breath.

“Turn over,” he said.

Your pulse jumped. You stared at him. “What?”

His eyes came back to yours, dark and focused. “Hands stay where they are. Turn over.”

Your stomach flipped hard. “Jack—”

He leaned down, mouth at your ear. “You said he could never.”

Your breath caught.

His lips brushed the side of your jaw. “You were right.”

You swallowed. Then you nodded. Jack loosened his hold on the belt enough to guide you carefully, never letting the restraint pull too hard, never letting your wrists twist uncomfortably. Even now, with his control hanging by a thread, he moved you like you were something precious. Something his. You rolled onto your stomach, then shifted onto your knees when his hand settled at your hip. The belt stayed around your wrists. Your hands pressed into the mattress above your head, and Jack gathered the loose end in his fist again, holding it with just enough tension to remind you that he could move you exactly where he wanted you. Your cheek brushed the sheets. Your whole body trembled. Behind you, Jack went quiet. Too quiet. You turned your face enough to look back over your shoulder.

He was staring at you. His jeans were pushed low, his hand wrapped around himself, his chest rising and falling like the sight of you had cost him something.

Your voice came out soft. “Jack?”

His jaw flexed. “You have no idea what you look like right now,” he said.

Your thighs pressed together. Jack’s hand came to your ass, broad and warm, smoothing over the curve of you once before gripping. Your breath caught. “Open,” he said.

You shifted your knees apart. His hand tightened. “More.”

Your face went hot, but you listened. Jack exhaled roughly. “That’s it,” he said. “Good girl.”

The praise made you clench around nothing.

Jack’s thumb dragged along your hip. “Look at you.”

You swallowed. “What?”

His hand tightened, just enough to make your body answer before your mouth could. “So good when you want something.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Jack.”

He bent over you, his chest brushing your back. His mouth found your shoulder. “You were very mouthy downstairs,” he said.

You shivered. “You liked it.”

His teeth grazed your skin. “I did.”

His hand slid along your side, then down between your legs from behind. You jerked when his fingers found you. Jack made a low sound against your shoulder. Your wrists strained against the belt. Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “You want more,” he said.

Your breath shook. His mouth curved against your shoulder. “Tell me.”

You closed your eyes. “I want more.”

“More what?” Jack asked. 

You made a frustrated sound. “Jack.”

His fingers slowed. You almost sobbed. “More what?” he repeated.

You turned your face into the sheets. “More of you.”

His breathing changed behind you. “There you go,” Jack said.

He withdrew his hand, and you heard him shift behind you. Your body went tight with anticipation. Then Jack paused. One hand slid up your spine, warm and grounding. “Hey,” he said.

You turned your face enough to see him. “What?”

His eyes searched yours. “Still good?”

Your chest softened. “Yes,” you said.

Jack’s thumb brushed along your back. “No pain?”

You replied instantly. “No.”

“You need me to stop, you tell me,” Jack said. 

“I know,” you whispered. 

His gaze held yours.

You swallowed. “I promise.”

The last bit of tension in his face eased. Then the heat returned. Slow. Dark. Certain. Jack reached toward the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. You heard the quiet tear of foil, the rustle of movement, the sound of his breath catching once as he rolled the condom on. The waiting nearly killed you. You shifted back toward him. Jack’s hand landed on your hip.

“Still,” he said.

You bit your lip. He noticed. His thumb pressed into your skin. “Don’t.”

You released your lip slowly. Jack’s hand moved from your hip to your jaw, turning your face just enough for him to see you.

“That’s mine too,” he said.

Your breath left you.

He leaned over you, mouth brushing yours from the awkward angle. “Say it.”

Your eyes stung with how badly you wanted him. “Only you.”

His eyes darkened. “Only me what?”

“Only you get me like this,” you answered. 

Jack kissed you hard. Then he pulled back and lined himself up behind you. The first press of him made you gasp. Jack froze. One hand stayed on your hip. The other still held the belt.

His voice was rough. “Talk to me.”

You shook beneath him. “Don’t stop.”

His jaw tightened. “Baby.”

“Please,” you said. “Please, Jack.”

He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Careful enough to make you ache. Deep enough to make your hands curl uselessly against the mattress. Your mouth fell open. No sound came out. Jack stopped when he was only halfway inside you, his fingers digging into your hip like he was fighting himself.

“Breathe,” he said. You tried. It came out broken. He bent over you, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice low against your skin. “That’s it,” Jack said. “Take your time.”

You turned your face toward him. “I don’t want to take my time.”

A rough laugh left him. It barely sounded like a laugh at all. “You never do when you’re being a brat.”

You pushed back against him. Only a little. Enough.

Jack’s hand tightened on the belt. “Careful.”

Your breath hitched. “Make me.”

Jack went completely still. For one second, there was nothing but the sound of both of you breathing. Then his hand slid from your hip to the back of your neck, not pressing, just holding you there. His mouth brushed your ear. “There she is,” he said.

Your whole body went hot. Then Jack pushed the rest of the way inside you. You cried out. He groaned at the same time, low and broken, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his body finally met yours completely. For a second, neither of you moved. You could feel him everywhere. The weight of him behind you. The belt at your wrists. His breath against your skin. The stretch. The fullness. The way your body had no idea what to do with finally having him after waiting all shift.

“Jack,” you gasped.

His hand tightened at your waist. “Say it again.”

“Jack.”

He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Your eyes rolled shut.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s my girl.”

The words broke something open in you. You clenched around him, and Jack’s rhythm faltered. His curse was rough against your shoulder. “Do that again,” he said.

You barely managed a breath. “What?”

His hips rolled into yours, deeper this time, and your voice broke. “That,” Jack said. “When I call you mine.”

Your wrists pulled against the belt. “I am yours,” you gasped.

His pace changed. Not fast yet. Not careless. Just harder. More certain. Each thrust pushed you higher on the bed, and Jack held you where he wanted you, one hand gripping the belt, the other locked at your hip.

“You spent all night trying to make me jealous,” he said.

You shook your head against the sheets. “No.”

Jack thrust into you again. Your answer turned into a moan. “No?” he asked.

“I was trying to remind you,” you breathed. 

His hand stilled on your hip for half a second. Then his body covered yours again, chest against your back, mouth near your ear. “Remind me of what?”

You turned your face enough to find his eyes. “That I’m yours.”

Jack’s expression broke. Just for a moment. Then his mouth found yours, messy and desperate from the angle, and he kissed you while he started moving again. This time, he did not hold back as much. The bed shifted beneath you. Your breath came in short, helpless sounds. Jack kept his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and low and entirely yours. “Who makes you feel like this?”

“You,” you gasped.

His hips drove into yours again. “Say my name.”

You gasped. “Jack.”

“Again,” he said.

“Jack, please,” you cried out. 

His hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pulling you back into him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. “Please what?”

You were shaking now. “Please don’t stop.”

Jack exhaled. “I’m not stopping.”

You began, “Jack—”

“I’ve got you,” he replied. 

Your eyes burned. He did. He had you. Every part of you. The secret part. The soft part. The bratty, aching, desperate part that had sent him that photo and brushed past him all shift because you wanted him to know no one else even came close.

“Only you,” you said, voice breaking.

Jack’s rhythm faltered. “What?”

You swallowed a moan. “Only you can make me feel like this.”

His grip tightened. “Keep going.”

Your body tightened around him. “Only you can touch me like this.”

Jack made a rough sound behind you. “Good girl.”

You were close again. Too close. Already. It rolled through you fast, heat building low in your spine, your thighs starting to shake. Jack felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you exactly where you needed him. You sobbed his name.

“There,” he said. “That’s it.”

“Jack, please,” you begged. 

“You going to come for me again?” Jack asked. 

You nodded desperately. His fingers slowed. Your eyes flew open.

“Words,” he said.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, please.”

“Only me?” he asked. 

Your breath broke. “Only you,” you said. “Only you can make me come like this.”

Jack’s control snapped. He drove into you hard enough to make you cry out, his fingers working you in tight, perfect circles, his mouth at your shoulder, his voice wrecked in your ear.

“Come for me,” he said. “Say my name and come for me.”

You did.

You came with his name in your mouth, your whole body locking down around him as the pleasure ripped through you. It was harder than the first one, deeper, dragging every sound out of you until you were shaking beneath him, helpless against the belt and his hands and the way he kept talking you through it.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good girl. I’ve got you.”

You barely heard him over the rush of your own pulse. But you felt him. The way he held you. The way his rhythm turned uneven. The way his breath broke when your body kept tightening around him. He lasted three more thrusts before his control finally broke. You felt it happen. In the sudden uneven snap of his hips. In the way his hand tightened around the belt. In the rough sound that tore out of him when your body kept clenching around him.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt his whole body go tense behind you, every muscle locking as he drove in deep and stayed there. Your name left his mouth. Low. Broken. Almost helpless. Then he came hard, hips jerking once, twice, his breath hot against your skin as he buried himself as deep as he could get and held you there through it.

For a few seconds, Jack did not move. He just breathed against you, heavy and uneven, his chest pressed to your back, his hand still wrapped around the belt like letting go too soon might undo him completely. For a moment, everything went still. Jack’s body was heavy over yours. His breath was hot against your skin. His hand loosened on the belt, but he did not let go completely. Not yet. You both stayed there, tangled and shaking, while the morning light edged slowly around the curtains. Then Jack kissed your shoulder. Once. Twice. Softer each time.

“You with me?” he asked.

Your throat felt raw. You nodded. 

His mouth brushed your skin. “Tell me.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m with you.”

Jack exhaled against you. Then, carefully, he shifted his weight and eased out of you. Your body twitched at the loss. Jack noticed. 

He kissed the back of your neck. “I know.”

You laughed weakly into the sheets. “You do not get to be smug right now.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you replied. 

“A little,” Jack admitted. You huffed, but it came out soft. His hand moved to your wrists. The belt loosened immediately. Jack unwound it with careful fingers, taking his time now for a different reason. When your hands were free, he caught both wrists and brought them down slowly, rubbing warmth back into your skin with his thumbs. You rolled carefully onto your back. Jack sat beside you, still breathing hard, still bare, still looking at you like he was trying to memorize whether he had hurt you anywhere. He checked one wrist, then the other. His thumb brushed over the place the leather had been.

“Okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Okay.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Really?”

Your chest went soft. You reached for his face. “Really.”

Jack turned his head and kissed your palm. The room went quiet again. Not charged this time. Warm. Full. He leaned down and kissed your wrist. Then the other. You watched him, throat tight.

“You know,” you said softly, “Mason really could never.”

Jack froze for half a second. Then his shoulders shook once with a quiet laugh. He looked up at you, exhausted and amused and so painfully yours that your chest ached.

“Baby,” Jack said. “I’m begging you.”

You smiled. His mouth curved. Then he climbed back onto the bed and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other hand still holding yours like he was not quite ready to stop touching you. You tucked your face against his neck. Jack kissed your hair. For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then you felt his thumb move over your knuckles. Slow. Absent. Tender.

“Still jealous?” you asked.

Jack sighed against your hair. You felt his mouth curve. “A little.”

You pinched his side weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your fingers. “Completely in love with you,” he said. “The jealous part is secondary.”

Your heart folded. You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Secondary?”

Jack’s eyes softened. “Very secondary.”

You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and sweet and nothing like the door. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “No more pretending,” he said.

Your chest tightened. You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “No more pretending.”

Jack kissed you again. And this time, there was nothing careful about the way he held you.

Only sure.

He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

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The back booth wasn’t nearly dark enough, nor secluded enough to hide you entirely from view, but the insistent desire and warming liquor pounding in your blood made it difficult to care. 

Bucky’s fingers slid another inch up your thigh, pressing between your soft curves until they found the wetness that had dripped from your folds and made a mess under your skirt. His rumbling chuckle felt like another warm, summer breeze, suffusing you in a heat that burned from the inside out. 

Your thighs fell open of their own accord, giving Bucky unfettered access to the place that ached for his touch, even as a protesting whine worked its way up your throat.

“Bucky…” you mewled, your reticence clear in your tone. Your fingers closed around the sinewy forearm that was disappearing up your skirt, intent on pulling him away from your soaking heat. Your nails dug into his golden skin when his other hand darted out and grabbed you by the throat. 

With his thumb pressed to the hinge of your jaw, he turned your face to him, a warning sparkling in his ice blue eyes. A thrum of fear and excitement churned low in your belly at the way Bucky was looking at you—like you were prey, and he was a predator who had already decided he was going to eat you for dinner.

“I hope you weren’t about to tell me not to touch this pussy, printsessa,” Bucky rumbled, his voice deep and low like an oncoming thunderstorm. His hand wedged between your thighs beneath your skirt, shoving your legs wider so that he could cup your bare heat in his palm. “I hope you haven’t forgotten who this cunt belongs to.” 

Your breath was coming in short, rabbity pants, your heart racing in your chest and your blood pounding in your veins like you were running for your life. But your mind knew what your body did not—it would be pointless to run from Bucky Barnes. 

The Zimniy Soldat was the most feared boss in the city’s Russian mafia, a fact you’d learned the hard way when your father had paid off his debts by giving you to Bucky. 

Bucky’s gaze bore into your own as he pushed two fingers into your tight channel, his eyes watching hungrily as your face went slack with pleasure. 

“I’ll touch you whenever I want,” he growled, dragging his fingers back and plunging them into you again slowly, his eyes never straying from your face. “I’ll fuck you whenever I want—where ever I want.” 

His other hand held you pinned to the leather booth by your throat, your body responding so eagerly to his touch that it felt like a betrayal. His thumb and forefinger pressed into the sides of your neck making your pussy spasm around his fingers. 

Your body proved Bucky’s point before he made it as he rumbled, “This cunt belongs to me, printsessa.” 

You hadn’t said a word since his name, but your slow submission was clear in every little movement of your body—your thighs spreading even wider for Bucky’s hand, your limbs loosening and melting into his hold, your lips falling open in a soundless moan as he fingerfucked you. Bucky owned you, and you both knew it. 

And he relished your submission, even if you hadn’t quite accepted his possession of you yet. But you would.

The victorious smile that curved Bucky’s mouth was sharp and dangerous as a knife. When he spoke, though, his voice was as warm as the balmy summer breeze. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, “give yourself to me.” The ice in his eyes was slowly but surely melting as he watched pleasure dance across your face, his smile widening into something hot and hungry. “This life of yours is mine now, printsessa, but if you’re a good girl for me, I can make sure it’s filled with pleasure and happiness,” he purred, his lips brushing against the apple of your cheek, their softness followed by the rough scrape of his scruff. 

Bucky slid a third finger into your tight hole, stretching you wider and making you bite your lip hard to prevent yourself from crying out in pain-edged pleasure. Your chest heaved with the effort to stay quiet and, unbidden, a tear slipped from the corner of your eye while blood pooled on your lip. 

But Bucky never stopped fucking you with his fingers, his hand working your body expertly as the soft, wet sounds of your obscenely sopping cunt reached your ears. Instead, the Zimniy Soldat kissed the tear from your cheek and licked the blood from your swollen lip, pulling back to stare into your eyes as he watched you come undone for him. 

“You are mine,” he said with a tone of finality, as if his statement was an incontrovertible fact. Any protest you might’ve had—though in truth, you didn’t have any left—died in your throat as he choked you harder, his fingers working your pussy faster, grinding the heel of his palm into your wet, puffy clit as he continued on, pushing you to the edge of your release. “Moya printsessa, moya zhena.” 

You felt Bucky’s ring—your husband’s ring—smooth and unyielding and warm from his skin, slip inside your cunt as he buried his fingers in your body. He rubbed your clit ruthlessly until he made you come right there in the back of the pizza parlor, not caring if anyone in the crowded shop could see it.

Your left hand, bedecked in a dazzling white sapphire ring and matching wedding band, wrapped around the back of Bucky’s neck, your nails digging into his skin as you clung to the most dangerous man in all of New York City while he made you come harder than you ever had before. Pleasure tore through your body as you held Bucky’s warm blue gaze, staring at the man who’d staked his claim on you.

The man you’d married only a few hours prior because it was the only way to settle your father’s debts.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” Bucky growled, his fingers fucking you through your orgasm, his eyes watching you hungrily, greedily.

Already, you could read him well enough to know he was thinking about watching you come on his cock as he claimed you in the most base, primal way possible. Your pussy clenched harder on his fingers at the thought, your body aching for it even as you came.

“Come all over your husband’s fingers—see how good I can be to you when you obey me, printsessa.” 

Your teeth had sunk deep into your lower lip to quell any sounds of ecstasy, but the pleasure was too much, too overwhelming, and you threw your head back. Your breathy cry was muffled by Bucky’s fingers choking your throat harder, which only wrung even more bliss out of your body as black crept into the edges of your vision. 

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, your husband’s relentless touch dragging out your release until your strangled moans devolved into desperate whimpers. Tears gathered in your lashes, and your entire body trembled in the red leather booth at the back of the pizza parlor.

Only then did Bucky relent. “That’s my good girl,” he murmured before his lips slammed down on yours, his mouth claiming yours just as surely as his fingers had claimed your cunt. 

He swallowed the keening whine you let out when he pulled his fingers from your throbbing pussy, your body aching at the loss of him. But then he replaced his mouth with them, pushing his fingers between your lips so you could taste your release—the release he’d wrung so masterfully from your body.

“Clean up your mess, moya zhena,” Bucky rumbled, his eyes sparkling with depraved delight as you dutifully licked his fingers clean.

When he decided you were done, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and let you collapse against his chest, your cheek pressed to his white cotton dress shirt—the one he’d worn to your wedding earlier that day. 

His jacket had been shed at some point during the party at one of his nightclubs—a club decorated in neon red hearts. Bucky had smirked in amusement when you’d pointed out the irony of celebrating your forced marriage in a place where the theme was love. 

That infuriating smirk had made you decide the best way to celebrate your sham nuptials was to drink and dance the night away. You’d spent your night trying not to notice how handsome the mob boss you’d married was, or how delicious he looked with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Or how a very small part of you enjoyed the way his eyes never strayed from you for long. 

It had been your idea to get some pizza after the club, a last ditch attempt to put off the wedding night you were certain Bucky expected. You kept telling yourself you didn’t want him to touch you, but the second his fingers had grazed your bare knee beneath the simple white dress you wore, tingles of pleasure going straight to your clit, you’d known it was no use pretending you didn’t want your new husband. 

When your father told you he’d arranged for you to marry the Zimniy Soldat in exchange for having his debts cleared, you never believed you could find anything to like about your mob boss husband. But Bucky had proven you very wrong in that back booth in the pizza parlor, and you were warming up to the idea of being Mrs. James Buchanan Barnes.

“Tell me you’re mine, printsessa,” Bucky rumbled, drawing your thoughts back to the present moment. His lips pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head where it was tucked under his chin, and your heart flipped happily in your chest.

The words were no less a command for the warmth in his tone that he seemed to reserve for only you, his new wife. 

Perhaps it was because of the pleasure still thrumming through your body, or because you weren’t so convinced anymore that being married to the Zimniy Soldat would be a bad thing, but the words came much easier to your lips than you would’ve expected. 

“I’m yours, my husband.” 

A pleased sound rumbled in Bucky’s throat and you felt the way his heart beat harder in his chest with your cheek pressed to his sternum. You couldn’t help the small smile that curved your lips when Bucky threaded the fingers of his left hand through yours, your matching rings slotting next to each other and glittering beneath the yellow lights of the pizza parlor.

“You’ll be happy with me,” Bucky promised, the most recent of many vows he’d made to you that day. His words rang with determination and an emotion you’d never expected to hear from the mob boss—adoration. “So long as you always remember you belong to me, moya zhena.” 

A shiver of delight raced down your spine at his possessive words, finding yourself liking them much more than you would’ve thought. 

Something told you that you’d never forget you belonged to Bucky Barnes. Not at any point during the hopefully long and happy life you were going to live with him. You were his wife, and he was your husband, for so long as you both should live.

translations:

printsessa/moya printsessa - princess/my princess

Zimniy Soldat - Winter Soldier

By the time Jack turned into his driveway, the sky had gone pale at the edges.

Not bright yet. Not really.

Just that thin, washed-out gray that came after a night shift, when the world looked like it had been rinsed and left damp, when headlights still made sense, but birds were already starting to make noise like they had some kind of personal vendetta against people who worked twelve hours under fluorescent lights.

You sat in the passenger seat with your work bag between your feet and your head turned toward the window, watching Jack’s neighborhood slide by in quiet, familiar pieces. Mailbox. Porch light. Empty sidewalk. His truck wasn’t in the driveway.

That still made your stomach tighten.

Not the way it would have yesterday. Not sharp enough to steal your breath. Just enough to remind you. Jack pulled your car into his driveway and put it in park. His hand stayed on the gearshift for a second longer than it needed to.

You noticed because you had started noticing everything.

The way his jaw held tension when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his shoulders stayed a little too set. The way his eyes moved over the street before he reached for the door handle. He did not make a production of it. Jack never did. He just checked. The driveway. The porch. The street behind you. The side yard. The windows. Then Jack looked at you.

“You good?” Jack asked.

You let your head rest back against the seat. “I’m tired.”

His face changed, just slightly. Not fear. Not exactly. Attention.

“Bad tired?” Jack asked.

You thought about it. Your feet hurt. Your lower back ached from being on hard floors all night. Your eyes felt gritty. There was a faint pressure behind your temples from charting, alarms, voices, overhead pages, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from holding yourself upright for a whole shift after your body had spent days expecting danger.

But your chest was not caving in. Your hands were not shaking. Your phone had not become a live wire in your pocket every time it lit up. You were tired because you had worked. You were tired because you had caught Lorraine Mercer’s stroke symptoms before they were dismissed as dizziness. You were tired because Ellis had asked you to grab labs. You were tired because Crus had pretended to need a flush just to check on you. You were tired because Shen had called your catch clinically significant with the kind of solemnity that made Ellis roll her eyes. You were tired because Jack had found your eyes across the department and let you keep standing on your own.

You swallowed.

“No,” you said. “Work tired.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then the smallest bit of tension left his mouth.

“Good,” Jack said.

Your heart did something tired and soft inside your chest.

“Yeah,” you said. “Good.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered more than he was going to say. Then he reached for his door.

“Come on,” Jack said.

You grabbed your bag and followed him out. The morning air was cool enough to make your scrub top feel thin. You hugged your jacket around yourself while Jack locked your car with the key fob and moved toward the front walk.

That was when you saw it. Not all at once. Just a hitch. A tiny one. Jack stepped up onto the walkway, and his weight shifted wrong. His hand went briefly to his thigh, high and quick, there and gone before anyone who didn’t know him would have caught it. But you knew him. Or you were learning him. Jack kept walking.

You frowned. “Jack.”

He did not turn around fast enough. That was answer enough. You followed him up the porch steps while he unlocked the front door.

“How long has that been bothering you?” you asked.

Jack pushed the door open and gave the dark entryway a quick glance before stepping inside. “How long has what been bothering me?”

You walked in after him. “Don’t do that.”

Jack shut the door behind you, locked it, slid the deadbolt home, and checked the handle. “Do what?”

You dropped your work bag beside the bench in his entryway. “Use your attending voice on me when you know exactly what I’m asking.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to be proud of you and annoyed at the same time. “That wasn’t attending voice.”

You tilted your head at him. “That was evasive attending voice.”

Jack looked down at you. “You categorizing them now?”

You crossed your arms. “I have a list.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m sure you do.”

You looked pointedly at his leg. “Your leg.”

Jack’s expression went flatter. Not colder. Just guarded.

“My leg is attached,” Jack said.

You gave him a look.

Jack sighed through his nose. “Mostly.”

You softened your voice. “Jack.”

He turned away before you could get a better read on his face, moving toward the kitchen with that same controlled gait.

“It’s fine,” Jack said.

You followed him. “That was unconvincing.”

Jack braced one hand on the kitchen island. “It’s been a long shift.”

You stopped across from him. “You were favoring it before the shift.”

He went quiet. The silence told you too much. Your stomach sank a little.

“Before the shift,” you repeated.

Jack looked toward the sink instead of at you. “I’m sore.”

You kept your voice even. “I can see that.”

Jack’s shoulders moved with a breath he did not quite let become a sigh. “It’s not a crisis.”

You stepped closer. “I didn’t say it was.”

Jack finally looked at you. “Then don’t look at me like that.”

You held his gaze. “Like what?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Like you’re about to start worrying.”

You gave him a tired, unimpressed look. “I am worried.”

Jack said, “Don’t.”

You stared at him. “That has literally never worked on anyone.”

His mouth twitched again, but the humor didn’t stick. You glanced down, not at the prosthetic exactly, but at the way he stood with too much care.

“How long have you had it on?” you asked.

Jack did not answer. The ache in your chest changed shape.

“Jack,” you said softly.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. “Since before work.”

You shook your head. “That’s not an answer.”

Jack looked at you. “It’s an answer.”

You stepped around the island. “It’s a bad one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “It’s the one you’re getting.”

You moved close enough that he had to feel you there. “Did you sleep in it?” you asked.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Your throat tightened. “Jack,” you said again.

Jack looked away. “Not the whole time.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You looked at him, at the set of his shoulders, at the stubborn line of his mouth, at the man who had sat beside you through paperwork and court and your first shift back, who had looked calm enough for both of you while quietly grinding himself down underneath it.

“Why?” you asked.

Jack looked at the counter, then said, “Didn’t like the idea of needing to move fast and not being able to.”

Your breath caught. There it was. Not dramatic. Not noble. Not dressed up as some sweeping confession. Just Jack. Blunt and honest and exhausted.

“Because of me,” you said.

Jack’s head came up immediately. “No.”

You tried to speak. “Jack—”

Jack cut in, sharper this time. “No. Not because of you.”

You flinched a little at the force of it, and he saw it. His face changed. His voice lowered.

“Because of him,” Jack said. “Because of what he did. Because I didn’t like being in my own house wondering if I could get to the door fast enough if I had to.”

His hand tightened once on the counter before he made it let go.

“That is not because of you,” Jack said.

Your eyes burned, and you hated that they did. “I know that.” 

Jack looked unconvinced. You stepped closer anyway. “I’m trying to know that.”

Something softened around his eyes. “Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “I know.”

You let the quiet sit there for a second. Then you pointed toward the stairs.

“Bedroom,” you said.

Jack blinked. “Excuse me?”

You pointed again. “You heard me.”

His eyebrows rose. “You ordering me around in my own house?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack leaned a little more heavily on the island than he probably realized. “That a professional order?”

You lifted your chin. “That is your girlfriend asking you to let her take care of you.” 

Jack’s mouth did the thing again, that almost-smile that always looked like it had to fight its way through three layers of exhaustion and sarcasm to reach the surface.

“My girlfriend’s bossy,” Jack said.

You stepped toward the stairs. “Your girlfriend is right.”

Jack pushed away from the counter. “Both can be true.”

You pointed upstairs again. “Upstairs.”

Jack held your gaze for a beat too long. Then he pushed away from the counter with a low, irritated sound that did not hide the way his first step cost him. You saw it. He knew you saw it. Neither of you said anything. You followed him up the stairs, staying close without hovering. Jack took them carefully, one hand skimming the rail, jaw locked by the time he reached the landing. At the top, you touched his back. He stopped. Your palm settled between his shoulder blades.

“Hey,” you said.

Jack looked over his shoulder. “What?”

You kept your hand where it was. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

His face went still. You kept your voice soft. “Not with me.”

For a second, he looked like he had an answer ready. Something dry. Something deflecting. Something designed to put the weight back somewhere he could manage. Then he looked at you, really looked at you, and whatever he saw must have taken the words out of him.

“Okay,” Jack said.

It was one word. It still felt like something opening. In his bedroom, the bed was unmade from the few hours of sleep you had both managed before work. Your hoodie was still folded over the chair in the corner. The evidence packet Sofia had helped you organize was tucked into your bag. The protective order was printed, signed, and real.

For once, none of that was the center of the room. Jack was. Jack sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. Jack bending forward to unlace his shoes with more patience than comfort. Jack’s hands steady because they were always steady, even when the rest of him hurt. You crossed the room and crouched in front of him. His hands paused on the laces.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jack said.

You looked up at him. “I know.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I can take my own shoes off.”

You nodded. “I know that too.”

He stared at you. You stared back. Finally, Jack leaned back on his hands.

“You’re very hard to argue with after a night shift,” Jack said.

You tugged one lace loose. “I’m very hard to argue with, always.”

Jack gave you a look. “Debatable.”

You pulled the shoe free and set it aside. “Incorrect.”

Jack’s gaze stayed on you while you worked the second shoe off. It was not helpless. It was not pity. It was not anything except tired hands and quiet trust and the strange intimacy of being allowed near someone’s pain. When you looked up, his expression had gone serious.

“What?” you asked.

Jack shook his head once. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s never true.”

His mouth softened. “No.”

You set his shoes aside.

“Pants,” you said.

His eyebrows lifted. You gave him a flat look. “Do not make that face.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “What face?”

You pointed at him. “The face that says you’re about to weaponize this.”

Jack’s eyes darkened just enough to make your stomach dip. “Sweetheart, if I was weaponizing it, you’d know.”

Heat climbed through you, slow and inconvenient. You pointed at him again. “You are injured.”

Jack corrected you immediately. “I’m sore.”

You crossed your arms. “You are sore because you were being stubborn.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “I was being prepared.”

You held his gaze. “You slept in your prosthetic.”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Part of the night.”

You gave him a look. “Jack.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

You stood and turned around, mostly to give him privacy, mostly because if you watched him undress while he was looking at you like that, you were going to forget the entire reason you had dragged him upstairs. Behind you, fabric shifted. The buckle and quiet mechanical sounds of the prosthetic being removed were familiar, but intimate enough that you did not pretend not to hear them.

Jack was quiet. Too quiet. You kept your eyes on the wall.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” you said.

A few seconds passed. “Ready,” Jack said.

You turned back. He sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear and a white T-shirt, prosthetic set carefully beside the nightstand, right thigh exposed and his good foot planted on the floor. His face was controlled, but you could see the strain around his mouth now that he was no longer moving through it. You stepped between his knees, slowly enough that he could tell you no. He did not.

“Can I touch you?” you asked.

Jack looked up at you. Something flickered in his eyes. Not surprise exactly. More like the question mattered.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You can.”

You rested one hand on his shoulder first. Then you let the other settle carefully on his thigh, above where the soreness seemed worst. His muscle jumped under your palm.

“Too much?” you asked.

Jack shook his head. “No.”

You watched his face. “You sure?”

Jack exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”

You rubbed gently at first, testing pressure, watching his expression instead of your hand.

“Here?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

You eased your thumb into the tense muscle. Jack’s eyes closed. The sight of it hit you somewhere deep. Not because he looked weak. He didn’t. He looked like a man who had been standing guard inside his own skin for too long and had finally, finally let one door unlock. You kept your touch slow.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” you said.

Jack answered without opening his eyes. “You won’t.”

You frowned softly. “You don’t know that.”

His eyes opened. “I trust you,” Jack said.

Your hand stopped for half a second. Jack watched you. There it was again. That thing neither of you had said. Not love. Not yet. But something close enough to change the air. You swallowed and started moving your hand again.

“You’re allowed to tell me anyway,” you said.

Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “Okay.”

You worked in silence for a while. His breathing changed first. Then his shoulders. The tension in his neck loosened by degrees, stubbornly, like even his muscles had to be talked into surrendering. You rubbed down toward the sore places, careful around the tender skin, careful where friction had clearly made everything worse. Anger moved through you, not hot and wild, but quiet.

Not at him. At the fear that had made him do this. At the fact that Trent had reached into Jack’s house without ever setting foot in it. At the thought of Jack lying beside you with his body braced for a threat that had already taken too much.

Jack noticed.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked and looked up. “What?”

Jack searched your face. “Where’d you go?”

You shook your head. “Nowhere.”

Jack gave you a look. “Liar.”

Your hand slowed over his thigh. “I hate that you felt like you had to do this.”

Jack’s expression gentled in a way that almost hurt worse. “I know.” 

You kept your hand on him, warm and careful. “You don’t have to be ready every second.”

He looked away. Your chest tightened. “Jack.” 

His voice was quiet when he answered. “Feels like I do.”

There was no performance in it. No bravado. Just truth. You moved closer and rested your free hand against his jaw, turning his face back to yours.

“Not right now,” you said.

His eyes held yours. You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “Right now you’re here. Door’s locked. I’m here. Nobody needs you on your feet in three seconds.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

A beat passed. Then another. His hand came up and covered yours where it rested against his face.

“Okay,” Jack said.

Your throat ached. You leaned in and kissed him softly. Just once. Just enough to let him feel what you could not quite say. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker. You looked down at his leg, at the tension still held there, and moved your hand gently over his thigh again.

“Do you think a bath would help?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. Even tired, even sore, even stripped down to something quieter than usual, the look he gave you had heat in it.

“Depends,” Jack said.

Your hand paused. “On what?”

His thumb moved once over the back of your hand.

“You joining me?” Jack asked.

Warmth slipped through you, slow and deep. You held his gaze.

“I was hoping to be invited,” you said.

For a moment, Jack just looked at you. The humor softened first. Then something else moved underneath it. Something tender enough to make your breath catch. Jack took your hand from his jaw and kissed the inside of your wrist.

“Then come with me,” Jack said.

The words moved through you, warm and low. Jack released your hand and reached toward the side of the nightstand, where a pair of forearm crutches rested against the wall. He fitted his arms into the cuffs with practiced ease, then pushed himself upright.

You stepped back to give him room. He moved toward the bathroom, slower than usual but steady, the crutches quiet against the floor. You followed behind him, close enough to be there and far enough back to let him do what he knew how to do.

The bathroom light came on soft and warm. You had been in here before, but not like this. Not with Jack down to a white T-shirt and underwear, prosthetic off, shoulders tired from a full shift and a longer week, his body finally allowed to stop pretending it was ready to run. The tub sat against the far wall, deep and practical, with a side door, grab bars, a built-in seat, and a handheld shower head clipped neatly within reach. A folded towel waited on the shelf beside it. The tile beneath your feet was nonslip. Everything had a place. Everything made sense.

Jack leaned one crutch against the wall and glanced back at you.

“What?” Jack asked.

You looked at the tub, then at him. “I like that you’re able to relax in here.”

Something small shifted in his face. 

You touched the folded towel on the shelf. “I like that it works for you.”

Jack’s mouth tugged faintly at one corner. “Seemed smarter than eating shit in my own bathroom.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Very poetic.”

Jack gave you a dry look. “I contain multitudes.”

You shook your head and moved to the tub. “Sit before I start taking back all the nice things I was thinking about you.”

Jack’s eyes followed you. “There were nice things?”

You turned the faucet on and tested the water with your wrist. “A few.”

Jack braced one hand on the grab bar and opened the tub's side door. “Generous.”

You adjusted the tap warmer. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jack stayed where he was for a second, watching you. Then his hand moved to the hem of his T-shirt. Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack noticed that too.

His mouth curved faintly. “Problem?”

You kept your eyes on the water like that helped anything. “No.”

Jack pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it onto the closed toilet lid. “That sounded like a problem.”

You checked the temperature again even though you had already checked it. “I’m being professional.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “You are absolutely not being professional.”

You glanced at him then, which was a mistake.

Because he was shirtless now, bare under the warm bathroom light, all hard-earned muscle and scars and tired restraint. His hair was a mess from the night and your hands. His shoulders looked broad and tense. His chest rose and fell more slowly than yours did. He looked exhausted.

He looked beautiful.

He looked like yours in a way that scared you if you let yourself think about it too long. Jack’s expression softened as he watched you look at him.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said quietly.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

His voice stayed low. “Water.”

You blinked, then looked down to find the tub still running warm over your wrist.

“Right,” you said, turning the faucet down a little. “Water.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

You turned your back before he could make that worse. “I’m giving you privacy.”

Behind you, Jack made a low sound, almost amused. “That what we’re calling it?”

You stared very hard at the towel shelf. “Yes.”

Fabric shifted behind you. Your whole body noticed. You kept your eyes on the wall because the bathroom suddenly felt warmer than it had a minute ago, and because Jack had already let you see enough vulnerability for one morning without you making the act of undressing feel like another thing he had to manage.

“Ready,” Jack said after a few seconds.

You turned back. He stood beside the tub, bare and steady with one hand on the grab bar, his crutches leaned within reach and his clothes folded messily beside the sink. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look like he needed you to look away.

He looked like Jack. Sore. Tired. Still himself.

You kept your eyes on his face first. Something in his expression warmed. Jack stepped in through the side door and lowered himself onto the built-in seat with a controlled breath. You stayed by the faucet, one hand under the water as it ran warm over your wrist.

“Tell me if that’s okay,” you said.

Jack reached down and let the water run over his fingers. For a second, his eyes closed. Then his shoulders dropped by a fraction.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “That’s good.”

You adjusted the plug and let the tub start filling. “Not too hot?”

Jack opened his eyes and looked at you. “It’s good.”

You gave him a look. “That sounds like something someone would say if it was too hot and he didn’t feel like admitting it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “You always this suspicious?”

You checked the water again. “With patients who sleep in their prosthetics? Yes.”

Jack leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled. “Girlfriend and nurse. Dangerous combination.”

You looked over at him. “You invited me.”

His eyes warmed. “I did.”

The water rose slowly around him, steam gathering in the quiet space between you. Jack’s crutches rested against the wall. His prosthetic was back in the bedroom. His boots were by the bed. The front door was locked downstairs. For the first time since you had noticed him favoring his leg, he looked like he was not actively fighting his own body.

He looked tired. He looked sore. He looked safe. Your chest tightened around the word.

Jack opened one eye. “You gonna stand there supervising all morning?”

You rested your hand on the edge of the tub. “I was making sure the water was okay.”

Jack looked at your hand, then back at your face. “Water’s okay.”

You swallowed. “Good.”

His gaze held yours. “You still joining me?”

Your pulse moved low in your stomach. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s voice softened. “Then come here.”

Your pulse moved low in your stomach. For a second, neither of you moved. The bathroom was warm now, steam gathering along the edges of the mirror, softening Jack’s reflection until he looked almost unreal in the tub. His shoulders were bare above the rising water. His head rested back against the wall. His eyes stayed on you with a patience that did not feel passive.

Waiting, not taking. Inviting, not pulling. You reached for the hem of your scrub top. Jack’s gaze dropped for one second. Then he looked back at your face. That made it worse somehow. The restraint. The choice. The way he wanted you and still let you be the one to decide what happened next.

You pulled your scrub top over your head and set it on the counter. Your scrub pants followed, then the rest, piece by piece, until there was nothing between your skin and the damp warmth of the room.

Jack watched you quietly. Not clinically. Not hungrily in a way that made you feel consumed. Just completely. Like he was taking you in because he wanted to remember the moment exactly as it was. His throat moved once.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You stepped closer to the tub. “Yeah.”

His eyes held yours. “Still work tired?”

A small laugh slipped out of you, softer than you meant it to be. “Yeah.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

You rested one hand on the edge of the tub. “You?”

His expression shifted. You could see him thinking about deflecting. You could see him choosing not to.

“Sore,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jack watched your face. “Okay?”

You stepped in carefully and settled into the tub with him. “Okay, because we can do something about sore.”

Jack’s hand moved to your hip beneath the water, steadying you without guiding you. “You have a plan?”

You lowered yourself slowly, facing him, your knees settling on either side of his hips with enough space between you to keep it careful. “I usually do.”

Jack’s thumb moved once against your skin under the water. “That so?”

You reached for the soap on the ledge. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Jack looked down as you worked the soap between your wet hands. “I’m not surprised.”

You rubbed your palms together until they were slick. “You sounded surprised.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours. “I like listening to you be bossy.”

The heat in your stomach sharpened. You tried to give him a look. “I’m taking care of you.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I know.”

The way he said it made your hands slow. Not teasing. Not dismissive. He knew. And he was letting you. You set your hands on his shoulders first. Jack’s breath left him slowly. You moved over the tense muscle there, palms slick with soap and warm water, thumbs pressing carefully into the places that felt tightest. His skin shifted under your hands. His shoulders were hard from work, from restraint, from holding himself ready for too long.

You took your time.

You moved from one shoulder to the other, then down the strong line of his upper arms, washing him with slow, deliberate strokes. Jack watched you the entire time, his hands loose beneath the water, resting against your thighs without pressure. The water lapped quietly against the sides of the tub.

Outside the bathroom, the house stayed silent. No overhead pages. No monitor alarms. No ringing phones. No knock at the door.

Just warm water, Jack’s breathing, and your hands learning what he would let them do. You slid your hands back up his arms and over his collarbones, careful over an old scar near his chest. Jack’s eyes flicked down to your hand.

You paused. “Okay?”

His gaze returned to your face. “Okay.”

You moved lower, over the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm for one brief second before your hands kept moving. It was steady. Of course it was. Jack’s heart, steady beneath your hands, like the rest of him was not sitting in front of you worn thin from keeping himself ready to move. Your throat tightened. Jack noticed immediately. His hand shifted beneath the water, fingers settling more firmly against your thigh.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

His eyes searched yours. “You went quiet.”

You looked down at your hands on his chest. “I’m thinking.”

Jack’s thumb moved once. “About?”

You rubbed your palm over his shoulder again, mostly because you needed somewhere to put the ache in your chest. “About how much of this week has gotten to you too.”

Jack’s face changed. You kept going before he could tell you it hadn’t.

“You don’t have to make me feel better about that,” you said, keeping your voice soft. “I’m not blaming myself.”

Jack held very still. You lifted your eyes to his. “I’m just seeing it.”

His jaw worked once. Then Jack said, “Yeah.”

One word. Honest enough to make your chest ache. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist under the water. “I’m fine.”

You gave him a look. His mouth twitched, tired and faint. “Fine-adjacent.”

“That’s more believable,” you said, and you pressed your hands gently to his chest again.

Jack looked at your mouth. “Glad I found the acceptable range.”

You tried not to smile. “Barely.”

His thumb moved against your waist. You kept washing him. Shoulders. Chest. Arms. The strong line of his forearm. His hand, when you lifted it out of the water and rubbed soap over his knuckles, his fingers, his palm.

Jack watched you do that with an expression you could not quite name. You turned his hand over and washed the inside of his wrist. His fingers curled slightly around yours. You looked up.

His voice was rougher when he spoke. “Sweetheart.”

Your stomach dipped. “What?”

Jack’s gaze moved over your face. “You’re killing me a little.”

The words should have felt like teasing. They did not. They felt too honest.

You looked down at his hand in yours. “I’m just washing you.”

Jack’s fingers tightened gently around yours. “No, you’re not.”

Your breath caught. The bathroom seemed to get quieter. You let his hand slip back beneath the water, then brought both of your hands to his shoulders again. Your thumbs pressed carefully into the tense muscle there, working the ache the way you had in the bedroom.

Jack’s eyes closed.

You watched him let his head fall back again, watched the line of his throat lengthen, watched his chest rise beneath your touch.

“You carry everything here,” you said, massaging the base of his neck.

Jack huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “My neck?”

You pressed your thumb into a knot near his shoulder. “Your shoulders.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but not from pain. “Occupational hazard.”

You shook your head. “Jack.”

He opened his eyes. You kept your hands on him. “Let me.”

The teasing left his face. His hands settled at your hips, quiet and warm beneath the water.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You leaned closer and kissed his shoulder.

It was not meant to be sexual.

Not at first.

It was just there, that bare skin under your mouth, warm from the bath and him. You kissed the place where his shoulder met his neck because you wanted him to feel cared for somewhere other than pain. Jack’s breath changed. You felt it more than you heard it. Your mouth paused against his skin. His hands flexed once at your hips. You kissed him again, slower this time. Jack’s head tipped slightly toward yours.

“Careful,” Jack said, his voice low.

You lifted your face enough to look at him. “Too much?”

His eyes opened, dark and focused. “No.”

Your pulse kicked. Jack’s hands stayed still on your hips. “That’s the problem.”

You swallowed. “Oh.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Yeah. Oh.”

The warmth in the tub was nothing compared to the heat that moved through you then. You should have pulled back. Maybe. You did not. You leaned in and kissed the side of his throat. Jack’s fingers tightened at your hips, still not pulling, still not taking. Just holding on like something in him needed somewhere to put the wanting.

You kissed his jaw next. Then the corner of his mouth. Jack turned into you with a low breath, and then his mouth was on yours. Slow. Careful. Deep enough that the whole room seemed to tilt.

You kissed him back with wet hands on his shoulders and your knees bracketing his hips under the water. Jack’s hand slid up your back, broad and warm, pulling you closer by inches, giving you enough time to stop him if you wanted to.

You did not want to stop him. You moved closer until your chests brushed. That was when you felt him. Hard against you beneath the water. Your breath caught in his mouth. Jack went still immediately. His hand stopped on your back. His other hand tightened at your waist, not pulling you down, not pushing you away. Holding himself in place.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, rough and quiet.

You stayed close enough that your mouth brushed his when you answered. “I know.”

Jack’s eyes opened. The restraint in his face nearly undid you.

“You know?” Jack asked.

You nodded, your hands sliding up to the sides of his neck. “I know.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not trying to rush you.”

“I know,” you said again, softer.

Jack’s gaze searched yours. “I mean it.”

You touched your forehead to his. “I know you do.”

His breath left him unevenly. For a moment, neither of you moved. The water shifted softly around your bodies. His prosthetic was in the bedroom. His crutches were against the wall. Your scrubs were on the bathroom floor. The front door was locked downstairs. There was nothing between you and him except the last thin thread of waiting.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

“I want you,” you said.

Jack’s eyes darkened. His hand slid carefully over your back. “I want you too.”

You swallowed. “I want this.”

Jack’s thumb brushed your waist. “I need you to be sure.”

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

His eyes held yours.  Your chest tightened at the care in that. At the way he asked because he was not going to let his want make the decision for both of you.

You brushed your thumb over his jaw. “I want you. I want this. I want to feel good, and I want it to be you.”

Jack went very still. The words landed. You saw them land.

His voice came out lower. “Say that again.”

You moved closer until your lips brushed his. “I want it to be you.”

Jack kissed you then. 

Not gently enough to hide what it did to him. Not hard enough to take the choice from you. Just deep. Devastating. Full of everything he was still holding back. You shifted your hips under the water, and the blunt pressure of him slid against you. Jack broke the kiss with a low, controlled breath.

“Easy,” Jack murmured against your mouth.

You stilled immediately. “Because of you or because of me?”

His eyes opened. Something like pride moved through them.

“Because I want this to last,” Jack said.

Your whole body warmed. “Oh,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved against yours. “Yeah.”

You reached between your bodies beneath the water, your hand closing carefully around him. Jack’s head tipped back against the wall.

“Fuck,” Jack breathed.

You watched his face. “Okay?”

His eyes were dark when they found yours again. “Yeah.”

You moved your hand slowly, feeling him hard and heavy in your palm, feeling the restraint in every line of his body. Jack’s fingers pressed into your waist.

“You’re sure?” Jack asked, his voice strained.

You nodded as you rose onto your knees. “I’m sure.”

He watched you as if he were trying to memorize you and survive you at the same time. You positioned yourself over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other still between your bodies, guiding him carefully. Jack’s hand spread over your hip.

“Go slow,” Jack said.

Your chest ached. You nodded. “Okay.”

Then you lowered yourself onto him. Slowly. Carefully. Enough that the first stretch made your breath catch and your fingers tighten on his shoulder. Jack’s eyes locked on yours. His jaw went tight. His hand stayed steady at your hip, there to ground you, not move you.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded, but the nod wasn’t enough. You made yourself breathe.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your skin. “Take your time.”

You sank down another inch, the water rocking around you, heat opening through your body in slow, overwhelming waves. Your forehead dropped to his. Jack’s breath shook against your lips.

“Still okay?” Jack asked.

Your eyes closed. “Yeah.”

His voice was rough. “Look at me.”

You opened your eyes. The second you did, something in his face cracked open. Not control. Not exactly. Something underneath it. You kept your eyes on his as you took the rest of him. Slow. Deep.

Intentional.

By the time you were fully seated, your body pressed close to his beneath the water, neither of you spoke for a second. Jack’s hands were on you. Your hands were on him. His breathing was not steady anymore. Neither was yours.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said softly.

A laugh almost broke out of you, but it turned into something shakier. You touched his face. “Good?”

Jack looked at you like the question had personally offended him. “Good?”

Your mouth curved, breathless. “Answer the question.”

His hand slid up your back, pulling you close enough that your chest pressed to his. “So fucking good.”

The words moved through you like heat. You kissed him because you needed to. Jack kissed you back, open-mouthed and slow, one hand at the back of your neck while the other held your waist. You did not move yet. You only sat there with him inside you, adjusting to the fullness, to the warmth, to the terrible tenderness of his body under yours.

It should have felt like too much. Maybe it was. But too much did not feel like danger here. Too much felt like Jack’s hand on your back. Too much felt like his mouth at your cheek. Too much felt like warm water and locked doors and his voice asking before he took anything.

You kissed him again.

This time, when your hips moved, it was deliberate.

A slow lift.

A slow sink.

The water moved with you, quiet and warm around your bodies. Jack’s grip tightened at your waist, but he still let you set the pace. You moved again. His head fell back against the wall.

“Fuck,” Jack said, low and wrecked.

The sound went through you.

You made love to him in warm water, in the bathroom built around his body, in the quiet of the house where he had tried so hard to stay ready for danger.

And for once, neither of you was braced for impact. You were not running. He was not standing guard. You were just there. Your hands in his hair. His mouth on your throat. Your hips moving over his.

His voice rough in your ear every time he told you to breathe, every time he said your name, every time his hand spread over your back like he could hold the whole moment still if he tried hard enough.

The pace stayed slow.

It had to.

The tub did not allow for frantic, and neither of you seemed to want frantic anyway. Every movement was smaller here, deeper because of it. Your knees pressed into the warm surface beneath the water. Your arms stayed around his neck. His hands stayed on you, one at your waist and one firm between your shoulder blades, keeping you close without forcing the rhythm.

You lifted your hips, then sank back down.

Jack’s breath broke against your throat.

“Fuck,” Jack said, his voice low and wrecked.

The sound went through you.

You moved again, slow enough to feel everything. The stretch. The heat. The way his body filled yours. The way his fingers tightened when you took him deeper. The way his restraint shook but did not vanish.

You pressed your mouth to his temple.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His hand slid up your spine.

“I know,” Jack said against your skin.

You pulled back enough to see his face. “You don’t know what I was going to say.”

His eyes opened, dark and unguarded. “I know how you said my name.”

Your chest ached.

You kissed him because you had to.

Jack met you halfway, his mouth warm and open beneath yours. The kiss was messy now, not careless, but less controlled than before. Water shifted around your hips with every slow movement. Steam clung to your skin. His damp hair slid between your fingers when you tightened your hand in it.

You moved over him again.

Jack groaned into your mouth.

The sound made you clench around him.

His hand tightened at your waist, and his head tipped back against the wall for half a second before he dragged himself back to you.

“There,” Jack said, his voice rough with recognition. “Just like that.”

The words went through you hot.

Not a command that took anything away.

Permission.

Grounding.

His voice telling you he was there, he had you, he wanted you to have this.

You moved again.

Then again.

For once, being seen did not make you want to disappear. It did not make your body feel like something under inspection, something judged, something that could betray you by being visible.

Jack looked at you like your body was not evidence.

Not of fear.

Not of what had happened.

Not of what someone else had tried to take from you.

He looked at you like your body was where you lived.

Like he was grateful you had let him come close.

Your breath shook.

You pressed your hand to his chest.

“You make me feel safe,” you said before you could lose the nerve.

Jack went still beneath your hands.

His eyes lifted to yours, and the heat in them changed into something that looked almost wounded.

You shook your head before he could speak. “No, I need you to hear me.”

Jack swallowed. “I’m listening.”

Your hand stayed over his heart. “You do.”

His jaw tightened.

You moved closer, close enough that the water shifted around your bodies, close enough that the movement made both of you breathe harder.

“And you make me feel good,” you said.

Jack’s breath caught.

You held his gaze. “Not just this.”

His hand spread wider over your back.

You touched his chest, then your own, because the words mattered too much to leave vague.

“Not just your hands,” you said. “You make me feel good in my body again.”

Jack looked at you like you had put your hand somewhere more dangerous than his skin.

Like you had reached right into the place he kept locked down, careful and armed.

His voice came out rough. “Sweetheart.”

You nodded once, your throat tight. “I mean it.”

Jack’s hand rose from your waist to the back of your neck. He did not pull you in. He just held you there, his thumb resting below your ear, his touch almost unbearably gentle.

“That’s all I want,” Jack said. “For you to feel safe with me.”

“I do,” you said.

His eyes searched yours like he needed to believe it and was afraid of needing anything that badly.

You said it again, softer but steadier. “I do, Jack.”

His mouth found yours.

The kiss was different this time. Not harder. Deeper. Like the words had gone somewhere neither of you could take them back from. You felt him everywhere. His hand at your neck. His palm against your back. His chest under yours. The heat of him through the water. The steady, careful strength of him beneath all that tenderness.

Your hips moved again, almost without permission. Jack broke the kiss on a rough breath, his forehead pressing to yours.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice low and strained. “That’s it.”

Your hands slid into his damp hair.

His hand moved back to your waist, steadying you as you found the rhythm again. Small. Deep. Devastating. The water moved with you, quiet and warm around your bodies. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face, even when his own control looked thin enough to tear. His jaw was tight. His breathing was uneven. His hands flexed and settled, flexed and settled, as if he were reminding himself over and over that this was yours too.

You kissed him hard.

He groaned into your mouth.

The sound pushed you closer.

Your hips lost their rhythm for a second, and Jack’s hand slid lower, steadying you at your waist.

“Easy,” Jack said.

You shook your head, breathless. “I’m close.”

His expression changed. Heat and tenderness moved through him at once.

“Yeah?” Jack asked, his voice wrecked.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “Good.”

Your body tightened around him. His eyes closed for half a second, and when they opened again, they were almost too much to look at.

“Let me feel it,” Jack said.

The words broke something open. Your arms locked around his neck. Your face pressed into the side of his. The pleasure hit slow and deep at first, then all at once, building in you until your thighs trembled under the water and your breath caught on his name.

“There you are,” Jack said, rough against your cheek.

The words slipped under your skin.

Not finding you after fear this time. Finding you in pleasure. Finding you in your own body. Finding you because you had chosen to be there. You shook against him, hips still moving in tiny, helpless motions while the pleasure kept building in you. Jack’s hand spread wide over your back.

“That’s it,” Jack said, his voice low and uneven.

You kissed his jaw, breathless and shaking. “Jack.”

His whole body tightened beneath yours. You felt him holding back. You felt it in his stomach under your palm, in his hand at your hip, in the rough edge of his breathing. You pulled back enough to look at him.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His eyes opened.

You touched his face. “Come with me.”

The words hit him hard. You saw it happen. His expression cracked open, heat and want and something dangerously close to devotion moving across his face before he could hide it.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, almost warning.

You moved your hips, slow and deliberate. “I want you to.”

His jaw tightened. “You sure?”

You held his gaze. “I’m choosing this.”

Everything stopped. Not your bodies. Not completely. But something in the room did. The words hung between you, warm and impossible to take back. Jack stared at you. Then his hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you like something precious and unbearable.

“Then I’m choosing you back,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. He kissed you before you could answer. Or maybe because you couldn’t. Jack kissed you like the words had finally given him somewhere to put everything he was not saying. His hand held the back of your neck. His other arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you closer without changing the careful rhythm of your hips.

You moved with him. Slow. Deep. Together.

Jack’s control slipped by degrees. A rougher breath. A broken sound against your mouth. His hand tightening at your back. His body going tense beneath yours. You stayed with him through every second of it, your forehead against his, your hands in his hair, your body wrapped around him in the warm water.

“Let go with me,” you whispered.

The pleasure broke through both of you at once, deep and slow and overwhelming. Your body tightened around him as he came beneath you, his breath breaking hard against your mouth, his hands holding you close while your own release rolled through you in warm, shaking waves.

Jack groaned your name into your mouth.

You answered with his, barely a sound, barely a word, more breath than language. For a few long seconds, there was only that. His body beneath yours. Your body around his. Warm water shifting around both of you. The two of you falling apart together and holding each other through it.

Jack’s hand stayed at the back of your neck. Your fingers stayed tangled in his damp hair.

Neither of you moved away.

For a while, neither of you seemed to remember how.

The water settled around your bodies in small, fading ripples. Steam clung to the mirror and softened the edges of the room. Jack’s hand stayed at the back of your neck, his thumb still resting beneath your ear like he had forgotten it was there.

Or like he had decided he was allowed to keep it there. Your forehead rested against his. His breathing was still uneven. So was yours. No one spoke for a minute. There was nothing useful to say. Your body was still wrapped around his. His body was still warm beneath yours. The place where you had both fallen apart together still seemed to hum under your skin, deep and quiet and impossible to name without making it too small.

Jack’s thumb moved once. You closed your eyes. The words were there again. Right there. Too close. Too easy. Too true.

You could feel them sitting behind your teeth, warm and terrifying.

Jack’s breath touched your mouth, and when you opened your eyes, he was already looking at you. Not expectant. Not demanding. Just there.

Like maybe he had words too. Like maybe his were just as close. Neither of you said them.

Jack’s hand slid from the back of your neck to the center of your back, slow and careful.

“Water’s getting cold,” Jack said, his voice still rough.

A small, helpless laugh left you. “That your professional opinion?”

His mouth curved faintly. “That’s your boyfriend trying not to let us turn into two hypothermic idiots in a bathtub.”

You tucked your face against his neck for one more second. “Romantic.”

Jack’s hand moved over your back. “Practical.”

You lifted your head. “You can be both.”

Something soft moved through his expression.

“Yeah?” Jack asked.

You nodded, touching his jaw with wet fingers. “Yeah.”

He looked at you for one more second, and there it was again. The thing neither of you said. Then Jack kissed you once, slow and warm and almost achingly gentle. When he pulled back, his mouth brushed yours.

“Come on,” Jack said quietly. “Let’s get you warm.”

You gave him a look. “Me?”

His eyebrow lifted. “You’re naked in cooling bathwater.”

“You are also naked in cooling bathwater,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m aware.”

You shifted carefully, and his hands steadied you without gripping too hard. Your body protested the movement in small, tender ways, and Jack noticed because, of course, he did.

His hand paused at your hip.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded, your palm braced against his shoulder. “Yeah. Just…”

His gaze warmed. “Yeah.”

Heat moved up your neck. “Don’t look smug,” you said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed with tired amusement. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly,” you said.

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

You moved carefully off him, settling back into the water with a shaky breath. “I learned from the best.”

Jack watched you for another second, his face open in a way that made your chest ache. Then he reached for the drain. The water began to pull away in a quiet swirl. You climbed out first, stepping carefully onto the nonslip mat. Your legs felt unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with fear, and that realization made something warm and fragile bloom in your chest.

Jack noticed. He did not make it a thing. He only reached for the folded towel on the shelf and held it out to you.

“Here,” Jack said.

You took it from him. “Thank you.”

Jack braced one hand on the grab bar and shifted toward the side door of the tub. “You’re welcome.”

You wrapped the towel around yourself while he moved, practiced, and steady, opening the side door and reaching for the crutches where they leaned against the wall. You let him do his thing. No hovering. No fussing. Just staying. Jack got himself out with a controlled breath, water sliding over his skin and dripping onto the mat. He reached for the second towel, and you handed it to him before he had to ask. His eyes flicked to yours.

“Thanks,” Jack said.

You leaned against the counter, towel tucked around your body. “You’re welcome.”

He dried himself with efficient, tired movements, then rubbed the towel over his hair until it stuck up worse than before. You stared at him.

Jack lowered the towel. “What?”

Your mouth curved. “Your hair.”

He glanced toward the fogged mirror like that would help. “What about it?”

“It’s terrible,” you said.

Jack gave you a dry look. “You just had your hands in it.”

You lifted one shoulder. “That was before it became a structural problem.”

His mouth twitched. “A structural problem.”

You nodded solemnly. “Severe.”

Jack shook his head and reached for his crutches. “I’m wounded.”

You touched his arm as he passed you, light and brief. “You’re handsome.”

He stopped. The words had come out softer than you meant them to. Jack looked down at you, all warm skin and tired eyes and damp hair, and the humor faded around the edges.

“Yeah?” Jack asked quietly.

You held his gaze. “Yeah.”

His jaw worked once. Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead. Jack’s towel was still wrapped low around his waist. Yours was tucked around your chest. The bathroom was warm, damp, and quiet around you. 

You turned toward the sink and reached for the little pouch you had shoved into your overnight bag. Cleanser. Moisturizer. A toothbrush. The small, ordinary pieces of yourself you had packed when you left your apartment because you did not know how long you would be gone.

Jack stayed near the wall, crutches tucked under his arms, watching with a softness that made the room feel warmer than the steam did.

You set your things on the counter. Cleanser beside the sink. Moisturizer next to it. Toothbrush near his. The sight of it made something in your chest go quiet. Not empty. Quiet. Like your body had been waiting for ordinary and did not know what to do now that it had found some.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the little line of your things on his counter. His mouth softened.

“What?” you asked, glancing at him.

Jack looked back at you. “Nothing.”

You gave him a look. His mouth twitched. “Fine. Not nothing.”

You reached for the cleanser. “That’s what I thought.”

Jack shifted his weight on the crutches, comfortable enough with them that the movement looked automatic. “I like this.”

Your fingers stilled over the cap. “My skincare?”

Jack nodded once, serious enough to make it funny. “Riveting.”

You laughed under your breath. “Shut up.”

His expression softened. “This. You. Doing your stuff in here.”

Your fingers tightened around the cleanser. Jack looked away first, like he had said more than he meant to.

You turned on the faucet and let the water warm. “You like me taking up counter space?”

Jack’s gaze came back to yours. “Yeah.”

Your throat went tight. He said it simply. Like it was not a confession. Like it did not land in the middle of you and stay there. You splashed warm water over your face, rubbed cleanser between your palms, and worked it over your skin. The mirror was too fogged to show you clearly.

Jack stayed quiet. Not bored. Not impatient. Just watching. You rinsed your face and patted it dry with a hand towel.

“This is going to get annoying,” you said, reaching for your moisturizer.

Jack leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall. “What is?”

You squeezed moisturizer onto your fingertips. “Me. My stuff. My little routines. The fact that I use counter space like I pay rent here.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Good.”

You paused. “Good?”

Jack nodded. “Good.”

You rubbed moisturizer into your skin slowly, giving your hands something to do. “You say that now.”

“I’ll say it later too,” Jack said.

The words came out too easy. Too sure. Your hand slowed against your cheek. Jack held your gaze through the fogged mirror, and there it was again. The almost. The not-yet. The thing neither of you had named because naming it would change the shape of the room.

You looked down and capped the moisturizer before it could slip out of you. Jack let you. He did not chase the words. He did not ask for them. That was part of what made you want to give them to him. You put your moisturizer back into the pouch and reached for your toothbrush. Jack huffed quietly.

You looked at him. “What?”

His mouth curved. “You brought your own toothpaste.”

You glanced down at the tiny tube. “Yes.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t trust mine?”

You picked up the toothpaste. “Your fridge has three mustards and emotional damage.”

“That has nothing to do with my toothpaste,” Jack said.

“It speaks to your decision-making,” you said.

Jack stared at you. You stared back. Then his mouth twitched.

“You’re a menace,” Jack said.

You squeezed toothpaste onto your toothbrush. “You invited me.”

His face softened again. “I did.”

You brushed your teeth while Jack stayed there, damp and tired and watching you like the world had narrowed down to this ridiculous, ordinary thing. You. Barefoot in his bathroom. Your toothbrush beside his sink. Your moisturizer on his counter. Your body warm from the bath and him. His body finally loose enough to rest.

When you rinsed and set your toothbrush down beside his, the gesture felt small. It also felt enormous. Jack looked at it. Then he looked at you.

“There she is,” Jack said softly.

Your chest tightened. The callback hit differently here, with your face clean and your body still warm from him. Not in the ER. Not after catching a stroke. Not while proving you could stand. Here. In his bathroom. Doing ordinary things.

You looked at him through the mirror. “You keep saying that.”

Jack held your gaze. “I keep meaning it.”

Your heart turned over. The words came close again. Too close. You picked up your pouch and zipped it slowly.

“We should get dressed,” you said.

Jack’s gaze dipped once, then returned to your face. “Probably.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Probably?”

His mouth curved. “I’m being responsible.”

“You’re being something,” you said.

Jack pushed off the wall with his crutches. “Come on.”

You gathered your pouch and followed him back into the bedroom. The room felt cooler after the bathroom, the air touching your damp skin and making you shiver. Jack noticed immediately.

He moved toward the dresser. “Shirt?”

You pulled your towel tighter around yourself. “Please.”

Jack opened a drawer and tossed a soft, worn T-shirt onto the bed. Then he reached into another drawer for clean boxer briefs and a pair of loose shorts.

You picked up the shirt and held it against your chest. “Is this one emotionally available?”

Jack glanced at it. “That shirt has seen some shit.”

You smiled. “So no.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “It’s trying.”

You slipped the shirt over your head while he turned slightly to give you privacy, even after everything. Maybe because of everything. The fabric fell soft against your skin and smelled like detergent and Jack. 

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Across the room, Jack moved with the same practical steadiness as before. He got dressed without ceremony, using the bed and the dresser for balance when he needed to, crutches within reach, his movements slower now that the bath had pulled the worst of the tension out of him.

When you turned back, Jack had his sleep shorts on and was reaching for a T-shirt. You stepped forward before he could pull it over his head.

“Wait,” you said.

Jack paused, shirt in hand. “What?”

You touched his shoulder, then his chest, just once. Not to start anything. Not to ask for more. Just because you could. Just because he was there. Just because his body had been sore and guarded and then warm beneath yours, and now he was standing in front of you in the quiet room, letting himself be seen. Jack’s gaze softened.

You let your hand fall. “Okay.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Okay?”

You nodded. “You can put the shirt on.”

Jack looked amused and wrecked at the same time. “Thank you for the permission.”

You stepped back. “You’re welcome.”

He pulled the shirt on, and somehow that felt intimate too. The covering. The returning to ordinary. The choosing to keep going after the unbearable softness instead of pretending it had not happened. Jack set the crutches near his side of the bed, close enough to reach, then sat carefully on the mattress. The movement looked easier now, less guarded, but you still saw the fatigue catch up to him once he was down. He rubbed a hand over his face.

You walked to your side of the bed. “You okay?”

Jack lowered his hand and gave you a tired look. “Yes.”

You lifted your eyebrows. His expression softened. “Actually yes.”

Your chest loosened. “Good,” you said.

Jack pulled back the blankets. “Come here.”

You climbed into bed beside him. The sheets were cool at first, then warm where his body settled close. Jack shifted onto his side, and you turned with him, fitting yourself against him with your back to his chest. His arm came around your waist, not tight, just there. His hand settled over your stomach.

Warm. Heavy. Careful.

You covered it with your own. For a while, the room was quiet. Your work bag was still downstairs. The protective order was still printed and folded inside it.

The next hearing was still coming. Your apartment was still waiting to be reclaimed. Trent still existed somewhere outside this house, angry and contained and not gone.

None of it had disappeared.

But Jack’s bed was warm. His body was loose behind yours in a way you had not seen all week. His breathing was steady against the back of your neck.

And your body—

Your body did not feel like evidence.

Not tonight. Not after his hands. Not after warm water. Not after the way he had looked at you, like being wanted and being safe could live in the same place.

Your body felt tired. Sore in the softest places. Clean.

Yours.

You tightened your fingers over his.

Jack’s mouth brushed the back of your neck.

“Sleep,” Jack murmured.

You let your eyes close. “Bossy.”

His hand spread gently over your stomach. “Tired.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Work tired?”

Jack’s breath warmed your skin. “Good tired.” 

Your chest ached. There it was again. The almost. The not-yet. The love sitting quietly in the dark between you, patient and warm and no less real because neither of you had named it.

You did not say it. Jack did not say it either. But his hand stayed over yours. Your body stayed tucked against his.

And when sleep finally pulled you under, it did not feel like surrender.

It felt like choosing to rest.

“Shh shh shh,” Ari cooed, his hand on your belly giving a gentle pet before it slowly started to descend. 

You gasped sharply as his touch slid between your thighs, as he cupped your cunt through your jeans and panties as his teeth caught your earlobe and gave a warning nip. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Ari husked. “You won’t fall victim to my usual methods. It would be such a waste, and I have a much better idea for keeping you occupied and out of trouble.”

You could only whimper and squirm as Ari–this man you didn’t even know, who you had only just meant mere moments ago–popped open the button on your jeans and stuffed his big hand down the front of your pants and panties like he had every right to.

His fingers were thick and rough as they teased along your cunt. When his touch glanced off your clit for the first time, you gave a startled cry that had you going rigid in Ari’s lap.

“Oh, I liked that sound, sweetheart, give me another.”

His touch grew more intentional then–more wicked. It seemed like it took him no time at all, and barely any effort, to have you creaming all over his fingers and begging him to make you cum. 

Because it had been so long since you had been touched like this–especially by someone who knew what they were doing, who was so confident and scary in a way that made your body tingle. 

You could feel the rock hard length of Ari press along the small of your back, and you could only imagine the way he ached, but still, he kept all of his focus and intent on you.

“God, look at you, honey, you’re like putty in my hands, so needy and desperate for it, huh?” 

You whined at the deep baritone of Ari’s voice, at his seductive words, at that delightful pull pulsing deep within you, feeling like a live wire as pleasure and the cusp of ecstasy danced all along your body from head to toe. 

You arched your back in desperation, shameless now as you rutted against Ari’s touch, moaning loudly and without reserve as he shoved two thick fingers deep inside your cunt and began to rub along your sensitive walls.

Sounds that could only be described as primal and desperate began to fall from your lips as you curled your fingers into Ari’s thick thighs beneath you, inching closer and closer to the height of your pleasure. 

“You wanna cum, sweetheart?” Ari rumbled against the curve of your jaw.

“Yes!”

“You gonna be good for me?” he asked. “You gonna promise to keep that cute little nose where it belongs and out of our business?”

“Uh huh,” you replied without hesitance, not really comprehending Ari’s words but also willing to agree to anything in this moment if it meant getting what you wanted–being able to cum, to completely unravel in the best way. 

His fingers went at you harder, making you keen and bow against him. Just before you fully ascended, only a swipe or two of Ari’s thumb against your clit away from falling apart entirely–from surrendering to the type of toe-curling pleasure you knew you’d remember for days–Ari stopped. 

“Nooo!” you whined as his fingers suddenly retreated from you entirely, leaving your poor body taut and woefully, horrifically unsatisfied. 

“Only good girls get to cum, and you gotta earn that privilege, trouble,” Ari husked against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your warm cheek before he shifted you off of his lap then poured himself to his feet. 

You gaped up at him in utter shock–in visceral betrayal–as Ari adjusted the bulge at the front of his jeans before shooting you a smirk and wink combo. 

And then you could only stare after him as he turned and sauntered out the back door of your business, leaving you dazed, angry, and mourning the loss of what you knew would have been an incredible orgasm.

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath, glowering at the memory. 

And yet–you hadn’t stuck your nose where it didn’t belong since. 

You weren’t sure if it was from fear and self-preservation, or if maybe you were hiding and didn’t want to draw any more unwanted attention your way. 

Maybe you had learned the lesson Ari and his boss had wanted to teach you. 

You crumpled today’s high tea menu in your hand at the very thought–being schooled, by anyone, let alone a couple of criminals. Then you frowned as you quickly tried to straighten out the wrinkles in the beige paper. The color of it, and the font printed on it, were a play on a book, since that was kind of your schtick.

Books & Brews. 

Aka your baby. Your dream business that spawned from a combination of two of your passions–tea and books. 

It was such a niche and novelty sort of business, that you hadn’t been able to secure any investors when you were first starting out. No one had believed in you and your dream except you, which honestly only made it all the sweeter now that it was such a success. 

All it had taken was a couple of online influencers having high tea in your cute little shop, and raving about the food, tea, and book selection, and you had pretty much gone viral overnight. 

And never looked back. 

That was why you were so mad about the utter bullshit that had moved in next door. 

This was a nice neighborhood. Safe. Family friendly. You had repeat customers that you loved. You hosted kids’ birthday parties, bridal showers, all types of milestone events. 

If word got out that the fucking mob had moved in next door, you knew it would pretty much be a death sentence for Books & Brews. 

“Ugh!” You tried to shake that thought–and all the thoughts like it–from your mind. Because then you would get mad. And start to spiral. You would get stupid protective over your business and all of your self-preservation would go out the window. 

And now you knew what happened when that was the case. 

So! Screw organized criminals and their unwanted neighbor status. 

You had a successful dream business to run.

Speaking of… the little bell over the front door cheerfully jingled the arrival of new guests, and you straightened from leaning against the checkout counter, a smile already curling your lips. 

But it instantly fell as you watched two figures step inside your shop. Although one was a total stranger to you, the other was familiar as hell–because it was Ari.

You hated that your first thought upon seeing him was that he was so ridiculously hot. So big and beefy. His worn denim button up shirt bulged with his muscles, his dark, wiry chest hair sticking out the top where quite a few buttons were undone. He was wearing another pair of those criminally tight jeans and–

Stop staring, you internally screamed at yourself when you caught sight of Ari’s arrogant smirk. 

Because he had totally caught you ogling. 

You made a face at him before rounding the counter, puffing up a little as your narrowed gaze shifted from him to the man beside him. 

He wasn’t as tall or thick as Ari, but he was no slouch either in his obviously expensive suit and equally handsome features. He had fair skin, dark floofy hair that was perfectly styled, and a thick beard that was just as neatly trimmed. His eyes were an electric blue, and although they glittered with amusement as they met your fiery gaze, there was something about them that was too hard to be genuine. 

Despite the charming smile spreading across his lips, there was an air of ruthlessness to him that you could see from a mile away. 

And you knew that this man, he was the boss. Of Ari. Of the new “business” next door. Of an entire mob empire you wanted nothing to do with. 

You also knew that he–and Ari–were ones not to be messed with, but they had your hackles rising so quickly, that it was like all logic evaporated from your brain as you marched right up to them, crossed your arms over your chest, and stared Ari’s boss down without care. 

“You’re not welcome here,” you said firmly, giving yourself a mental high five at how confident you sounded. 

The stranger’s eyes only twinkled more, a quiet chuckle spilling from his lips as he ignored your statement entirely and introduced himself. “Andy Barber,” he didn’t try to shake your hand, instead looking away from you as his gaze drifted around your small shop, which was a little quiet at the moment.  

“What a… charming little place you have here,” he observed, and you knew just from his tone and delivery that he didn’t mean it as a compliment. 

He meant for it to be condescending–to insult you and your business and put you in your place–but it had quite the opposite effect. Instead, it had you firing off your sassy response before you could think better of it–or realize just how closely Ari was watching you, awaiting your reaction like a teacher surveying their student’s progress. 

“Certainly more charming than illegal activity and shady business associates,” you smiled beatifically, meeting Andy’s suddenly steely gaze without flinching. “But what’s a little murder and mayhem, as long as you don’t get caught, right?”

“Careful, neighbor,” Andy tutted, but his lips were curled in amusement, his eyes flickering with a hint of respect as he watched you. 

For some reason, you got the sense that Andy wasn’t used to people mouthing off to him, that it was a rare novelty in fact, and he was actually enjoying it as you death stared him and tried to turn him away from your doorstep. 

Him. 

“We’ll stay for lunch,” he decided instead, stepping past you and picking the empty table of his choice without waiting for your response. 

“You need a reservation,” you huffed, spinning on your heel and storming after him. 

And, okay, while you did appreciate reservations, especially for larger parties, you never actually turned anyone away. 

But today, for him—for both of them—it was an exception that you were willing to make. 

“As luck would have it,” Andy hummed, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I have my reservation right here.” He pulled out his wallet, flipping it open and plucking out a few crisp hundred dollar bills before tossing them on the edge of the table in front of you. 

Which only made you seethe more. 

“I don’t want your blood money,” you whisper!hissed, aware of the two small parties across the room, enjoying their high tea service. 

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Andy smirked at the way your nose wrinkled at the pet name. “I left my blood money wallet at home today. That’s legit and legal revenue.” 

Clenching your hands into fists at your sides, you were just about to tell Andy where he could shove his legal revenue when you suddenly felt a searing heat at your back. 

“Be nice, trouble,” Ari murmured against your ear, his big hands falling to your hips and giving a warning squeeze that had you gasping and your body instantly lighting up at his touch. “Or else.” 

You spun around, smacking his hands away from you before trying to shove him out of your space. “I am at work! Maybe that aspect of your life isn’t important to you, but to me, it means everything, and I don’t need you pawing me in public, asshole.”

Andy’s bark of laughter surprised both you and Ari, and it also gave you a reason to look away from the scary displeased look Ari was aiming your way. 

“And here I thought she’d be cowed and welcoming after your visit the other night,” Andy smirked, plucking one of the fancy linen napkins from the table and arranging it over his lap. “Seems like you have some more work to do, Levinson.”

“Seems like.” Ari gritted, giving you a look so dark it had a chill racing up your spine as he shifted past you and sat in the seat across from Andy. 

For a moment, you were frozen, both from their combined audacity, and that look Ari had given you–a look that conveyed you were in deep shit and had your stomach sinking with regret. 

Which is why you could only stare at them dumbly for a beat–these two big, scary mobsters who were sitting in the middle of your cute, cozy tea shop bookstore, looking so painfully out of place that it was almost funny. 

Almost. 

Thankfully, the thick tension in the air was alleviated as one of your servers who tended to this section bounded over, looking excited to have a table to wait on. You forced a smile to mirror her own, stiffly nodding as she asked if these gentlemen were ready to be served. 

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” you muttered, ignoring the watchful stares of Andy and Ari as you turned on your heel, intending to stalk away. 

And maybe hide in your office until they were blessedly gone.

But the sound of Ari’s gravelly voice gave you pause, his words making your insides somehow wilt and flutter at the same time as he promised,  “See you soon, trouble.”

Feeling your mouth go dry, you didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him, but you did low key hate yourself as you all but scurried away. 

Desperate to be away from Ari and his boss, you cleared the main floor in record time before ducking down the back hallway. Once you were in your office, with the door shut tight behind you–and locked for good measure–you felt only the tiniest bit of relief. 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you sank back against the door, trying to get your rapid heart rate under control. As you felt anxiety–and something else, something that felt very much like anticipation–buzz along every inch of your body, you purposefully kept your gaze away from the small, worn sofa where all of this had started. 

And you tried like hell to shove down all the sinful, shameful memories of Ari that just the mere thought of it conjured in your frazzled mind.  

Raise your hand if you’re still in enforcer!Ari’s chokehold 🙋🏻‍♀️

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