L • 23

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mum would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windscreen.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

He’s standing on the other side of the yard, the sun overhead shining brightly, accentuating the gentle wisps of grey beginning in his dark hair. “You, uh…you did a real good job on those. They look nice.”

You adjust the butterfly, tugging gently on the top of the right wing. “Thanks. You think she’ll like them?”

Joel snorts. “‘Course she will. You kiddin’ me? ‘Specially if she finds out her momma made ‘em for her.”

The sentiment makes you smile. Sarah’s always been thoughtful. Kind and compassionate in the way only a ten year old girl can be, heart pure and untouched by the weight of the world. “Yeah, well—she deserves it. We did a real good job on her,” you say. “Even considering…you know.”

The separation. 

It was messy and painful and the worst thing you’ve ever endured. But a necessary evil. Because Joel was a perfect man by all rights, but being perfect and being present were two very different things. 

You excused it for a long time. Too long, truthfully. All those nights you’d spent alone when Sarah was having a sleepover, all those school milestones he missed; kindergarten graduation and her last soccer game of the season and the parent teacher conferences that had revealed she’d gotten straight A’s in second grade.

Joel had spent all that time working—building homes for other families while his wife was alone, all but begging him to come to dinner before eight just three days out of the week.

But he never did. Too focused on filling a bank account full of money he would never be home long enough to use. 

And one day, he’d gotten off of work well after ten to find your wedding ring on the kitchen table and a duffel bag full of your clothes missing from the closet.

And now, nearly three years after that fateful night, he’s staring at you from across the decorated back yard with too much affection in his eyes. He doesn’t say it, but you can feel it in his gaze. The warmth, the familiarity, the longing. “You ever think about it? ‘Bout…what we had?”

It’s a stupid question. Even after so long apart it’s still all you think about. Because when things were good, they were good. Joel was your best friend. Your protector, your provider, your lover. Everything you’d ever wanted in a man. 

Sweet and strong. A terrible cook, but he was the only one who’d ever gotten your coffee just right. The kind of husband who always added your favorite snacks to the grocery cart even if they weren’t on the list. Who kissed your forehead before work whether you were awake to know of it or not. Loyal as a dog, too. The kind of man who’d defend your name in a room you weren’t in, even now, even without the weight of a wedding band on your ring finger.

There were a million and one reasons you loved Joel Miller.

But what you needed was more of him. 

“Of course I do,” you admit, pointedly keeping your eyes on the decorations and fixing things that don’t need to be fixed. “Do you?”

You can hear him shift behind you. “I've only ever loved three people my whole life,” he says. And you know what’s coming next before he speaks, because it’s something he’s said for years, long before your marriage. “You’re top of the list.”

It makes your chest pull tight. Because even while you’d made the decision to put the softness of your own heart first, the love between you was never in question. 

And you still want him. Of course you do.

But what you deserve is a husband who shows up for you not just when you need him there, but when you want him there, too.

You swallow hard, trying to clear the emotion lodged at the back of your throat like a stone.

The sound of his boots is heavy, even in the plush summer grass. His presence demands to be felt, despite all your efforts to block it out.

With a trembling hand, you adjust the silver butterfly again. “Yeah,” you mutter, voice cracking. And then again, clearer this time. “Yeah, I know. I love you too, Joel. I think that goes without saying, doesn’t it? But I know what I deserve now, too.”

When you finally find the courage to turn and face him, your ears ring and your eyes grow watery. The expression on his face softens, and his hands twitch at his sides. A long-laid instinct to pull you in close, to soothe the ache in your heart in the ways only he could.

But he doesn’t.

And you admit, silently, internally, only to yourself—that you want him to. Want him to press a kiss to the top of your head and wrap his strong arms around you, enveloping you with his warmth. You want him to make you feel whole again, to tell you he’ll be different, that he’ll be better. 

“You’ve always deserved the world,” Joel whispers instead. “An’ every single day I regret not givin’ it to you, baby. M’sorry.”

His words are genuine. From an emotional place inside his chest that you used to have to beg for him to allow you to see. 

And now here he is, opening himself up to you, completely unprompted. 

Hope flickers like a flame in your heart. Bright and beautiful and tempting. 

You want to believe him. You do.

You search his face, trying to find a lie. Trying to find anything, anything to pull you back from the edge of this longing.

And then, like a sign from God, the glass door to the backyard slides open. 

“Good! I’m glad you’re both here.” Tess strolls onto the deck like she owns the place. As if this house wasn’t yours at one point. As if you hadn’t picked out the color of the backsplash in the kitchen and the lace curtains over the windows or the pale green rug at the front door.

But you remind yourself that Tess is…nice.

And that fact is proven when you notice the multi-colored gift bags draped over each of her arms. Neon yellows and purples and blues, stuffed with pink tissue paper.

Joel leaves your side to help her carry everything. Ever the gentleman.

You try not to roll your eyes. Remind yourself that all the theatrics are for your daughter. That today isn’t about you. It’s about Sarah, and if Tess cares about her enough to remember her birthday and buy her gifts, then maybe she isn’t so bad.

Tess sets all of her things on the ground near the cake table. She runs her hands down the front of her jeans and gives you a tight-lipped smile. “You think I overdid it?”

Yes, you want to say. There’s the smallest bit of pink tulle sticking out of one of the bags, and you want to mention that Sarah hates the way tulle feels and will recoil the moment the plasticky fabric touches her fingertips.

You clear your throat instead. “Uh, no! No. Not at all. Thank you? Yeah, thank you for一uhm…for remembering her birthday. How…thoughtful.” 

Joel coughs. And you know it’s an intentional sound, covering up an ill timed laugh. The air feels thick. Awkward and uncomfortable, and you think everything could be solved if only Tess would just leave.

“There’s drinks in the fridge,” Joel tells her. “Soda and beer. A couple of wine coolers. Feel free to help yourself. Tommy’s getting Sarah from her sleepover and pickin’ up pizza on the way here.”

Tess nods and you try not to notice how much warmer her voice is when she speaks to him. “Oh, perfect. It’ll be such a good day, she’ll love it,” she says.

Your eyes narrow and you tilt your head curiously. You hate when she does that一speaks as if she knows Sarah. Like they’re familiar, like she’s anything to your daughter except for her dad’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. “You don’t know that,” you say, masking the venom in your voice. “She might hate it.”

She won’t, but that’s not the point.

“I just meant…well, Sarah’s a really sweet girl. I’m sure she’ll just enjoy everyone being together,” Tess says softly. Reasonably. Actually kind, devoid of the bitter undertone your words possess.

It only makes you hate her more.

“Right.” The word comes out short. Clipped. A little sarcastic.

Silence lingers. Joel stands beside her, scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed on a strand of white wisteria and adamantly avoiding the altercation you’re encouraging.

Tess sighs, and then stares hard at the side of Joel’s face. “Well. I’m gonna grab a beer, you want one?”

Joel shakes his head. “Later. Thanks, though.” 

The moment she slips through the glass door and into the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone once more, you feel yourself deflate. “What if I wanted a beer? Not very considerate of her to offer to grab you one and not—”

A grin stretches across Joel’s face. One of those smiles he can’t help, one that reaches his eyes and has them crinkling around the corners. He shakes his head the moment you start speaking and cuts you off to say, “You hate beer.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.”

“Yes she does, we talk about you all the time.”

You scoff, the sound coming out both surprised and infuriated. “You talk about me? Why? I’m sure she’s got an awful lot to say about the bitter baby momma, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“What? I’m just asking! You guys don’t have anything better to talk about?”

“C’mon, now. Don’t get all crazy,” he says. But he still wears that smirk, like he’s enjoying himself, enjoying the show, and doesn’t tell you to relax or be nice. He doesn’t even try to.

“You can’t seriously expect me to like her, Joel. She’s coming to our daughter’s birthday party while shacking up with my ex husband—”

His mirth falls, replaced with an air of seriousness. “I’m not your ex husband,” he insists. “I never signed those papers.”

“Semantics,” you say.

But Joel’s face contorts further, and though he passes it off as irritation you can see the injury behind his eyes. Can see the way your words hurt him. “No,” he says, voice firm. “We might be separated for now but I’m still your husband.”

His gaze feels heavy, piercing.

You don’t want to argue. And it is technically true, anyway. So you turn your attention away from him, unwilling to feel that longing so acutely, wishing the goosebumps on the back of your neck away. “Okay,” you concede, the softness returning to your voice. “I’m sorry.”

Not long after, Tommy pulls up in the driveway. You and Joel stand on the front porch, and Sarah’s launching herself out of the back seat before Tommy fully turns the engine off.

“Momma!” Her hair shifts around her ears as she runs to you, throwing her arms around your waist and burying her face into the softness of your belly.

It was Joel’s week to have her, so you haven’t seen her pretty face since the family dinner Wednesday night, and you swear she’s grown two inches in the last three days.

Everything feels more at ease the moment she’s in your hands. The Earth feels brighter, warmer. “Happy birthday, sweet pea! Did you have a good time with Ellie? You guys get to go swimming like you wanted?”

She nods and takes a step back. “We did! And look, look!” Sarah lifts her arm to show you the blue and white pony bead bracelet on her wrist. “We made friendship bracelets too!”

You run your hands through her hair and sing your praises like you always do, listening intently while she recounts each moment of the sleepover to you.

Tommy carries three pizzas inside, and you and Sarah follow him to the kitchen. She’s flipping open the container and pulling a slice right from the box, still talking animatedly around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.

You turn to grab a plate from the cupboard, but Joel’s already got one in hand, passing it to you to give to Sarah.

It feels seamless. Routine. The two of you working together, around each other, with each other.

Try as you might to focus on Sarah’s words, all you can think about is the rough texture of Joel’s hand as it brushes yours and lingers a second too long.

You can feel it in that touch. The want. The longing. The despair.

The remnants of your conversation in the backyard lingers in the back of your head. I’m still your husband, he’d said. 

And despite how badly you wanted to hate him and allow yourself to be free, he was never an evil man, just an absent one.

Tess speaks behind you. Something about how she knows Ellie’s mom from work. And it reminds you that while you might still be stuck, right where you were three years ago when you left him, Joel already has someone else. Someone to fill the gap you’d left behind. 

“Can you get me some water, mom?”

Sarah. The day is about Sarah, you remind yourself. Not about you or Joel or the goddamn mistress he invited to your child’s birthday party.

You smile and shake the tension from your bones. “‘Course I can.”

The five of you eat together at the dinner table, and truth be told Tess’s presence isn’t a bad one. You think, in another life, you might even like her. Sometimes she makes quick quips towards Tommy and you find yourself actually laughing. 

But dinner comes to a sudden halt the moment Sarah’s standing to dump her plate in the sink and her eye catches on the glint of a silver butterfly in the back yard. 

She’s a gasping, giggling mess of a girl as she takes in all the decorations, running her small fingers over each strand of wisteria. She takes a running leap in an attempt to touch the streamers overhead but is still just a hair too short at ten—now eleven years old.

Joel lifts her onto his shoulders so she can grab at them, and she spends the next five minutes directing him like a train conductor around the back yard.

It makes your chest pull tight, watching it all unfold. Joel’s always been the best father—before and after the separation. Sarah is the one thing the two of you have done right.

When she’s ready to open her gifts, Joel sets her in the center of the folding table and everyone gathers around her. Sarah chooses the gift wrapped in paper decorated with moons and stars first—your gift.

You try not to feel so smug about it, watching her sift through all the glittering bags from Tess to find yours. 

She peels the paper back to uncover the collectors edition box set of the Dawn of the Wolf books, and is so excited she’s nearly jumping off the table to throw herself into your arms. “How did you know I wanted this one? I’ve been looking for these!”

“Lucky guess,” you say, but she’s mentioned them half a dozen times since the final movie came out in theaters, and they’ve been sitting in the back of your closet for months.

Sarah chooses one of Tess’s gifts next, unearthing a glittering princess tiara. And though Sarah has never once in her life been much of a princess girl (with the singular exception of Mulan), she smiles anyway and says. “Thank you, Tess. It’s very pretty.”

But then proceeds to turn to you, eyes wide and brows raised. She lowers her tone and asks, “Momma, do I have to wear this?”

You try not to laugh. Really, you do. But a snort comes out anyway and you can feel Joel’s pointed stare as you gently take the tiara from Sarah’s hands. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do, baby.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between everyone, but you don’t care. Not when Sarah’s relief is physical and instantaneous, shoulders dropping as she’s unburdened by the sudden expectation. 

“Alright, mine next,” Joel interjects. He hands her a white gift bag that has silver stars on it and she’s tearing into it the moment she can, discarding the tissue paper into the growing pile beside her. 

She gasps as she pulls out the Dawn of the Wolf movie set. Blu-ray discs, even. Every one of them all wrapped up in clear cellophane packaging with a limited edition poster inside.

It’s an uncoordinated gift. As much a surprise to you as it is to her.

That feeling of longing rears its persistent head again, because you miss that harmony you once had. The two of you used to exist together not as two separate people but as an extension of each other.

You used to be so close. He used to be more than your husband, more than the father of your child—Joel was your best friend.

And seeing that harmony you once possessed displayed in such a clear, tangible way, completely unprompted? It has emotion welling up in your throat.

Sarah opens the remainder of her gifts. From Tess, all pink princess-themed dresses and skirts and things that will rot at the back of her closet. But Sarah grimaces and says thank you through it all. 

Tommy’s gift comes last. And thank god for it—because the moment he pulls it from the back of Joel’s truck, Sarah forgets all about princess tiaras and Dawn of the Wolf. 

“Oh my God! Are you serious?! This is mine?! Uncle Tommy!”

Everyone watches with toothy grins as he passes her an electric guitar. The body is glittering teal with an ivory fretboard, child sized to accommodate her eleven year old hands.

It’s the very same one that hangs in the window of the music shop downtown. The one she eyes every time Joel takes her there to pick up a fresh set of strings. 

Tommy laughs and kneels down in front of her. “Now, I know your old man ain’t cool enough to rock n’ roll. But he can get you started teachin’ you the basics on his old man guitar, hm?”

Sarah giggles and turns to give Joel the widest smile. “Dad! It’s called an old man guitar? You told me it was called an acoustic!”

It makes everyone laugh, and your heart swells in your chest. So overwhelmingly full with love and affection you fear it might burst. The sun is shining and your baby is safe and happy and healthy and Tommy’s making stupid jokes and Joel has his hand splayed on the small of your back.

The touch is grounding. Not inherently intimate, just…affectionate. Filled with the type of love that warms you but burns around the edges.

You lean into his side out of pure instinct, and when he rests his cheek on the top of your head, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to kiss him.

And it would be so easy. Just to tilt your head back, to smile and press your lips to his. Quick, but full of all the words left unsaid; I love you, and I always have, and I always will.

But you can feel Tess and her heavy stare from across the yard. And when you meet her eyes, you’re surprised to find no trace of resentment there. No anger, no fury. Just…understanding. And perhaps a bit of sadness, too.

Tess was also newly divorced when she met Joel, you know. A quick friendship that had slowly evolved into more. You wonder now, for the very first time, what it must be like for her. How it felt to watch you interact with Joel, how it felt each and every time your jealousy ran a little wild, how much strength it must have taken her to never respond to your cruelty with the same energy.

Guilt slithers like a python between your ribs as you come to the realization that she’s just trying to figure all this out, too. The same way you are.

Tommy helps Sarah lift the guitar strap over her shoulder. And the moment it’s secure, she’s running up to you and Joel and all but begging him to teach her to play a song.

And Joel obliges, of course. Grabs the acoustic guitar he’d hand-made out of spruce wood years ago and within a few short minutes, they’re sitting side by side on the back porch. The sight of them brings a kind of peace to your heart that feels indescribable.

You slip soundlessly inside to start cleaning up. Picking up the empty dishes and half-filled glasses from the table and carrying them to the sink in the kitchen.

Tess saddles up to your side with a hand towel and an easy smile. “Want some help?”

When your brows furrow, it’s on instinct. A knee-jerk reaction. You think about the words that threaten to spill from behind your teeth. More cruelty, more short words. No, I don’t need your help. I’ve got it handled.

But then you remember the way she’d looked at you and think better of it. Swallow down your dislike and instead say, “Uhm. Yeah…sure. Thank you.”

You turn on the warm water and lather the sponge in that god-awful dollar store dish soap he’s been buying since you left.

Tess doesn’t speak. Not right away. She just takes the washed and rinsed dish from your hand when you offer it to her and dries it in silence. She moves around the kitchen with a familiar sort of ease that would bother you.

Well. It does bother you. Because once this was your kitchen, too. You who decided which cabinet to put the cups in. You who organized the spices. You who picked out the stainless steel stove. Your kitchen. Your house. Your husband.

But you try not to let it show. Because she doesn’t deserve to be punished for what was ultimately a decision you made. And she’s never crossed any boundaries. Has always been good to your daughter. Good to Joel.

“You’re a great mom,” she suddenly says, sticking a dry plate on top of the existing stack in the cupboard. “You’re definitely that girl’s favorite person in the whole world.”

As sweet as the sentiment is, it makes you snort. “I think today it might be Uncle Tommy who’s her favorite.”

Tess smiles, but shakes her head. “Nah. She talks about you like you put the stars in the sky,” she explains. And then her voice gets a little lighter, as she says, “You know, the first time I met her the three of us went out for ice cream. And you wanna know the first thing she said to me?”

You’d known about the ice cream and about Sarah meeting Tess. Joel had introduced the two of you months prior, and refused to even tell Sarah about Tess without your explicit consent. As much as you hated it at the time, it had been handled with respect. But Joel had never given details, just said that it had gone well. That it seemed like Sarah had fun. “What did she say?”

“We sat at that picnic table and she looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘my mommy smells way better than you.’”

A crease forms between your brows and you turn to face Tess with a disbelieving look on your face. “She what?”

There’s a certain amusement in her voice when she responds. “Yep. And she was probably right, anyhow. I was working at a restaurant at the time and probably smelled like garlic aioli.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you. It truly is unintentional. But imagining those words in Sarah’s pretty, sweet voice sends you over the edge.

But Tess is laughing, too. Which is some small comfort. “And then she proceeded to tell me how much you liked that perfume Joel got you for Christmas and stood up on the bench and gave me a whole run-down about how you spray it. So that I could smell better, too.”

You can just imagine the way Joel’s face would’ve gone tomato red, embarrassed and in public no less. “You’re joking.”

Tess shakes her head. “Nope. I swear. Neck, chest, and the insides of your wrists. Right?”

You hand her the last dish and rinse the soap from the sink. “Uhm, yeah. In that order exactly. She’s…god. I’m so sorry. She’s something else.”

She waves your apology away with a quick hand. “Oh, it’s fine. Kids never have a filter at that age. I thought it was hilarious, actually.” She puts the final dish away and drapes the hand towel over the cabinet door beneath the sink.

There’s more she wants to say, but she hesitates. And this new ease you’ve created feels precarious, so you’re not sure if you should urge her or stay silent.

But after a few moments, she crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the counter. Her eyes are averted, staring only at the linoleum floor. And then she says, “I only say this because I want you to know even though Tommy got her a guitar and Joel’s going to teach her how to play it, it’s you she keeps a framed photo of on her nightstand when she stays here.”

Emotion chokes you. Pressure builds behind your eyes, but you try your damndest to swallow it down. You don’t want to cry, not here. Not in front of Tess. And not on Sarah’s birthday.

“The only person in the world who even comes close is Joel,” Tess continues. “And Joel and I…we have a lot in common. One of those things being that we’re both still stupidly in love with the person who left us.”

You try to blink away the moisture in your eyes, but it feels useless now. “Tess.”

The word comes out as a warning. One she doesn’t heed. 

“Joel’s a good man,” she says. “He’s a good man, and he loves nothing more than you and that little girl. And I can see it in you, too. The love that’s there. The kind that never, ever goes away. I don’t want…” she sighs. Shakes her head and tries again. “You deserve good things. And I’m glad you saw that you deserved more and stood your ground because Sarah is watching everything you do. And one day, when she’s in the same situation, she will look back and know exactly what choice to make. But I think it’s important to show her that love does exist. And sometimes…sometimes all it needs is a second chance.”

Your breaths feel uneven. Thready and labored. You don’t know what to say or what to do or how to react. Your ex husband’s girlfriend is standing here, encouraging you to forgive him. Not for you or for him but for Sarah.

It all feels heavy. Too heavy.

And all you can muster up the courage to say is, “Thank you, Tess. I…I appreciate you.”

“I’m only saying to you what I wish someone would say to my ex husband.” She gives you a soft smile. One that comes from a place of womanhood, of a sameness that can’t be manufactured. And then she clears her throat and squeezes your shoulder and says, “I’m, uh—gonna go ahead and sneak out. Thank you for letting me celebrate with her, too.”

You wait.

Wait until she walks away. Until she grabs her keys from the table. Until you hear the front door shut. Until you hear her car tires groan against the gravel in the driveway.

And then the tears are falling fast down your cheeks. Marring your skin and leaving wet streaks behind.

Because Tess is right. Or at least you want her to be.

You would give anything, anything, to feel whole again. To have that pretty ring on your finger and to fall asleep in the same bed and wake up to Sarah wriggling her way between you. To make coffee in the mornings and hear Joel tease you about the amount of creamer you use. To throw his laundry in with yours and file your taxes together again and hold his hand over the center console on a late night drive.

All it needs is a second chance.

When the sliding glass door opens, you turn towards the sink and frantically wipe the tears away from your face. You don’t want Sarah to see you crying一she always takes longer to recover from your tears than you yourself do.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” 

Relief floods you when you hear Tommy’s voice. He closes the door behind him and as soon as you turn to face him, he’s crossing the kitchen in four strides. “Sorry,” you say. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Don’t look fine to me. What happened? Why’re you cryin’?” He holds your shoulders, keeping you at arms length. “And where the fuck is Tess? Did she say somethin’ to you?”

There’s an underlying venom in his voice you know all too well. The kind that slips out when he’s gotten too drunk or when someone gets disrespectful to a woman in front of him. Protective to a fault.

You shake your head. “Tommy, no. It wasn’t like that. She was actually being…” you laugh, but it comes out bitterly. “She was really fucking nice. I’m just…”

His gaze is hard as he asks, “You sure? ‘Cause I don’t care what you and Joel got goin’ on, you’re still my baby sister. Someone made you cry. All you gotta do is say the word. Still talk to this girl from high school an’ she fights mean. I’ll call her up right now.”

This time when you laugh, it's more genuine. “Tommy,” you chastise. “Jesus, no. It wasn’t like that, okay? I swear. Relax.”

He searches your face, but ultimately nods and takes a step back. “Just don’t like seein’ you cry,” he admits.

And it softens your heart, because you get it. Understand what it’s like to love someone like a sibling even without sharing an ounce of blood. 

You’d seen Tommy on the worst days and on his best days. You’ve seen him cry and seen him laugh. Made sure he had a good meal every night and socks without holes in them in the mornings. Kept his secrets and gave him dating advice and bailed him out of jail a time or two.

It had been you who’d held his hand the whole way home after he was discharged from the combat zone of Desert Storm.

Tommy has become an integral part of your life. A piece you’d been terrified of losing in the divorce, only to discover your fears had been blessedly in vain.

“It was about Joel,” you admit, sniffling. Quiet and timid, feeling out of step with yourself. Unsure in a way you haven’t been in a long time.

Tommy sighs. “You wanna talk about it?”

He asks carefully. Not pushing, only concerned. And you trust Tommy, maybe more than anyone on the planet, because he has no motivation when it comes to you. So, for once, you say exactly what’s on your mind. “I still love him. I think I always will. But at what point is it disrespectful to myself if I go back? If we just repeat the same old habits, if I spend my days alone again, I…God. What would that look like to Sarah? Would it set this example that it’s okay to accept half-assed love? To go back to someone who you begged for months to just…to just be there. To come home when he promised he would. I deserve that, Tommy.”

“You do,” he agrees easily. 

“I just don’t know…I don’t know. How can I tell if things will be different? How do I take that risk and should I? If I go back, wouldn’t this all have been for nothing? I put Sarah through all of this for nothing?”

He sighs heavily, worry on his face. “You want my opinion or you just wanna get it all out?”

“Your opinion,” you say. Because your brain feels all scrambled and chaotic and Tommy has never once lied to you.

“Joel would take the risk on you,” he says with a shrug. Simple. Honest. A clean cut blow straight to your still beating heart.

And the worst part is that you know he’s right. 

“You know he went to therapy? That first year.” Tommy laughs. “Joel. Went to therapy. Could hardly believe it. An’ he complained about it every damn week, but he still showed up. I think he tried to be…better. You know? For you.”

It’s the first and only time you and Tommy ever talk about Joel and the things he did right after your divorce. You never wanted to involve him. Never wanted him to get caught in the crossfire.

But you find yourself glad you’re doing it now. Thankful for the honesty, no matter how much it hurts to hear it. “I…I didn’t know that. He never told me. Thank you, Tommy. For always being there for me. And for Sarah, too.”

His lips curl into that same toothy grin that your daughter inherited. “Course,” he says. “S’what I’m here for. And, hey一don’t sweat it so much. Things will turn out the way they’re supposed to. They always do, right?”

You nod, and he wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders. You lean into his embrace and let him pull you to the sliding glass door and back outside. Sarah and Joel are both so occupied in the moment they don’t even look up at you.

Joel’s got one hand on the neck of his guitar while the other is adjusting Sarah’s fingers on the fretboard of hers. 

You look up at Tommy and ask, “How long do you think ‘til she’s ready for cake?”

He snorts. “Oh, you’ve got an hour. At least.”

It ends up taking two.

But you don’t mind. You just sit on the porch steps and watch the two of them. Sarah’s eager to learn, and Joel is a patient teacher. He answers all of her questions and gives her tips and pointers and even promises to find a pink guitar pick just for her.

When Joel asks what song she wants to learn first, Sarah smiles excitedly and answers, “We have to play My Girl!”

The moment she says it, Joel casts his eyes to you and your heart pinches tight. And you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’s reliving the same memories you are.

Those late nights right after Sarah was born when she would cry and cry until Joel sang her softly back to sleep. The times he’d sing it to her even when she was older, dancing around the kitchen while she climbed on his back.

The memories that came even before Sarah. The first time he ever sang it to you, after he’d had one too many beers and you’d had to put him to bed. The time it had come on the radio in his truck and he’d pulled over to dance with you in the middle of a field of wheat. 

And on your wedding night, where you’d been so painfully in love that you barely registered the small group of family and friends around you. 

Because Joel had held you tight and kissed your forehead and sang the lyrics softly in your ear. His beard had ticked your skin, and your face had gone all hot, but you’d never been happier than you were at that very moment. Married to the man you loved, surrounded by people who cared about you, and a beautiful baby growing in your belly.

Of course that’s the song she would choose.

It takes her only forty minutes to learn the first verse. 

She quits only when the sun begins to set, and makes Joel pinky swear to practice with her tomorrow.

Tommy lights the candles on her cake, and everyone sings happy birthday around the table. She clings to you the entire time. Arm intertwined with yours, leaning heavily into your side, face pressed to your belly.

Sarah makes a wish and blows out the flame and asks Joel if he can put on a movie while they eat. He suggests Curtis and Viper, but Sarah won’t hear of it. 

She’s tearing open her new blu-ray box set of Dawn of the Wolf with vanilla frosting still sticking to her fingers.

And for the entirety of the first movie, she sits between you and Joel on the couch. Her head is in your lap and her feet are in his, and it feels good.

It feels like home. 

Tommy leaves when the credits roll. And Sarah jumps up to give him a too-tight bear hug and thanks him a million times for her guitar and swears that she’ll be concert ready by the following weekend. 

But when she sees you grabbing your jacket from the rack by the door, her face falls. “Can we please stay here tonight? Just for my birthday!” 

It breaks your heart into a million tiny pieces. Not only the request itself but the way she says it. Full of hope and love, like it doesn’t even register to her that the request might be too much for you to handle.

You think about Tess’s words and you think about your tears from earlier and you think about Joel. 

When your eyes find his, they’re full of melancholy. He carries this deep, pensive longing that has lingered there for years, and you start to wonder if it’ll ever go away. 

He shrugs. “I don’t mind. But it’s your week, so it’s your call.”

“Please, mom! Please, please, please!” 

You don’t think you’d be able to say no to her if you tried.

When you sigh, Sarah knows it’s over. She jumps in excitement and spins around the room and requests that Joel make popcorn before you start the second movie, to which he immediately obliges. 

Tommy hugs you tight before he goes. Kisses your temple and says, “You’re tough, little sister. Trust your gut. And Christ, girl. Give yourself some credit every now and again. You’re doing great.”

“Thanks for coming, Tommy,” you mutter. “We love you. And text me when you get home safe or I’ll have your ass.”

He chuckles low and you close the door behind him, leaving you in the silence of the living room. In the distance, you can hear Joel and Sarah in the kitchen. 

She’s talking excitedly about all the songs she wants to learn. You can hear the smile on Joel’s face as he utters words of encouragement. The kernels pop and the scent of salt and butter begins to drift into the living room, and you’re trying to stay strong. 

Really, you are. But it would be so fucking easy to just…to come home. 

And not in the sense of moving back into this house and dedicating every Saturday night to movies and popcorn. Home—like coming back to Joel.

You swallow hard and busy yourself setting up the next movie. Ejecting one disc and replacing it with the next. Skipping through all the previews and adjusting the volume, flipping off the overhead light and turning on the wax warmer in the corner that looks like it hasn’t been used since the day you’d left. 

When you’re done, you make your way to the kitchen and interject their popcorn process only to tell Sarah, “Why don’t you go upstairs and get your pajamas on before we start?”

“But, mom. I’m not gonna fall asleep. Can’t I do it after?”

You and Joel exchange a look—both fully aware that she’ll be out like a light before the twenty minute mark.

He smiles and nudges Sarah. “G’on. Listen to your momma.” 

She does so begrudgingly, her footfalls heavy up the stairs and down the hall to her room. 

Joel turns off the heat on the stove and pulls down the big plastic bowl from the top shelf. The one you picked out all those years ago. He glances at you over his shoulder and asks, “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

You know better than to lie. Not to Joel. Who has always seen right through you. Who knows you better than anyone else on the planet.

And what would you say, anyway? That you’re not sure what you want anymore, that you miss him but you’re terrified of accepting any less than what you deserve? That it hurts to see him with someone else, that it hurts even more that she’s nice?

When you answer, the words come out short and clipped. Not aggressive, just…tired. “Let’s just get through the night, Joel.”

You leave the kitchen and return to the couch, relieved to hear Sarah bounding back down the stairs. She smiles when she sees you and it eases the strain on your heart if only a little. 

She climbs up beside you and leans into your embrace when you hug her tight to your side. “Thanks for everything, mommy,” she murmurs, cheek smooshed to your arm. “I had the best day ever.”

You kiss the top of her head and thank the universe or god or whoever’s listening for sending you the most perfect daughter. For giving you a reason to prioritize your own heart. “You’re so welcome, sweet girl. Happy birthday.”

Joel comes to sit on her other side, popcorn bowl in hand. “Ready?”

She’s shoveling popcorn into her mouth before you can even hit play. 

And twenty minutes later? She’s got her head on Joel’s shoulder, and there’s a buttery kernel still in her hand, and she’s snoring so loud the sound echoes in the room. 

You look at Joel, and he’s wearing this grin that you think you haven’t seen in a while, and you have to cover your mouth to keep yourself from laughing hard enough you wake her. 

“Christ,” Joel says. “S’like she’s sawin’ logs in her sleep.”

“Between Ellie’s last night and soccer practice this morning, I knew she’d crash hard. And I think Tommy gave her a bunch of candy on the way over.”

“Oh, he definitely did. Found three bags of peach rings in the trash,” he tells you with a light hearted chuckle. He shifts carefully, tucking one arm beneath her head and the other beneath her knees. “I’ll go tuck her in.”

You nod, and the moment you’re left alone in the silence you’re finding your way back to the kitchen. Cleaning up the scattered mess from the day, trying to busy your hands and quiet the turmoil in your head. 

When you collect all the torn wrapping paper and cellophane packaging and discard it, you move on to wiping down the countertops. 

Joel doesn’t say anything when he enters the kitchen soundlessly, but you can feel his presence as if he were an extension of your heart. 

He leans against the archway and presses his thumb into his palm. “You’ve always done that, you know,” he says. 

Without turning to look at him, scrubbing at a stubborn water ring, you ask, “Done what?”

“Start cleanin’ when you’re tryin’ to work somethin’ out in that head of yours.”

You pause, hand freezing, washcloth still clutched tight between your fingers. 

“You remember Sarah’s first day of kindergarten?” He huffs. “Spent the whole day cleaning the baseboards with a damn toothbrush.”

The memory comes back to you the moment he says it. Joel had spent that night working lotion into your chemical-dried palms, skin sore and taut from prolonged exposure to the cleaner you’d used.

“And when she sprained her ankle jumpin’ off the swings at the park, you rented one of those big dumpsters that weekend and threw out all that junk in the garage.”

The more he speaks, the more memories surface that serve to validate his claim. You leave the water stain be, and toss the cloth into the empty sink. “I guess you're right,” you say, trying to laugh it off. To keep things as lighthearted as possible.

But then he says, “I should’ve noticed it. That last week, right before…right before you left.”

The anguish in his words makes your gut twist. Because Tess is right, Joel is a good man. Perfect for you in nearly every way. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anyone, and you hate seeing him like this. Hate even more that you’re the cause of it.

“Was comin’ home every night and the entire house was spotless,” he says somberly. “Knew there was somethin’ going on, just…didn’t think it was…that.”

Emotion rises up in you. Thick and hot in the back of your head, making your ears ring. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, stepping fully into the kitchen now. He lowers himself into a chair at the table and answers easily, “Anything. You know that.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to therapy?”

You expect him to sigh. To shift uncomfortably or avoid the question altogether. But he doesn’t do any of that. He just says, “I thought about it. About tellin’ you. But, uh…guess I just supposed that when you came home to me, it had to be because you wanted to. Not ‘cause of somethin’ I was doing.”

The words shatter what remains of your resolve. “Is that what you think? That I haven’t come home because I didn’t want to?”

He shakes his head. “No, I…I know it’s because of…well. Me. An’ workin’ all the time and everything. Not makin’ the time for you an’ Sarah the way a man ought to. The way a dad and a husband ought to. But I haven’t missed anything in the last three years, have I?”

You try to recall all the events that have passed since the separation. All of the parent teacher conferences and birthdays and doctors appointments and soccer games and art shows. 

“Even when you put that hole in the wall of your apartment, tryin’ to move furniture around. Scared about gettin’ the deposit back, so you called me,” he says. “An’ I came, baby. Didn’t I?”

Those stubborn tears return again, pooling in the corners of your eyes. Quietly, you admit, “Yeah, you did.”

“There ain’t a day that goes by I don’t regret losin’ you.”

“God, Joel.” Your voice cracks when you say his name. 

And that’s all it takes before he’s standing to his feet and closing the distance between you, the instinct to soothe your discomfort deeply ingrained. “Hey,” he says, squeezing your fingers in one hand and tilting your face up with the other. “Why’re you cryin’? Talk to me.”

You shake your head. “I just…I miss this. Having movie nights and making popcorn and carrying Sarah up to bed. I miss coordinating birthday gifts and not just co-parenting but parenting together. I miss being here and I miss you, Joel.”

His eyes soften, and he gently drags the back of his knuckles across your cheek. “Then come home, baby,” Joel says.

As if there isn't a risk of hurting Sarah even further than the damage that’s already been done. As if he doesn’t have a partner who’s kind, who cares about Sarah in the only way she knows how. As if it was simple.

“I wish it were that easy,” you murmur, leaning into the palm of his hand.

“Tell me what you need,” Joel says, voice a little breathy now. “Just tell me. Talk to me. I’ll do anything you want, baby, anything.”

“I love you, Joel. That’s never changed and it never, ever will. But how do I trust you again? How do I know that you’ll be there? How do I know things won’t go back to the way they were? That we’ll settle back into a routine and then you’ll leave me here, raising our little girl alone?” You shake your head. “I can’t do that again. I can’t. I won’t.”

He folds his big arms around you and pulls you close to his chest. Holds you tight enough that it feels like he’s holding you together. “You won’t have to,” he says. “I swear. I’ll spend every day I’ve got left proving it to you. But you gotta let me in, baby. You’ve gotta let me fix it.”

“If I do come home, how confusing is that for Sarah? I mean, God. Haven’t we fucked things up enough? What if I come home and then it still doesn't work and一?”

Joel pulls away just enough to see you and shakes his head. “We’ll go slow, alright? We don’t have to tell her unless you’re ready. No reason to make things more complicated than they have to be,” he says. “And Sarah’s strong. She’s like her mom in that way.”

He’s saying everything you want to hear and you feel yourself unraveling fast. “And what about Tess?”

“She’ll understand, because she knows I’m yours,” Joel answers. “Yours.”

And then, without any warning, he carefully lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

His fingers curl tight around your hips, and everything feels hot and overwhelming and your breath gets caught in your lungs. He presses a kiss to your belly in the same place Sarah rests her head and you feel suddenly like crying again. “Joel.”

“I’ll do anything you want,” he insists. “Anything, baby. Please. Please come home to me.”

And all you can think at that moment is, why haven’t you come home sooner?

You thread your hands through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Your tears are falling freely now for the second time today but this time it’s different. Lighter. Like a breath of fresh air, tears of relief instead of turmoil.

“I love you,” Joel says, slipping his hands beneath your top and running his rough palms over your smooth curves. “Please, baby. Please. I need you.”

Your longing has become something else entirely now. A beast in your heart that’s grown teeth and sharpened claws, tearing apart every last defense you’ve so carefully built to keep him at arms length. When you speak, the word is a broken surrender in your mouth. “Okay.”

Joel freezes. “Oh…kay?” His brows furrow and you can feel his hesitance now. Unsure of himself, pulling away but so clearly wanting to touch you more. 

You cover his hands with your own, keeping them in place, pressing them more firmly against your ribs. “Okay,” you repeat. “I want to come home.”

In the fifteen years you’ve known Joel Miller, you’ve never once seen him relax as much as he does the moment you say those words. His shoulders slump, the tension in his face dissipates, the tightness bleeds from his limbs.

And then he lets out this long held sigh, shoulders shaking with it. He lifts the hem of your shirt with his hands and presses a wet, open mouthed kiss to your navel. “Thank you,” he says, and you know he means it.

He kisses you again, a little higher this time, and it ignites a flame low in your abdomen. Makes you feel suddenly warm and tingly all over. Makes you miss him in an entirely different way. His hands are rough and his eyes are glassy when he looks up at you through dark lashes.

“I love you,” he says. Soft. Gentle. But real. Not the sentiment you’re always giving him; the half-empty meaning. A way to say you care, but not like you used to. 

When Joel says it, it’s different. It’s all consuming. Nothing distant or safe about it.

“I love you so fucking much, baby. Please let me show you. Please.”

You nod without hesitation. Knowing what comes next, knowing the last step in your decision is giving yourself over entirely. Mind and body alike, becoming two souls bound together again, the way you used to be, the way you always should’ve been. You know he needs this, but maybe not as much as you need it.

Joel thumbs open the button on your jeans and carefully一oh, so carefully一tugs down the zipper. He watches you the whole time like you’re going to suddenly change your mind, like you haven’t wanted his touch every moment of every day for three years. Longer, even. 

He kisses the satin lining of your panties with a reverent mouth, and then he’s pulling them off with your jeans. Over the swell of your hips and down your thighs. You anchor yourself with your hands on his shoulders and Joel helps you step out of them completely. 

With a contented sigh, he presses his forehead to the space between your ribs. Inhales deep and then kisses your pubic bone. “You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

Another kiss, lower this time, right above your clit. Like it’s muscle memory. Like relearning you will take no time at all. 

His hands slide up the back of your thighs and palm at the swell of your ass. “Spread your legs for me,” he says. And the moment you do, Joel’s got his head between them and his tongue swiping through the gathering wetness there. 

It feels like heaven. His mouth is warm and soft and he knows just where to lick and where to suck and where to bite. He’s hungry for it. Equally as starved. He groans low against you and you can feel the vibration of it down to your toes. “Oh my god.”

His tongue laves over your clit in long, smooth strokes. It’s full of purpose and worship and adoration. When he pulls away to speak, he takes the opportunity to wedge his hand between your thighs. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, gently pressing his middle finger inside of you. He adds another, his ring finger this time, still adorned with the titanium band you’d picked out years ago. “I’m so, so fucking sorry that I hurt you.”

Joel curls his fingers inside of you at the same moment his warm, apologetic tongue finds your clit again. The intensity of it makes you lose your balance, leaning back against the counter, hands scrambling to find purchase. A whimper escapes you, pleasure ratcheting higher and higher with each practiced, wet flick of his tongue between your folds.

“Christ,” he hisses. “Missed you so much, sweetheart. An’ s’okay if you don’t wanna admit it, but I know you missed me, too. Hm?”

Your chest squeezes tight. Because it’s true, it’s true, and you’re starting to feel delirious between the pleasure his sweet mouth brings and the sugar that pours from his tongue. You want it to be real so badly that you tremble. “God, Joel.”

“Shh,” he hums. “Don’t think so hard. Just feel. Feel me, baby. Feel what I do to you. Feel how much you love me.”

Christ. You do. You love him. You always have. And even when you decide to love yourself more, what you feel for Joel has always lived beneath your skin. A fire you’ve spent so long trying to put out, and you’re just now realizing you’ve only been stoking the flames.

Keeping them steady until now, until you return to him. And his mouth is like gasoline to the flames of your heart. Sweet words, sugary tongue. Honey poured in your ear, everything you’ve longed for all these years.

You feel your release approaching fast, but Joel does, too. He pulls away the moment his name leaves your mouth, but it’s only for long for him to lift you onto the counter and to spread your legs far enough to house the width of his hips. 

“Wanna feel you, baby,” he mutters, kissing the hollow of your throat. His breath is hot against your prickled skin, his words and lips both desperate. Needier than you’ve ever seen him, and you understand because you feel it, too.

“Promise me,” you say, words breathless, greedily swallowing up his oxygen. “Promise me you mean it. Promise me you’ll never pull this shit again.” 

Joel leans back. Cradles your face in his hands like he holds divinity. And maybe, to him, you are divine. His god given solace.

His wife.

“I mean it,” he says, gaze holding firm, eyes locked with yours. “Everything I am, baby. Everything. S’yours. I’m all yours. I promise.” He kisses you hard, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. “Let me in, baby. Let me come home.”

Home. Home, home一yours is here, with him and with Sarah in this house he built for you. And Joel’s home is you. In the confines of your soft heart.

Your hands find the back of his neck, nails scratching against the skin. And then you find yourself nodding, giving into it completely, flames of lust transformed now into a cleansing ritual, burning away all the hurt and resentment. “I love you,” you say, and he presses his forehead to yours with tears in his eyes.

Joel lets out a long sigh, and then unbuckles his belt. Pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough to let his cock spring free. He holds it in his hands and you watch as he strokes it once, and then twice.

You wrap your legs around his waist and lean back just a little, just enough to make it easier for him as he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes inside with a shaky groan. 

The stretch aches in the best way, and you focus on each inch as it disappears inside of you while Joel watches you. His beautiful girl.

He fucks you hard. He splays one of his big hands on the small of your back, holding you steady as his hips crash into yours. There’s intent behind each thrust. A deep, satisfying reminder that you belong together. That you’re his and he’s yours. 

With his free hand, he rests it over your belly, low enough to gently stroke your clit with his thumb. “You feel me, baby? You feel me right here?” 

“Fuck,” you cry out, fingernails leaving indentations on his skin as you cling to him. “God, Joel. Feels so good, so fucking一god.”

“I know, I know,” he soothes. He kisses you gently this time, a stark contrast to the way his cock splits you apart, pressing hard against that sweet spot inside of you. “I’ve got you. Won’t ever let you down again, baby. You’re my girl an’ I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anything.”

It’s all too much. His desperate thrusts, his thumb on your clit, his tongue in your mouth, his sweet words in your ear. You’re unravelling even faster this time, ears ringing, skin heating. “Joel, please. I’m close, I’m so一”

“Give it to me,” he says. “Come for me. Wanna feel just how bad you missed this, sweetheart.” 

Release comes fast. Hot and with unexpected strength. Your vision blurs and your limbs tremble around him. Joel slots his wet mouth against yours, swallowing up your moans, taking everything from you that you’re willing to give.

You can feel his pace falter and his brows knit together as he nears the summit. And when you feel the pressure of his hands begin to lighten, you know his intent. But you hold firm, wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him in even deeper. “Inside me, Joel, please,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

He groans low the moment you say it and buries himself to the hilt, spilling himself deep inside you. Joel stays like that the whole time, only moving the smallest bit, filling you up until he’s spent and twitching. “Christ,” he hisses. “Love you so much, baby. Don’t you ever leave me again.”

The come down is slow. Unhurried. He stays inside you until his cock softens, peppering gentle kisses across your face. He traces the curves of your jaw and your brow bone with his fingertips as if he’d forgotten the way it feels to touch you and wants to remember. 

When he does finally pull back, his hands still hold you. Fingers laced through yours while he gathers your jeans from the floor. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go on up to bed.”

You don’t argue. You just let him do what he needs to. Let him hold your hand the whole way up. Let him carefully take off your shirt and unclasp your bra once you close the bedroom door behind you. He pulls one of his t-shirts from the closet and tugs it over your head, kissing your forehead right after. 

Once he changes out of his clothes, discarding everything but his boxers, Joel crawls into bed beside you and pulls you close to his chest. You kiss his warm skin, right over his heart, and close your eyes.

But you can still feel his gaze as it lingers on the side of your face, and when you open your eyes to look at him, he wears this lovesick smile. You ask playfully, “You gonna stay up all night?”

Joel shrugs. “Maybe,” he admits. “Just like holdin’ you is all. Like seein’ you here. With me.”

You snuggle into him, warming your chilled fingers against his soft belly. “Get some rest, Joel. I’ll still be here in the morning, okay? I promise.”

He kisses you again and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. His voice is soft. The word broken but tender in his mouth as he says, “Okay.”

When you fall asleep, it’s to the sound of Joel’s soft snores beside you and Sarah’s echoed down the hallway.

You rest easy that night, without an ounce of regret. Feeling relieved in a way you weren’t sure you’d ever feel again. 

And when you wake up the next morning, the sun streams in through the half-pulled blinds. You carefully sneak out of bed, pull on a clean pair of his boxers, and pad barefoot down the stairs to the kitchen.

Sarah’s already up. She’s got a record spinning at a low volume, and she’s dancing around the kitchen listening to Pearl Jam. There’s pale powder in one of her eyebrows. It’s spilled across the countertop, too. And in her small hands is a metal mixing bowl and a wooden spoon.

She’s trying to make pancakes you realize, and your heart suddenly aches. Because she seems so grown up at this moment. No longer your sweet and silly girl who needs help washing her hands before dinner, more and more independent every day.

The fear crosses your mind that you are the reason she’s so mature for her age. That the separation is what made her take on this too-adult role.

But then she pauses her mixing to pick up the hand towel off the counter. She stares at herself in the distorted reflection of the metal bowl, and sets the towel over her little shoulder.

The exact same way that you do when you’re cooking dinner for her every night.

You suddenly see exactly what Tess was talking about. Sarah’s not trying to be mature or take on an adult role because she feels the need to.

She’s trying to be just like you.

Sarah picks up the bowl again and turns, eyes glowing when she notices your presence. “Mama! Good morning! I’m making pancakes!”

You laugh softly and come to her side. “I see that,” you say. “Want some help?”

“Yes, please. I’m bad at mixing.” 

With a shake of your head, you gently take the bowl from her hand and place it on the counter. “You’re doing a great job, sweet girl. Just need to add a little more water, see?” You turn the faucet on and add the smallest bit and hand the bowl back to her. “Now try.”

She does, and her smile grows as the batter begins to come together and smooth out. “There’s coffee, too. Uncle Tommy showed me how to start it.”

You turn to see the pot full, and giggle as you wonder how exactly that conversation had come about. Likely from the times Joel got up too late to start it, leaving Tommy without caffeine for god knows how long. “Thank you, baby girl,” you say. “That’s so sweet of you.”

Sarah beams at the praise. And when you pull two mugs from the cupboard, she stops you. “Dad will only use the owl one,” she says, nodding to the dishwasher. 

You follow her gaze, open the dishwasher, and quickly find the exact mug she’s talking about. It’s a poorly-made ceramic project you’d given to him for Christmas years ago. You were taking a pottery class with a friend, and the mug was the one and only thing you’d made that didn’t turn out so wobbly that it was unusable.

The edges were still a little bent and it sat on the table leaning just a little to the left, but Joel had insisted it was perfect. 

You hold it gently in your hands, fingers running over the owl you’d spent hours painting into its side. “The only one he’ll use, huh?”

Sarah nods. “He says it’s special to him ‘cause you made it. Maybe you could teach me how to make stuff too! We could make Uncle Tommy one!”

You promise her you will. Tell her you’ll find a place in town that offers classes and that you’ll go to one together. And then you fill the mug with coffee, climb the stairs, and set it on Joel’s nightstand. 

You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and gently shake him awake. He smiles when he sees you. Gives you the same crooked smile your daughter inherited, and it makes you feel loved and warm all over.

“Mornin’ baby.”

“You meant it, didn’t you? Your promise?”

Joel reaches for your hand and holds it tight. “I meant it,” he tells you. “An’ I know it’s hard to trust me now, but I’ll spend every day tryin’ to prove it to you.”

“Good,” you say. “‘Cause I think…I think Sarah and I are coming home.”

volume I: coming february 22

volume II: coming march 1

volume III: coming march 8

volume I: coming february 22

volume II: coming march 1

volume III: coming march 8

YOU.

You knew your relationship with Joel Miller was over because of a chocolate bar. You have a favorite, a pricey artisanal chocolate bar from a candy shop on the other side of town; it was out of your way home from work, and it certainly was far away from Joel’s office but he never complained about the forty minutes it added to his commute— You didn't even notice him replacing it, the pantry always stocked with the expensive, luxury chocolate that you love so much.

One day, the space where your chocolate bar should be was empty; at first you thought he might've forgotten, he'd been busier than ever with work and the multiple jobs he had to take to cover some extra expenses, and the chocolate was on the pricier side. But then a week went by, and another, and work wasn't as busy anymore and you finally had to admit to the truth: Joel simply didn't see you anymore.

You left his house by the end of the month. Packed all of your belongings one afternoon while Sarah was away at her mother's house and Joel was over at Tommy's for some bullshit football game; you were gone by the time he came home and, while you'd met up with him once to formally end things, he hadn't seemed surprised over it.

The worst part was how easily Joel agreed with the split. He said he understood why you were leaving, that he should've seen it coming, and didn't fight for you. Didn't ask you to reconsider, or stay, or tell him how to change— He simply nodded, grabbed his beer tightly, and watched as you walked out of the busy bar with your heart shredded into pieces.

That was six months ago. Now, you sit by your flight gate with your purse and ticket in hand, hoping he won't show; hoping he forgot about the trip, or that he simply decides not to go— You bought the plane tickets almost a year ago, right when things were starting to fall apart: A five days trip to Búzios, in Brazil, in a romantic Airbnb with all of the honeymoon perks. The plane tickets are nonrefundable, as is the Airbnb— At the time it felt like a good way to save money and to ensure that the both of you would actually take the trip; Joel has always been more of a homebody, never wanting to leave town for longer than a weekend, let alone the country, and you knew that touching his pocket would be the only way to get him to agree to go.

Oh, how you wish you hadn't appealed to his frugal nature now.

Joel shows up just three and a half minutes before boarding starts, because of course he does. His house barely ran without you, with Joel always being too wrapped up with work to pay attention to dates and times; you had to be the one to set up the alarms, to mark special dates on the calendar by the fridge, to send him little texts as reminders of Sarah's soccer game or Tommy's birthday. You're surprised he showed up on the right day, really, when you stop to think about it.

It also means that the Miller household keeps on moving, keeps functioning somehow without you, and that only makes things worse.

“You're late.” You tell him. It's the first time you're speaking with Joel since the night you ended things, and it doesn't feel like a good omen that your tone is so biting.

Six months apart have turned the sadness into bitterness, and you hate him just a little bit for how your relationship ended; you blame it all on him, even if you know you've been amiss as well. Too much time on your phone, not enough time talking to him; meals you shared in silence, each of you with your head somewhere else, nights where you pushed him away when he tried to touch you, always too wrung out to pay him any attention. He didn't fight for you at the end, but you'd been the one to let go of the relationship first.

And you know this, you know, but it still feels like it's all his fault.

“Hello to you too.” Joel says, hovering awkwardly, unsure of himself. “Ain’t late. Boardin’ hasn’t even started yet.”

“This is an airport, Joel, not your kid's soccer practice. If you're not here two hours early, you're late.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You been sittin' here waitin' for me for two hours?”

“I was not waiting for you! I'm waiting to board my flight.” You bristle, and the knowing little smirk beneath his mustache only makes it worse. “Thought you wouldn't even show up. Lord knows you never got any fucking dates right unless I was buzzing in your ear about it.”

“Maybe I liked when ya buzzed 'round me.”

The front gate calls for your flight, and you walk away without another word, something warm and unpleasant bubbling inside your chest. 

The flight is hell. You're trapped in the corridor seat — Joel graciously took the middle seat, but that meant having his elbow jamming into your side every-so-often — for almost sixteen hours from Austin to Rio de Janeiro, the food is awful and there's a man on the other side of the corridor that keeps turning in your direction every time he needs to cough. If you'd been in a bad mood before boarding the flight, it only gets progressively worse by the time you land, and you feel just about ready to murder the idiot next to Joel that actually claps.

Unsurprisingly, the airport isn't much better— People are polite and welcoming, and thankfully you manage to pick up your luggage without any issues, but then you find yourself trapped inside a rental car with Joel for the four-hours drive to your Airbnb in Armação dos Búzios; it's a lovely car, an expensive-looking convertible that at the time you thought would be fun to drive by the beach with the top down and it makes Joel's face light up when he sees it. You sort of hate your past self for doing something nice for him, and you hate your current self even more for the fluttery in your stomach as he revs the engine with the giddiness of a little boy on Christmas morning.

The Airbnb — Bangalô Verde, the owner called it — is small and rustic, a green stucco home with a gorgeous view of the ocean in the backyard; what had called you to it wasn't even the view or the huge windows in the bedroom but the wooden deck that hangs off the steep hill the house is on top of, surrounded by greenery and with a beautiful pool and a comfortable-looking hammock. There's a special fruit bowl in the kitchen, with a little note from the owners about the champagne in the fridge and a colorful bouquet of native flowers in the bedroom— All things you'd paid out of pocket, away from the joint funds you shared with Joel, as a little surprise. The honeymoon package seems to mock you now, tangible proof of how much of yourself you poured into a relationship that, towards the end, felt like you were the only one paying attention.

“Nice place.” Joel drops both of your luggage and his by the edge of the bed, already sweating from the summer heat, his usually neat gray curls pushed back haphazardly. His knuckles rasp awkwardly against the threshold that leads into the bedroom— There’s no door, just an archway with handpainted flowers. “Good bones.” 

You laugh in spite of yourself. “Are you doing a full house inspection, Mr. Contractor?”

“They got a bottle of cachaça in the living room.” He tells you with a small smile, hands on his hips. “Wanna crack it open?”

“No.” You shake your head, toeing off your shoes. “Not drinking on an empty stomach. I'll just take a shower and go out to eat something.”

“By yourself?” He asks, hands raising in defeat when your head snaps towards him. “I meant the meal, not the shower.”

Joel speaks to you as if nothing's wrong, as if you haven't spent the last six months apart. As if you haven't cried yourself to sleep almost every single night since then; it gets your blood boiling— Joel’s always kept his feelings close to his chest, but you’ve learned how to read him well and he’s never been uncaring. Closed off, sure, but this sort of nonchalance only serves to make you wonder if the breakup was only miserable for you. If maybe he’d been glad you were the one to pull the plug. A friend had told you once that men don’t end relationships, they simply stall it out until you’re brave enough to be the one to do it. 

You never pegged Joel for the cowardly kind of man, but maybe you had read him wrong after all.

“Yes, by myself. Listen, Joel— We don't gotta do this, alright? It's bad enough that you came along, so just… Stay in your corner of the house, and I'll stay in mine.”

Joel looks around, making a point of how little space there was; what was supposed to be a cozy place feels stifling, his broad frame taking up too much space in the small room. 

“And which corner's supposed to be mine, sweetheart?”

Your teeth clack audibly. “Whichever corner I'm not in.”

He nods, once. “'lright. I'll just fuck off, then.”

“Thank you.” You quip, back turned to him as you refuse to see the look on his face, going through your luggage. “I'll shower fast, in case you want to shower too.”

You look over your shoulder when there's no response but Joel's already gone, toeing off his shoes in the courtyard. He strips slowly, piece by piece until he's fully nude and you don't even notice the small toiletries bag until he's already underneath the spray of the outdoor shower, pushing his hair away from his face.

While your relationship with Joel ended six months ago, it has been even longer since the last time you saw him naked. The sex ended about four months before the relationship, both of you always too busy or too tired to give each other any attention, and your memory doesn't do justice to the sight in front of you: Joel's a sturdy man, tall and broad, his muscles built from hard labor rather than pulling weights at the gym. His stomach is rounder than it had been when you first started dating, salt and pepper hair and scars scattered all over it, the feathered happy trail that you've always loved so much catching rivulets of water as it pour down his body.

As much as you tell yourself that you shouldn't look down, your eyes travel to his cock nonetheless. It's thick and long, somehow even bigger than you remember, half-hard underneath the shower water; your eyes snap up, and you stagger slightly backwards when your eyes meet Joel's. He's staring straight at you, his eyes dark and heavy, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. It's clear that he's doing it on purpose, shifting slightly to turn his back to you, running the small bar of soap over his shoulders— Which once had been your favorite part of his body. You watch for a moment longer, his big hand running the travel-sized soap over his shoulder and bicep, bringing it up to the side of his neck, head tilted slightly back, the tendons straining against his tan skin.  

You turn your back to him before you can say something you might regret, your skin feeling a little bit too tight for your own body as you mechanically move back into the house in desperate need of a long, cold shower. 

Joel's is waiting in the living room by the time you finally exit the shower, sitting on the couch and browsing through his phone, wearing a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved button down that you know he didn't own before; Joel's entire wardrobe consists of Wrangler jeans and old cotton shirts and flannels, and you're sure you can count in one hand the amount of times you've seen him even remotely dressed up. He looks gorgeous, the deep green of the button down contrasting beautifully with the color of his skin, the shorts coming down just above his knee: Clothes that he certainly didn't buy for himself, and there's a small flare of anger in the pit of your stomach when you wonder whether someone else bought those clothes for him, or if he bought them to impress someone else. 

It opens a whole can of worms on whether or not Joel had already started seeing other people, if he was dating again or, God forbid, if he's already found someone to settle down with. You've seen it happen far too often, men moving on from years-long relationships with the first person that shows up and, while you don't think Joel is that type of man, thinking of him having rebound sex with a stranger makes you nauseous. 

“I found a restaurant just down the street.” He says without looking up from his phone. “Doesn't look like a tourist trap, all the reviews on Google are in Portuguese. Reckon we could go together. I know you're pissed at me but it'll ruin the damn trip if we don't even try to get along.” Joel looks up at you then, his eyes warm and inviting. “Think you can pretend that you don't hate me for the next five days?”

His words sting— You don’t hate him, could never hate him, and it hurts that he would assume you do but it’s probably best that way: If you can keep Joel at arms length then maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to survive the trip without shattering your heart even worse. 

“Fine. But you're paying.”

Joel's grin could light up a whole block. “Always, sweetheart.”

The restaurant is just four blocks down the street, a corner store that looks more like a bodega than a restaurant, with a cluster of red plastic tables on the sidewalk and a dog sleeping on the ground next to the only costumer, a man in his sixties that sits alone in one of the tables demolishing a burger and a Skol beer. It's colder inside, the fan blowing loudly towards the woman by the counter. Joel's hand is a ghost on your lower back, guiding you to a table. The two of you study the menu for a long time, Googling the things you don't know, translating the others.

“I'll order for us.” He says, which you're thankful for: You don't speak a word of Portuguese, and you're not certain how well you'll fare with native speakers. Not that you think Joel will have a better grasp on the language but he’s always been far better at dealing with people than you are— Which is saying something, considering the hermit that he is.

“Great, I'll have the—”

“Burger with extra cheese and a side of the green mayo thing that you're dying to try but you might end up hating it. And also a side of the deep fried tapioca squares because you're embarrassed to be the tourist eating a cheeseburger.” Joel winks. “I know what you like, sweetheart.”

You're tempted to order something else just to spite him, but you simply sigh and cross your arms, ignoring the winning grin on Joel's face as he walks up to the counter. You don't catch the words, exactly, but whatever he’s saying doesn’t sound English, the words are a little clunky as they tumble out of his lips but the woman is ready to help, leaning forward across the counter and examining the menu with him. 

Joel’s not flirting, not really, but you can see the way he lays on the charm, his broad frame draping over the counter, a smirk on his lips that never came easy for him. You squint, anger flaring inside your chest— You know you have no right to, though, so you swallow it down as best as you can. Joel isn't yours, not anymore. He can flirt if he wants to, can find some random woman or man to have fun with during your vacation but it still stings. It stings even worse because the woman, somewhere in her forties with a welcoming smile and warm eyes, is probably a better fit for him than you ever were. You were always too something: Too young, too naive, too inexperienced. Joel had never been the one to say it, had always defended his college student girlfriend with the sort of fierceness that made your heart warm and your pussy wet, but you knew other people said it. And no one would ever say it about someone like the woman at the counter— A business woman with her restaurant, someone that seemed nurturing and loving and that nobody would blink twice if they saw her next to Joel. 

By the time Joel comes back to the table, he has both of your plates and an easy smile. The woman comes behind him, bringing your drinks, welcoming you with a smile and a greeting that you need to force yourself to reciprocate. 

“When the fuck did you learn Portuguese?” You ask him, your voice just a little bitter.

“Sarah got me into Duolingo, and I thought it might be useful for the trip.” Joel shrugs, his face burning bright. “Don't know a lot, just enough to order food, figure out where the bathroom is and about seven different animals. The lady at the counter's just real good at figurin’ shit out with half a sentence.”

You try not to dwell on the fact that he's been learning a whole new language for your trip. The fact that he's probably been thinking about it — about you — for a lot longer than you thought he would. 

“She seems nice.” You mumble as Joel digs into his plate and you hate to admit how delicious everything is— Even the cheeseburger is different from what you’re used to, from the bread to the burger itself, the green mayo pairing well with your food despite how fucking weird it looks. It’s not fancy, but it’s not fast food either, something else entirely but just as comforting and familiar enough to put you at ease with a cuisine you’re unfamiliar with but curious to try out.

“Her name's Marília, apparently her family owned the restaurant for generations.” He hums, washing down the deep fried tapioca square with his beer. “She was tellin' me about this night market they have every Sunday, reckon you'd like it. Could buy one'a them mugs you collect.”

You chew slowly, nodding, trying to pretend that you're not surprised that Joel actually remembers the tiny mug collection you’re started halfway through your relationship: He has a knack for that, for noticing and remembering the small details, the things you always kept to yourself or that you thought was too insignificant to share with other people. Joel always sees, always remembers.

“Not sure Marília wants you to bring your ex along for your little date.” You say and, while you try to make it sound like a joke, the words are more poisonous than you want them to be. Joel freezes for just a second before a grin slowly spreads over his lips. You know he's got you pinned, can tell he already figured out you're a little jealous from that sentence alone.

“Her wife's a local artist.” Joel speaks slowly, not bothering to hide his giddiness at your unwitting display of affection. “She sells pottery at the market, and Marília performs with a band there.”

You swallow it down, giving him a small nod, as noncommittal as you possibly can— You're actually really excited for it, you've always been a lover of outdoor sales and flea markets, but it is too reminiscent of your first date with Joel: You'd dragged him and little Sarah to a garage sale one Sunday morning with the excuse of a new rug and you'd left the sale with the trunk of Joel's truck full of useless nick-knacks and the certainty that you would never meet another man that made you feel the way he did.

“Sounds like a plan.”

The two of you end up by the beach after lunch. You're not in your bathing suit so you just sit on the white sand, staring at the ocean— It's one of the things you missed the most since moving to Texas. Joel sits quietly by your side, sunglasses perched low on his nose; you can't remember the last time the two of you did anything like this, just sitting together enjoying each other's presence but it's peaceful and familiar in a way that borders on dangerous, Joel's shoulder shuffling closer to yours and you need to fight off the urge to rest your head against him. The ocean is calm, the sun shining down on the crystalline water almost blinding you.

“Sarah would've loved here.” You say after a moment, unsure of where to go with the conversation. You had promised to one day take her to the beach, and it makes your chest ache with guilt that you never managed to keep your word.

“Sarah would've given me a damn heart attack, runnin' off into the water.” Joel snorts, but his voice carries that warm fondness that is exclusive to Sarah. “Prob'ly would'a tried to take that dog home, too.”

“The dog at your little friend's restaurant?” It's sweet, how Sarah is constantly on his mind; you hadn't even thought of her when you walked past the sleeping dog and the thought of him looking at the animal and thinking of his daughter makes you smile. 

“My married, lesbian friend? Yeah.” He bumps his shoulder into yours. “You ain't got nothin' to be jealous of, sweetheart.”

“I wasn't jealous.” The lie falls easily out of your mouth, but your entire face burns with shame. “You're a single man, you can flirt with whomever you want. Unless you're not single anymore, then in that case your new partner has to be the most confident person in the world to let you travel with your ex like that. Not that it matters, of course, because nothing—”

“I'm not seeing anyone.” Joel cuts off your embarrassing rambling, and you're relieved not just for the small act of kindness but also because it answers the question you've been dying to ask. The two of you fall silent and you can see that he's giving you space to answer the same question but you don't, you just nod and turn your eyes back to the ocean. “You?”

You bite your bottom lip, pleased that he couldn't stop himself from asking, and then you shrug. “Not really.”

“Good.” Joel's voice is low and heavy, gruff in that way he purposefully saved for the bedroom; it's like a Pavlovian response, your skin growing warmer and your pussy growing wetter from that single word. He must sense a line has been crossed because Joel stands up, brushing off sand from his ass. “Imma grab us some coconut water.”

You watch as he trudges up the soft sand all the way to the stands by the boardwalk, chatting up with the young man with the cart full of bright green coconuts; they talk for a long time, and Joel doesn't seem to flirt this time though you're too far away to tell— Not that you expect him to flirt with anyone anymore, not after the undercurrent of something in his voice at your admission to still being single. Joel is a protective man, yes, but he's never been possessive: You know he wouldn't have been angry if you had already moved on, but the fact that he is pleased that you haven't seems to only cement the notion that he still wants you, maybe just as much as you want him. 

But you can't. You can't let yourself fall into bed with him, because if this is just a vacation fling for him it would break your heart past the point in which you could fix it, and if it wasn't just a fling and he truly wants you back… Well, that is a can of worms you don't want to open and run the chance of ruining the one trip you'll have in years. Your attention is back to the ocean by the time Joel plops back down next to you, both coconuts in hand. 

“Got somethin' else too.” Joel says, an uncharacteristically boyish smile on his lips. He pulls out two pre-rolled joints from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Coconut guy gave me a two for one deal.”

Your hand snaps between the two of you, pushing Joel's hand closer to his chest.

“Are you insane?” You raise your head, wanting to make sure no one's seen the joints while Joel laughs at you. “We've been here for three hours and you're already buying drugs off the street? What if that guy was an undercover cop?”

“If he was a cop then that would've been entrapment.”

“And maybe entrapment is not illegal here, Joel.” You try to sound stern but you're laughing too, not really believing the situation. Joel shrugs, and then finally pockets the joints away. “If you go to jail I am not bailing you out. I'll chill in that nice house by myself and I'm only calling Tommy when I get back to Austin.”

“We can smoke it at home.” Joel concedes, bumping his shoulder into yours. 

The silence after that is heavy, full of the sort of awkwardness that had never been there before. Joel’s always been the silent type, and you’re not much of a conversationalist either, but it’s always been comfortable. An understanding of sorts. This silence isn’t that. It’s pregnant with things unsaid, the weight of the six months apart and the slow decay of your relationship sitting between the two of you like a wall.

The two of you stay at the beach until well past sundown— It's one of the most beautiful sunsets you've ever seen, the sand and the ocean and the sky all mingling in shades of orange and pink. The entire world feels ethereal, like you're somewhere that doesn't truly exist, sitting there basking in the golden light with Joel by his side; he takes off his shirt at some point, his tan skin bright with the shades of twilight.

You're exhausted when you finally make it to the Airbnb, but you don't really want the day to end. Joel looks happy, more carefree than you've seen him in a long time, and it doesn't seem like he's ready to go to bed either. The two of you wash off the sand with the outdoor shower and it burns you on the inside to think of earlier in the day— The night is cool but not cold, crickets and cicadas chirping somewhere in the wooded area that surrounds your place and the two of you find yourselves sharing the hammock, your feet by his ribs, his feet near your neck.

Joel lights up the joint, the ashtray balancing on his chest, taking a drag before he hands it over to you. You don't remember the last time the two of you smoked together, but it was something you used to do on the weekends, when Sarah was away at a friend's house or at Tommy's. Just the two of you, laying on the bed of his truck to keep the house smell-free, talking for hours and simply enjoying the moment with each other.

“How's work?” Joel asks as you blow the smoke up in the air; it's filler conversation, but can only hope that Joel genuinely cares— He's the one that helped you build your own nail design studio back when you were stuck with a half-finished college degree you hated and no happy future in sight. Joel's been the one to motivate you, to give you gas money back when you didn't have enough clients to afford both gas and food, the one who held you through the rough days and massaged your hands and back after a hard day of work. 

All those things feel like a thousand years into the past now. 

“It's been good, I'm almost always fully booked.” You say, your throat burning from the smoke before handing him the joint. You fingers touch, his lingering for a beat too long. “What about you and Tommy?”

“That's nice, I'm glad it's working out. You deserve it.” Joel smiles, and it's only then that you realize how he's never once taken credit for it. He could've, considering the only reason you have your studio is because of his help, but he's never done it, had gone as far as being offended when you offered to pay him back. “Work's flowin' well, Tommy is pickin' up more shifts and we managed to hire a couple of guys to help.”

“I'm glad Tommy's pulling his head out of his ass.” You snort, but the joke hides the truth: Joel has been carrying his brother's weight for a long, long time. 

“I got a lot more free time now.” Joel smiles, takes a long drag of the joint and when his eyes settle on you they're carrying a heaviness you don't expect. Like he knows that was something that troubled you, like he's always known he had been neglecting you and had simply waited until you left to fix it.

“Sarah must be happy.” You say, hating the way the quiver in your voice gives away your feelings. The smile on Joel's face crumbles just a little, clearly not expecting a bad reaction from you. 

“She is,” He agrees. “I haven't missed a soccer match in months.”

The goddamned Saturday morning soccer matches. She had one almost every week during the tournament months, and Joel more often than not either forgot about it at all or was too tired after a grueling week of work to get up at seven in the morning— You went to every single of them, no matter how tired, how cold or how miserable you felt.

“Good to know that all you needed was for me to step away before you became half a decent parent.”

Joel recoils as if you've slapped him, and you figure that might've hurt less than your actual words. You move, trying to get out of the hammock with as much dignity as you can but Joel stops you, gripping your ankle; you freeze at the touch, your heart hammering so fast you can hear it in your ears.

“I'm sorry.” He says, his voice low and heavy with emotion. “I should've said it sooner. I'm sorry I put all that weight on you, wasn't fair. 'M tryin' to do better.”

You should've tried to do better while I was still around. The words are trapped in your throat, bubbling to come out but you swallow them down.

“Better late than never.” It's what you settle for, and it pains you to shrug his hand off, climbing out of the hammock. 

“I know it's late.” Joel says, taking a deep drag of the joint before he puts it out. “But is it too late, sweetheart?”

The answer should've been yes. You told yourself time and time again in the past six months that you were done, that you didn't want Joel anymore and that you'd never take him back even if he begged you for it. And now, one afternoon with him, and your resolve is already wavering. You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself. 

“When did you know it was over?” You ask instead of an answer. It had always been on your mind, wondering when he gave up on your relationship exactly. 

“About two months before you left.” Joel doesn't look at you, staring at the trees instead. “It was the first time we were havin' sex in forever and you fell asleep halfway through it. Reckoned you were done with me by then.”

“Four.” You say. “We didn't have sex for four months before we broke up.”

“Nuh-huh, it was the weekend Sarah went away for camp. We had planned a bunch of stuff for the weekend, but you fell asleep while I was still inside you on Friday night and then we sorta just did our own thing until she came back.”

“Did you—” You swallow thickly. “Did you finish?”

“No, of course not.” Joel shakes his head, and he sounds offended at the question. “I pulled out and got you dressed before I went to the bathroom to jerk off.”

You're so mortified by the whole thing that your brain doesn't even conjure the very tempting imagery of Joel touching himself. You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to contain the tears that threaten to spill.

“I don't remember that.”

“You were tired.” Joel's soft, understanding tone somehow only makes things worse. “Overworked and stressed, and I was only makin' it worse.”

You want to ask why he didn't try. Want to ask him why he didn't fight for you, why he simply accepted the break up with a solemn nod. Why he gave up. But you don't, because you're afraid of his answer— Whether the problem had been you, if he'd simply fallen out of love and gotten too comfortable with your relationship, or if he'd found someone more interesting, someone new. 

“I'm going to bed.” You say, clearing your throat. 

Joel nods, lips parted in hesitation. And then he sighs, his eyes falling on the couch behind your back. “Lemme just grab a pillow first.”

“We can share the bed. If you want.” The words come out of your mouth before you can think it through. “Just keep your morning wood to yourself.”

The look Joel gives you almost makes you backtrack, but he's climbing out of the hammock before you can say anything, a relieved smile on his face.

“I'll behave, I promise.”

You try to pretend you're not disappointed in that.

You don't wake up the next day with Joel's body pressed against yours as you had hoped, but you do wake up with him shaking you. You groan, trying to swat him away.

“G'way.” You mumbled, rolling to the other side of the bed. The sheets are cool, signaling just how long he's been gone. 

“Honey, there's monkeys. C'mon, get up.”

You drag yourself out of bed at that, partially thinking that maybe Joel has finally lost his mind but, sure enough, there are two tiny monkeys in the backyard deck, perched on the wooden rail and sitting far too closely to the breakfast table that Joel has set up— Coffee and juice, fruit cut up in little bowls and a basket of pão de queijo. 

“Is that a marmoset?” You ask, voice low as you try not to scar the animals.

Joel has a huge smile on his lips, nodding as the two of you watch from the large sliding door, still inside the house. The bigger monkey — which can't be bigger than a chihuahua, you think — crawls to the table and grabs a slice of mango and then skitters back into the closest tree; the smaller one isn't as brave, eyeing you carefully from his position before jumping back into the protection of the trees.

“I think we should get the food inside before they steal some more.” You say, not really containing the grin on your face. “Fuck, I should've picked up my camera.”

“They'll be back.” Joel says, finally stepping away to open the door; you can still feel the faint scent of his soap, the warmth of his chest almost pressed to your back. “Now that they know we have food they'll come back everyday.”

The two of you move the breakfast spread into the dining table inside, just in case. You're touched that Joel went through all the trouble of setting up the food in the first place, half expecting him to be asleep by the time you got out of bed, but the coffee is perfectly brewed, the fruit all carefully sliced and the pão de queijo still warm from the oven; it reminds you of the early stages of your relationship, before life got in the way, when Joel would wake up early and cook breakfast for both you and Sarah— Tommy too, sometimes, when he got too drunk to drive home the night before.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask when Joel fills your glass with orange juice, the words slipping out of your mouth before you can stop yourself; you don't want to ruin the small peace the both of you agreed to, but you need to know. “This… This is the sort of thing you did when you gave a shit, Joel. But I know what happens when you stop caring, so whatever this is… I'm not going to fall for it twice.”

Joel sighs, the sort of noise you know comes from resignation rather than irritation. He drops down on the seat adjacent to yours on the small square table, his knees creaking loudly. 

“I told you last night… I want to do better. Wanna fix the mistakes I made with you.” Joel's eyes hold yours, his face open and honest. “Yer the best damn thin' to ever happen to me after Sarah. I know I can't change the past, I ain't tryin' to erase you the pain I caused you and I know it'll take you some time to trust me again but I'm goin' to work hard everyday to prove to you just how much I still love you.”

You squint, trying to ignore the way your heart feels like it might jump out through your throat. “That sounds like a rehearsed speech.”

Joel blushed, his face and ears going red as he finally takes his eyes off you.

“M'therapist helped. But I mean it, she just… helped with the words.” He looks down at the table, shoving a piece of melon into his mouth. “But I'm workin' on it too. Bein' better at… Communicatin'.”

You're floored, breakfast forgotten as you stare at this man next to you that you're now uncertain if he is the same man he used to be. Joel's face flushes even harder, fidgeting under the weight of your gaze. 

“That's… That's good.” You swallow thickly. “Yeah. I'm glad you're going to therapy.”

“It's been a rough coupla' months, Sarah's teacher was the one to recommend it, actually. She started goin' first, and then I did.”

You know what he isn't saying: That it's been difficult because you left, to the point that Sarah had to go to therapy because you left without a word. It makes you sick to your stomach. 

“I'm sorry.” You say, though you wish you could apologize to the little girl instead. “I should've dealt with everything better. I— I miss her, honestly, I just thought it would be worse if I tried to stay in touch with her.”

“She misses you too. We all do.” Joel hesitates, taking a sip of his coffee with his eyes still glued to you, as if he's weighing his words and your reaction to them. “We could do something together when we get back. Not a trip, 'cause Tommy's gon' wring my neck if I make him cover another shift of mine, but something nice. We never took her to the zoo.”

In the silence that follows, you have the urge to say something mean, to be rude or dismissive or to just tell him off— Anything, anything to keep your heart from racing the way it does. Still, when you open your mouth, no venom comes out. Joel's looking at you with warm brown eyes, the same puppy-like quality that he has passed on to Sarah and, for a moment, you allow yourself to think of what that would be like. What it would feel to come back home to the life you thought you'd never have again.

“It might be good for her.” You relent, toying with a slice of pineapple on your plate. “That she learns we can be exes and still have a healthy relationship.”

You don't raise your head, trying to keep your voice as casual as you can, but you see from the corner of your eye the way Joel's head tilts to the side, his body going stiff at your words. 

“‘s that all you want, darlin’? Because I'll respect your decision like I did when we broke up, but I'm going to hear you say it.”

“I don't know what I want.” You say, but that's not exactly the truth. You know what you want: You want him, all of him, next to you and inside of you and everywhere. You need him, need him as much as you need the air you breathe but you're terrified. 

Because your story has already ended once, and you're not sure there is anything you can do to fix that.

“That's all I need to know.” Joel gives you a small, crooked smile before he takes your hand in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Let me show you that I still love you. And, if by the end of the week you still don't want me, then I won't bother you ever again.”

There's a million reasons why you should say no. Relationships need more than love, and whatever happens while on vacation isn't a representation of real life and there is no way you believe that things will get better once you go home or that your heart isn't going to end up breaking like it's done once before but, in that moment, with Joel's soft lips against your skin and his molten eyes boring into yours, your brain can't conjure up any of those reasons. 

You love him. He loves you. You have an entire house to yourselves for the first time in months and not a single responsibility or to-do list. Just the two of you, the scorching sun and the bountiful nature around. 

It doesn't matter if your heart is going to break at the end. 

You want him anyway. 

“Okay.” You nod, and then laugh when Joel offers you a boyish grin. “Don't make me regret it, Miller.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, honey.”

YOU.

Joel won't stop touching you. Ever since the kiss, about four days prior, it's like the floodgates have been opened. He's by your side more often than not, always within reach, always with some part of his body in contact with yours— A hand on your hip, his fingers brushing against yours, his thigh pressed to your side. Kisses to the top of your head and your temple and your shoulder. Everywhere and anywhere that Joel can reach, he's always there, always close. You expect it to be suffocating, to feel like you're drowning in him but the closeness has the opposite effect: You rejoice with it, melting against his touches, losing your train of thought whenever you feel his callous against your soft skin, his warm breath on your neck.

And yet, and yet, his touches remain chaste. He kisses you like a starved man but his hands remain over your clothes, his body pins you down when you're laying in bed but his mouth never travels lower than your neck, his hips tilting away from you whenever he gets hard.

It's driving you to the brink of insanity.

You get it. You do. Sort of. He's promised he won't touch you until you beg and you haven't begged yet, but you didn't think he meant it— Joel's said a lot of things since he took you, has gone back and forth on his word and has lied time and time again to the point where you thought he just might take what he wanted after you made the first move but he doesn't.

He's old fashioned like that, you think. And you're not experienced enough to even know how to articulate what you want, so the two of you are at a stalemate, making do with innocent kissing and a lot of cuddling.

It's the night before your first supply run, and you need the distraction— The sort of distraction that no book can give you, that no amount of sitting there watching Joel carve bunnies out of wood can help. So, you put on your fancy underwear and his flannel and lay down in bed in what you hope is a seductive pose, waiting for Joel to finish his shower; he's been taking longer and longer showers ever since the two of you shared your first kiss and you're not sure if you want to laugh or scream in frustration at the idea that he might be jerking off in the shower instead of touching you.

A tiny part of you, the insecure part that you try to smother the best you can, wonders if maybe he's having second thoughts about completing the bond that will link the two of you forever.

Joel pauses at the threshold of the bedroom once he's out of the shower, his sweatpants dangerously low on his hips, the faded t-shirt stretched thin across his shoulders. His eyes drink you in, that hunger you've come to recognize so well etched onto his face; you roll to the side, your back turned to him as if you were ready to fall asleep but the motion is well calculated, raising your shirt enough to give Joel the full view of the pale blue underwear. He exhales loudly, crawling into bed next to you, the rough pads of his fingers running up the side of your thigh before he pulls the hem of your shirt down, covering your ass.

You roll over, frowning. Sure, you're not experienced at all, but you thought that presenting your ass to him might be enough to finally entice him.

"What?" He asks, confusion lacing his tone as he frowns at you.

"Are you a virgin?"

There's a beat of silence, as if Joel can't believe your words before he barks out a laugh. "Sweetheart, I'm almost sixty fuckin' years old. Where's this comin' from?"

You sit up on the bed, arms crossing over your chest. "And you're a weirdo that was obsessed with the soulmate thing. Maybe you were saving yourself."

Joel cocks his head to the side. "Well, I ain't. Are you disappointed in that?"

"No, one of us has to know what they're doing." You huff, looking at the wall behind him, unsure of how to voice the turmoil inside your chest. Joel leans on one elbow, the other hand coming up to rub your thigh.

"What's wrong?"

"You won't touch me." You hate how whiny you sound, biting down on the tip of your tongue. "If you're not nervous about fucking for the first time in your life, then that's gotta be because you don't want me, right?"

"Sweetheart…" Joel shakes his head, his fingers leaving your thigh to pinch your chin. "Jesus Christ, you have no idea how much I want ya. Just don't want ya to do somethin' you'll regret. There's a lot at stake here."

"It's going to happen anyway, right? That's what soulmates are, we're… Meant for one another. Bound together no matter what. Even if we hated each other, it still would've happened at some point." You lick your lips, woefully distracted by Joel's hand on your chin. "And… I want you."

It's like those three words are all he needs to hear. Joel leans forward, his lips pressing against yours like they've done multiple times in the past few days but it feels different; the intent behind it is different, his fingers ghosting from your chin to your jawline before finally making home at the nape of your neck, pulling you with him as he leans back against the headboard.

"Say it again." He whispers against your lips as you switch positions, straddling his lap; it's the closest the two of you have ever been, your hands on his chest as Joel cradles you against him.

"I want you, Joel." The hand on the back of your neck forces you to tilt your head backwards, your breath catching as Joel's lips travel downwards, a trail of open-mouthed kisses on your jawline and neck. "I do, I want you do bad." You're babbling then, the words not being filtered by your brain as they leave your mouth, your entire focus on the way Joel noses at the side of your neck. "Need you. Always did. Even— Even before we met, I needed you."

"It's okay, sweetheart." Joel whispers against you, his blunt fingernails digging into whatever bit of your skin that he can grasp. "Daddy's here now. I got you."

His words, although you've never heard them in such context, simmer low on your stomach, your skin feeling tight around your bones when you pull him closer, bringing his lips back to yours. Joel lowers you back on the bed, your head still cradled in his big hand as he lays you back onto the mattress, his body covering yours. He kisses you slowly, tenderly and yet all encompassing, his chest pressed into yours, his thigh slotted between your legs. One os his hands skirts underneath the large shirt you're wearing, running up your side while his lips finally leave yours— His mouth doesn't go away, though, simply changing its path to run down the side of your neck.

"You have no idea what y'do to me." Joel laps and nips at your throat, his fingertips brushing the underside of your breast; the touch is fleeting, barely there but it's enough to have you giggling, your spine bending on its own accord to facilitate his access. "So pretty, so soft. Just know yer goin' to taste like heaven."

Your heart feels like it's going to jump out of your chest when Joel finally takes a handful, his expert fingers kneading your breasts, his thumb flicking over the nipple. No one's ever touched you like this, and it doesn't feel nearly the same as it does when you're the one groping yourself: You never thought you were particularly sensitive in that area, barely gave your chest any attention when you knew that the place between your legs was far more rewarding but Joel's touch ignites you. You gasp when he pushes your shirt up to your neck, your hands tugging his soft hair at the first touch of his tongue; Joel takes his time, hungry but controlled, swirling the tip of his tongue over your nipple before he finally latches onto it, his free hand twisting and plucking the other with just enough intent to send sparks down your body. His thigh presses down against your center, rubbing at your clothed clit in just the right way to have your eyes rolling back into its sockets.

It's nothing like you expected sex to be. It's not awkward or fumbling, there's no time for you to overthink or get bored or focus on anything else other than Joel's teeth scraping at the soft skin of your tit, or the way your hips push against his thigh out of pure instinct, the friction delicious but not nearly enough; you don't hit the right spot every time, keening when you do and growling in frustration when you don't. Joel pulls back just enough to rearrange the both of you so your legs are wrapped around his waist, his hard cock still in the confines of its sweatpants pushing down directly onto your clit. You can feel how warm he is even through the layers of clothes. A moan escapes your lips when he ruts against you, pleasure sparking all the way up to your stomach.

"There you go, darlin'." Joel mumbles against you, his mouth already lapping at your chest again. He rolls his hips once, and then twice, and then three times, every single one of them catching his cock against your clit; you grab at whatever part of him that you can, head falling back against the pillows. "That better?"

"Yes." You half-moan, half-mumble, biting down onto your bottom lip. "Yes, Joel, just like that."

You call him Joel, but that's not exactly the word you want to use— He's called himself daddy just a little bit before and you can feel the word teetering at the tip of your tongue, a little bit too shy to let it fall. He tugs your legs a little bit higher, the soulmark on your thigh now pressed against the sliver of skin between the waistband of his pants and the place where his shirt has ridden up and you know you should be angry at him for that — he's doing it so he can feel your emotions even though you told him not to — but you can't find it in yourself to care, not when his mouth is still attached to your nipple, not when his cocks bumps oh-so-deliciously against you.

It's not until he's pushing your panties to the side that reality hits you. It's happening— It's actually happening, his calloused fingers are brushing shyly against your clit and his mouth his back to yours and the finality of the situation hits you so hard your hand shoots between the two of you, holding his wrist tightly before you can stop yourself. Joel pulls back just enough to look at your face, brows furrowed.

"Everythin' okay, kitten? What's wrong?"

You shake your head. "It's nothing. I'm okay. Just… Uh. Go on."

The hand he's pushed inside your underwear pulls back to grab at your thigh, pressing your soulmark tightly against his skin; you try to will yourself into calming down, try to get your nervousness to die out before he can feel it but Joel simply frowns at you before he rolls to the side— Pulling your thigh with him, the both of you now laying on your sides and facing each other, your leg still hoisted over his hip.

"You're panickin'."

"Am not." You try to pull your leg back, wanting nothing more than to break the connection that bares your entire soul for him but he doesn't allow you to, simply frowning and holding you steady until you sigh. "I just— Never done it before."

You don't look at him at the confession, teeth worrying at your bottom lip as you stare at the wall behind him. Joel takes your hand then, sneaking it underneath his shirt until it finds the mark on his chest.

"I figured." He smiles, and you can feel the truth behind those two words, can feel the giddiness and the desire and the possessiveness that he feels at the idea of being the only one to ever have you. "We don't gotta do anythin' tonight. We'll take things slow."

"I want you." You say, because you're terrified that he might think you don't; you know most men wouldn't be happy in this situation, with you being the one to initiate things only to back-out halfway through but Joel doesn't seem to mind.

"Oh, I know." He grins, his fingers tightening on the plushness of your thigh. "You're so wet it's soakin' my pants."

You scoff, embarrassment flooding your senses even though you don't feel any sort of judgment through your bond, just… Pride. Joel's proud of it, for some fucking reason, but knowing that you're leaving a damp spot on his sweatpants is still mortifying. You try to turn your back to him but Joel pulls you close, holding you captive between his big arms.

"It's a good thing, baby." He leaves close-mouthed kisses on your cheek and your temple, the tip of his nose brushing against the shell of your ear. "Still don't mean we need to go all the way tonight. How far have you gone before?"

A part of you consider lying, pretending you're more experienced than you really are but between the lying detector that is your soulmark and the fact that you're more than a little frightened about the whole thing, you just tell him the truth:

"Just kissing." You don't expand on it any further, doesn't talk about how you didn't even want to kiss the people that you did — A girl from two houses down when you were seventeen and Aaron when you finally realized that was the best way to manipulate him into running away with you —, that you'd done it because you felt like you had to.

Joel hums as if he knows what you left unsaid, and although he tries to hide his smile you can feel just how smug he is about it. You're about to tell him off for it when he speaks again:

"And you liked what we were doin' just now? Felt good?"

"Yes." Your answer is bashful, and it feels like an oversimplification of how much you were enjoying yourself before your brain got in the way.

"Then we don't gotta go any further than that, babygirl. We'll go at your pace." He gives you one long yet chaste kiss. "Can I get you off tonight? We don't gotta if you don't want to, but I really think I can make you come just by rubbin' myself on that wet lil' pussy of yours."

His words send a thrill down your spine, and you grow wetter at the thought of it. Joel shudders at your combined desire thumping through the bond, so overwhelming that you barely have time to nod before Joel is rolling over you once more, his hips pushing against yours. He doesn't kiss you this time, however, instead keeping his lips next to your ear.

"Look at you," he whispers, and you dig your fingers into the mark on his chest. "So pretty, so wet f'me. Been thinkin' about this for months now, how I'm goin' to ruin this tight pussy, how perfect you gon' fit around me. Almost went crazy the other day, with you touchin' yourself in my bathtub like that, I bet you wanted me to walk in, didn't ya? Wanted me to see you rubbin' your lil' clit like the naughty girl you are?"

You gasp, trying to increase the pace but Joel pins you down to the mattress, his hips rolling leisurely against yours. "Nu-uh, babygirl. You take what I give ya."

"Did you watch it?" You ask, barely recognizing your own voice, cut off by a moan at a particularly harsh thrust. "That day— You said I should— You said you'd help. Were you watching me?"

"Yes, God, yes— So pretty like that, stuffin' your pussy full while I was right in the other room. How many fingers did you get in there, baby? Gon' need at least three to stretch you enough to take my cock."

Once more you're tempted to lie and it's almost as if Joel can sense that, his teeth nipping at your neck, fingers tightening his grip on your thigh.

"None." You tell him, almost bashful. You want to be done with the conversation, want him to rut against you and shut the fuck up but you find yourself answering anyway. "I never— I tried once, putting a finger in but it kinda hurt."

You laugh a little, trying to ease the awkwardness you feel but the groan that Joel gives against your skin as you drenching your underwear, tugging at his hair as his hips stutter against yours.

"No one's been inside you, baby? Not even you? Fuck." He moans against your neck, teeth sinking deep enough to hurt, the pain eased by the pleasure that sparks as he ruts against you just right. "I'm gon' keep you full— All the time, my fingers and my cock and my tongue—"

You're not sure which one of you shatters first, the pleasure from both of your orgasms melting and mending into one non-stop loop of sensation that strikes down lighting fast; you come harder than you've ever done by yourself, gushing onto your underwear and all over Joel's sweatpants, his moans muffled against your neck. He doesn't stop thrusting until the both of you are entirely spent, twitching from overstimulation and with a mind so foggy you can barely keep your eyes open.

Joel drops his weight on top of you, peppering kisses to whatever part of your skin that he can reach.

"I didn't think it'd be this intense. And you're not even inside me yet." You say once the silence stretches a little too long, giggling to yourself; your hand is still on his chest, and your thigh is still clutched to his hip, both of your emotions flowing freely into one another— The relaxation and giddiness and happiness doubling in size, filling your insides and exploding out of your chest in a series of small giggles that turn into a full laugh soon after. You're not even sure why you're laughing, all you know is that you're happy, happier than you've been in a long, long time, your own heart feeding off of the emotions tumbling inside Joel.

"It usually ain't." He mumbles, laughing to himself against your collarbone. "It really fuckin' ain't."

"Beginners' luck, you think?"

"I think it's always goin' to be like that." Joel shakes his head. "Goddamn it, girl, you're goin' to be the death of me."

He falls sleep like that, pants sticky with cum and his body still on top of yours. And you're wet and sweaty, and breathing is a little hard due to the mountain of a man laying on your chest but you wouldn't have it any other way.

Joel wakes you at the break of dawn the next morning, already showered and both of your backpacks are made: You saw him check the supplies twice the night before, but you're willing to bet he's triple checked it before waking you up; it's so early not even the rooster has sung yet and you go through the motions in a half-asleep state, showering and having breakfast — which Joel forces you to eat even though it's too early for you to be hungry, citing that meals would be less consistent on the road — and then checking the supplies of your backpack in the exact order Joel has taught you. You give one last cursory check to the bunnies, making sure they're fed and that their box is clean while Joel writes down the extensive list of chores he's leaving for Tommy: The message came in through the ham radio two days ago giving the two of you the all clear to leave on your supply run and, while Tommy hasn't explicitly said he would show up, Joel is confident that he will. You, on the other hand, don't feel so sure.

Just as Joel is finishing up his list of instructions, you shove your collar into the front pocket of your backpack; you haven't worn it in a couple of days, the weather too hot and stifling for it to be comfortable but you can't bear the idea of being parted with it for too long; not when there's the chance you won't be able to come back for it, when so many things could go wrong in the blink of an eye.

"What's the plan?" You ask as Joel helps you with your backpack, checking every single clasp and strap.

"We're goin' on a long walk. 'M sorry, sweetheart, I know you hate it but we gotta avoid the patrol routes. There's an old car about three hours away and I'm fairly confident the gas is still good, we're going to grab it and then drive northwest. It's too close to Jackson, but… Well, it's better than walkin' all the way."

Your nose wrinkles at the idea of walking for three fucking hours but you don't complain— This whole thing is your fault, after all, even though you try not to think of that.

"We'll take a coupla' breaks." Joel says, even though you haven't voiced your displeasure. "We just need to get there before noon."

It's almost funny how being outside makes you feel. You spent so long trying to run away, not just from Joel but your family as well, and now being outside the makeshift gate of your precious little farm brings the kind of unease that is difficult to describe. You're not even aware how much of a sanctuary the place has become until you have to leave it behind, already worrying about the animals and the produce and all of the little trinkets you're leaving behind.

The farm is your home, and that's something you've never had before. The village, despite being the place where you grew up, never felt like home. It was a house and a community, sure, but it had always felt fleeting, like you weren't meant to be there in the first place. It wasn't your landing place, it wasn't the place where you felt warm and welcome and embraced. It makes you want to cry and you try to tell yourself that you're being stupid for it— You'll be back by the end of the week, after all, and the goodbye you give the place is just temporary.

The two of you walk for what feels like an eternity. Joel stops every-so-often, sometimes so you can rest, sometimes to make sure you're drinking enough water, but he doesn't seem nearly as winded as you— the pace isn't brisk by any chance but you're still out of breath, thighs burning and knees feeling just a little wobbly.

"You're old." You say on your third break, and Joel snorts while he once more shoves the water bottle into your hands.

"Thanks, darlin'. Wasn't aware of that."

"What I mean is how the fuck are you in a better shape than me? You should be complaining about your knees or some old people shit like that."

"M'knees are fine." Joel shrugs and you while you don't understand how you know, you simply know he's lying. "Got lots of practice. You just gotta breathe right."

"Lots of practice how? You never told me much about your life before the farm, just that you were in Boston."

Joel licks his lips, and you try not to be distracted by it; he buzzed his beard shorter than usual this morning, probably because he won't be shaving for the next week, and your eyes track to the way his mustache frames his plump lips.

"I was a smuggler back in Boston. Lived a few years in the QZ they got there." He scratches his cheek. "And then Ellie came around, and we walked here."

"You walked all the way from Boston?" Your nose scrunches, unable to even imagine a trek that long. "Why?"

"I drove part of the way, but yeah, we were mostly on foot. I knew Tommy was around these parts, and I was worried about 'im, we… We lost contact for a while. When I showed up, he had a cushy new home and a pregnant mate."

"You said Ellie's not really yours." You hesitate, unsure of how to voice the question— It had been bothering since that afternoon at the lake, but Joel had never seemed too kin on talking about her. "Brave kid, to walk across the country with a man that's not her real father."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't like she got much of a choice." Joel flinches, as if he hadn't meant to say that, and your head snaps towards him.

"So I'm not the first young woman you kidnap, huh?"

"No. Fuck no, it— It ain't like that. She needed someone to escort her to—" He seems to catch himself, holding out his hand to help you over a particularly large fallen trunk. "She just needed someone to help her."

"Okay, now tell me the truth."

"That is the truth."

"Not the whole truth, though." You're not sure why you're insisting on it, but you can tell there's something else, something bigger, that Joel is hiding and the audacity of keeping things from you after everything makes your stomach burn with anger. "How am I supposed to bond with you for my entire fucking life if you're going to hide things from me, Joel?"

The man is silent for so long you're certain he's not going to give you an answer, and it makes you bristle. You yank your hand away from his, sidestepping a large stone on your own, the slippery moss and fallen twigs crunching underneath your boots. Joel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"She's immune. Ellie. She got bit and didn't turn." His voice drops lower, as if the forest itself couldn't be privy of this secret. "I was takin' her to the Fireflies, they thought they could use her to make a cure."

Whatever answer you had been expecting, it sure as all fucking hell wasn't that. You stumble, and Joel's hand flies out to steady you, lingering on your bicep for a beat too long, as if he didn't want to break contact.

"Did… Did it work? The cure?"

"No."

The single word is heavy, carrying a weight that doesn't belong to a sentence so short, but there's something else simmering underneath.

"What—"

"Not today." He shakes his head. Darkness and sadness and pain flash through Joel's eyes, his jaw ticking and brows scrunching before he manages to reign it in, his expression no longer giving anything away. "Please, darlin'. I'll tell you. Just… Not today."

You don't push. It's clear that you've stumbled on something big, some old wound that is still festering underneath his skin and it hurts knowing that he's been through it without you; you weave your fingers through his, and Joel squeezes your hand tight.

You spend the rest of the hike in silence, Joel's brooding infecting the both of you as if it is Cordyceps itself.