Mars✦

l

            Frenchie frowned at the empty footage on the security camera. They had tailed Sister Sage this far, so why couldn’t they see her. “She said 9:00 pm in the Deep Blue Sea room, no?”

            “I sure did,” said Firecracker cheerfully. She grinned as she stepped into the room. Several armed men—all splinters of Splinter—and Sister Sage stood with her. “Toss your guns.”

            Frenchie, Kimiko, and MM lowered their weapons to the ground.

            “Eh, your rifles are garish and vulgar,” said Frenchie, looking at the American guns with distaste.

            “They’re American, you fuckon’ surrender monkey,” snapped Firecracker.

            “Marvin, did you really think you could tail me without me knowing?” said Sister Sage.

            “So what now?” said MM.

            Sister Sage glanced at Firecracker. “These assholes are CIA. Genuine deep state moles. They’re taken out more superheroes than anyone in the world. And Homelander would like it if you killed them. Consider it your final audition.”

            “Audition for what?” asked Firecracker.

            Sister Sage ignored her and looked at MM. She had to figure out if… “No supe backup coming, is there?”

            MM scoffed, but the way his brow furrowed told all.

            “So you don’t have them,” murmured Sister Sage. Interesting. She turned away. “The sooner they’re dead, Firecracker, the sooner you’ll found out what you’re auditioning for.” She paused in the door. “You’re not as impressive as I heard.”

            With that, she left. Firecracker and Splinter grinned, ready to kill Frenchie, Kimiko, and MM. The three Boys tensed. Once again, they were going to be in a fight for their lives.

            And, much to the chagrin of MM, he would end up getting saved by Butcher, who couldn’t stay away.

l

            “Hey, buddy,” said Homelander, patting Ryan on the back.

            Ryan just sniffled and pulled away. The accidentally death of the stuntman in his first save had destroyed him. He didn’t want to hurt people; he wanted to save people. Ryan wanted to be like Borealis.

            Homelander tsked when Ryan didn’t react. “Okay, come on.” He pulled Ryan into a hug. He wanted his family to rely on him. Only him. “Come on. It’s okay.” He watched tears roll down Ryan’s cheeks. “Don’t worry. Okay? Don’t worry. You’ll get plenty of solo saves, I promise. But I really do think that my being there is good for your numbers.”

            Ryan hiccupped through sobs and felt a pull of anger. That was why his dad thought he was upset? He looked up at Homelander incredulously. “What?”

            “Yeah,” said Homelander encouragingly.

            “No.” Ryan pushed back slightly.

            “Yes,” said Homelander like a proper, patient father.

            “No, no…” Ryan wished his mom was there to hold him close. She would understand.

            “Yes,” said Homelander again, correctively.

            “I killed Koy,” sobbed Ryan.

            Homelander paused. “That’s what you’re upset about? Koy?” He sighed in disappointment. “Hmm. Okay. Accidents happen all the time, okay?” He brushed the incident—and Ryan’s feelings about it—off. “Humans are fragile. You can’t save them all.”

            “But isn’t that our job?” said Ryan.

            “Look, Koy died doing what he loved,” said Homelander. He smiled. “Okay? It’ll be better next time.”

            “No.” Ryan refused.

            “Yes,” said Homelander.

            “No, I’m never doing that again,” swore Ryan.

            “Jesus Chr—How many times do I have to tell you?” snapped Homelander. “They’re only humans, Ryan. Toys.” When Ryan’s expression of anger didn’t change, Homelander huffed and stood. “You can’t go around feeling bad about what you are ‘cause a few things break. Who cares? You are destined for so much more. You understand? You’re chosen, young man. Sooner or later, you got to accept it.” He stalked away.

            Ryan sniffled. He missed Butcher. He missed (Y/N). He missed his mom.

l

            “Just keep your arms up,” said Annie, grimacing as Hughie put up his lanky arms. “Yeah. I mean, you’re eighty percent limbs. Use ‘em.” She chuckled.

            “Okay,” said Hughie.

            “Okay,” said Annie. She swung lightly, and Hughie blocked, but he was too slow. The fist hit his stomach.

            Hughie groaned and doubled over. “Ah, fuck, that was hard.”

            “That was, like, ten percent of hard,” said Annie.

            “Yo,” said MM. “These new Seven picks make any goddamn sense to you?” He pointed at the news headlines about Sister Sage and Firecracker. “I mean, Sage? Elon Musk has more charm than she does, and he’s half-android.”

            “I mean, Firecracker hates my guts for some reason, but outside of that, I don’t get it,” said Annie.

            “Something big is happening,” said MM darkly. “And we need help. Now, look, I know y’all ain’t gonna like this shit. I want to flip A-Train.”

            “What?” snapped Hughie.

            “You’re joking,” said Annie.

            “Fuck that,” asserted Hughie.

            “We turn A-Train informant, there’s no bigger fish than him,” said MM.

            “Yeah, or he could murder you,” pointed out Annie.

            “He did help clear your Starlighters,” replied MM. “Guys, I know when a motherfucker’s wavering, okay? And A-Train, he’s right there, he’s ready.”

            “One guess what my problem with this might be?” said Hughie sarcastically.

            “No.” Annie shook her head. “No.”

            “I think we should bring Butcher back,” said Hughie.

            “Fuck now,” said MM. “And need I remind you who still runs this operation.”

            “I thought we all had a say. I thought that was the point,” argued Hughie.

            Behind them all, Frenchie and Kimiko got up to head towards the door. MM spun around.

            “Hello?” he said, questioning where they were going. “You guys want to ask before you just up and fuck off?”

            Frenchie and Kimiko smiled at each other. They smiled at MM. They raised the middle finger.

            MM gritted his teeth. He looked back at Hughie and Annie. “The point is, we don’t have enough power to take on Homelander or the Seven. So we need someone on the inside.”

            Annie looked at the screens full of headlines. If (Y/N) was still there…what would they say to do? Fight. Do whatever it takes. Annie bit her cheek.

l

            Sister Sage watched the journalists hang onto Firecracker’s words after the resounding success of her introduction to the Seven. People were eating her conspiracies up. Polls were doing well, tweets were upbeat, and everyone jumped on a single person who said anything negative. Honestly, it was so easy it was boring.

            Homelander walked in, and Sister Sage glanced up. At least there was one thing interesting for her. Not him, of course. He was easy. But something else could prove new, unique.

            “I don’t think she’s right,” said Homelander, huffing at Firecracker’s prattle. “Like she fell off her jet ski one too many times.”

            “Mm-mm.” Sister Sage had told him once and would tell him again: she knew best. “Now that Starlight’s back leading the Starlighters, we need her.”

            “Mm. That is gonna shut them up?” said Homelander.

            “No. She’s gonna make them louder,” said Sister Sage. “Are you gonna trust me or not?”

            “Is there a problem?” said Homelander dangerously. “’Cause this is a huge day for you, but you seem to have something firmly lodged up your asshole.”

            “This spandex is,” said Sister Sage. “Up my ass and in a camel toe. The whole point was for me to stay behind the scenes.” She didn’t smile for the cameras passing while Homelander did. “You’re clearing punishing me for openly disagreeing with you, which you said you can handle, but you clearly can’t.”

            “Do you really think I’d be that petty?” said Homelander, attempting to joke.

            “Yes, I do,” retorted Sister Sage. “I mean, did it occur to you that it is harder to stage a fucking coup with a million eyes on me?”

            “Popularity is power, Sister,” said Homelander.

            “It’s a prison,” scoffed Sister Sage. “So quit punishing me.”

            “I’m not,” denied Homelander. He was. He always punished people, whether he used those words or not.

            “Right. Well, if you’re going to insist on this, then I’ll show you something to convince you to leave me alone.”

            Sister Sage turned and walked out of the lobby towards the computer room. Homelander faltered and looked at the cameras. His curiosity ultimately got the better of him—his need to know what was going on so he could control it ate at him—and he followed her.

            “Would you mind being less mysterious?” snapped Homelander while she remained silent and opened a computer.

            “You’ll see,” said Sister Sage.

            “See what?” Homelander’s face fell when she showed him the screen. Soldier Boy’s explosion. (Y/N)’s death. “What is this?” he snarled.

            Sister Sage held up a hand. “Listen to me.”

            Homelander glared at her. He despised rewatching his family be torn apart, the first chance he’d gotten at a real, complete home.

            “Borealis might be alive.”

            Homelander went still. “What?”

l

            Ryan nearly smiled when he lost foosball. Never in a million years had he expected himself to go to Butcher for any sort of comfort, but there he was with Butcher, having snuck out of the Tower.

            “Everyone at the Tower always lets me win,” admitted Ryan, glad that someone just treated him like…a kid. “It’s no fun.”

            Butcher faltered, not good at comforting people. He had been bad at it before Becca and was even worse after. He had messed up with Ryan and (Y/N), so many times. He cleared his throat. “Saw your save on the telly. So you’re a big hero now, eh?”

            Ryan looked away. “Not really.”

            “Come on, you’re a star. Nailed your lines and all,” said Butcher.

            “I actually…” Ryan trailed off. “I accidentally hurt someone.” He looked down, ashamed of himself.

            Butcher faltered once more. “What do you mean, ‘hurt ‘em?’ ”

            “I was supposed to throw them—” Ryan’s lip trembled, and his eyes burned “—but I did it too hard.”

            “They gonna be alright?” said Butcher, trying to think of what Becca would say. Ryan met his gaze, and Butcher understood.

            Ryan’s lip trembled, and he took a shaky breath. “My dad says I shouldn’t even care.” He exhaled slowly. He did care, though. He cared so much. “I get why you don’t want me.” He smiled, the expression heartbreaking. “I wouldn’t want me, either.”

            Butcher’s mouth opened and closed. “Hey.” He moved over, remembering the way that (Y/N) had looked at him every time he made them feel like a monster, inhuman. His heart clenched. “Now you listen to me. Them horrible things I said—I didn’t mean ‘em.” He should have said it to (Y/N), too. “I have this, uh…I have this habit, see, of pushing people away.”

            “Why?” whispered Ryan. He needed someone. Badly.

            “ ‘Cause, uh…’Cause I’m a bad man,” said Butcher honestly. “I ain’t got no business looking after a kid.”

            “Like (Y/N) and me?” said Ryan.

            Butcher was quiet for a long moment at the name. “Yeah. Like you and (Y/N).”

            Ryan sniffled. “It’s not true.” He was doing alright right now.

            Butcher looked away. Maybe he was doing the right thing in the moment, but he had messed up badly before. He would again. The only mistake he couldn’t make again was getting (Y/N) killed—because that mistake came with finality that not even grieving could take away.

            “Before, you asked me if I was scared,” said Butcher. “And the truth of the matter…is I’m bloody terrified, mate. I’m leaving this world with nothing to show for it. I lost me bruv. Your mum. And I could be leaving without making things right with the one part of her that is still alive. And that scares me more than anything.” Butcher felt real emotion in his chest, and when Ryan met his gaze, he found vulnerable honesty and care.

            “Butcher?” said Ryan quietly.

            Butcher paused. “Yeah?”

            “Do you think that I…could be a hero like (Y/N)?” Ryan didn’t know if he wanted to be like his dad. He cared. He worried. He didn’t want to hurt. And (Y/N)—that’s who they were.

            Butcher looked at Ryan. “I reckon you can be the hero you want.”

            Ryan smiled, still wobbly with emotion. He missed his mom and (Y/N).

            Butcher picked up the cookie jar and dumped it out.

            “What’s you do that for?” laughed Ryan.

            “Fucked ‘em up. Put way too much sugar in ‘em. Your mom would kill me.”

            Ryan smiled.

l

            Butcher sighed at his phone, and Kessler, his old buddy, glanced at him.

            “You think that carfentanyl was easy to score?” scoffed Kessler. “Why didn’t you give him the fucking cookie?”

            “Boy wants to keep talking,” said Butcher. “We don’t got to kidnap him. We can just fucking ease him into it.”

            “And who has time for that?” said Kessler. “You? How long before you drop dead?” Butcher looked at Kessler in shock. “Hi, CIA. I can find a medical file.” Butcher crossed his arms and looked away. “Look, the whole world is about to burn—Billy, we need the kid.”

            “Need the kid?” repeated Butcher. “I fucking told you, we ain’t turning him into an asset. He ain’t ready.”

            “You saying that because that’s what Borealis was?” Kessler scoffed. “You’ve gone soft.”

            “(Y/N) was Vought’s asset. I shouldn’t have—” He should have treated them like his, too.

            “I told you. Soft,” said Kessler. “If you had pushed them, maybe Homelander would be dead.”

            “They saved people from Soldier Boy,” said Butcher.

            “And saved no one from Homelander. He’s going to burn everything down.” Kessler looked at Butcher. “Do what’s necessary, Billy. Homelander’s got to go. Cry at the funerals afterwards.”

l

            Homelander smashed a hand into his mirror. A table was overturned. A statue lay in crumbled fragments on the floor. Homelander breathed heavily. Alive. (Y/N) was out there somewhere, alive. They’d be his. But they were somewhere hiding. Being hidden. Homelander wanted to break more. His family was trying to break away, but they were his—(Y/N) and Ryan. Homelander ran a hand through his hair. He needed to track them, needed to find them, needed them needed them needed his family.

            “Fuck!” snapped Homelander. The image of the aurora beneath the gold light of the explosion was imprinted on his mind. Alive. Alive all this time, and he had abandoned them. No. He wouldn’t. He’d be a good brother and find them, save them.

            “John.” Homelander paused. “John.”

            John looked up and faced his reflection where another Homelander spoke, faces fragmented with each shard.

            “Come here.”

            John obeyed and got up. He slowly walked to the Homelander faces.

            “John, come here.”

            John stood before the cracked glass at the many faces of himself. He laced his hands like a tiny child about to be scolded.

            “You really made a mess this time, tiger,” tutted one Homelander.

            “Come on, champ, pull yourself together,” said another face. “Deep breath.”

            “For God’s sake, look at you,” sneered the first. “(Y/N) is alive—that’s all it takes for you to break? You should be in control.”

            “You should be happy,” said one. “You can have your family back. All of it. You can have it all.”

            “Quit being a fucking mess and find them,” snapped the angry one.

            “You need to be strong for them, John,” said the kind one. “For Ryan.”

            “You still need love,” said the angry one, sneering at John.

            “You need your family,” said the kind one.

            “You crave it all,” said the angry one, “And you’re cowering here instead of taking what you want. Because you’re weak.”

            John shook his head. “No, that’s not true.”

            “Be careful, John, if you don’t become a real patriarch of this family, you’ll make Ryan weak and needy, like you, and (Y/N) will get away again,” said the angry Homelander.

            “But you can still fix things,” said the kind Homelander face.

            “Everyone hates you.”

            “You can have love.”

            “You’re being weak!”

            “You need to be strong.”

            “Ssh. Ssh, ssh,” said the composed face who hadn’t spoken yet. “It’s time to overcome this weakness. This sickness, once and for all. You’re never gonna be your true self until you transcend your humanity.”

            “What do I do?” whispered John.

            “You need to go back to the start,” said the three faces simultaneously.

            The Room.

l

            Butcher awoke to darkness and a creak on the floorboards outside his home. He snapped up and pulled the gun from under his pillow. He got up and glanced outside. There was a figure moving almost aimlessly. Drunk. Easy to scare off. But Butcher didn’t trust that it wasn’t a trick. He crept to the door. He slowly opened it, gun raised.

            “Fuck off,” snapped Butcher.

            “I’m trying to find something.”

            Butcher went still at the voice. He pushed the door farther open, and the porch light turned on. Butcher stared.

            “I don’t know what, though. Can you help me?”

            "(Y/N)?"

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but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies. 

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away. 

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl. 

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.) 

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this. 

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite. 

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep. 

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay? 

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle). 

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words. 

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish. 

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?” 

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room. 

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.” 

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now. 

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said. 

“yeah. okay. thanks.” 

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.” 

“you too, mister cody.” 

+

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own. 

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request. 

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you. 

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

+

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future. 

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time. 

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork. 

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do. 

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight. 

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap. 

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it. 

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car. 

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers. 

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes. 

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account. 

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep. 

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

 but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly. 

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside. 

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really. 

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two. 

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around. 

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind. 

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him. 

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says. 

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job. 

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours. 

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you. 

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.” 

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that? 

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers. 

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his. 

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.” 

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on. 

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off. 

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough. 

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow. 

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information. 

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you. 

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.” 

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either. 

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

 he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real. 

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.” 

“when did you get up?” 

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago. 

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday. 

“yeah. i had one.” 

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up. 

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs. 

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic. 

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.” 

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody. 

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly. 

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door. 

+

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved. 

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute. 

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you. 

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done. 

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them. 

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.) 

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you. 

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both. 

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching. 

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this. 

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?” 

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.” 

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times. 

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for. 

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him. 

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship. 

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place. 

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing. 

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress. 

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed. 

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm. 

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it. 

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you. 

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. 

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.” 

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path. 

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch. 

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him. 

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer. 

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet. 

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him. 

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about. 

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all. 

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out). 

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon. 

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now. 

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh. 

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady. 

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it. 

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.” 

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts. 

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.) 

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you. 

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody. 

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.) 

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend. 

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have. 

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once. 

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state. 

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words. 

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

The Pitt had crossed the line from busy to catastrophic nearly an hour ago. 

Every hallway was filled; every curtained room held at least two patients; gurneys lined the walls while nurses moved between them with the speed of people already running on adrenaline along. Somewhere across the nurses’ station, a child was crying enough to turn hoarse. Monitors beeped incessantly in overlapping bursts that never fully stopped long enough to give the employees’ brains a small respite. 

The ambulance bay doors, always in a continuing sliding motion of open and close, opened fully again, giving way for yet another gurney guided by paramedics to roll across into the belly of the beast. 

“Incoming!” one of them shouted over the noise, but no one seemed to catch it at first. 

Dennis was halfway through suturing a scalp laceration in room number four when Trinity appeared beside him, her gloves already bloody. 

“Trauma two’s asking for another set of hands if you’d like to join in,” she announced over his shoulder. 

“I physically do not have another set of hands at this moment.” His lifted his hands ever so slightly to emphasize that they were already full. 

“Then please tell me you have a secret twin because—” 

A gurney barreled past them out in the hall before she could finish, forcing both residents to stop and watch it go by. Their eyes locked on the patient, who was in the middle of a violent convulsion. Their minds noted that the jerky motion wasn’t seizure-like at first glance. His muscles locked and released in abrupt jerks while one of the paramedics struggled to keep the oxygen mask in place even with restraints around his arms and middle abdomen. 

“Thirty-two-year-old male!” the paramedic called out while steering through the overcrowded corridor. “Altered mental state, sever fever, hypotensive en route. Seized twice in the ambulance!” 

That last bit got attention. 

Behind the gurney, Samira was quick to pull off one pair of gloved while snapping another on. “What’s his pressure?” 

“Eighty over fifty last check.” 

“Any history?”

“Girlfriend said flu symptoms for about a week. This morning he became confused and combative.” 

The man let out an involuntary sound between a laugh and a choke that tugged Samira’s lips downward into a frown. Her big, brown eyes scanned the room before landing on the two roommates. 

“Whitaker and Santos, you’re with me,” she barked before looking back to the nurses’ station. “Dana, do we have anything open?” 

The blonde charge nurse glanced up and her board. “Room three’s all I got. Both traumas are both still full. Perlah go with them, please.” 

The small crowd around the man moved as one into the smaller room. The door stayed wide open as Samira, Dennis, and Trinity carefully transferred the man into the bed. Perlah dragged a metal tray closer, causing it to rattle while Dennis cruised over the ultrasound machine. The three residents took the fastest moment to give the man an evaluation. 

On first glance, they noticed the man’s skin looked wrong. He was flushed bright red across the chest and face, sweat soaking through his shirt, but his fingertips had already started taking on a faint bluish tint. Tiny muscle spasms clenched wildly beneath the skin along his jaw.  

Leaning over the man, Dennis grabbed his pen light and quickly flashed it in the man’s eyes. “Pupils are anisocorias.” 

“What’s his temp?” Samira asked. 

“102.1” Trinity answered, clipping the oxygen monitor to his finger. 

Dennis swore quietly under his breath just as the patient jerked hard against the restraints again, eyes rolling wildly before suddenly locking onto Samira with a terrifying clarity. 

“Don’t let them—” he slurred before his entire body seized again, back arching against the strap around his middle. 

“Okay, seizure activity,” Samira called out. “Push 4 mg Ativan. Santos, hold him down. Whitaker make sure his airway stays clear.” 

The room became motion and noise. Samira and Trinnity held the man’s shoulders while Dennis’s hands carefully cupped the man’s cheeks, face close enough to notice if the patient was going to choke or not. Perlah pushed the Ativan through the IV, and the seizure finally broke after several endless seconds, leaving the patient limp and gasping. 

Dennis straightened slightly. “Okay. Differential.” 

“Must be Sepsis,” Trinity said. 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” she echoed. 

“He doesn’t look septic.” 

“Absolutely he does.” 

Samira stared down at the patient’s face and body, unease slowly crawling through her chest. “Can’t be sepsis. There’s no obvious visible infection source. The girlfriend would have said something about possible infection.” 

Trinity cocked an eyebrow. “Could be meningitis?” 

Dennis shook his head. “No neck rigidity.” 

“Encephalitis, then.” 

“Wouldn’t explain the muscle spasms,” Samira replied. 

“Toxic exposure,” Dennis put out there, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. 

“No pinpoint pupils though,” Trinity shot back. 

“Not every toxin causes—” 

Suddenly, the patient started laughing. They froze as the sound crawled up the walls of the room wrongly: wet and strained and completely disconnected from anything happening around him. Their eyes widened as blood began trickling from one nostril, thin at first before steadily worsening. 

Trinity took an involuntary step back, hands raised. “Okay, that’s new. I officially hate this.” 

Samira grabbed a paper towel while her mind raced through possibilities do quickly, they blurred together uselessly. 

Fever. Neurological symptoms. Bleeding. Spasms. Blue fingertips. 

Nothing fit correctly. 

Sure, one or two of the symptoms might fit with a diagnosis, but that would leave the others out with no way to make sure they were giving the poor man the right medicine. She nearly went cross-eyed trying to figure things out when the monitor alarm suddenly shrieked. 

“Oxygen’s dropping,” Perlah snapped. 

“How much?” Samira asked, eyes glued to the monitor. 

“Eighty-two and falling.” 

“Lungs?” 

“Still clear,” Dennis announced after quickly whipping his stethoscope from around his neck and pressing the end to the man’s chest. 

Samira let out a frustrated groan. “That doesn’t make any sense.” 

The patient’s heart rate climbed higher on the monitor, jagged and unstable. Sweat beaded down the side of his face while another tremor passed through his arms. Everything had narrowed into the growing realization that none of them knew what they hell they were looking at. 

Dennis stepped back from the bedside first, his similar growing frustration overtaking focus. “You think this is a good time to find Dr. Robby or Dr. Abbot?” 

Trinity nodded. “Yep. Saw them by the nurses’ station, I think. Last I saw, they were dealing with the MVA paperwork disaster.” 

“Great. Fantastic. Love that for us.” 

Another violent tremor hit the patient while Samira stared down at him, mind still turning uselessly through possibilities. The symptoms contradicted each other too much. Every answer created three more questions to the point it felt like trying to hold water. 

She was already halfway out the door when she made up her mind. “I’ll get them.” 

Dennis’s head shot up. “I’ll come with—” 

“No, stay here,” she interrupted. “If he starts to crash again, come out and get us.” 

The hallway outside was even worse than before. Samira shoved past a transport team moving in the opposite direction while Trinity followed close behind, narrowly avoiding colliding with a nurse carrying a tray of medications. 

Their objective—the nurses’ station—looked like a war zone. 

Charts were stacked everywhere. The red phone rang endlessly. Dana and another nurse were arguing over bed placement while someone else loudly demanded results that still apparently hadn’t been uploaded. 

And in the middle of it all stood Robby and Jack. 

Jack leaned against the counter, biceps bulging in his scrub sleeves with exhaustion written clearly across his face despite the composure he always seemed to maintain. Robby was reading over a tablet with the kind of concentration that suggested he was trying to actively pretend the rest of the ER didn’t exist. 

Samira didn’t bother slowing down in her approach. “We need help.” 

Neither man looked surprised as their eyes lifted to meet hers. 

“What’s up?” Jack asked, hazel eyes boring into hers. 

A small smirk rested on his lips, and Samira willed herself to look away before she was caught staring. 

“Weird neuro case in room three,” she began. “High fever, seizures, hypotensive, possible hallucinations. He just started bleeding before I came to find one of you.” 

His expression tightened. “Bleeding from where?” 

“Nose. We can’t figure out what’s causing any of it.” 

“Labs?” Robby asked. 

“Pending.”

Trinity crossed her arms loosely. “None of the symptoms line up correctly.” 

Jack pushed away from the counter at that. “Usually that’s an indicator you’re missing something.” 

“Thank you. I feel so very inspired.” 

Robby was already moving toward the room, Jack at his side falling into tandem steps. “How unstable?” 

“Very,” Samira responded following behind them. 

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

By the time they entered room three, the atmosphere had changed completely. The patient was conscious again, though barely. His breathing had become shallow and uneven with blood soaking the paper towel below it. One hand twitched intermittently against the bedrail like his nerves were firing independently from the rest of him. 

Dennis looked up the second they entered, relief flickering across her face too quickly for him to hide. “His symptoms are changing too fast for us to keep up with,” he admitted. 

Jack stepped to the bedside without hesitation, eyes moving clinically over the patient. Robby stayed near the foot of the bed while the three residents started talking over each other. 

“Possible encephalitis—” Trinity tried again before Dennis cut her off. 

“But the rigidity doesn’t fit, and his lungs are clear despite the stats—” 

Samira tried her best. “No infection source—” 

“Could be toxin related—” Dennis spouted like earlier. 

“His pupils changed again—” Trinity pointed out. 

That was the moment the patient started whispering again with words too slurred to understand at first before actual sounds began forming through his lips. “Hurts,” he mumbled weakly. “Hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts—” 

His heart rate spiked again, causing Jack to frown again. 

“How long between onset and neurological decline?” he asked. 

“Girlfriend said maybe twelve hours,” Samira replied. “But that’s way too fast.” 

Robby’s eyes narrowed slightly at the pattern. Dennis noticed the movement scarily too quickly.

“You thinking of something, Dr. Robby?” the blond asked quietly. 

Robby sighed silent before sighing heavily once like he already heated the conclusion he’d reached. His head bobbed as he spoke. “Not something.” 

Jack looked over at him knowingly, shoulders dropping at his friend’s unsaid implication. “You really want to do that to us today, brother?” 

“We’re already being punished apparently.” 

Trinity blinked between them. “Wait—what does that mean?” 

Robby reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I need to make a call.” 

_______________________

The emergency department had somehow become even more unbearable in the ten minutes since Robby made the call. 

The waiting room was overflowing with irritated families packed shoulder-to-shoulder beside exhausted nurses trying to maneuver equipment through spaces never designed to hold this many people. Trauma alerts echoed enough they’d begun blending together into meaningless static. Inside room three, whoever, the tension had condensed into impatient panic. 

The patient’s fever continued climbing despite the cooling measures already attempted. Sweat soaked through the sheets beneath him while intermittent tremors continued wracking his limbs hard enough to shake the rails of the bed. Blood still leaked slowly from his nose in uneven streaked that stained every towel pink. 

Dennis stood at the monitor station pretending to review vitals while actually watching the hallway entrance every few seconds. Trinity leaned against the counter beside him with her arms crossed tightly, curiosity slowly overtaking frustration. 

Samira remained nearest the bedside, though her concentration kept slipping toward Jack. 

He stood across from her near the foot of the bed with one hand braced against the rail while he reread test results that still weren’t giving them anything useful. Fatigue sat heavily across his face; the kind earned after coming in as a favor to Robby and dealing with the chaos in the halls for close to 6 hours. 

Unfortunately for Samira, he looked unfairly sexy in all that exhaustion. And even more unfortunately, he’d glance her way and flash that knowing smirk that he knew got her all hot and bothered. 

The thing between them had stopped being subtle weeks ago. Linger glances had turned into inside jokes, accidental touches that neither of them pulled away from quickly enough became the grounding go-to technique, conversations began stretching too long after the day shifts ended and night shift began. Nothing was official; nothing was ever discussed out loud. All it seemed to be was tension building slowly and steadily until even the other residents had started looking between them knowingly whenever their shifts overlapped. 

Which meant the second Robby had said I’m calling her, Samira immediately understood this shift was about to become significantly more complicated. 

Dennis finally broke the silence. “So, she’s actually insane, right?” 

Jack didn’t look up from the chart. “Professionally? Absolutely.” 

“No, I mean like . . . medically?” 

“That too.”

Trinity frowned. “How come a lot of us haven’t met her?” 

“Because her insaneness would infect my ER if she was down here all the time,” Robby muttered. 

Jack let out a quiet laugh at that, rubbing tiredly at the stubble along his jaw. 

Just as the patient slightly moved, their ears picked up on a faint sound growing louder down the packed hallway. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

The cane struck tile at an unhurried pace, measured and steady despite the absolute catastrophe happening around it. The noise cut clearly through the chaos outside the room, distinct enough that everyone unconsciously went still listening for it as it drew closer. 

Dennis straightened. Trinity’s eyebrow rose. Jack closed his eyes briefly like a man preparing for impact. 

The sound grew louder. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click—

You appeared in the doorway, dark blazer jacket hung open over a rumpled graphic-tee, one side slipping slightly off your shoulder like you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. A paper coffee cup was gripped loosely in one hand while the other gripped the handle of your cane. The small group immediately noticed a visible limp in your gate, though it somehow projected irritation more than weakness, as though the injury itself was inconveniencing you. 

Your eyes swept across the room once— Patient. Monitors. Blood. Panicked residents. –before finally landing on Robby. 

“Well,” you said dryly, “this looked medically expensive.” 

Dennis blinked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real. 

You limped further into the room, cane clicking softly against the floor. Despite the obvious slump written into your posture like you couldn’t care less about the people around you, there was still something unnervingly alert about you, almost like your brain was moving several steps ahead of everyone else’s at all times and found the rest of the world vaguely disappointing for not keeping pace. 

Your attention shifted toward Jack, and your face visibly brightened at the sight of the older attending. Once he caught your gaze, he closed his eyes, sighing loudly, hand now rubbing along his temple. 

“Oh here we go,” he muttered. 

“Well, hello, Dr. Abbot.” 

He huffed your name before you’d even said anything else, not even meeting your wide eyes again. “No. Not today.” 

“What?” you asked innocently. “I’m being professional.” 

“You’ve been here six seconds—”  

“And already thinking deeply inappropriate thoughts about you,” you cut him off with an overly dramatic wink. “That has to be some kind of efficiency record.” 

Dennis choked on absolutely nothing, and Samira bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to stop herself from laughing. 

Jack finally looked at you fully, expression flat but unsurprised. “Patient’s actively dying.” 

“Mm.” Your gaze moved slowly over him anyway, entirely unbothered. “You know there’s something really attractive about a man covered in other people’s blood. Make me want to make several terrible life choices that involves you and a bed.”

“Please don’t.” 

“You say that like I haven’t already mentally undressed you twice since walking in. You’re underestimating me in your old age.” 

Robby pinched the bride of his nose so hard it looked painful. 

Jack, meanwhile, had gone completely still in the way people did when trying very hard not to react at all. Unlucky for him, the faint flush climbing up the sides of his neck to his cheeks betrayed him. 

You noticed right away, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Oh, now that’s interesting, Dr. Abbot. I thought you military men were immune to this sort of fire.”

“We are not doing this right now,” he hissed, though malice was absent in his tone. 

“Why not? Morale’s important during emergencies.” 

“You told me last month you wanted me face down in an on-call room.” 

“In my defense,” you replied reasonably, “you did look good holding retractors.” 

“Please focus.” 

“Uh, I am focused.” You pointed your cane toward him. “On you and your sexy ass.” 

Poor Dennis looked seconds away from passing out. 

Growing a bit bored of Jack’s deflections, you let your eyes roam until they stopped on the pretty dark-skinned lady. 

Now, your flirting with Jack had the reckless ease of habit, sharp-edged and deliberately provocative in a way that suggested the two of you had been doing this dance for a long while. But the second your gaze landed on Samira, a quiet type of curiosity bloomed in your chest. You studied her openly for a moment. 

“Well,” you murmured. “You’re new.” 

Samira crossed her arms automatically, though the movement looked more defensive than closed off. “Dr. Mohan.” 

“Mohan,” you repeated thoughtfully, drawing it out along your tongue. “Pretty name.” 

Jack side-eyed you with suspicion which you immediately ignored. 

“Are you always this pretty during chaotic shifts” you asked, “or is the universe specifically trying to ruin my concentration today?” 

Samira giggled—like, actually giggled—despite trying her best not to. “I think HR would probably have concerns about this conversation.” 

“HR sends me wellness emails weekly.” 

“They send those to everyone.” 

“No, mine are personalized.” 

Robby pointed sharply at you and then toward the patient. “Absolutely not. Diagnose first. Sexually harass my staff later.” 

You looked offended. “I can multitask. And technically, Robert, it’s not harassment if they’re into it.” 

Neither Jack nor Samira denied quickly enough, and that alone stirred the pot simmering in your stomach. Your grin deepened briefly before you finally, finally turned toward the bed. Like a switch, they watched as you shifted visibly. The teasing nature you exhumed vanished (not entirely, because you seemed fundamentally incapable of behaving like a normal person), but your focus narrowed with startling intensity. Your eyes tracked rapidly over the patient, catching details everyone else had either dismissed or stopped seeing after the first hour. 

“Symptoms,” you all but demanded, voice stern yet kind. 

Dennis started listing them. “High fever, seizures, possible hallucinations, hypotension, muscle rigidity, nosebleeds, oxygen saturation keeps dropping but lungs are clear—” 

“How long since onset?” 

“Twelve hours maybe?” 

“Travel history?”

You shouldn’t have been surprised by the blank stares, but you somehow managed. 

You looked up slowly. “You didn’t ask.” 

Not a question. A knowing and mildly disappointed statement. 

“We were a little busy trying to keep him alive,” Trinity defended. 

“You got mystery neurological symptoms, and no one asked if he recently locked an endangered frog overseas? What? Did you all collectively decide tropical diseases were canceled for the day?” 

Jack watched you carefully from across the bed now, already tracking the direction your thoughts were moving. 

You stepped closer to the patient, gaze narrowing at the twitching muscles in his legs. “Medication history?” 

“Nothing confirmed,” Samira answered. 

“Drug use?”

“Girlfriend denied it.” 

You snorted loudly. “Everybody lies.” 

The patient’s hand jerked against the bedrail in a rhythmic motion. Your eyes dropped toward his feet, then up to the monitor, and back down to the blood staining the towel under his nose. 

“Oh, for the love of everything that is good and holy,” you muttered. You pointed toward the patient with your cane. “Tell me someone checked for serotonin syndrome.” 

Dennis frowned deeply. “We considered it, but SS didn’t fully fit.” 

“Because he’s bleeding and hypoxic,” you replied. “What antidepressants is he on?” 

“We don’t know if he takes any.” 

“He does.” Your tone carried complete certainty now. “Look at the clonus.” 

Samira moved closer, eyes tracking the involuntary muscle contractions more carefully this time. Once pointed out, they became impossible to miss. Her eyes widened. 

“Oh,” she whispered. 

Jack shook his head. “The girlfriend said he’d had fly symptoms all week.” 

“Which probably weren’t flu symptoms.” You looked almost delighted now that the pieces had clicked together. “They were side effects.” 

Dennis still looked unconvinced. “Serotonin syndrome doesn’t usually progress this fast.” 

“Correct.” You lifted your cane toward him approvingly. “Good. Gold start for blondie over here.” Your expression sharpened again. “So, he mixed something with it; cold medicine maybe; dextromethorphan likely. Idiot probably took half a bottle trying to self-medicate while already maxed out on SSRIs.” 

Trinity stared at you. “That explains literally everything.” 

“No,” you corrected casually. “It explains most things. The bleeding means his body’s currently trying to deep fry his internal organs.” 

“Cyproheptadine,” Jack ordered immediately. “Cooling blankets, and someone call toxicology now.” 

Samira looked downright stunned. “You figured that out in under two minutes.” 

You shrugged lightly. “Three, technically. I spent at least one minute sexually objectifying your attending.” 

Jack let out a tired laugh, immediately regretting it when you looked absolutely delighted by the reaction. 

“Aha!” you pointed out. “I was worried you stopped liking me.” 

“I never said I liked you.” 

“You looked at my mouth for a full ten seconds while I was talking earlier. That’s gotta mean something!” 

Another choking sound erupted from Dennis in the background. Samira outright turned away to hide her smile after she glanced toward Jack for a moment too long, something you’d caught right away. Your eyes moved slowly between the two of them. 

“Oh,” you said softly. 

Jack pointed right at you, hazel eyes narrowed. “Don’t.” 

“You two would be unbelievably hot together.” 

Robby physically grabbed your coffee cup out of your hand before you could continue. “Okay. Great work. Now time to leave.” 

“I’m just making an observation, Robert.” 

“You’re making a hostile work environment.” 

Against your best wishes, you allowed him to steer you toward the door anyway, leaning heavily onto your cane as you walked. Your limp looked more pronounced now that the adrenaline had worn off slightly, through you still carried yourself with irritating confidence. As you walked through the threshold, your face turned so you could look up at Robby. 

“Oh, I get it now. You’re keeping all the hot people for yourself, Robert. Shame on you.” 

_______________________

By the end of the shift, the hallways had finally been emptied out, the waiting room had thinned, the rooms were being cleaned instead of actively flooding with incoming patients. Nurses moved slower now, drained enough that nobody bothered pretending otherwise anymore. The panic that had consumed the Pitt for most of the night had dulled to a low roar. 

Samira stood at the nurses’ station finishing charting she’d been too busy to touch for the last three house. Her eyes burned from staring at monitors all night, and there was dried blood near the cuff of her sleeve she still hadn’t noticed.

A few feet away, Jack leaned against the counter reviewing discharge paperwork with the same tired concentration he brought to everything. His forearms leaned against the counter with all his weight behind it. His hands displayed the faint marks left behind by snapped gloves and hurried handwashing throughout the night. 

Samira though he looked absolutely handsome despite the deep lines in his face that seemed more chiseled with exhaustion these past few days than they had been. The realization annoyed her almost as much as the fact that she was apparently not being subtle about her staring anymore. 

She closed the chart in front of her. “So,” she said carefully, loud enough for Jack to here that she was speaking to him. “What exactly is her deal?” 

Jack didn’t even glance up. “That narrows it down to absolutely nothing. Everything’s her deal.” 

Samira smiled softly. “The flirting, mostly.” 

Jack set his paperwork down slowly, studying her expression with a careful softness. “Did she make you uncomfortable?” 

The concern in her voice was genuine enough to make her soften. “No,” she answered honestly. “Actually . . . weirdly not.” 

Jack looked surprised. 

Samira leaned back against the counter, considering her next words meticulously. “I mean, objectively, HR should probably sedate her. But it was kind of . . . endearing?

Jack barked a tired laugh. “That’s definitely not the word most people use.” 

“She doesn’t seem mean about it.” 

“No,” he admitted after a moment. “She’s not.” 

There was something familiar layered in his answer, almost close to affection hidden under exasperation. 

“She does it with you a lot?” 

He gave her a deeply unimpressed look. “Constantly.” 

“And you survive it?” 

“Barely.” 

She smiled again, glancing briefly at the computer before looking back up at him. “Okay, but seriously. Dr. Robby called her like she was some kind of Pitt cryptid.”  

“Because she basically is.” He straightened away from the counter slightly, folding his arms in such a way Samira’s gaze lingered for a brief second. “She’s the hospital’s diagnostic specialist,” he explained. “Technically, she’s attached upstairs to the actual hospital, but administration mostly unleashes her on ER cases no one else can solve.” 

“Because she solved that in, what, two minutes?” 

“Closer to one if we’re being technical.” 

Samira blinked. 

Jack nodded toward the now-empty room three. “She’s a genius. Annoyingly, horrifyingly brilliant. Used to work emergency medicine before her accident.” 

Samira’s gaze dropped toward the memory of your cane clicking against the tile. “Her leg?” 

“Yeah.” His expression shifted into something a bit more serious. “She was in a car accident during her residency. Underwent multiple surgeries; nerve damage never healed correctly. She refused amputation, so they reconstructed her leg as best they could.” 

“And she still works like that?” 

“She works worse than that<’ he corrected dryly. “Earlier was actually her during a good day.” 

Samira frowned slightly. “That can’t be healthy.” 

“No,” Jack agreed. “It’s not.” 

His answer held no hesitation, and that told her more than he probably intended too. Under his irritation and sarcasm and eye-rolling every time Robby said your name during the rest of the shift, his eyes held a concern there too, and it was deep enough that Samira was able to pick up on a few things. 

“Oh,” she said slowly, eyes softening as she looked at him. 

He looked wary. “What?” 

“You two definitely have something going on there.” 

“What? No.”

“Jack.” 

“There’s nothing going on.” 

She tilted her head slightly, totally unconvinced. “You let he tell you she mentally undressed you in front of three residents and Robby.” 

“First of all, I don’t let her do anything. She does when she wants to.” 

“You blushed.” 

“I absolutely did not.” 

“You absolutely did. It was cute.” 

Jack opened his mouth to argue further before stopping himself halfway through, which only made Samira laugh quietly. The sound drew his eyes back toward her again, and his features softened. 

“You weren’t bothered by it?” he asked again, more quietly this time. 

Samira understood the actual question beneath that one. 

Would it bother you if there really was something there? 

She held his gaze for longer than necessary before shrugging lightly. “I mean if there were something going on . . .” A small smile pulled briefly at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think I’d mind.” 

The silence afterward lasted exactly two seconds. 

“Well, that’s convenient.” 

Both of them turned like they’d been caught hand-deep in a cookie jar before dinner. 

You stood several feet away near the end of the counter, one hand resting atop your cane while the other held a patient chart apparently neither of them had noticed you returning. Your blazer hung loose over one shoulder again, hair slightly messier than before, exhaustion written clearly into the curve of your spine. 

But your grin looked positively evil. 

Jack stared at you with wide eyes. “How long have you been standing there?” 

You considered the question thoughtfully. “Long enough to become emotionally invested.” 

Samira looked away, mortified by the heat blooming under her cheeks. 

“Oh, she blushes,” you murmured approvingly. 

Jack said your name flatly. “Please leave.” 

“Can’t. Hospital needs me.” You limped closer to the desk enough to drop the chart onto the counter between them. “Turns out I’m the only thing preventing upstairs from becoming a very expensive funeral home.” 

“You are absolutely impossible.” 

“And yet,” you replied casually, eyes glancing slowly between him and Samira again, “you’re both still looking at me like that.” 

When neither of them answered, your grin widened. “This is very fun for me. I hope you two know that.” 

Jack rubbed a tired hand over his face. “You need supervision.” 

“No. What I need is eight hours of sleep, and someone to kiss me against a supply closet.” Your eyes drifted meaningfully toward the two of them. “Preferably simultaneously, if we’re up for brainstorming.” 

Samira made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and complete psychological collapse while Jack briefly stunned into silence at the sheer audacity of the statement. You, meanwhile, looked deeply pleased with yourself. 

You adjusted your grip on your cane and started hobbling backward toward the elevators. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

Halfway there, you glanced back one final time. 

“Oh,” you added conversationally, “and Jack?” 

He looked up despite himself. 

“If you keep staring at my mouth every time I flirt with her, eventually I’m going to start charging you for the show.” 

Samira nearly chocked, and Jack went completely red. 

You, on the other hand, smirked once before turning smoothly on your cane, disappearing toward the elevators while the sound of your cackles echoed faintly down the hallway behind you. 

Dennis can’t focus fully on work until he gets the notification that you and Malcolm are safe at home, but even then his thoughts still seem to swirl—everything was mixing together in a way he couldn’t process.

Especially when Dana finds her way back to him, of course wearing a smirk,

“Well, Dad-Dennis, care to explain why you haven't told any of us about your beautiful wife and kid?” She nudges him gently, arms crossed tight over her chest. Dennis nervously chuckles, sighing,

“I… rather not mix my lives together.” He murmurs while Dana raises a brow,

“You know you’re a god awful liar, right? It’s like when my kids got in the cookie jar.” She teases, though it’s clear there's a mix of concern underneath. He drops his shoulder like he’s been defeated as he replies,

“We had Malcolm when we were teens, before we graduated high school. I would rather not be judged for the way my family ended up the way it did—I take a lot of pride in my wife and son and what I’ve built for us, I don’t need jabs from coworkers.” He explains, a little sharper than he fully means to. Dana frowns, reaching out to pat his shoulder,

“If you take pride in them, any back handed comment should bounce off you. Besides, you know I’d protect my golden boy.” She reassures, earning a smile from Dennis,

“Thank you. I guess I’m also just scared I might like… I don’t know how to say it, I guess.” He sighs, scrubbing his face,

“What if I freeze up during an emergency because I’m so worried about something happening to them?” He whispers, almost like it’s painful to say. Dana nods, replying,

“Do you act like that already?” She plainly asks, Dennis looking up with a confused expression,

“No? I mean, sometimes I think about what I’ll do with them at home…” he bluntly answers while she chuckles,

“Then relax. You are allowed to be a person for Christ's sake, kid.”

When you wake up from your nap with Malcolm cuddled in your arms, it’s to the sound of your phone ringing. You adjust to sit up, careful not to wake up your son as you rub the sleep from your eyes. You answer without even reading the caller ID—you already know who it is—espescially when his worried voice cuts through the static,

“Hey beautiful… tell Mac I might be home late, we got pretty busy in this last hour and West Bridge is diverting to us so…”

You chuckle and nod,

“Keep the bed and dinner warm?” You smile while Dennis huffs,

“You know me better than anyone. Thank you.” He sighs in sync with you, causing the two of you to laugh,

“Well I love you. I’m sure Malcolm is going to stay up anyway, he’s still sleeping.” You reply, turning to watch the rise and fall of your son's chest while he’s curled up under the covers.

“Did he ask to sleep with you when you guys came home?” Dennis asks and you can hear his smile, even more when you answer,

“Yeah… He hasn’t grown up entirely yet. Still our baby boy.” You softly sigh, leaning down to plant a kiss on Malcolm's head. Dennis cuts through again,

“Well I love you guys. Order or make a lot for me, I have an appetite.” Then the line goes dead.

You sigh and set your phone to the side, Malcolm slowly opening his eyes. You smooth his hair with your fingers as you sit on the edge of the bed,

“Hey, bug… do you want to order pizza? Watch a movie?” You softly ask while Malcolm rubs his eyes,

“When is dad going to be home?” He asks instead of answering, your lips turning down for a moment.

“He said a little late, so I don’t know…” you reply, Malcolm nodding as he fully sits up,

“I have an idea.” He says bluntly, reaching out to grab your hand,

“Can we make cookies? A lot?” He asks, causing you to laugh while you furrow your brows,

“I mean… yeah, we can, but why, bug?” You ask, Malcolm hopping out of bed,

“Because I have an idea. Just trust me.” He says, shrugging as he walks toward the kitchen.

“You sound like me right now, kid—-I’m ordering pizza though.” You smile, watching as Malcolm gathers the ingredients for sugar cookies on his own volition while you order dinner.

You and Malcolm make 4 dozen, using the entire carton of eggs in the process. When you pull out the last batch of golden brown cookies, you look over to Malcolm who’s already started eating pizza,

“So are you planning to tell me why we did this? Because you know I’m not letting you eat all these, right?” You laugh, tossing the oven mitts to the side before turning the oven off.

“For dad and all the other people.” He says between bites, which causes you to melt.

“All the other people? Like the people he works with?” You question while he nods casually,

“Yeah, whenever I have a hard day at school—“ he pauses to burp, he is a 10 year old boy after all,

“Excuse me, but you always make me cookies. You said it’s hard to work where dad does so maybe they want a cookie.” He adds, continuing to eat while you stand smiling ear to ear.

You walk behind Malcolm and assault him with kisses all over his face, giggles leaving the both of you—of course they’re in sync laughs, too—before Malcolm pushes you away as gently as possible,

“Mom! I’m not the pizza, don’t eat me!” He yells, while you shrug,

“But you’re such a cutie pie!” You add, tickling his neck while he continues to wiggle with a grin,

“A cutie pie not a pizza pie!” He retorts, but you’re interrupted by a certain voice,

“You are both cutie pies.” Dennis smirks, Malcolm lighting up. You release him to run up to Dennis, taking him into a hug,

“Dad!” He cheers while Dennis picks him up,

“Careful, you hug me any tighter I might break a bone. You’re strong.” He says, kissing Malcolm’s cheek while he pulls you in for a hug.

“How was the rest of the day?” You ask, kissing his lips before pulling out Dennis’s chair at the table, Malcolm jumping down to sit at his own spot.

“Busy, but I’m grateful I have two amazing people to come home to.” He sighs, taking a slice from the box.

“We made cookies! And watched Cars.” Malcolm announces, while you nod,

“About 50 at that, do you want to tell dad what you told me? About the cookies?” You ask, grinning wide again while he nods quickly,

“Can you take them to work? Mom said it’s hard at the hospital sometimes and I was thinking,” Malcolm begins while you and Dennis exchange a look across the table, the both of you beaming,

“I have hard days at school and mom makes cookies for me. Do you think it’ll make people happy like me?” He asks, Dennis nodding as he swallows his bite of pizza,

“They’ll love it. That’s really thoughtful of you, Mac. I’m proud of you.” He affirms while Malcolm nods, smiling,

“I told mom I want to be like you when I grow up. You’re like a real life super hero.” He casually says, sliding from his chair and rushing toward one of the boxes of fresh baked cookies,

“Mom, can we all have one?” He asks while you nod,

“Bring me two, but yes.” You say, Malcolm gasping,

“You get two but we get just one?” He asks while you laugh,

“I was planning to split it with you, bug. You never eat two anyway, you never finish the second one.” You tease while Dennis nods,

“Besides, you’ll have a stomach ache. Your mother is always right.” He affirms while Malcolm returns with 4 cookies,

“No she’s not, she thought I broke my arm today but I didn’t.” He corrects, causing Dennis to stifle a laugh. You roll your eyes, blushing barely,

“I worry about my baby, is that ok? You mean a lot to me.” You sigh, taking a bite while Malcolm shrugs,

“I’m not a baby anymore though. I’m just a kid now.”

A beat.

“I want a baby though—like a sibling. Tyler has 3.” Malcolm casually says while your eyes go wide, looking over to Dennis who’s bright red as well.

“Let’s uh… go ahead and head to the living room and watch tv.” Dennis responds, Malcolm nodding as he slides away from the table, still eating his cookie like he didn’t just drop a metaphorical nuclear bomb on both of you.

You and Dennis were going to have a long conversation after Malcolm went to bed.

———————————————————————

“Mrs. Robinavitch?” An ever-familiar voice hummed alongside a knock to your office door. You held up your pinky to signal one more moment as you finished filling out the recommendation form for a young family that just welcomed their newest addition in the maternity ward. After your signature was sprawled over the paperwork, you looked up to Gloria, who filled your doorway with a tight smile. 

     “Good mornin’, Gloria—how’re you?” You asked, pushing yourself away from your desk to give you room to breathe. Your hands drifted to cup your stomach, rounded out with life, relieving some of the weight for your exhausted back. 

   Gloria shuffled in, closing the door as if she was about to discuss a secret. You matched her actions by leaving forward, ready to receive whatever confidential information she was about to present: maybe someone was getting fired (you hoped not) or a shift in hospital procedure that was surely to piss your husband off (more desirable, because at least you could warn Robby before hand so he could work out his frustration instead of taking it out on the rest of the ER).

     “Have you used the new documentation assistant?” Gloria asked—not bothering with any more pleasantries. You paused for a moment, eyes flickering over to your monitor—where the AI tool that Dr. Al-Hashimi had introduced her to. Why she decided to chase down the Clinical Social Work Supervisor and not other head doctors and staff around the hospital, you could only guess (that guess being your marriage). The little box to display the AI tool was greyed out with a little dash over it after you promptly disconnected it. You had safety concerns and just correctness concerns about it…you attempted to bring them up to Dr. Al-Hashimi, but decided against it as she was rushing around.

     “Not yet,” you said distantly. Gloria cocked her brow and you sighed, leaning back in your chair. “I can manage my paperwork just fine—I don’t need to use an AI assistant to get it done,” you said. 

     “That’s because you spend most of your day in the comfort of your office doing paperwork,” Gloria said, her hand resting on the corner of your desk. “The ER is notoriously behind on theirs, leading to patient risks and malpractice allegations when papers don’t get filed with other floors or hospitals.” You knew as much, and you had talked about it with Robby after many calls to her office (from, guess who: Gloria). However, you were acutely aware of the stress and business down there.

     “Gloria, if you want me to talk to Robby about this, just ask,” you sighed, already pushing yourself up to stand. You wobbled just slightly on your swollen feet before finding your footing. 

     Gloria sighed, opening the door. “Thank you,” she said, holding the door for you as you made your way into the hall. You smiled as her thanks settled on your shoulders, departing from her and making your way to the elevators—already dreading the trip down. Your feet were killing you, and your back had been crying for rest since you got up that morning—and waiting on an elevator was not something you wanted to be doing. 

     Eventually, you managed your way down without tripping over yourself, and navigated your way through the bustling waiting room. You politely squeezed past the masses set to wait for hours on end, before pushing yourself into triage on your way to the ED. 

     “Mrs. Robinavitch?” Donnie asked, doing a double take as you ventured through triage. You smiled and waved as you came over—only to be surprised as Frank Langdon poked his head into the hall at Donnie’s calling. 

   You broke out into a smile and gasped. “Frank, you’re back,” you chuckled, patting his shoulder. “How’s Abby—and the kids?” 

    “Good—good,” he said, smiling tensely, “um—congratulations,” he said, gesturing to your stomach. You laughed at his awkwardness, your heart swelling with something akin to pity as his difficulty adjusting back into the Pitt was apparent. 

   “What’re you doing down here?” Donnie asked worriedly. 

    “Just here to talk to Robby, don’t worry. All is well,” you said, easing his panic. They nodded and you left them to their backup of patients as you continued on.

    Dana was the first person who saw you when you breached the doors to the ED. “And what’re you doin’ here?” She chuckled, rounding the front desk to loop her arm around you, guiding you to sit in her previously occupied rolling chair. You smiled, wincing as you sat down. “You alright?”

    “As good as I can be,” you sighed. “I’m sent by Gloria for Robby.” 

    “Gloria asked you to travel down three floors to talk your husband into something?” Dana asked with pursed lips. You laughed it off the best you could, but yeah, she was essentially correct. Maybe you’d omit Gloria from the conversation with Robby so as to not sour their already tumultuous relationship.  

   “Where is he?” You asked, taking a deep breath before standing up (with help from the desk). Dana looked around momentarily before pointing to the ambulance bay. “Thanks, Dana.”

     You found your husband standing by the wall, fingers intertwined to cushion the back of his neck. You reached out, partially to get his attention and partially to get some support for your exhausted bones. Your arm wrapped around his mid section and you leaned against him.

   He tensed—before melting as soon as he noticed it was you. “Hey,” he greeted, brows furrowing. “Why’re you down here?” He asked, hands moving to support your poor back. 

     “Not happy to see me?” You joked, letting out a mocking sigh of despair. “My own husband.”

    “Har har,” he chuckled, kissing your temple. “It’s always a treat to see you.” He smiled as he pulled his face back to look down at you. “But seriously: you okay?”

    “Yeah, Gloria wanted me to talk you into using that new AI tool,” you hummed, already forgetting about not mentioning Gloria as soon as you were faced with Robby. His face instantly scrunched up and you smiled. “I’ll tell her you said no.”

    “It’s not even that, why would she send you?”

    “Who’s sending who?” Trinity asked, appearing into the ambulance bay with Dennis on one side and Victoria on her other. She lit up upon seeing you, and you were about to mistakenly assume she enjoyed your company. “Please tell me you're here to tell-off the new attending.”

     “Santos,” Robby warned as you laughed.

    “She’s not that bad,” Victoria said.

     “You’re just saying that ‘cause she doesn’t wanna mess with the daughter of the esteemed Dr. Javadi,” Trinity bit back.

     “How’d you feel about her, Dennis?” You hummed, and he looked startled as he was suddenly called on. The two residents whipped around to look at him.

     “Uh…why’re you down here, Mrs. Robinavitch?” he deflected quickly. The topic was dropped and the other two looked back curiously. 

    “I’m here at Gloria’s behest,” you said vaguely. 

    “Because she apparently doesn’t have legs and had to make the pregnant woman be her messenger,” Robby muttered, to which you met him with a warning look.

     “Be nice,” you said, elbowing him. 

     “That’s messed-up, even for her,” Trinity huffed, her hands hanging off her stethoscope. You waved her concerns off. 

     “It’s alright, I needed to get my steps in.”

     The ever familiar sound of an ambulance siren cut through the air and Robby straightened out. He pressed a kiss to your cheek (as the resident shared looks amongst themselves) before pulling away. “Love you—be careful on your way back up.” 

    “Alrighty, love you,” you said, making your way towards the doors as the ambulance peeled into the bay.

    “Love you, Mrs. Robinavitch!” Trinity called out jokingly and you laughed, waving to the three residents.

The last time Titus Danforth cried was at his mother’s funeral. She may not have been kind or tender as a parent, but she was still a guiding light for him. He shed a single, stifled tear, swatted away before anyone else could spot its weakness on his cheek. That was more than a decade ago.

But now the soft, fast whooshing of your baby’s heartbeat is filling your and Titus’ spacious bedroom suite where the doctor’s set up and he’s forgotten how to breathe a bit. For a minute, he thinks he must be having a heart attack. There’s an acute, intense tightening in his chest. When he looks down at you on the velvet chaise, seeing the tears on your cheeks, the feeling grows stronger. It washes over him and he feels his eyes sting. He looks around to see if there’s dust in the air irritating them, but, of course, there isn’t. The air filtration system in the house is top-notch. Suddenly his nose runs a bit and he has to sniffle.

You look up at him with wide eyes, squeezing the hand you’ve been holding tight since the at-home appointment started. You murmur softly, “You’re crying, Titus.”

His free hand lifts slowly to his face. When his middle fingers come back wet, he tilts his head to the side. “And so I am. I wasn’t expecting that.”

You grin and tease, “Don’t worry; I don’t think it’ll kill you.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Titus swallows hard and asks the doctor, “That’s good, then? It sounds strong. Steady.”

The OB, Dr. Rubinstein, smiles warmly at him. She hadn’t been so sure about the austere man in the black suit standing possessively in front of the pretty young thing he’d gotten pregnant, but now he seems much more human. She confirms, “Everything looks good so far. Placement and size are both normal.” Then she turns to you and adds, “The only real ‘news’ is that you’re further along than you’d thought. Looks more like ten weeks than eight.”

You tilt your head slightly to the side and think back. “Wow, I had no idea. I didn’t have any symptoms more than a few weeks ago.”

“Totally normal,” she replies. “Most people with irregular periods miscalculate how far along they are if they aren’t actively trying to conceive.”

“We definitely weren’t,” you breathe out slowly, eyes glued to the ultrasound. Your eyes go up to Titus as you ask, “Will we have to move the wedding?”

Titus draws his hand over the back of your neck, thumb and forefinger using the top of your spine as a stress ball. “Two weeks shouldn’t make much of a difference. The invitations are being sent out today and Ursula is working on vendors; no need to make changes.” He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Father may not agree, but I certainly won’t be ashamed for our guests to know you’re pregnant.”

That makes you smile. “So proud of your little TJ already. My sappy fiance.”

Titus’ eyes flick to the doctor – who he hand-selected to come to the estate every week of your pregnancy for a handsome salary – and he says, “Don’t believe her.”

“Of course not, Mr. Danforth,” she replies, meeting your eyes with a conspiratorial smirk. After she slowly guides you through removing the transvaginal ultrasound wand, she asks, “Do either of you have any questions for me?”

As you begin to shake your head no, Titus says, “Yes, a few, actually.”

Titus and Dr. Rubinstein rattle off questions and answers for a few minutes. He asks about your headaches, your heartburn, your nausea. Vitamins, classes, books. You start to zone out, honestly, knowing that Titus is recording the appointment and will have his assistant take thorough notes after. Titus told you that he’s going to give you a schedule of meals, meds, and activities to follow to optimize your pregnancy health, so you’re guessing you’ll get a binder or something recapping all this.

Then Titus seems to decide that extreme embarrassment would be good to add to your cocktail of hormones, so he asks, so earnestly it’s painful, “I’ve also noticed a change in her vaginal discharge this week – a higher amount, thinner texture, whiter in color, and milder in both scent and taste. Is that normal? What else should I anticipate changing that I might notice during sex? I don’t want to alarm her unnecessarily.”

Your cheeks burn and you smack him hard on the arm. “Oh my god, Titus! Consider me alarmed unnecessarily.”

Titus tuts quietly, “You mentioned being worried about it, princess. We don’t need your stress to be any higher than it already is.”

You hiss, “I probably could’ve googled that one.”

Dr. Rubinstein just laughs. “Don’t worry, mama; it’s good your partner is so…attentive. Plenty of men don’t even come to appointments, much less get appointments to come to them.” She turns to Titus and explains, “Yes, that’s perfectly normal. Obviously changes in that department can be stressful during pregnancy. You might also see some light spotting and have cramping similar to a period; nothing to worry about.” Then she tells you both seriously, “If you’re ever concerned about anything, you have my personal number. It’s never a waste of my time. Got it?”

You nod gratefully. “Thanks for coming all the way out here, doctor.”

“It’s no problem at all. Mr. Danforth, do you have a time in mind for next week’s appointment?”

Titus smooths his shirt and replies, “My assistant will reach out to your office sometime this week; we’re still finalizing some details for after the Governor’s Ball.”

“Have a lovely time. I’ll see all three of you soon.”

As she’s escorted off the property by security, you turn to Titus with a raised eyebrow and prod, “How much does it cost for the best OB in the state to clear her calendar and give you her personal number?”

He waves his hand dismissively and kisses your forehead. “You don’t need to worry about that. All you have to worry about,” he continues, dropping his hand tenderly to your abdomen, “is keeping my baby happy and healthy in there.”

“Speaking of which,” you reply as you stretch out from being in one position for the whole exam, “your baby is actually letting me be hungry and not nauseous for once, so I think I should capitalize on that.”

He dips down and kisses slowly up your neck, just needing to have you as close as possible. “What are you craving?”

“I can just have some of the leftover-”

“No,” he interrupts simply, adding a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You don’t ‘just have’ anything. What do you want?”

You pout and tell him, “All I want is parmesan cheese and a chocolate lava cake.”

He starts typing out a message to the nearby chef on his phone, offering, “How about we make it chicken parmesan so you have some protein, any vegetable that sounds even remotely tolerable, and a chocolate lava cake?”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you purse, “I counter with an offer of more of those orgasmic fresh strawberries instead of a vegetable because every vegetable sounds truly repulsive.”

He’s trying to push down a smile because you’re so infuriatingly you about taking his orders and he hates how cute he finds it. The way you yield to him will still asserting yourself. “Make it a fruit salad to diversify your vitamin intake and you have a deal.”

With a sharp nod, you concede, “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Danforth, but I think the baby and I can accept those terms, provided the lava cake is semi-sweet and not dark or milk.”

“Sold,” he snickers as he confirms with the staff. “I have to head out for the day and I won’t be home until late. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

You offer an affirming smile, squeeze his bicep, and say, “I’m all set.

He drags his index finger up the center of your neck and holds it beneath your chin. With narrow eyes, he asks, “You’ll call me if you need anything the staff can’t handle?”

“I can’t imagine anything that could possibly fall into that category.”

Stern, he warns, “Bunny, I’m being serious.”

You bite back an eye roll and promise, “I’ll call if I need you. Always. Go get your work done; I’ll be here waiting when you’re finished.”

Satisfied, he nods and gives you a long, slow kiss. “Take care, princess.”

He escorts you to the kitchen to wait for your upcoming meal before heading out. For some reason, there’s a strange part of him that doesn’t want to leave, like there’s a weight in one of his feet. Tethering him to you in the house.

There are a lot of things you could say about having a baby with Titus Danforth. He’s intense, commanding, possessive. You figure a lot of women would find it smothering or invasive. But nobody could ever argue that he’s not engaged enough, that he doesn’t care enough, that he doesn’t see you for you. In his every gesture and every word, you know that you’re never going to have to want or wait for anything again.

And it might be starting to go to your head.

A little.

“I wish this were the Governor’s Ball music festival,” you grumble as you stare at your reflection in the large dressing suite mirror. The gown is beautiful, but you feel bloated and disgusting in it. With tears threatening for what feels like the millionth time today, you huff, “I’m never going to look as good as you or anyone else there.”

Ursula gives you a sympathetic smile, eyes raking over the dress that just doesn’t sit right on you. “You’re probably right about that.”

Titus snaps his fingers behind her, head lifting from his phone, and admonishes, “What did we talk about?”

Ursula sets her jaw and turns back to you. “This particular dress isn’t your color and it’s not flattering – which is why you should never let our ducky make fashion suggestions.” She glares maliciously at Titus. “Why would you even suggest that a woman in her first trimester wear a mermaid gown? Do you want her to hate her body? Because, personally, I want her to feel radiant during her social premiere.”

Titus scoffs. “She looks incredible in that gown; it’s not my fault that-”

“You’re an idiot,” Ursula huffs back, interrupting him before he can say something stupid. You know this is Ursula’s strange version of being kind to you, so you try to smile at her. “She’s nauseous all the time, she’s bloated, and she’s hormonal. The last thing she wants is to spend a night eating fancy food that’ll probably smell terrible to her in a skin-tight dress that makes her self-conscious. It’s bad enough she has to listen to that oaf of a governor Lipschitz without getting to join us for the after party.”

Titus clears his throat as your ears perk up. You turn to him, narrow your eyes, and nudge, “You didn’t say anything about an after party, ducky.”

Titus rolls his shoulders and you can see the malice in his eyes as he reminds his sister, “I had asked you not to mention that.”

Ursula bats her lashes mischievously. “Oopsies.”

She shrugs and returns to the stylist who’s been overseeing your appointment to pull some of her recommendations now that Titus’ picks have categorically struck out.

Titus sighs and stands up. As he unzips you from the apparently disastrous designer gown, he tells you, “I didn’t mention it because you wouldn’t like it. It’s sort of an old-money tradition. Us and a few of the other local influential families like to take the newly inaugurated governor out for the night.” Chewing on his words a moment, he decides to go with, “We all bring our favorite shotguns and go shooting together.”

You shimmy out of the dress, leaving you in your simple nude underwear set. As he diligently hangs the dress and places it on the dressing suite door for the consultant to collect, you ask, “Like a clay pigeon competition or something?”

“A shooting competition, yes. The losers make sizeable donations to a cause of the winner’s choosing,” he replies with a soft smirk. Hands running up and down your hips to comfort you, he assures, “It’s exceptionally boring, I promise. You’ll be much happier with room service and a 24/7 concierge who can fetch you anything you could possibly want at the Waldorf Astoria. Fluffy robe and slippers, soaking tub, on-call masseuse.”

You break into a grin. “That does sound more up my alley. I didn’t realize this was an overnight trip.”

He lifts your hand to his lips for a moment. “If it were just me, I’d come back home in the middle of the night, but you need to rest and relax, princess. You’re not going to spend a whole night working hard as my arm candy and then have to take the car home for a fitful night of sleep waiting up for me.”

“Working hard as your arm candy,” you muse. “Sounds challenging.”

“Oh, it will be,” he replies, only half joking. “You’re going to have to deal with a lot of ‘Titus is finally settling down?’ comments and master the art of making small talk while eating hors d’ouevres, which is a delicate art.”

“Sounds like I’ll get some good family gossip.” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, playing with his hair to weaken him. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Just stay by my side. Be the future Mrs. Danforth. You’ll be divine.”

Before you can respond, Ursula raps a few times on the dressing suite’s door. Titus kisses your forehead and returns to his seat in the corner. As Ursula slips inside, she announces with a self-satisfied grin, “I’m so certain I’ve found the one that I want you to leave the room, ducky.”

Titus rolls his eyes again – they’re addicted to rolling their eyes at each other – and cuts back, “It’s not her wedding dress.”

“You should never see her in a new dress before it’s properly tailored and styled,” Ursula corrects. “When you see her in it, your only thought should be perfection.”

His eyes graze up your exposed body. Slow. Methodical. Goosebumps prickle and hairs stand on end. Nothing is more intense than when Titus looks. He gives you a smirk that’s nothing short of adoring and replies, “That’s already what I think.”

Ursula fake gags and snaps, “Just get out, Titus.”

After Titus has swiped his card on the five-figure silk Tom Ford gown, you’re left on the estate by yourself for the first time, he and Ursula and their father leaving via helicopter until the late evening for a quick trip to DC. Something about securing donors for the annual Danforth Charity Banquet, which will be close to your due date later in the year. Ursula puts it on and, before leaving, Titus made it clear you don’t have to do any of the behind-the-scenes work for that particular event, just show up and look pretty, so you get some rare time to yourself while they work on it.

Of course, you don’t even consider that it’s a test. Why would you? In your mind, you’ve obviously already passed all of Titus’ tests since you’re here. You also haven’t noticed that the estate is crawling with camera footage in every single room – every single room – because they’re so tiny and well-concealed.

But he’s watching.

The whole afternoon, he watches, either checking on you briefly or stealing away to lock onto your form on his phone depending on what you’re doing. It doesn’t matter what you do – the hours you scroll on your phone or nap or watch YouTube videos are equally as interesting to him as when you masturbate under the covers, snoop through his office, and bug the staff for attention – but how you do it.

Comfortably.

You’re perfectly at ease as you traipse around like you really do own the place. After a shower, you wrap yourself up in an old Hollywood dressing gown of maroon silk with black lace trim that appeared in the bathroom closet alongside a few similar ones at random. Titus has a habit of seeing something he’d like for you to wear on TV or in an ad or on a mannequin or even on another woman and snapping at his assistant to have it picked up and delivered as soon as possible. He just likes the idea of you always being draped in luxury like the rich, elegant woman he envisions you as when you become his wife.

He’s not exactly sure why he likes it, the thought of you being so luxuriated and at ease. He supposes an element of it is natural. Base. An eagle building a nest and fiercely protecting his mate. The same way he craves bloodshed and strength, he craves his young being taken care of. Which makes sense. But there’s something more to it. Something foreign.

You’re so soft and so feminine as you walk slowly through the garden in your robe and with your bare feet (the moment you’d said you like to walk around barefoot outside, Titus had the staff meticulously scouring the paths and grassy areas for any stray pebbles or splinters that could harm your step). And it just…soothes him. You’re safe there. Protected. Trapped in the most lovely prison you’d never want to escape from. It lets him breathe deeply, no stress in his chest, to see you on the cameras with a serene expression.

And then you drift further back on the property.

Into the trees.

When you pass into the thick forest that swamps the edges of the property, Titus’ heart rate ticks up ever so slightly. Most of the Danforths’ hunting goes on in the forest, where prey often think they can hide out in the safety of shadows. There are countless small outbuildings, but the first one you’ll run into is, well, not a great place for you to discover on your own. Titus is good at managing stress – one of the best, certainly – but the thought of you approaching the sins of his family when he’s not there to manage you makes him a bit more nervous than usual. Titus excuses himself from the meeting he hasn’t been paying attention to anyway and calls Smith, who’s on post by the gate, from his smart watch.

The security guard picks up instantly. “Smith.”

“She’s past the tree line about to enter the shed. Follow her,” Titus replies, voice clipped. “Not too close. Don’t let her notice you. I want to see what she’ll do, but be there in case I need you to grab her.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line drops.

Titus opens his phone again and makes sure Smith does as he says, though he always will without fail. His loyalty is unwavering. With his stun gun drawn over his forearm, low but ready, Smith observes you as you push open the squeaky, rusty door to an old wooden shed. Inside, you find an empty room save one feature: A trap door. Blending in with the cracked stone floor, it would be easy to miss if you weren’t so observant. There’s just a small black metal ring sticking up.

Of course, you pull it. You’ve never been able to resist things like that, always wishing that you’ll run into a bookshelf with a hidden passageway or a pit of quicksand outside a mysterious temple.

Just beneath the floor, there are bones.

A lot of bones.

For a split second, your brain tries to rationalize that they must be animal carcasses. Titus has mentioned hunting a handful of times. But there are ribcages. Femurs. Feet. Hands. No skulls, you notice with almost dissociated curiosity. You wonder if those are somewhere else, maybe on display somewhere in the main house, where Father has asked you not to go. You’ve respected him despite Titus assuring you that you can go wherever you want.

The longer you stand there, the less you feel.

You know you should be experiencing anxiety. Fear. Terror. It should be a growing, slithering thing that takes hold of your throat and makes your limbs shake.

But here’s a $10,000 dress in your closet for a party where you’ll eat fancy food and meet fancy people. You’ve just moved from a studio apartment on a grad student’s income to a mansion on a huge estate. Here, with Titus, you have a future – one filled with endless leisure and comfort, one where you and your children are completely free, one where you have no worries.

So you take a deep breath.

Close the door.

Back away.

Return to the kitchen. Order a meal to your room. Put on the TV, change into cozy pajamas, apply a face mask. Relax.

And Titus, checking on you via his app connected to the security system, watches you make the choice to keep his secrets just that. To put the obvious signs of violence and secrecy at the back of your mind, something you don’t have to concern yourself with.

He murmurs softly, “Good girl.”

A few minutes later, when you have your dinner on your lap tray and your silk pajamas and your rom com, you take a photo of the whole cozy scene and send it to Titus. You’re missing out, beefcake.

He smiles and texts back right away: Infinitely jealous. Enjoy your evening, kitty. Don’t wait up for me; you need your rest.

Despite his suggestion, you’re just starting to get ready for bed when Titus finally arrives home, the moon high in the sky and all non-security staff long dismissed. He follows the soft sounds of your routine into the en suite bathroom, finding you still in your expensive pajamas, hair pulled back with one of those pink bubble headbands so you can do your skincare.

Titus leans in the bathroom doorway and observes, “You’re up late.”

With a soft, small, maybe a touch ashamed smile that strikes him as honest, you reply, “There was a marathon of that Traitors show befor ethe finale this weekend. Got lost in all the treachery – especially because the chef made me a batch of fresh caramel corn.”

“You spoiled brat,” you laughs, thrilled with how at peace you seem.  He looks at you for a minute, trying to read your mind, before asking, “Do anything interesting this afternoon, kitten?”

Lathering your face in brand new $100-an-ounce moisturizer, you meet his eyes in the mirror, wondering if he knows somehow, and reply, “Nope.”

“Really?” He strides into the bathroom and leans against the counter. Arms across his chest, he watches you carefully and presses, “Whole estate all to yourself for the first time and you didn’t get up to any trouble?”

“I did a little snooping,” you reply, just enough mischief in your voice to pique his interest while making it clear you aren’t scared or alarmed. You turn around and loop your arms around his bare lower back as he studies your expression. You tease, “I may have found some baby pictures hidden away in your office. You never told me you were a ginger before you were a silver fox.”

“Because the gray suits me,” he replies, sounding almost defensive. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and adds,  “And it was more of an auburn, thank you very much.”

“Not when you were tiny,” you needle. Tracing his features with your thumb, you muse, “Bright orange with chubby cheeks and the sweetest little cupid’s bow I’ve ever seen.” 

 When your thumb brushes over his lip, he snatches it – playfully and not – between his teeth. He bites hard enough to leave imprints, but you don’t flinch. You never flinch. Then he kisses it, holds your hand in his, and meets your eyes. There’s a lovely kind of darkness in them. His aroma after a long day is smoky and consuming – like authority. Ownership. You don’t shy away.

After a minute, Titus says, “I think our child will be exceptionally beautiful.”

You think about the bones.

The death and decay and uncertainty.

The exact opposite in Titus’ eyes – complete safety, complete certainty, complete life.

And you reply, “I do, too.”

Ursula Danforth slaps one perfectly manicured hand across her twin brother’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch; he’d been expecting worse. “You’re so selfish. Stupid and useless like a child. Knocking up a sugar baby, of all things.”

Father paces across the large sitting room with a clenched jaw. Eventually, he stops in front of his son. “How dare you do this to us? Right before the most important hunt of this family’s life, too. I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible.”

Ursula sneers, “I believe it. This is what happens when a spoiled brat grows up. Poor baby Titus always has to have everything exactly how he wants. Probably never bothered with condoms because ‘it just doesn’t feel as good, sweetheart.’”

“Don’t be so crass, Ursula,” Father spits in her direction before returning to his son. “I assume you’ve communicated that abortion isn’t an option.”

“Of course,” Titus replies, keeping it curt to avoid a verbal lashing. Or a physical one, given the tension thick in the opulent room full of blades and guns. Father demanded the conversation be moved to the innermost room of the estate when Titus told them in front of a few members of staff. This sort of thing is best discussed in private, even with the most discreet staff money can buy.

The abortion discussion had gone better than expected, considering you told him you’d be keeping it before he could even get to the ‘my family would sedate you through delivery and then discard you before they let you abort a Danforth’ thing. He’d given you a line about supporting you however you needed in order to stall you while he discussed what to do with his family. Ultimately, your fate wasn’t his decision but a collective decision for the betterment of the Danforth name.

But Titus does, admittedly, dislike the idea of abandoning you. Despite your lack of status, money, or power, he feels an…affection for you. Similar to the affection one might have for an injured bird. He’d been raised to put creatures like that out of their misery, but your only brokenness was being part of the masses. That could be improved upon. So, to advocate for you, Titus swallows hard and offers, “This may not be a bad thing. Our family needs an heir, after all.”

“Not under circumstances like this,” Ursula scoffs. “You should marry advantageously. Within the seven families, at least. How could you even think-”

Father raises his right hand.

Silence falls.

“You may be right, Titus. We’re long overdue for a new generation of Danforths and neither of you seem particularly close to finding anything akin to a real relationship. Your mother would be horrified.” Father drapes himself in his authentic Jacobean austere velvet armchair in the corner, beneath a grand window he’s spent hours and hours ruminating out of through the years, especially since his wife died. Without looking at his son, he asks, “This…girl of yours: Is she good stock?”

Titus considers that. He imagines how very lovely you look obediently presenting yourself for him on the hotel beds where he’s taken you multiple times a week for the last six months, gazing up at him with reverent eyes and an innocent sort of expression that doesn’t necessarily match your occupation of choice. “I’d say so. She’s young. Pretty.”

Ursula rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

Father gives her a lethal gaze. “Don’t interrupt. This is important.” His eyes turn back to his son and he asks, “Her personality?”

“Sweet,” he answers right away. That’s the first word that comes to his mind. It’s the thing he likes most about you; you’re so, so far from everyone he knows. Kind and tentative and eager to find reasons to smile. The kind of girl who brakes for pigeons. After a moment of thinking, he relents, “A bit stupid, at times, but charming. Docile. I’ve never seen her disagree with someone.”

That seems to please Father. He doesn’t like women who fight back, even his own daughter at times. He probes further, “Does she have any family?”

“She’s estranged from her parents. No siblings.”

“Good. How about education?”

“She’s getting a master’s degree.”

“In what?”

“I don’t know,” he replies with a chuckle. “Something with books, maybe. I’m not usually with her for the stimulating conversation, Father.”

“Don’t be vulgar. Does she have a criminal history? Any connections in our world?”

“No. I vetted her thoroughly before selecting her as a…companion.”

“Boring. But that could be useful in its own way.” Father thinks it over as he watches the gardeners outside tending to the hedge maze across the pond. Winter is beginning to melt off the extensive grounds and they’re preparing for the glory of spring blooms. For vibrant fresh blood, too, in the coming months with the vernal equinox and other traditional celebrations fast approaching. He asks the final question, the only one that matters: “Could she be a Danforth? Or will we have to be rid of her once the baby is born?”

Titus thinks of your laugh, your ease, your total lack of darkness. It’ll be difficult to balance the reality of his world with you, but he’s intrigued by the challenge. With a steady voice, he admits perhaps the deepest secret of this whole situation: “I’d like to keep her.”

The tension eases at that. Keeping up appearances will be best. And if there’s one thing the Danforth family does well it’s keeping up appearances.

With the first smile of the day, Father stands, embraces Titus, and announces, “We can make this work, son. We will.”

Titus stiffens at the rare show of affection, trying not to reveal that he’s pleased with the decision. That would only show a chink in his armor. He would’ve handled the other option, keeping you in the dungeon as a toy of sorts until the birth, but it’ll be better for everyone if he has a wife and his child a mother instead of a nanny. “Thank you, Father.”

“She’s going to have to move in,” Ursula tsks as she, too, gives her brother a short but earnest embrace. “We can’t take risks with the baby.”

Father adds, “And there will have to be a wedding, of course. With all the families invited.”

“A wedding?” Titus gripes, “Isn’t it enough to just-”

“No,” Father interrupts. His fingernails dig into his own palms. “Just because you started this improperly doesn’t mean you’ll continue it that way. In two months’ time, before she starts showing, we’ll have a wedding.”

“Everyone will know it’s a shotgun wedding,” Ursula points out. “Even the most asinine of our associates can manage basic addition and subtraction.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Father insists. “It’s the 21st century. The baby will be born with its mother sharing the Danforth name. Nothing else matters.” He levels his gaze at Titus. “Go and tell her. I expect to see her moving in here before the weekend’s up.”

“Yes, Father,” Titus agrees, already taking his phone from his pocket to dial you. Before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath and says once more, “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”

Father gives him a wink. The thought of the first baby born to the Danforth family in four decades lifts everyone’s spirits. It’ll be a good change. “Careful, or you’ll make us think you like the girl.”

He expects you to make a fuss about it. Fully prepares himself to have to drug you, tie you up, kidnap you, and make it clear you don’t actually have a choice in the matter, as distasteful as that would be to him. At the very least, he anticipates resistance. For it to take more than one brunch. Modern women want careers, don’t they? It’s part of why he’s always sworn off girlfriends and dating in the standard sense. Ever since it became relatively acceptable for the elite, he’s strongly preferred paying for the company of simple, complication-free women procured by the family lawyers. He doesn’t want a girlfriend. He wants…a pet. A well-trained companion. Something reliable and reliant. A pretty, obedient creature to recline on the couch who makes no demands and listens with rapt attention to his every order.

So he’s pleased beyond belief at your reaction to his offer, outlined to you at your favorite chichi breakfast place in one of the nicer hotels downtown.

You gaze up at him over your streaming mug and ask bluntly, “What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one,” he lies. Smooth as butter. “I want to take care of you and the baby and I have the means to do so.”

“You’d already be doing that just by paying me at the rate you already do. With my job and your payments, I can afford a comfortable life,” you point out. “But you want me to marry you. Move in with you. So I have to assume there are rules. Catches.” You take a sip of the caffeine-free tea he’d ordered for you, savoring the spicy and citrusy notes. The ginger helps soothe your stomach. “Look, you’re obviously very wealthy. And I know you’re not rich because of something…normal, if you don’t mind the word.”

Titus snickers, “Not at all. Go on.”

“Before you made us exclusive, I’d been with a lot of secretive, rich men,” you explain slowly, “but you don’t seem like most of them.”

The waitress approaches your table. Titus rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion, “We’ll both do the three-course menu. I’ll have the foie gras torchon with prosciutto and figs, the filet mignon as rare as you’ll serve it, and the caviar trio in lieu of dessert.”

The order doesn’t surprise you after countless meals spent together. His food is always expensive and tastes of life cut short.

The waitress gives you a warm smile. “And for you, darling?”

“Don’t call her that,” Titus says, curt and emotionless. “She’ll have the yogurt parfait with the pistachio granola, lobster eggs Benedict, and the baked apple strudel.” Then he gives you a glance that borders on affectionate. “And I’m guessing she’d also like the gelato flight after.”

“You spoil me,” you lilt with batting eyelashes. Then you tell the waitress, “And a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”

As she disappears, Titus’ typically flat expression transforms into one of concern, which you haven’t seen on him often. He observes, “Ginger ale. Ginger tea. Morning sickness?”

You sigh and confirm, “That’s been the theme of week seven.”

“Seven weeks,” he muses, sounding almost wistful. “Does that mean you’ll have your first ultrasound soon?”

“Monday morning,” you tell him with a tentative smile. “You can come, if you want.”

“I will. Definitely.” Titus sits up straighter and adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down, a nervous habit since his custom-tailored clothes always fit perfectly on his chiseled body. “You were asking about rules. Saying I don’t seem like most men.”

“Right, yes.” You touch his hand across the table and he lets you. Titus never asks for affection, but you know he craves it. Deeply. Otherwise he would never have sought you out in the first place. Sex is cheap; companionship is priceless. While rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you muse aloud, “You don’t brag about your money, which means you’ve always had it. It’s just a part of you; you’ve never been without it. Your schedule has too much freedom to be a doctor, you don’t dress like a lawyer, you’re too private to be a CEO or anything you’d want to peacock about, and you’re not annoying.”

He smirks at your analysis. “What does that rule out?”

“Tech bro. Anyone who works in blockchain or AI.”

“Smart girl,” he praises with a short chuckle. “What’s your theory, then?”

“Something dark and secretive,” you tease, clearly joking with the low, spooky voice like a Halloween recording you put on. He doesn’t react like it’s a joke, though. So, more seriously, you say, “Maybe private security? Something with weapons; I know you try to be subtle, but I’ve always seen your carrying a gun.” That pleases him; you’ve already noticed his danger and didn’t flinch away. “I doubt it’s really illegal, like drugs, because you’re so clean about everything. I mean, my main point of contact the first three months was your lawyer,” you remind him with a laugh. Then you lean forward and continue, “Regardless, I can tell you have the kind of life where you’re not just going to marry and whisk away the first girl you knock up without some rules.”

Sounding amused, he sips his expensive cocktail and teases, “I can’t just want to be an honest man for the mother of my child?”

“You can, sure. But that’s not you.”

“You’re right about that,” he concedes after a moment. With a deep breath, he sits back in his chair and tells you, “I wouldn’t call them ‘rules’ so much as, perhaps, guidelines. Expectations. I won’t force anything on you. And I won’t abandon you if you go against them.”

That’s a patent lie, but he doesn’t think you’ll defy him, so he keeps it to himself.

You cross your arms over your chest. “Let’s get down to it, then, because I can imagine worse fates for this baby and me than having a rich, handsome daddy to take care of us. But I want to know what I’m getting into.”

“Very sensible. I can appreciate that.” The first round of food arrives and he gestures for you to dig in while he begins, “Your first priority would be growing a healthy pregnancy, of course. Go to all of your doctor’s appointments, follow their recommendations to the letter. You’d quit your job. Continue your classes if you’d like, but you’ll need to cut out any unnecessary stress. You’d move into the family estate; you can decorate and rearrange our building however you’d like as the lady of the house. I don’t care about things like that.”

“What do you mean by ‘the family estate’?” You give him a teasing raised eyebrow; you’re the only person he allows to look at him like that. “You live with mommy and daddy?”

“My father lives in the primary mansion on the grounds, yes. Mother is dead. There are a lot of different outbuildings along the property; it goes on forever. I don’t even know how many acres anymore; the lawyers buy up adjacent properties whenever they go for sale. We’d be in my private house, which is further back on the estate.”

“Like a guest house?”

“An eight-bedroom guest house, but yes.” Without giving you much time to process that, Titus goes on, “You’d have some social responsibilities as my wife. My mother’s passed now, so you’d be the official host when our family holds events, which we do often. You’d just have to look pretty, though, which you’re phenomenal at already.” As your cheeks warm, he assures you, “We have a whole team to handle the planning side if you aren’t interested in those sorts of things.”

You give a timid smile. “I like planning and hosting parties. It’d be nice to have some occasions to show off all the fancy dresses you’ve bought me.”

That makes him smile. Really smile. Like he can see you slotting into his life. “Good. Great. Well, you can have as much or as little involvement in our social circles as you’d like as long as you’re willing to put on one of those dresses and sit next to me adoringly when needed.”

“So far, that fits my resume to a tee.”

“And, in that vein, there are certain standards of dress and, let’s say, etiquette, for lack of a better word, that my sister can help you with getting used to.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yes. Ursula.” He toys with his fork, hovering it over the decadent spread. “I suppose we still have a lot to learn about each other.”

“I’m an open book,” you retort with a cheeky smile. “You’re the one with the secrets. I don’t even know your last name.”

“Danforth,” he says quietly. Like it’s a secret. Maybe it is. “Titus Victor Danforth.”

“Very stately name.” You wrinkle your nose a bit. “Does our baby have to have a name like that? It’s hard to imagine calling a newborn Titus Victor.”

“We’ll agree on a name like any other couple,” he chuckles. “But, for the record, I have family with much worse names than Titus.”

“Like Ursula,” you joke, earning a conspiratorial snort. You nod and drink some more of your tea as you consider everything thus far. “So I have to learn to sit pretty and do tricks. Got it. What else?”

His voice darkens and so do his hazel eyes. “The most important thing is that you’ll allow me to keep you safe and protect you. Against anyone and anything. By any means necessary.”

Your own voice drops to a whisper. “You say that like I’ll be in danger.”

“Sometimes you will be.”

Not taking it all too seriously, you check. “But you’ll always protect me? And our baby?”

He puffs up his chest and insists seriously, “With my life.”

No matter who or what tries to get in my way.

You narrow your eyes at him. “And you’ll take care of everything financially?”

“Yes.” Zero hesitation. “Always.”

You don’t doubt he can keep that promise, at least. When you take on sugar clients, you make sure to have proof of funds before agreeing to any arrangements. Titus passed that test with flying colors; you’re sure there’s incalculable wealth behind the many, many zeroes you’ve already seen. He’s always driving around in tinted luxury cars, wearing suits by $10,000-a-piece designers, handing over heavy black cards for quadruple digit dinner dates with no dobut on whether they’ll clear.

With a tiny smile, you press, “And you’ll marry me?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Can I have a real wedding?”

“Here I was thinking I’d have to convince you of that,” he laughs. Something unfamiliar is knocking around pleasantly in his ribs. “Our wedding would be very, ah, socially significant. You’ll be impressed by the guest list, I’m sure.”

“Give me a teaser.”

“Let’s just say if a bomb were dropped on it, the world’s economy would collapse.”

“Yeah, alright,” you giggle. He’s looking forward to the day you realize he’s telling the truth on that matter. “So I’d be a wife. Hm, okay.” You jokingly tap your chin and squint like you’re really thinking hard about it. “Does that mean I’ll have to cook for you?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“How about cleaning? Laundry? I hate doing laundry.”

“That’ll all be handled.”

“So we’ll have…servants?”

Titus can’t help but notice the way you’re already saying ‘we.’ He doesn’t mind the sound of it; you’re right where he wants you. Needs you. “We prefer to call them staff, but yes, we do.”

Curiosity piqued, you press, “How many?”

He starts running through the mental rolodex; the estate’s goings-ons don’t interest him much, so they’re at the periphery of his mind. “Full-time, on-site staff? We have three chefs – one in each house’s kitchen, of course – and an estate manager who oversees a handful of groundskeepers, gardeners, and housekeepers. There’s an incredibly effective security team. Part-time? Lawyers on retainer, naturally. And we have connections for anything you’d want. Ursula has her tennis coach and her pet pool boy. Father has his favorite mixologist and, ah, massage therapist. I’ve got my golf caddy as well. Each of us has our own driver, but you’d probably share mine a while. That’s a high-trust position; I’d want to personally hire yours for the safety of the baby. You’d also have your own personal assistant to help with whatever you need day-to-day. And you’ll be in charge of hiring out any childcare support you want, when the time comes. Nannies, tutors, those sorts of things.”

“Wow.” Your fork is stuck mid-air. “So you and your family are…rich rich.”

His lips curl up slightly. It’s nice to be around someone who isn’t used to snapping their fingers and having whatever they want in moments. Charming. “That would be a fair assessment, yes.”

Titus notices a selfish, almost cute little shimmer lighting up your eyes as you ask, “So I can have whatever I want?”

He cocks his head to the side and considers that. What it might mean to someone who didn’t grow up in the world he did. “Within reason.”

Your eyes narrow. “How about a car? Like a really ridiculous one – a neon yellow Lamborghini?”

Almost offended at the idea, he scoffs, “A car? Of course you can have a car. I thought you were going to say something ridiculous like an elephant.”

You pout and cross your arms playfully over your chest. “So you’re saying I couldn’t have an elephant if I really, really wanted one?”

Feeling indulgent beneath your delight, he sighs dramatically, “I suppose I could reopen and repurpose the stables for the mother of my child.”

“The stables?”

“My mother loved horses. We were raised on dressage but never really took to it. When she died, my sister and I-” let those wretched horses free and hunted them with arrows “-decided not to keep up the responsibility.”

“Could I have a horse?”

He almost winces at the memory of countless on-site animals becoming casualties in the family games, intentional or otherwise. Still, because it’s important, he relents, “If you want, sure. I don’t see the appeal, but you’ll have whatever hobbies make you happy and keep you occupied.” 

“Don’t worry; I hate horses. Just curious.” You can tell he’s amused by your version of an interrogation, so you go on, “Will you still take me on dates?”

That puzzles him. Do you like these dates with him? He’s always assumed you just see him as a paycheck, which he doesn’t mind, but the idea of a real relationship does tantalize him to a certain extent. So he says, “If you’d like that. I do enjoy your company, after all.”

“And sex whenever I want?”

A laugh punches out of him. They’re rare from Titus, so it makes you grin, too, for a second. He rolls his eyes and nods. “Of course; that’s one of my favorite parts of your company.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to give that up with you, considering the, ah, quality.”

Blush tinges the apples of his cheeks and you know better than to point it out. Titus has never been shy about his sexual prowess, but he also grew up in a family where it’s not acceptable to talk about those things over brunch. Titus clears his throat and checks, “What else do you want to know to decide?”

“To recap, I’ll be fed and housed and safe and spoiled beyond my wildest dreams?”

He nods, pleased. “Exactly.”

You bite your lower lip and ask, “But what if something happens to you? I’d be giving up all my independence and relying on you. I don’t want the baby’s security depending on whether or not you’re around for us.”

He doesn’t assure you that nothing will happen to him the way you’d anticipated. Instead, he admires your practicality. You can tell his life is dangerous, but you aren’t flinching. “You’ll be written quite handsomely into the family estate. Above my sister, actually, since you’ll be the mother of an heir. That’s permanent, even in the event of death or divorce.”

“An heir?” You almost choke on your food. “You’re not royalty, are you?”

He laughs, “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, certainly.”

Softer and more seriously as you consider the implications of everything said so far, you touch your lower abdomen and ask him, “Will our baby be safe?”

“Safer than you’ve ever been in your life here in the ‘real world,’” he says with actual sarcastic finger quotes. Then he squeezes your hand, meets your eyes with a new kind of warmth in his, and affirms, “I swear that nothing will ever harm our children.”

You smirk and tease, “Didn’t realize we had more than one on the way.”

He shrugs modestly. “I always liked having a sister.”

“And I always wished I had siblings.”

“Sounds like you agree.”

You let out a sharp laugh, the ridiculousness of the conversation hitting you at once. This is the kind of arrangement people agree to in the dark romances you read when you’re ovulating and here you are actually considering it for the rest of your life. After a minute of eating and thinking, you tell him, “I just have one more question.”

“Anything.”

“Will you love me, Titus?”

He takes his time thinking about the answer, which you appreciate. He isn’t just going to tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Honesty is more attractive to you than his silvering curls or glass jawline, though those definitely do it for you. Always have.

You’ve wasted a lot of time on men who lied to you, who strung you along, who took advantage of your lack of security. As strange as it may be, the thought of someone being very clear about their expectations and giving you everything in return has an appeal after all of that. You’d never have to worry about the things that currently absorb 90% of your time again.

You’ve finished your dish by the time Titus collects his response. Slowly and carefully, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each finger; you can’t stop the fluttering of your heart in response. Titus murmurs, “You may have to teach me how, bunny.” Gradually, he meets your eyes and offers, “If it matters, in the time we’ve known each other, I’ve already grown quite-” he struggles to find the word; you wonder if he’s ever been given ones for this variety of feelings “-fond of you. Which is unusual for me.”

A smile blooms over your lips. Relief punches Titus in the gut and he’s not so sure why. You take your hand from his and press it gingerly to his silver-scruffed cheek. “Fondness will do.”

“Are you sure about this?” Your best friend, Natalie, asks for the fiftieth time as you finish packing your suitcase. Titus had arranged for professional packers, movers, and cleaners for your entire apartment over the weekend, so all you had to do was pack for a long weekend. “It just seems a little fast to me.”

You shrug and try to brush it off, “I’ve known him for six months already.”

She balks, “As a client.”

“Well, unplanned babies tend to rush relationships,” you cut back. “It’s not like he’s a murderer or something; he’s just a rich guy who needs company. Plus, look at these pictures he sent me.”

You unlock your phone and toss it to her where she’s rifling through your closet, taking her turn to pick over it since you’re going to be switching to maternity clothes soon enough and, it seems, designer after that. Natalie scrolls through the grand Danforth estate and her mouth slowly falls open the same way yours did when Titus showed you. Water features both natural and man-made, meticulously maintained flower gardens, a hedge maze, marble sculptures around the grounds. Not to mention the interior. He’d only sent pictures of his residence on the property, which was styled minimalistically compared to the opulence elsewhere, but you could already imagine outfitting it exactly how you want.

Natalie scoffs, “Are you serious? I didn’t even know places like this still exist. Are you sure this isn’t all, like, a catfishing scheme and he’s just going to lure you into the woods and keep you chained up in a cabin or something?”

You roll your eyes and tell her, “After he made the offer, he showed me everything on his iPad. Titles, holdings, all the legal stuff. I guess his great-great-times-a-million grandparents built half the trade infrastructure in America and then used the money for real estate and investments and now they just have mega money. He told me that there are a lot of families like his that have old money managed by lawyers that’s just accruing more and more money by being in banks.”

She raises a curious eyebrow. “So he doesn’t have to work?” 

“Sort of.” You try to explain to the best of your understanding, paraphrasing from the spiel Titus gave that you admittedly kind of zoned out during, “Since his dad retired, he’s got a seat on the board of basically every company in the country, so he has a lot of meetings and travels a lot.”

Natalie changes into one of your dresses and inspects herself approvingly in the mirror. “Does that mean your baby is gonna have to be a boring businessman?”

“Or boring businesswoman,” you laugh. “This one’ll be the oldest, so they’ll have responsibilities, yeah.”

“The oldest?” Her eyebrows go up again. “You and gramps are having more than one?”

“He’s not that old,” you start, a bit more exasperated now, “and he’s going to be my husband. If I want more kids, who else would I have them with?”

“Jesus, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“You’re here pilfering my closet, aren’t you?” The intercom buzzes by the door and you tell her, “Finish up; that’s my ride.”

“Is that him? Mr. Moneybags?”

You peek out the window and see the dark-tinted black Rolls-Royce idling in front of the door. The white-gloved, black-capped chauffeur who’s driven you around a handful of times before stands by the passenger side with his hands linked in front of himself. You mutter, “No, it’s his driver.”

“His driver? Damn.” Natalie takes the things she wants off their hangers and starts to walk you out. “When do I get to meet this guy, anyway?”

The two of you take the stairs together and you suggest, “At the wedding, I guess. Two months or so.”

Natalie scoffs and shakes her head. “Two months to plan a bachelorette party for a pregnant bride.” She squeezes you into a tight, warm hug. “It’s a challenge, but I’m up to it.”

“I know you are,” you giggle. “I can have the driver drop you off somewhere, if you want. I’m sure Titus wouldn’t mind.”

“No, thanks; I’ve got a job interview right up the street.”

Natalie insists on bringing your suitcase down the stairs, setting it on the stoop and scampering away before she has to ‘pretend to be fancy in front of one of your servants.’ As she disappears around the nearest corner, you wave and smile at the driver, hopping off the raised entry to meet him by the road. “Hi, Chip, thanks for coming to get me.”

“Good morning,” he says warmly. He hefts your luggage easily into the trunk and assures, “It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Danforth.” At your curious look, he explains before you can question, “Master Danforth instructed all the household staff to refer to you with your new title so you get used to hearing it.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Master Danforth?”

Chip cracks a rare conspiratorial smile. “The usual title for the eldest son while his father is still alive. His father is Sir Danforth, but I’m sure you’ll call him Father like Titus and Ursula do.” He opens up the back door for you and assures, “It’s a lot to get used to, but you can ask any of the staff for help with anything.”

You slide onto the smooth leather, lowering the partition between the driver and the back, which Titus never does. As the car leaves the city and starts the winding path into the countryside, you glance at Chip and pose, “I’ve wanted to ask before, but now that I’m gonna be family I think I’m allowed to know: How much do the Danforths pay you?”

Surprised by your frankness, he just laughs, “More than enough.”

“C’mon, you can tell me,” you lilt like you’re doing a heist together. “I can dig it up anyway; Titus says I get free rein of the whole property.”

“Really?” Chip  chuckles under his breath. “You must be awfully special to him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Not even Miss Danforth has full access to the entire estate. Their father mainly stays in the front house these days, too,” he explains, “so Titus must think highly of you to allow you unsupervised access.”

You joke, “Or he’s lying to make me feel safe and thinks I won’t meddle.”

Chip glances at you in the rear view mirror, no joking in his expression. “That’s also a possibility.”

You chew on that for a second and then press, “That doesn’t mean you get out of answering me, by the way. If I’m marrying into a family where the staff are underpaid, then-”

Chip almost wheezes out a laugh, caught off guard by the assumption. “I suppose I shouldn’t let you think that about your future husband.” He takes a long breath and explains, “Discretion is expensive. Security is expensive. And loyalty is priceless. I’ve worked for this family since Titus started high school and needed his own driver. Most of the staff have been with the Danforths for a decade or more. I’m sure the hiring process for your personal employees will be rigorous – background checks, security clearances. My starting salary was $80,000. By year ten, that had doubled. I’ve never had to ask for a raise; my salary just gets silently adjusted at the start of the year. Especially since Titus took over the family’s management, their generosity has been staggering. If you include all the above and beyond benefits – he pays for my daughter’s private school tuition outright, covered every penny when my wife went through chemo a few years back – and the bonuses, it has to be about a quarter million by now.”

You let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“Security all makes twice that,” he goes on as he pulls the car off the main road through a massive automated iron gate. Your skin prickles at the knowledge of getting closer. The view is shrouded by thick trees, making the whole estate feel hidden. “Trust me: You’re surrounded by the most loyal, discreet staff in the world.”

You huff out half a laugh. “Should that make me less nervous?”

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies lightly.

As the car finally breaks through the trees, the magnificent grounds come into view and the air leaves your lungs. You press your forehead to the glass to get a better view of the property. At the base of the grand front house with its storied old stone and hand-carved Grecian details being devoured by brilliant green ivy, you see the unmistakable shape of Titus in one of his usual charcoal gray suits, strong and broad in a soldier’s stance. He’s waiting at the bottom of a staircase which opens onto a large half-circle drive that reminds you of something out of The Princess Diaries. A man you recognize as a member of his security detail flanks him; you’ve only spotted him at the periphery before, lingering at the entrances of the restaurants Titus takes you to or waiting in the lobby of hotels. He makes a point of being unnoticeable, but you make a point of rarely letting your guard down.

You hear the gate shutting behind you, a thud instead of a click. Deep. Final.

Stopping the car a few feet from Titus, Chip slides out, opens your door, and smiles earnestly. “Welcome home, Mrs. Danforth.”

The moment you’re out of the car, Titus is lifting his arm for you to slip into, which you do.

“Hello, darling.” Titus loops his hand around your lower back and pulls you close enough to smell his brisk, masculine aftershave. He plants a chaste, claiming kiss to your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Nervous,” you tell him sheepishly. Before he can jump on that, though, you add, “Nausea hasn’t been too bad today.”

He nods slowly, examining your expression carefully. “I’m glad. Let me know if that changes; you can have whatever you want whenever you want now that you’re here.”

“I’m still waiting on my elephant,” you reply lightly, leaning up onto your toes to kiss him.

He hadn’t been planning to let you kiss him in front of any staff, but he’s pathologically unable to resist you when you look so soft and so ready to submit to his plans for you. Your wide eyes are longing for reassurance, for steadiness, for him to produce the scaffolding of your new life together. When you step back down, he cradles your face and teases, “All in due time, princess.”

Then Titus gestures for his bodyguard to step forward. Up close, you can see pockmark scars over all the skin visible around his dark sunglasses and black-on-black suit. There’s also a feathery brown bruise on his jaw and you can’t help but wonder if he got it in the line of fire, so to speak. Titus introduces, “Smith, my personal security detail, will be yours while I hire a new one.”

You cut him a sideways look. “You don’t need your own security detail in the meantime?”

He gives you a cocky, handsome smirk in return. God, he’s devastatingly beautiful when he’s like that. The ruler of his domain. “I can handle myself, bunny.”

You needle, “Then why have one in the first place?”

“I like to be underestimated,” he replies easily. Not wanting to let you dwell on the implications of that, Titus continues, “Smith will check any and every room before you go into it and then remain stationed by the nearest door. He’ll also do some personal training with you on the family security protocols to make sure you’re prepared.”

You swallow hard and nod, extending your hand toward the bodyguard. “Good to meet you.”

Smith glances at Titus, who nods briefly. Only then does the security guard shake your hand – once, firm, quick. More scars over his knuckles. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”

You gesture between them with a suspiciously pointed finger. “What was that?”

A smirk flickers on Titus’ mouth. You’re too observant for your own good and he hates how much he likes it. So he explains honestly, “Nobody is allowed to touch you without my permission.”

You narrow your eyes. “And if I give them my own permission?”

You can’t.

My word is law.

A chill goes down your spine at the possessive darkness in his eyes. You might have your own security guard now, but there’s a level of safety above that, one that only comes from being under the protective wing of Titus’ unyielding power.

Titus chews on his response a moment and then amends, “Male staff are not allowed to touch you unless it’s an emergency.”

You tsk and tease, “Jealous, jealous.”

“You really shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he admonishes, but you know it’s more of a contradictory plea. Titus craves being challenged as much as he hates it. He can’t tolerate it in business or from family in case it’s perceived as weakness, so he yearns for it from you, the one person who has no desire to actually challenge him. With a shake of his head, Titus dismisses Chip and then says, “I’ll give you a tour of the central grounds and our home. Then I have to go out on business for the afternoon before dinner with my sister and Father in the main house. In the meantime you can get settled and play.”

You laugh, “Play?”

“Whatever it is you want to do to entertain yourself,” he replies with a hand wave and a shrug. “Explore the grounds, interrogate the staff, snoop around all the places you shouldn’t.”

You offer a small conspiratorial smile. “Sounds good to me.”

Then Titus does something new and unexpected: He threads his fingers through yours. You get the sense that he’s practicing behaving like a normal, convincing couple. But you still notice that his palm is slightly clammy. Nervous. Titus Danforth gets nervous about holding a pretty girl’s hand for the first time. Cute.

For half an hour, he guides you around the few acres of land that sit between the three main houses, which are in a U formation. There’s a hedge maze that he warns you not to go into unless you have a few hours to kill, a drone to map it out from above, or a helicopter on standby. Then a tennis court (“you can page our trainer from the gate”) and a pool that’s half inside and half outside (“heated, of course, with a hot tub attached”). At the center of it all sits a series of fountains with emotive sculptures captured in such vibrance you’d believe they come alive at night.

“The tableau of Artemis and Actaeon,” Titus explains as he points out the features – a beautiful nude woman in a righteous stance with a bow raised, a muscular stag fleeing, a hoard of gnashing dogs tight on its heels. “Actaeon wandered away from his companions and found the virgin goddess Artemis bathing when she didn’t want to be seen. To punish him for breaking the boundary between the mortal and the divine, she turned him into a deer and sent his own dogs after him.”

You study the series of sculptures, water running down features like blood, and ask softly, “And your family liked that story enough for this whole water tribute thing?”

Titus chuckles and explains, “Artemis is sort of the Danforth version of a patron saint.” His hand drags slowly, pointedly down the center of your back until you shiver. “Goddess of the hunt. She’s a good omen for the family.”

“Goddess of the hunt,” you repeat curiously. “Interesting.”

He raises an eyebrow and starts to lead you toward the second largest house on the left side of the property. “Is it?”

You snicker and match step with him. “Most families go for, y’know, saints of unity, love, that sort of stuff.”

“She’s also the patron and protector of women and children,” Titus adds on the walk through the rose garden that leads to your new home. “And she chooses when to bring wellness or illness. She’s a good woman to have in your corner.”

You give him a coy sideways glance and muse, “I’ll try not to piss off her statue, as then. I want to stay on the good side of anyone who’s going to protect me and TJ.”

“TJ?”

“Oh, yeah, the baby,” you giggle far too adorably to be allowed on the deathly quiet Danforth Estate. “I’ve been calling him Titus Jr. in my head to try to get used to all of this.”

Something you haven’t seen before glitters in his eyes at the comment. “You think it’ll be a boy?”

“It’s too early for me to even think it’s real,” you reply with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe we’re going to actually hear the heartbeat on Monday.”

“I can’t wait.” He gives your hip a little squeeze that feels much more relationship-y than he usually gets. Then he gestures proudly at a large swath of empty land. “Welcome to the final stop of our tour before the house.”

“It’s, um, lovely,” you offer as you gaze at the undeveloped ground, parts of it divided up with unintelligible spray paint marks. “I’ve always wanted a half acre of empty space. My dream.”

“It’s going to be a space for the children,” he explains with something close to softness in his voice. Like he’s scared you’ll reject the sweet idea from a man you know mostly to be harsh, biting. “I thought…Well, I thought it might be nice for them to have a playground, a splash pad, those sorts of things. The property isn’t very child-friendly; there hasn’t been a baby here in more than forty years now. Time to change that.”

Your heart grows about three sizes at the thought. Titus isn’t just inviting you into his life; he’s carving out space for your shared future. “If you didn’t have anything to play with here at home, what did you and Ursula do for fun as kids?”

“We didn’t have fun,” he almost scoffs. You can tell the memories behind the sound are painful but far away, like reaching through a broken chain link fence. If he pulls back, the pain will become real. “My parents were-” Titus searches for the right word a while before deciding on one that’s close enough“-severe. Dour, often. They thought children should be trained and disciplined, not raised. Father thinks the idea of cherishing a child is the same as spoiling them.”

You shrug and give his hand an affirming squeeze. “I guess they got what they wanted; you’re successful, clearly. Driven, strong, powerful.”

“But not fulfilled,” he murmurs, only loud enough for you to hear. He wouldn’t want the staff knowing his feelings. He takes his hand and rubs your back almost absently, like a nervous habit. With a sideways glance, he labors out, “I think being a parent should be about giving your children more than you got. But I got everything. Always. So what can I give to my children, who will have more than they’ll ever need?”

“A space to play,” you finish for him. You lean up on your toes and plant a kiss on his scruff, unable to conceal the smile that comes at Titus talking about fatherhood so softly. “You’re going to be a great dad.”

He blinks hard a few times. His organs feel like they’re in the wrong order, but it’s not unpleasant. Winding his fingers with yours once more, he almost smiles. “You really think so?”

“Wouldn’t have agreed to all of this-” you gesture to the ridiculous property all around “-if I didn’t. I’d kind of figured being the softie would be my job, but I’m happy to share the load.”

Titus downright pouts. “I am not a softie.”

You nod toward the grass and lilt, “The evidence to the contrary is pretty compelling, sweet pea.”

“That’s too far,” he sighs, suppressing a laugh, “even for you, my little terror.”

As you approach Titus’ house – your house – Smith steps out in front and opens up the ornate wooden door. There’s a golden, roaring lion’s head knocker that clicks slightly as the door swings open to reveal the marble foyer. No amount of pictures Titus texted you could do the place justice. Every detail is strikingly opulent from the golden chandeliers and Italian marble checkerboard floors to the sheer embroidered curtains and high ceilings.

The only thing you don’t love is, well, Titus’s taste. You wrinkle your nose as he shows you through the sitting room and dining room. “You really like black and gray, don’t you?”

He watches you inspect his living space. It’s been a very, very long time since he’s had a woman here. At home. “They match everything. It’s easy.”

“I guess,” you mutter, running your hand over a black leather couch that’s smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You point out, “It’s a little cold for a family. I can’t really imagine a baby toddling around, can you?”

“No,” he replies honestly, “but that’s why I have you. I’d like you to change it all so it’s…warmer. Hire a designer or pick out everything for yourself, whatever makes you happiest.”

As your eyes rove along the under-decorated hallway toward the living wing, already imagining how you might redesign the space, you ask him, “And how would I do that? Will you give me a check or something?”

Titus rolls his eyes and laughs. “A check would imply a budget and supervision; I don’t want any part in it unless you truly think my input would be valuable.”

“That’s hot,” you laugh. “More men should act like that.”

He hums, amused, and then reaches into his jacket, removes a sleek wallet, and hands you a heavy black card. The Black Card, you realize as you stare down at the centurion engraved on dark steel. “That card is yours for whatever you like. You’re already an authorized user on the account; I had the legal team take care of that. It auto-pays every month and I won’t even look at it, so I better not catch you overthinking your spending habits.”

“Ooh la la,” you say, taking the card from him and turning it over in your hand. You’re more than familiar with money, even his money, but it’s never been yours to spend however and whenever you want. No budget, no restrictions, no instructions. It feels almost like getting your first car; that shitbox meant freedom. Your eyes go to his and you ask, “What’s the limit?”

Opening up one of several bedroom doors, he tells you like it isn’t even interesting, “It’s NPSL.” You swallow hard. No Preset Spending Limit. Before leading you inside, he turns around and gives you a mischievous smile. “In fact, there’s a minimum. To maintain our status with the company, you’ll need to spend $350,000 a year on that card.” He smirks at your open-mouthed shock and muses, all cocky and coy, and touches the tip of your nose affectionately. “Can you do that for me, princess?”

“Are you joking?”

“I don’t joke often.”

You balk, “What would I even spend that kind of money on?”

He laughs out loud. “Ursula could spend that much in an hour; I’m sure you’ll find something. For example, where have you always wanted to buy jewelry from?”

You bite your lower lip and reply, “Tiffany.”

“Right, of course. I got you those earrings for Christmas,” he remembers fondly, especially fond of the mind-numbing orgasm you’d ridden out of him wearing nothing but said diamond earrings. “Any time you want, you can take your cute little ass downtown to the shop and get everything else from that collection. Better yet,” he goes on, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a few texts, “I’ll get an appointment for you at their flagship in New York and you can use your fun new card on some first-class tickets for you and a friend and buy out the damn store just to show off.” Before you can roll your eyes and scoff out a response, he presses his index finger to your lips, kisses your forehead, and coos, “You’re filthy rotten rich now, kitten, you’ll have to discover ways to act like it. Now, may I continue my tour?”

You give him a giggly mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

He debates jumping on it but bites his tongue, trying to keep a modicum of self-control with his regular staff lingering nearby. So he takes a breath and leads you through the open door into a vast, relatively blank bedroom, leaving Smith stationed outside. He tells you, “Until we’re married, you’ll stay here in one of the guest rooms. Anything else would be inappropriate.”

You nudge him with your hip, a little too confident. “Inappropriate like all the kinky premarital sex we’ve already had?”

In response, Titus grabs you hard by the waist, flipping you around and pushing you against the nearest wall, hand behind your head. There’s a caution to his touch, though, and it steals your breath away. He’s certain not to be too rough with you. He cups your face in one large hand and studies your features intently. Your eyes widen as you look up into his stoic hazels, finding something dark and unreadable in them.

And then he kisses you. Deep, serious, claiming. Your knees go weak as he presses the curve of your spine, pulling you as close as possible to his body. It feels like a warning more than an act of affection. When he pulls back, he gently touches the tip of your nose with his pointer finger, drawing out a smile, and tuts, “You’re going to have to learn not to talk like that in front of others. It’s bad form.”

“No sex jokes in front of the posh folk,” you tease with a serious nod. “Got it.”

“Good girl.”

“You shouldn’t call me that if you want me to behave.” With embarrassingly warm butterflies taking flight in your stomach, you push out your lower lip and give him your best puppy dog eyes. “I really have to sleep alone?” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, leaning your weight on him. “In an unfamiliar place?” You drag your lips up his rough neck and suck his sensitive skin, smiling to yourself when he draws in a sharp and wanting hiss. “With my big strong fiancé all the way across the house?”

Titus gives a low chuckle, looking at you like a puzzle. He traces his finger up your neck and along your jaw until he reaches your chin, tilting it upward. He turns your face from side to side, examining you, and you shiver from the intensity. His lip twitches at the corner. “Would you really prefer to sleep in bed with me? Why?”

You take his hand in yours and guide it down to your hip. His other hand instinctively follows and they roam around to your ass, which you arch out to be more enticing. He follows by squeezing your flesh and grunting softly under his breath. You ruck your hands up beneath his shirt and rake your fingernails over his abs until you feel him tremble ever so slightly. On your toes, you whisper against his ear, “I get cold at night.”

Titus sucks in a sharp breath when you take his earlobe between your teeth and nibble ever so slightly. He leans his head back and groans, “Mmm. You’re too powerful for your own good.”

“Just powerful enough.” Then you nibble your lower lip, avert your eyes, and add bashfully, “And I might need you.”

His brows furrow in genuine confusion. “Need me? For what?”

You shrug and try not to sound too vulnerable. “I mean, I’m pregnant. What if I wake up and something’s wrong?”

Titus sets his jaw, considering that. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and studies one of the many emotions he doesn’t have much experience with: Worry. Lowering his voice, he assures you, “Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not if I can help it.”

With a sad little smile, you reply, “Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t stop me from being scared of complications. Or worse. I don’t want to have to wonder where you are if I wake up afraid.”

At that, he nods solemnly, takes your hand, and starts leading you to the opposite wing of the house. He may not experience anxieties like that, but he understands that his job is to quell yours. “Come on, then; I’ll show you our bedroom. Don’t tell Father; he wouldn’t understand.”

Your eyes narrow. “Will you get in trouble if he finds out?”

“Yes,” he says with a dark humor in his tone and a glint in his eyes. “He’d put me in time out and take away all my favorite toys.” He’d have one hour to hunt me while I remain unarmed. Titus presses a kiss to the center of your forehead. “Don’t worry, bunny; I can handle myself. Handling you is what I’m worried about.”

As he pushes open a set of opulent double doors, you poke his firm shoulder and protest, “I’m a perfect angel.”

“Precisely my concern.” As you step into the suite, he raises a silent hand to stop Smith from following. Closing the doors, Titus strides to where you’re admiring the space, wide eyes greedy over the California king, the floor-to-ceiling windows with grand velvet curtains, the massive his and hers closets. “I know it’s plain right now; I don’t have much of an eye for taste – except in women, of course.”

You smack him lightly on the arm. “Flatterer.”

His deeply ingrained instincts urge him to flip your arm around, pin it behind your back, twist you into submission. But then you smile at him and it’s so warm and open and trusting and earnest that he almost smiles back. “Only for you.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” You traipse into the adjoining bathroom suite and gawk at the oversized soaking tub, practically its own pool with jets and a head rest, and add, “I get the impression you have to flatter a lot of people in your world.”

“They have to flatter me,” he corrects. You feel his hand on your back and catch sight of him watching you in the large mirror above the double vanity sinks. His first finger trails up your spine and he smiles when you shiver. “And soon they’ll have to flatter you, too.”

“If they have to suck up to you, and you have to suck up to me,” you muse, turning around into his arms, “does that make me the boss of the whole world?”

Titus cradles your face in one hand. His expression is completely and totally confident as he tells you, “I spent the first thirty years of my life watching my mother snap her fingers-” he punctuates it with a click of his own “-and get whatever she wanted from whoever she was speaking to. She commanded attention, power, money. Everyone listened when she spoke. She was the only woman – person – my father ever acquiesced to or listened to. Nobody on earth has more power than Mrs. Danforth,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “and very soon that will be you.”

For a second, you’re breathless, taking in the intensity simmering in his eyes. Then you avert your gaze a second, swallow hard, and look back at him with your usual mischief. “Mommy issues much?”

Rolling his eyes dramatically, Titus swats your ass and laughs, “Father is going to hate you.”

With a raised eyebrow, you needle him, “You say that like it might actually be a good thing.”

Titus confirms, “Being hated by my father is always a badge of honor. He can’t stand me.” Then he takes your hand, leads you back to the bedroom, and sits you down on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Now, I have to leave for some business before I introduce you to the family tonight, but I do have one thing I need to give you in the meantime.”

“A welcome home gift?”

“Something like that,” he replies, walking over to his bedside table and removing a black velvet box. He kneels in front of you, your legs on either side of his shoulders, and your heart starts to pound. As he opens it to reveal the ridiculous ring inside, he begins, “Now, bunny, if you want a proper proposal with a string quartet or a sunset on the beach, I’ll do that, but for-”

“Titus, shut up,” you whisper. “Is this…for me?”

Your eyes are glued to the ring. You’ve never seen anything like it. Clearly it’s an antique piece; the metalwork and stones have been meticulously maintained and show a high level of craftsmanship. The large center diamond is black – an almost surreal color, both drawing light in and flinging it out, seeming at once opaque and transparent from different angles – and surrounded by a halo of small pearls and diamonds set in fine platinum. It’s not eye-catching so much as jaw-dropping.

Your heartbeat thuds and whooshes in your ears as Titus removes the ring from the box and takes your left hand in his. You splay your fingers to give him better access.

“My great grandfather had it made for his wife and my mother held onto it for me to give to mine, not that she believed I’d ever find one. It won’t be the most expensive piece in your collection, but it’s the most precious and rare to our family name.” Titus slides it onto your finger and then kisses the skin just above it, his lips softer than you’ve ever felt. He holds your hand in his and urges.  “I never want to see you without it.”

“I should take it off to shower and sleep,” you point out absently, still staring at the ring. You flick your eyes up to his. “And I assume you’d still like to see me those times.”

“I’m going to have to start punishing you for all this flirting, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”

He shakes his head and lets out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

In the next breath, Titus smirks and lifts you easily, tossing you up onto the bed. As you shriek out a laugh, the plush fabric and thick mattress catch you like a cartoon cloud. Titus pounces on you like a panther while you’re still getting your bearings, hiking your skirt up around your waist and yanking your panties down hard enough to rip the elastic. You don’t complain; for every pair of your underwear he’s ruined, Titus has always gifted you five more from nicer shops.

His fingers circle your clit hard and fast, working you up frantically, and you know exactly what his game is. It’s one he plays often and well. You’ve got no choice but to enjoy the expert way he touches you, months of knowing how to get you off and bring you down painstakingly memorized.

Then, as you expect, the very moment your walls start to clamp down, Titus stops all touch and slaps your clit hard. The sting rockets up your spine and you gasp. Your thighs shake and he laughs at your mewling.

Before you can even start to think , he pulls his shirt off, casts it aside, and crawls onto the bed next to you. Then his middle two fingers are on your clit again and his lips lock onto yours and you’re moaning and whining and hoping, hoping, hoping he won’t-

He slaps your clit once more and you nearly knee him with the force of your body’s reaction. He stills your leg with a smirk and coos, “Careful, princess, you’ll pull a muscle. Can’t have that.”

You challenge him with narrow eyes. “Then how about you pin me down and fuck me so I don’t squirm?”

“So goddamn greedy,” he huffs. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

You watch, mouth watering, as he takes off his belt and slacks. You even notice the brief hesitation as the leather belt runs over his fingers; you’ve been known to beg for a whipping with it on more than one occasion. But he’s being gentle with you – for Titus, at least. He returns to you on the bed with a wolfish gaze, spreading your legs apart and admiring you for long enough to make your breath hitch. When you feel the tip of his swollen cock nudging at your entrance, it’s with a toe-curling gentility that makes your body sensitive.

Titus always thrusts into you agonizingly slow, no matter how worked up either of you are. He savors the little flutters and twitches that come with filling your pretty cunt millimeter by breathless millimeter. Once he’s seated inside of you, feeling the way your hips instinctively roll back into his and how your cunt is clamping onto him like it needs reassurance, Titus presses his thumb to your lower lip and orders, “Beg.”

And even though you’re having to actively hold back from squirming and moaning, you know he loves the chase, so you grip his curls tight and reply, “Why should I?”

“God, you fucking brat.” He spits on your face and you lick it off your lips, never dropping his eyes that trace your movements. “If you won’t beg for what you want, then I expect you to stay there and take whatever I give you.”

Your eyes widen in a mix of lust and fear, right on the primal line that Titus so loves to play with. One of his hands goes down to cover your mouth. There’s a millisecond where his eyes flick up to yours, asking permission, and it’s gone as soon as you give an imperceptible nod. When you and Titus fuck, your minds run parallel to one another; the same temptations and ideas call both your attention.

Once his salty, heavy palm is clamping your mouth shut, Titus fucks you like he needs. Your pleasure becomes entirely secondary to him; he only touches your clit because it amuses him to watch you squirm and kick and writhe, unable to speak or moan or do much of anything besides take it.

When he hikes your legs higher, working you into a full mating press that lets him fuck you hard and deep, your eyes roll back and your moans turn into squeaks. His thumb continues its strumming on your clit as you start to shake from pleasure. He purrs, “There we go.”

And then he cums.

Unannounced, unplanned, unrepentant. He pulls out and gives your thigh an affectionate pat.

You grab his hand and wail, “No, no, no no no nonono! Titus!”

He lifts your fingers to his lips and kisses each one softly, “Didn’t I say this was a punishment? You have to learn to behave yourself.”

You lean back, raise your arms above your head so that your tits are on beautiful display, and look up at him like an innocent, needy puppy. After a beat of charged silence where his eyes ravish your body, you say the one word you’re always careful to withhold from him until the right moment: “Please.”

Above the bed like a god, Titus gazes down at you, panting and disheveled and leaking his cum. He tsks and sighs, “How am I supposed to punish you when you take me so well?” Then he drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your legs, and tugs you to the end of the bed as if you weigh nothing. “When you’ve done everything I’ve asked without complaint?” He slides two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them toward himself and grinning when you arch your back and whine out in pleasure. He nips your inner thighs with his teeth and rests his free hand on your lower abdomen, over your womb. Leaning toward your wrecked pussy, he murmurs at last, “When you’re carrying my child? I couldn’t possibly deny you.”

And he descends on your swollen, aching clit. The taste of his own cum mixed with your juices drives him wild. The taste of his ownership. After all the edging, you’re mere moments from tumbling over the precipice.

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

He growls into your cunt as you spasm around his fingers, the orgasm burning up your spine and boiling beneath your cheeks. Your back arches and he refuses to let you stop cumming, keeping his tongue just as firm and fast as you punch into overstimulation. It’s so good it borders on painful and that’s what he loves the most. The moment when you cry out his name and try to push his shoulders back because it’s just too much and only he can finally release you.

Your chest heaves as you collapse back onto the bed. Titus slowly withdraws his fingers from your pussy and licks them clean, drunk on the taste of the two of you becoming one. You can’t talk or think as you rest the back of your hand on your forehead to cool it down. After a few moments of breathing, you smirk up at him and tease, “I knew you’d cave, you big softie.”

He kneels over you again. “I assure you it was completely selfish; making you cum strokes my ego.”

“Mhmm. Whatever you say.”

Titus tuts out a chuckle and checks his watch before swearing under his breath. After a searing kiss that gives you the sense he wants nothing more than to start a second round, Titus sighs, “Three hours as my live-in trophy wife and you’re already making me late.”

You nip his collarbone. “Bite me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He holds your chin and orders gently, “Ask Chip to take you downtown. Designer district. Buy an outfit that makes you feel perfect and be home in time for dinner at six.”

At 5:58, Titus knocks on the door of his own home with a bouquet of white roses. He can already imagine you rolling your eyes at his display before Smith opens up the door on your behalf. Titus is pleased to see that you let him open it without argument, already beginning to accept having others watch out for you.

You step into the moonlight and Titus hands off the flowers to Smith, who falls back behind you. For a moment, Titus is at a loss for words. You’ve always made a point of dressing up and looking beautiful for him; that’s a part of your arrangement, a part of the business of being a professional sugar baby. He’s even paid for you to get plenty of lovely pieces to add to your wardrobe.

But this?

You’ve spent the handful of hours since he left (and attended several excruciating meetings) pampering yourself into a state more akin to divinity than humanity. He may not have the eye for fashion that his sister does, but he can easily identify the trappings of a woman feeling confident about herself: Freshly French-tipped nails, sleek high heels with a thin strap around your ankle, makeup subtle and feminine. The burgundy halter dress hugs your curves, the silk crepe just structured enough to be formal but swinging enough to be sweet and flirty.

He wants to devour you.

And when he kisses you hello, he makes it obvious, dipping you far backwards and gripping your hip like it owes him money. He can feel the designer quality of the dress, soft as butter, under his fingertips. Then he rakes his hands up your thighs and growls against your ears, “I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you in the one situation where I absolutely have to.”

You give him a modest twirl and ask, “You really like it?”

 With his hand on your lower back, Titus guides you toward the main house and purrs, sounding both proud and possessive, “You look perfectly at home in luxury, kitten.”

You try to quell your nerves as you walk up the marble steps to the back entrance of the home, where Smith opens the large glass doors to usher you both inside. Unlike Titus’ – and your, you have to keep reminding yourself – house, the main house is opulently designed, drenched in old-school grandeur. Everything is antique, hundreds of years old, in dark woods and rich silks. It’s more like walking through a museum than a home.

When Titus brings you into the grand dining room, you can see just how well his father and sister match the decor. Thin, severe, expensive. His sister is drop-dead gorgeous in a very ‘90s leading lady way while his father has the sort of face and demeanor usually reserved for stereotypical evil wizards or vampire counts. Titus has to push you into their eyeline when you find yourself shrinking beneath their stares.

Mr. Danforth and Ursula both stand to greet you but don’t move otherwise. Titus takes a deep breath and announces, “Father, Ursula, I’d like to introduce the future Mrs. Danforth.”

Father offers you his hand first, but you’re clearly not supposed to shake it, so you just present your own. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your skin softly. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. My son has sung your praises extensively.”

“That’s very sweet.” You bite your tongue despite how easy it would be to tease Titus because you know for a fact he never would’ve mentioned you to them at all if it weren’t for the baby. You stick with a polite albeit slightly stiff, “Mr. Danforth, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Titus’ gentle, affirmative pat to your arm almost makes you laugh – the situation is too weird for words – but you still hold back. It’s a truly herculean effort not to point out how otherworldly this whole thing is. You haven’t exactly met people who just reek of power and status, their presence so effortlessly commanding that you want to laugh so you don’t cry or hide.

Then it’s Ursula’s turn with you. She doesn’t shake hands, doesn’t hug, doesn’t even speak for a solid thirty seconds. You can feel Ursula’s eyes on every inch of you, dissecting and analyizing. It’s like she’s trying to see through your skin or maybe telepathically peel it off your bones. You’re holding your breath until she finally says, “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.” Swallowing hard, you force a wobbly smile and tell her, “You look stunning, exactly like I expected from how your brother talks about your fashion sense.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Please; Titus wouldn’t know fashion sense if I smacked him over the head with it. And I’ve tried.” Before you can try to come up with any possible response, she gestures to your dress and asks, “Where is this little number from? It looks appropriately expensive for the occasion. A gift from our Titus, I assume?”

“Um, yes, he sent me shopping today.”

She gives you a pitying sort of smile and squeezes your forearm in a way that feels truly predatory. “He’s always so generous with his playthings.”

Titus clears his throat. “Ursula.”

“I’m just teasing,” she laughs without any humor. Then her narrowed eyes return to you. “Really, though, where did you find a dress like this in our dingy little city?”

You smooth out the fabric and tell her, “It’s, um, it’s Yves Saint Laurent.”

“Looks like something I would wear.”

You try on a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I told Chip to take me somewhere you would shop.”

“Maybe I’ll go and pick one up in my size,” she muses, still scanning your body for every flaw, which you’re suddenly painfully aware of, coming up with brand new insecurities every second her focus moves. “I’d ask to borrow it, but yours would drown me.”

Titus cuts her off sharply, “That’s enough.”

She pouts at her brother. “Don’t be so sensitive, ducky; I’m sure she can-”

“No.” You’ve never heard Titus’ voice as stone cold and commanding as when he tells her, an order and a punishment, “Never speak down to her. Never.”

Ursula rolls her eyes and plops herself dramatically in one of the oversized dining chairs. She pouts and says, “Fatherhood is already making you so boring. Now I’m going to have to weaponize her against you so I have someone to complain with about how boring you are. Sigh.”

And dinner goes just about like that.

Mr. Danforth unabashedly interrogates you about your life, your family, your history. Ursula critiques your answers. Titus snaps at them both when they push too far. You just try to hold onto your fork and sneak bites of decadent food in between the family bickering. You can tell there’s a kind of affection entirely foreign to you in the way they jab and dodge each other’s barbs. The way rich people talk to each other – all subtext and speed – is surreal to listen to. Eyes rolled about memories in St. Barts and arguments over clients in Aspen; it’s like they’re speaking a different language from the one you learned growing up.

By the time you’ve finished pretending to like flan because you’re terrified of being rude, they seem to have hashed out all their regular arguments, everyone beyond ready to leave the rest alone. Titus can tell you’re getting overwhelmed by their equally intense presences fighting for dominance, so he slides his hand protectively onto your knee and announces, “I think we’ve kept my fiancée awake late enough, haven’t we?”

Ursula pouts, leaning across the table and snatching your left hand into hers for examination. “You already gave her mother’s ring and I missed the grand proposal? How tragically unromantic.”

Father sighs, “They’re doing things a touch out of order, darling.”

“I wouldn’t want an extravagant proposal anyway,” you manage to squeak out. “A nice private moment between the two of us was perfect.”

“Ah, so she’s the one making you boring,” Ursula laughs. Then she lowers her gaze and adds, “If you don’t like extravagance, you may be marrying into the wrong family. Your wedding guest list is already 250 people long.”

“I’m definitely looking forward to all of it,” you assure as you desperately try not to sound either meek or ungrateful, “but Titus is being kind enough to ease me into the waters. Trust me: The beautiful estate and stunning, personal ring made as much of a statement as any proposal.”

Father smirks at you with a pleased satisfaction that seems to surprise Titus and his sister. “What a diplomatic response. My daughter will be lucky to learn from your decorum.”

As Titus stifles a laugh, Ursula stands up dramatically from the table and reminds him, “I’m literally a diplomat, Father. Try telling the people of Monaco that I’m anything but diplomatic when I personally broke ground on the country’s latest arts center.”

“That was for optics,” Titus cuts back, adding under this breath, “unlike my work in Geneva.”

Ursula brandishes her knife like she might really use it on him, making you gasp gently under your breath, and that’s when Father officially clears his throat and stands with a curt, “I think that’s enough family time for one night.”

“I completely agree,” Titus replies, rolling his shoulders before he stands up. After pulling your chair out and guiding you to your feet, he says, “We’ll see you both at the Governor’s Ball on Saturday.” 

Titus shakes his father’s hand at the end of dinner and, once again, you have to remind yourself not to tease him. Thankfully, it’s a surgical extraction from there and Titus has you walking back toward your house in no time.

After Titus dismisses Smith for the night and arms the extensive home security system, he meets you in the primary bathroom, where you’re unclasping your jewelry and examining yourself in the mirror. Titus must’ve had someone on staff put away your things because your bedtime skincare routine is laid out on the countertop. Before reaching for any of it, you bite your lip and ask Titus, “Be honest: Did I do okay?”

He comes up behind you, slipping his strong arms around your waist. “You did great. I’m only sorry Ursula was so very-” he struggles to find the right word “-Ursula.”

“I expected worse,” you tell him with half a smile. “I didn’t expect you to stand up for me, though. To your sister.”

“Ursula is the family the universe gave me. She’s my best friend and my closest confidant – and she’s a nightmare. A hellion.” Titus kisses your forehead and gently touches your stomach. “You’re the family I’m choosing. That means you come first, button. I’m not going to have my children watch their father sit idly by while their mother is insulted. I’m practicing setting a good example.”

You stand up on your toes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Titus runs his hands up your spine and fiddles with the halter tie at the back of your neck. “Now let’s get you out of this very lovely dress so you can sleep. Do you need a back rub? Some ginger tea?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slowly take out your cleanser and reusable cotton rounds. “Are those real offers or are you teasing me?”

“Real offers. From either a masseuse I can have here in fifteen minutes and our chef or from me personally.” He tugs the dress down your body, guides you to step out of it, and discards it in the bathroom hamper like you didn’t pay $3,200 for it a few hours ago. “No funny business, just relaxation and rest, especially well earned after spending a few hours with my family.”

“I could probably tolerate a foot rub before bed,” you giggle as he kisses across the tops of your shoulders.

“Go on, then.” He strips off his own shirt and makes quick work of his belt and slacks, too. Looking deliciously sturdy in just his black boxer briefs, he leans against the bathroom doorframe and says. “Finish getting un-ready and come lie down with me, princess. I’ll make sure to get you nice and relaxed before bed.”

“You want me to do my whole bedtime routine topless?”

“I’ll grab you something from your closet,” he offers, frowning a little because he admittedly does like the idea of watching you traipsing around with your tits out. When he returns with a tank top and silky shorts, he notices you still haven’t started taking off your full face of makeup. Too knowingly, he strolls into the bathroom with the pajamas and asks, all low and teasing, “Are you nervous to take off your makeup in front of me?”

You toy with the damp cloth, studying him in the mirror, and admit, “A little. And not just the makeup.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs, “I’ve seen you naked, kitty.”

You scoff, “Naked and made up with at minimum highlighter and mascara. Or in very manicured outfits.”

He offers, “I’ve also seen you in pajamas before.”

“Lingerie,” you correct. “You don’t really think I sleep in slutty little negligees and teddies, do you?”

“A man can dream.”

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, typically you rip those off me, fuck me unconscious, and then leave before my actual bedtime routine,” you reply, poking him in his hard chest. As you tug on the tank top and shorts, you go on, “I usually wake up around midnight, get room service on your tab, and sleep in my ugly sweats since you never spend the night.”

Clearly amused by the whole thing, he presses, “Are you worried I’ll rescind my proposal to the mother of my child because you aren’t a model in your sleep?”

“I don’t know!” You huff and glare at him, knowing full well you’re being hormonally dramatic now. “This is all very new to me, Titus. I have to wear a four-figure dress to dinner and go to the fucking Governor’s Ball, I guess, but I still have to be me at bedtime? All while figuring out how to be your fiancée and not just your sugar baby? It’s weird.”

Titus closes the space between you, each step stern and confident. He takes the makeup removal pad and cleanser from you, gently lathers the cloth, and starts to work it over your face without saying a word. Titus says the most when he's silent. Right away, you melt beneath his touch. His totally sturdy gaze. Quietly, he relents, “It’s a lot. I know that. You don’t have to come to the big social events right away; we can start smaller than the fucking Governor’s Ball.” He smiles when you crack one of your own. “If you aren’t ready to jump right into being my wife, there are plenty of other bedrooms you can stay in and have your own space.”

“I don’t want my own space,” you whisper back. “I’m just scared of taking up too much of yours, I guess. Or not fitting into your life the way you expect. Of being Mrs. Danforth correctly. Not looking expensive enough or beautiful enough or-”

“Quiet now,” he interrupts, words harsh and clear but tone nothing but warm. “Do you know what I want from Mrs. Danforth?” Titus finishes wiping your face of its mask and then examines your products and selects your moisturizer. He massages it into your face and neck with fingers so tender you could cry. When he’s finished, he holds your face in one large hand and murmurs, “I want you to sit by my side and sleep in my arms. You. We have the rest of our lives to work out the details.”

For the first time, you feel the real you slip out in front of Titus. No flirting, no pushing, no hiding. All you can manage to whisper is, “Thank you.”

He gives you a soft kiss and then goes on, quiet but urgent. “As for worrying about your appearance, you have never been lovelier to me than you are right now,” leading you to the bed and sitting you down with your feet in his lap, he finishes, “because you’re mine. And that’s the most perfect thing you can be.”

Usually, it’s the opposite. Usually, it feels like you’re being evaluated, quietly measured against some invisible standard you’ve already failed to meet. But she doesn’t look at you like that. There’s no impatience in the way she moves, no thinly veiled skepticism when she glances in your direction. Just calm, steady attention.

You drop your hand back into your lap, fingers curling together. The nausea ebbs slightly, replaced by a dull, lingering shakiness that makes your limbs feel like they don’t quite belong to you.

“Your doctor will be with you in just a minute,” she says kindly. “In the meantime, I’m gonna start taking your vitals, alright?” 

You nod, shifting slightly on the bed as another small wave of nausea rolls through you. “Yeah, okay,” you mumble.

She gives you a small, reassuring nod before reaching for a blood pressure cuff and wrapping it around your arm. Quietly explaining while she does so.  

“Just relax,” she says softly.

You try. The cuff tightens, squeezing your arm, and you focus on the steady hum of the machine instead of the lingering unease in your stomach and now your arm, before it slowly loosens again. 

She glances at the numbers on the monitor. “Well, your blood pressure is on the lower side,” she says. “That could definitely explain the dizziness.”

You just nod, not really trusting yourself to say anything without your voice giving you away.

“Did you eat today?”

“Yeah, some toast,” you admit. “That’s about it.”

She nods again before reaching for your arm to remove the cuff, her touch light and careful as she slides it off. “Alright,” she says softly, setting it aside. “And have you been eating normally lately?” she asks.

“No… not really,” you admit. “I’ve been feeling kinda sick the past few days.”

“Nauseous?”

You nod again. 

“Okay. Have you experienced any stomach pain?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Any vomiting?”

“No…” you hesitate, glancing down at your hands. “But there have been a few times I’ve felt like I might,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

Then, in that same neutral, routine tone, she asks, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

The question lands heavier than it should. You’re just about to blurt out no, out of pure instinct, something automatic, easy and safe. But the word catches in your throat. Your love life hasn’t exactly been active the last year or two. And that’s why your brain wants to say no without thinking. 

But there was that one night about a month ago. 

It was the kind of night out that wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. Just a way to get out of your own head for a few hours, to feel normal again. You hadn’t expected anything from it. You had just met up with some of your friends, some of your friends’ friends. And a few people who turned out to be friends of friends of friends –people you didn’t know, names you didn’t catch, faces that blurred together after a while.

You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just a drink or two, a laugh and a light conversation, then leave. But then you noticed him. He looked even more out of place than you felt. Leaning against the wall, drink in hand, like he wasn’t sure where he belonged. His eyes roamed the room but didn’t settle on anyone, not until they landed on you.

You smiled first, almost without thinking. He looked surprised, a little caught off guard, and then he smiled back, awkwardly, nervously, but genuine. And somehow, that was enough. It was awkward, sure, but real in a way that made you want to stay a little longer than you first intended. 

You started talking. He was one of those friends of friends of friends. The kind of person you could’ve missed entirely if things had gone just a little differently that night. At first, just small talk to fill the time, but then it wasn’t just small talk anymore. It was laughter and shared glances, a kind of ease that felt like it had slipped through the cracks of the night. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way. Sweet, earnest, a little clumsy, completely unlike anyone you’d met in a long time.

And it was so nice. Someone kind, nervous, and a little awkward. Someone who had made you feel lighter than usual. One drink became two, two turned into standing a little closer than before, conversations dipping softer, quieter. There had been a moment, just a small one, where neither of you were really talking anymore, just looking at each other like you were both trying to decide something at the same time. And then you had.,. 

You swallow. Your fingers curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing lightly into your skin 

“There might be a little chance.”  

The nurse doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at you differently. She just nods, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. 

“Alright. We’ll have you take a pregnancy test just to rule it out.”

Your stomach twists again, though this time it’s not entirely because of the nausea. Because technically, there is a chance.

The thought settles heavy, sinking somewhere deep in your chest. The nurse gives you a small, reassuring smile, like nothing about this is unusual, like this is just another step in a routine process.

“I’ll see if your doctor is ready now,” she says gently.

“Okay,” you manage, your voice quieter than you intend. “Thank you.” 

The curtain shifts as she steps out, leaving you alone with the low hum of the machines and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. You exhale slowly, leaning forward again, elbows resting on your knees, trying to ground yourself.

It’s probably nothing. It has to be nothing. Low blood pressure. Not eating enough. Stress. Your fingers tighten together, then loosen again as you force yourself to breathe.

After a while the curtain rustles. You glance up, and everything in you stills. You are met by a friendly smile from your nurse, kind brown eyes, soft and familiar. But it is not her who makes your breath catch. It’s the person stepping in behind her. 

He is looking down at the ipad in his hands, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, like he’s trying to finish reading something before stepping fully into the room. It gives you a second, just one, to see him without being seen.

The familiar slope of his shoulders. The way he holds himself, a little unsure, like he’s still getting used to being here. Light brown hair falling over his forehead, and curling up at the nap of his neck. 

Then he looks up, and his eyes meet yours. Those wide, blue eyes, you remember all too well. 

“This is Dr. Whitaker,” the nurse says softly, her tone carrying the gentle authority of routine, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. She tells Dennis your name, not knowing that he already knows it. “We already took her blood pressure, and you ordered a pregnancy test.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the nurse, then back to you. “Thank you, Perlah,” he says, voice small. 

There’s a pause, the kind that makes the air between you feel thicker. She gives him a quick look, a brow slightly raised, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then she gazes back to you, smiling softly, as if nothing unusual has happened. 

“If you need anything, you can call on the button and I’ll be back. But in the meantime, you’re in good hands with Dr. Whitaker.”

You give a small nod, your throat tight, words catching somewhere between nervousness and surprise. She steps out, the curtain swishing closed behind her, and the door closes, and suddenly the room feels impossibly quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing a little louder, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears. 

“Hi,” he says, an awkward smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, just enough to make it feel human, approachable.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice smaller than you would like, uneven, caught somewhere between nerves and surprise. 

“So, uh, you fainted…” he continues, voice careful, like he’s stepping lightly around fragile ground. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of the ipad, a subtle rhythm that seems to mirror your racing heartbeat.

You glance down at your hands, twisting them together in your lap. “Yeah… I guess,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Uhm.. If you would prefer another doctor, I can call them in,” he says, voice gentle, careful not to push. His gaze flickers to your face, giving you space, but holding just enough attention to make it clear he’s listening.

You shake your head quickly, almost automatically. “No… no, it’s fine,” you murmur. “You’re… you’re fine.” Your voice catches, tight and shaky.

He nods, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he says softly. 

There’s a pause as he studies you, and even in the sterile, buzzing hospital room, there’s a strange sense of understanding between you. The way he leans slightly, careful not to crowd your space, makes it clear he’s not in a rush.

“I could understand from Perlah that you have been feeling nauseous… Can you tell me when it started? And if it’s been constant, or comes and goes?”

You hesitate, twisting your fingers tighter in your lap, and then let out a quiet breath. “A few days… maybe longer,” you mumble. “It… comes and goes. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes I feel it all day.” 

He nods slowly, laying the ipad gently on the counter beside the computer, before sitting down on the stool near the bed. The movement is careful, deliberate, as if he’s trying to make the space feel less clinical and more… manageable.

Neither of you say anything for a moment. “This was not something I had expected today” he then says softly, his tone low and careful, like he’s aware of how fragile the moment feels.

You glance up, caught somewhere between nerves and disbelief. “Yeah… me neither,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gives a small, awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ease the tension.

“I, uhm… I regretted not asking for your number that night,” he admits softly, voice low, careful, like he’s letting you in without forcing anything. There’s a vulnerability there, subtle but impossible to miss.

You feel your chest tighten, words catching in your throat. “Me too…” you hear your own voice, small and fragile, but it somehow feels like the only honest thing you can say. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, it’s heavy, yes, but also intimate, like the room has shrunk around just the two of you.

He nods slowly, as if letting your words sink in, the awkward smile lingering just a moment longer before he shifts slightly on the stool, just enough to lean a little closer without closing the space between you.

“I… I kept thinking about it,” he admits quietly, voice almost swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent lights. “I mean not in a weird way! Just… I don’t know, wondering if I’d get another chance to actually talk to you.” 

Your heart tightens, and your fingers curl in your lap again. “We did a little more than just talking that night…” 

He blinks, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Right.” His eyes flicker away for a moment, like he’s gathering courage, before returning to yours. 

The quiet stretches, heavy but intimate, as if the room itself has shrunk to hold just the two of you in this suspended, fragile moment. 

“A lot of things can make someone feel nauseous, or make them faint” he continues softly, like he’s searching for the right words, careful not to overstep, not to make you feel any more exposed than you already do. His voice, low and careful, like he’s trying to build a bridge across the nervous tension in the room. “Low blood pressure, stress, anxiety, not eating enough… but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

You nod, your throat tight, the simple act of acknowledging him feeling heavier than it should. Your fingers fidget in your lap. 

He pauses, letting the words settle. “The first thing we’ll do is a urine pregnancy test. It’s quick and easy, just to rule it out before we look at other causes. Pregnancy can lead to low blood pressure and nausea, so it’s a standard step,” he explains gently, keeping his tone calm and steady, though there’s a subtle hesitancy in his voice, like he’s aware of how loaded the moment feels. He meets your eyes, letting the weight of the words hang without pressing you, giving you space to react.

“And what if it is positive?” you say, though it’s closer to a whisper, your voice catching, trailing off as your fingers twist in your lap. The words feel heavier than you expect, like stepping over an invisible line.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes steady, patient, giving you space to let the words settle without rushing in. His lips press into a thin line before he finally speaks, slow and careful.

“Then, uhm… Then we’ll figure it out,” he answers softly, like the word takes a second to find its way out. His voice is gentle, a little unsteady, but sincere in a way that makes it land. 

His words make something in your chest tighten, then loosen all at once. It’s something warm, unfamiliar in a moment that should feel cold and clinical. You swallow, your fingers stilling in your lap for the first time since he walked in. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t answer the question hanging between you. But it softens it, just enough to breathe around.

Your eyes stay on him, searching, like you’re trying to understand how he can feel so steadying, while looking so nervous at the same time. 

He clears his throat softly, like he’s grounding himself back into the role he’s supposed to be playing here. Professional, steady, your doctor. But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite let him be just that.

His hand shifts against his knee, fingers curling slightly, like he’s grounding himself the same way you’ve been trying to. His gaze flickers briefly away, then back to you, and there’s still that same openness there, uncertain, but real.

For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But instead, he exhales quietly and gives a small nod, almost to himself. 

“Okay,” he says, softly, like he’s settling into something steadier. “I’ll go get you something to drink, so uh…” he trails off, glancing briefly toward the door before looking back at you. “So you can take the test,” he finishes, voice quiet, the words coming out a little uneven. 

The words hang there, simple and clinical on the surface, but they don’t land that way between you.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it needs, like he’s checking something unspoken. Making sure you’re okay. Or maybe trying to make himself believe that you are.

You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay.” 

He gives a small nod back, almost mirroring you, like that’s enough to anchor him. 

“Okay,” he echoes. But he doesn’t move right away.

There’s a hesitation, subtle, but there. His fingers press lightly against his knee, then release, like he’s debating something he doesn’t quite let himself say.

“Hey,” he adds softly, drawing your attention back up to him. Your eyes meet his again. “If you start to feel lightheaded again… just lay down, and use the call button, alright?” he says, slipping gently back into that steady, professional tone, but it’s warmer now. More personal.

You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay,” you whisper.

He watches you for a moment longer, like he’s making sure you really mean it. Like he’s trying to memorize something. Your expression, maybe, or just the fact that you’re still sitting there, still steady.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.” 

You nod again, a little more firmly this time, like you’re trying to hold onto that steadiness he’s offering you.

“Okay,” you repeat, barely above a whisper.

He gives you one last look, longer than necessary, softer than it should be, and then finally turns, pulling the curtain aside. The hallway noise spills in again, distant and impersonal. Voices, footsteps, the faint clatter of something metal against tile. It all feels far away. 

And then he’s gone. The curtain falls back into place with a quiet swish, and the room settles into stillness again. You sit there for a moment, unmoving. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined now instead of clenched. Your breathing is a little uneven, but not as tight as before.

· · · · · 

Dennis leans back against the cool wall just outside the exam room, exhaling slowly through his nose like he’s been holding his breath for the past ten minutes without realizing it. His heart is still beating a little too fast, faster than it should for a routine case. For any case, really.

So for a moment, he just stands there, staring down at the floor, trying to put himself back together into something useful, something professional.

Because the second he walked into that room and saw you he was brought back to that night he met you, and that night wasn’t supposed to follow him here. It had been… simple, surprisingly so. Unexpected, but simple. A rare kind of ease he didn’t often get. 

You had felt easy, talking to you had felt easy. Being around you had all felt easy, and nice, but also kind of terrifying in a way he hadn’t really let himself sit with until now. Dennis lets out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down over his face. Yeah. That’s the word. Terrifying. Not because of what happened, but because of how easily it had happened. 

Trinity had dragged him along to the bar, and he hadn’t even wanted to go. Pittsburg hadn’t felt like home yet, not really. It still isn’t really, but that night had felt like something close to it. Or at least like a break from everything that didn’t.

Everything still feels slightly unfamiliar, like he is walking half a step out of sync with the rest of the world, but with you, he hadn’t felt so out of sync. It was as if something real had slipped in where it wasn’t supposed to. No expectations, no pressure, no weight. Just someone sweet, someone pretty and kind, who laughed at his awkward jokes like they were actually funny. Smiled at him like you meant it.

He shifts, the back of his head resting briefly against the wall as he now stares up at the fluorescent lights. They buzz faintly, steady and indifferent, like none of this matters outside of that room.

But it does. Because you’re in there. And there’s a chance that… He cuts the thought off before it can fully form, jaw tightening. This must be scary enough for you, he can’t let himself spiral. Because right now, your health, the test, the possibility… it’s about you. Not him 

He technically doesn’t even know if he is the father if it turns out that you are pregnant. You could have had other sexual partners within the period of a possible pregnancy. And you would be totally justified in that. 

The thought lands quietly this time, without resistance. And he lets it, because it’s true. You would be justified. It’s your life, your choices, your body. One night, no matter how real it felt to him, doesn’t give him any kind of claim or expectation. 

Dana is standing by the nursestarion, watching him with that same calm, observant expression she always has, but there’s something a little more knowing in it now. Subtle, but enough to make him straighten instinctively when he notices that she’s looking at him.

“You okay, kid?” she asks, tone light, but not casual enough to ignore.

He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Dana doesn’t push. She just tilts her head slightly, letting the silence hang long enough for him to notice he’s holding himself too rigidly. Then she turns, returning her focus to the computer in front of her, fingers moving over the keyboard with practiced ease.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut for a second before opening them again, blinking a few times, to get himself back together. You need fluids. Ideally something with sugar. That’s an easy task, something manageable he can do right now. Fluids and a pregnancy test, he can get you that. 

· · · · · 

You sit in the quiet for a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the space between your thoughts. Your fingers fidget in your lap, twisting together, letting the tension work itself out in small, unconscious movements. 

The shock of seeing him, of him being the one stepping into the room, of being told that he was the doctor that should help you, curls around your chest, tightening in a way that makes your breath catch even though you’re trying to calm yourself.   

Your gaze drifts toward the door, half-expecting it to open again, for the curtain to rustle, for him to step back in like this is all some strange, suspended moment that hasn’t quite decided what it is yet. 

Out of all of the ER’s in Pittsburgh and all the doctors, it had to be him. The thought doesn’t even feel real when it settles in your mind. It just… sits there, heavy and impossible, like something that belongs to a different version of your life. 

A month ago, he was just a stranger. Someone you weren’t supposed to see again, at least not under these circumstances. But somehow, here he is. And here you are. It’s not like you wouldn’t have wanted to see him again but not like this.

The thought settles heavy in your chest, quieter than the others, but somehow almost sharper. Because you had thought about it. Seeing him again. Not in any serious way. Not something you let yourself linger on too long, but it had crossed your mind in those quiet moments afterward. A passing what if. A soft, almost embarrassing curiosity about whether you’d ever run into him again.

Maybe at another bar, or at a house party Trin would drag him along to. Somewhere casual, somewhere easy. Somewhere you could’ve just smiled when you saw him, maybe teased him a little about that awkward first conversation, and about what followed, asked for his number this time without overthinking it. Something simple. 

Your chest tightens faintly. Because that version of it doesn’t exist anymore, and it never will, no matter what that test says.

Your stomach shifts again, a low, uneasy roll that makes you press your lips together. You swallow it down, one hand coming to rest lightly against your abdomen, as if that might steady something deeper than just the nausea.

A pregnancy test. The words echo faintly in your head, softer now, but the words aren’t feeling any less heavy. You exhale shakily, dropping your hand back into your lap.

It’s probably nothing. You cling to it again, even as doubt presses in at the edges. Low blood pressure, not eating enough, stress. All things that make sense. All things that don’t change your life in an instant.

Unlike the alternative. 

Your foot taps lightly against the side of the bed, a quiet, restless rhythm. And then, without meaning to, your thoughts drift back to that night. The way everything had felt so easy. Like you hadn’t been trying so hard to be okay for once. Like you hadn’t been overthinking every word, every movement.

He was different. Not in any obvious, overwhelming way. Not in the kind of way that demands attention the second someone walks into a room. No, he was much quieter than that. Softer. He hadn’t tried too hard. Hadn’t filled every silence or pushed every conversation forward like he needed it to go somewhere. There had been pauses, small ones, where neither of you spoke, and somehow they hadn’t felt awkward. 

Or actually, they had, a little at least, but not in a bad way. Not the kind of awkward that makes your skin itch or your mind scramble for something to fill the space. It was just a little unsure. Like both of you were still figuring each other out in real time, neither quite knowing what to say next, but not wanting to walk away either.

You remember noticing that. The way he looked at you like he was actually listening. Like he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to talk. Your chest tightens faintly. And the way he smiled. A little unsure, a little crooked, like he wasn’t entirely used to it landing somewhere it was truly wanted. It had made something in you soften. 

You shift a little on the bed, the paper cover beneath you crinkling softly. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, making you pause for a second before exhaling slowly. Time feels strange in here, stretched thin. You have no idea if it’s been a minute or five since he left the room–maybe even ten.

Your gaze drifts back to the curtain again, like it might give you some kind of answer. It doesn’t. It just hangs there, still and closed, separating you from everything outside this room.

You exhale slowly, shoulders rising and falling in a measured attempt to stay grounded. But without anything to distract you, your thoughts keep circling back to the same place. The test, him, that night.

Because if it’s negative… Your chest lifts slightly with the thought, something almost like relief brushing against the edges of your ribs. Then this can just stay what it was. A strange coincidence, an almost, something soft and unfinished that you can tuck away and maybe, maybe, come back to later, under different circumstances.

Your throat tightens faintly. Maybe you would actually get that second chance. Maybe you could  both laugh about this someday. The absurdity of it, running into each other here, of all places. 

But if it turns out to be positive… Your lips press together. The thought doesn’t finish forming before your stomach twists again, sharper this time. Your hand instinctively comes back to rest against your abdomen, fingers pressing lightly like you’re trying to steady the unease from the outside. 

If it is positive, everything changes. Not just tonight, not just this moment. Everything.

Your breath comes out a little uneven, and you force yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, exhale through your mouth, like you’ve done a hundred times before when things start to feel like too much. 

It wouldn’t just be yours to figure out. Your eyes flicker toward the door again, something uncertain settling in your chest. It would be his, too. Not in the same way, of course. Not in the way it would live in your body, change your body, ask things of you every single day. But it would still be his as well as yours. Shared.

And that thought, that’s the one that lingers the longest. Not fear, exactly. Surprisingly, not even panic. Just a heavy, unsure weight. Because you don’t really know him. Not beyond a single night and a handful of soft, unfinished moments. And yet, you know enough to remember the way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he held you as you both caught your breath afterward. He didn’t rush you, didn’t push, didn’t make anything feel like it had to be more than it was.

Your chest tightens again, quieter this time. Would that change? Would this, whatever this is, turn him into someone else? Or would he still be that same person, just in a situation neither of you had asked for? 

The thought lingers, unanswered as a soft knock breaks through the quiet before the door opens again, the curtain shifts, not waiting long enough for you to respond to your own questions. 

Your head lifts instinctively. Dennis steps back in, the back of one hand pushing the curtain aside, in his arms he’s holding five different small sealed cups, a bottle of water, a can of La Crox. And in his right hand he’s holding another type of cup wrapped in sterile plastic and a packet of test strips. 

His eyes find yours immediately. And for a second he hesitates. Like he’s checking the temperature of the room. 

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping inside as the curtain falls closed behind him again. His voice is gentler this time, steadier, like he’s had a moment to pull himself back together. But there’s still something there under the surface. “I, uhm, I didn’t know what you like, so I brought a few options,” he finishes a little awkwardly, lifting his arms slightly like it might explain itself, as if he’s only just now realizing how much he’s carrying

Your lips part slightly, a quiet breath slipping out before you can stop it. “Thank you,” you say softly. 

The cups shift a little in his hold, and he lets out a small, self-conscious breath before stepping closer to the table beside your bed. “I might’ve… overestimated how many choices you’d need,” he adds quietly.

There’s something almost endearing in the way he says it. Like he’s aware of it, but not enough to undo it. You can’t help it, the faintest hint of a smile tugs at your lips, soft and brief, but real.

“It’s okay,” you murmur.

He gives a small nod, like your approval matters more than it maybe should, like it settles something in him. He put the cups down on the little table next to the bed beside you, a little more carefully than necessary, like even that small action requires focus.

“The apple juice is, uh… probably better,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, gesturing lightly toward it. “You need some sugar.”

“Okay.” You nod, meeting his eyes with a sudden feeling of shyness. “I like apple juice.” 

“Yeah?” he says, a little too quickly, like he didn’t expect an actual answer. Then he lets out a small, almost sheepish breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sweet, shy smile, like he is happy to learn even the smallest thing about you.

You nod again, a little more certain this time, though the warmth creeping up your neck gives you away.

“Yeah,” you murmur, almost like you’re confirming it for both of you.

His smile lingers for a moment longer than necessary. He removes the lid before handing you the juice cup. You take a sip, the sweetness hitting your tongue a little sharper than you expect, but not unpleasant. It settles something small in your stomach, even if the unease doesn’t fully go away.

You lower the cup slightly, your fingers still wrapped around it. “Good?” he asks, a little tentative, like he’s not entirely sure why it matters so much, but it does.

You nod. “Yeah… it helps.”

Something in his shoulders eases at that, just a fraction. “That’s good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

There’s a quiet pause, the kind that feels softer now, less strained. Like the edges of the moment have smoothed just a little.

“I know this is… a lot,” he says finally, voice lower now, less clinical, more honest. “The fainting, and feeling sick, and then… this on top of it.” He gestures vaguely, like the words possible pregnancy is too heavy to just drop into the space between you again.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands. “Yeah… it is,” you admit quietly.

He nods, like he understands that in a way that goes beyond just the medical side of things. His fingers shift against the edge of the table, restless for a second before stilling again. There’s something else sitting with him now. You can see it. He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he’s circling something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.

“I, uh…” he starts, then stops, a faint crease forming between his brows. He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a quiet laugh at himself, like he’s aware of how awkward this is about to sound. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask this without making it weird…” he admits softly.

Your grip on the cup tightens just slightly.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” he starts, the words slow, deliberate. “And you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable, I just…” he exhales softly, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Timing-wise…” He trails off, glancing at you briefly, then back down, then back up again. Then, more carefully. “That night was, what… about a month ago?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He nods too, like he expected that, but hearing it still makes something in him settle—and tighten at the same time.

“Okay,” he murmurs. Then another pause. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says. “Really. I mean that.” His hand comes up briefly, rubbing the back of his neck again before dropping back down. “It’s just… medically, it helps to know, and…” he hesitates, then corrects himself, more honest now, “and not just medically,” he admits, quieter now.

That lands a little heavier. The way he says it, so careful, so indirect, makes your chest ache a little. He’s not pushing. Not claiming anything. Just asking for a place in something that maybe don’t een exist, but already feels bigger than either of you can name.

“There hasn’t been anyone else,” you say softly.

His eyes widen just the slightest fraction, a flicker of relief passing through them before he smooths it down into calm attentiveness. He doesn’t smile or anything, but you can see the tension in his shoulders ease, just a little.

“Okay,” he says softly. His voice low, steady and careful. “That… helps, a lot. Thank you for telling me.” He lets the words hang for a moment, letting them settle between you both.

“Dennis?”

He blinks at your voice, a faint pause filling the space as if the single word pulled him up from a careful orbit around himself. His eyes flick to yours, wide, attentive, the weight of that moment settling on him too. “Yeah?” His voice is soft, still careful, like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next but ready to meet it.

“Can I get your number?” 

You don’t even know why you are asking him right now, the timing is weird, but it suddenly feels very important.

His eyebrows lift just the slightest fraction, like the question took a second to land. “Yeah,” says finally, voice low, almost shy. “Of course.”

You pull out your phone, swiping your thumb across the screen and unlocking it with quiet, deliberate motion, trying not to let your hands shake. You open up your contacts, fingers hovering over the ‘+’ button for a new entry. Your thumb hesitates just above the name field for a moment, and then, with a quiet breath, you type in Dennis. You tap the number field and carefully hand the phone toward him, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he takes it. 

His hand is warm, steady, and there’s a soft, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he glances down at the screen. He types in his number slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing the motion as much as the digits. Then he hands the phone back to you. 

“Thank you,” you say softly as you press the button to save the contact. You tuck the phone back into your pocket. 

He hesitates for a second, like he is weighing something, then finally lifts his phone. “Uh… can I get your number too?” His voice is quiet, careful, almost shy, as if he’s afraid of breaking the fragile rhythm between you.

You feel a small warmth rise in your chest at the request. “Of course.”

It’s his turn to pull out his phone, fingers fumbling just slightly as he unlocks it. You watch him for a moment, the soft concentration on his face, the way his eyebrows draw together just a little, and it makes your chest tighten in a good, nervous way.

You hold out your hand, and he hands over the phone, your fingers typing again, warm and familiar before handing it back to him again. His eyes meet yours with that shy little smile before pressing save. 

He glances down at the small collection of cups on the table beside your bed, then back up at you, eyes soft and careful. “Do you need some more to drink?” 

You shake your head just slightly, still feeling the warmth from the phone exchange linger in your chest. “Maybe just a little,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intend, like the words are tentative, testing the space between you. You have to be able to pee to take the test, but you don’t feel ready, even though you know you should. 

The thought of standing up, moving, letting go of control for even a moment, of taking a test that could change everything, twists your stomach in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.

“What would you like?” he asks, eyes soft, giving you room to choose without pressure.

“Just some water.” 

He nods right away, like the answer really matters “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, reaching for the bottle. He screws the bottle open before handing it to you, the sound of the plastic breaking softly in the quiet as the seal of the bottle cap breaks.

You take a small sip, then another, your throat easing as the water settles. He stays where he is, close but not too close, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other. His hands hover like he’s not entirely sure what to do with them, before one comes up to rub the back of his neck again. 

“So, uhm, Perlah will come back in a few minutes,” he says, voice a little uneven at first before he steadies it. “She’ll, uh… take you to the bathroom. And she will explain what to do, she is definitely a lot better at that than me.” He clears his throat softly, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He shifts his weight again, glancing briefly at the door before looking back at you, softer this time. “And then it only takes a few minutes,” he adds. “For the result, I mean.”

A few minutes. It sounds so short, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You swallow, taking another sip of water, letting the coolness settle. “Right.” 

There’s a soft knock at the door before either of you can say anything else. The curtain shifts a second later, and Perlah steps in, her presence gentle but efficient, like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“Hi,” she says with a small, reassuring smile, glancing between you and Dennis before focusing on you. “How are you feeling?”

You hesitate. “A little better,” you manage.

“Alright.” She nods, like that’s enough for now. “When you’re ready, we’ll have you give us a urine sample so we can run the test, okay?” 

“I, uhm, I think I’m ready,” you say, your voice small, almost swallowed by the quiet room. You take a last sip from the water bottle before setting it down on the table

“Okay.” Perlah nods, her smile steady and patient. You’re glad you know her name now, you had been too nauseous and out of it to catch it when she first introduced herself and you were too embarrassed to ask again. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Dennis hands her the specimen cup, sealed in clear wrapping, along with the small box of testing strips. His movements are careful, almost tentative, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile rhythm of the room. Perlah accepts them with a nod, her hands steady and practiced.

“Follow me, hun,” Perlah says gently, her voice warm but professional. She steps toward the door, holding it open for you with a soft, encouraging smile. Dennis shifts slightly, giving you a reassuring glance before staying where he is, letting you move forward. 

When you reach the bathroom, she gestures toward it. “Alright, just like I said. You can use the cup here. When you’re done you can just leave the cup on the counter and I will take it to testing.”

“Okay, thank you,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening just slightly around the cup.

Perlah gives you one last reassuring nod. “I’ll be right outside, but you can take all the time you need,” she says softly, before stepping back and letting the door close behind you. 

The small click of it feels louder than it should. For a moment, you just stand there. The bathroom is simple, clean, thank god. The cup in your hand feels light, but your chest doesn’t. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders rising and falling as you try to steady yourself.

When you’re done, you set the cup carefully on the counter before washing your hands. You catch your own gaze in the mirror, and for a second, you don’t quite recognize yourself.

You let out a sigh before looking away. You dry your hands slowly, buying yourself an extra second before reaching for the door. When you open it, Perlah is right where she said she’d be. She looks up immediately, her expression soft and steady.

“All set?” she asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Perfect.” She steps inside, her movements easy and practiced as she picks up the cup from the counter. “I’ll take this to testing now. It won’t take long.”

You nod again, even though your chest tightens at that.

She pauses for just a second before stepping back out, her voice gentler now. “You can head back. I’ll come find you as soon as we have something.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

The walk back feels quieter than before, like the air has thickened somehow. When you step through the curtain, Dennis looks up immediately, like he’s been listening for your steps. His shoulders ease the second he sees you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

There’s a small pause as you move back toward the bed, sitting down carefully. Your hands come together in your lap, fingers beginning fidgeting before you even notice that you’re doing it. It’s starting to become a bad habit. 

Your eyes drift to his hand for a second, then back up to his face. He notices, just barely, and something in his expression softens even more. 

For a second, neither of you says anything. Then, slowly, carefully, he steps closer. You scoot just slightly, making space for him without thinking about it. He notices. Of course he does. He sits down beside you, careful with the distance, close, but not crowding. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he carries with him.

Your hands are still fidgeting in your lap, fingers twisting together, and after a moment, his gaze drops to them. But it’s not in a way that makes you self-conscious. 

Then his hand shifts. Slowly, deliberately, he rests it on the bed beside yours. It’s tentative, like a question, an option. 

You hesitate, your breath catching just slightly. Your fingers still for a moment, like they’re deciding something before you are. Then, almost without thinking, they drift, just enough to brush against his.

The contact is light. Barely there. But it’s enough. His shoulders drop a fraction, like something in him settles.

“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, though he doesn’t pull away. “I just…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, your voice quieter than you expect. You glance down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “It’s… nice.”

That earns the smallest, most relieved smile from him. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself.

The silence that follows feels different again. Still quiet, still heavy with waiting—but softer around the edges now. Less alone.

Your thumb shifts slightly against his without you realizing it, a small, grounding motion. His hand responds instinctively, just barely tightening, like he’s anchoring himself there too.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks after a moment, voice gentle. “Or… not talk about it,” he adds quickly, a hint of nervousness slipping back in. “Either’s okay.”

You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting somewhere past him for a second. “I don’t even know what there is to say yet,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s fair.”

“I think I’m just scared of knowing,” you add, quieter now.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

The honesty of it sits between you, simple and unguarded. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe. But it doesn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat as the sound of soft, but firm knock lands against the door. It cuts clean through the quiet and both of you still. 

Your hand tightens just a fraction before you even realize it, and he responds immediately, steady, present.

“Hey,” Perlah’s voice comes gently from the other side before she steps in, her expression changing for a split second when she sees the two of you sitting on the bed. Not judgment, just a slight surprise. Like she’s clocking the moment and choosing, very deliberately, to handle it gently.

Your heart jumps into your throat. She steps fully inside, glancing between the two of you, briefly, not intrusive, before her attention settles on you. 

“The results are ready to be confirmed, so I need Dr. Whitaker for a moment,” Perlah finishes gently. The words land softly, but they shift something in the room immediately. 

Dennis stills beside you. There’s a small pause, like he’s switching something inside himself, stepping back into a role he can stand on. His hand slips from yours this time, slower, more deliberate. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Of course.” He says to Perlah before he glances at you, and for a second the doctor is still there, but there’s something else underneath it. Softer. More personal. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod, even though your chest feels tight. “Okay,” you echo, your voice barely above a breath.

He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, like he wants to say something more. Then he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a small, reassuring nod before standing.

Perlah steps back slightly to give him space as he moves toward her. There’s a quiet efficiency in the way they fall into step with each other, like this is familiar ground for her and something he’s trying very hard to navigate correctly.

The curtain shifts closed behind them. And just like that, you’re alone. The room feels different without him in it. Quieter. And now bigger, somehow.

You stare down at your hands, still curled slightly like they’re remembering the shape of his. Outside, their voices are low. Too low to make out clearly, it’s just the soft murmur of conversation, the faint rustle of something, the clinical rhythm of confirmation.

Minutes stretch. Or maybe it’s seconds. Yeah, it probably is just second, but you have a hard time telling. Every second in here feels like a minute. Your knee starts bouncing before you notice it, a restless energy you can’t quite contain. You press your hands against them to make them still, but the movement doesn’t fully stop. 

But then the curtain moves. Dennis steps back in, and you know. You don’t know how, but you just know. It’s in his face, not panicked, nor cold, but very careful. Grounded in a way that feels intentional, like he’s choosing how to hold this moment before he gives it to you, but there is still a small hint of both nervousness and shock that he can’t really hide.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Your throat feels tight. “Hey.”

He doesn’t come all the way in right away. There’s a brief pause, like he’s giving you a second to breathe, to brace, like he understands that once he says it, there’s no taking it back. Then he steps closer.

“Can I sit?” he asks gently.

You nod. He sits beside you again, leaving just a little space this time, professional and careful, but still close enough that you don’t feel alone.

A breath passes. Then another. And then, quietly. “So… as your doctor I needed to confirm the result.” He glances at you, just briefly, like he’s making sure you’re with him. “And, uh… It did come back positive.”

The words settle into the room slowly, like they don’t quite know where to land. Positive. For a second, everything feels very still. Your ears ring faintly, like the world has stepped just half a pace away from you. Your gaze drops somewhere between your hands and the floor, unfocused.

Positive. It echoes again, quieter this time, heavier. Your breath comes in, but it’s shallow. Not enough. You swallow, your throat tight, like there’s something lodged there that won’t move.

“Hey.” His voice is soft. Careful.

You don’t look up right away.

“I know this is… a lot,” Dennis adds gently, and there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s holding the weight of it with you instead of just handing it over.

You let out a small breath, but it shakes on the way out. “Yeah…” you manage, though it barely sounds like you.

Silence stretches again, but it’s different now, thicker, more real.

Your hand drifts, almost without thinking, back to your abdomen. It rests there lightly, like before, but now the gesture feels different. Your chest tightens.

“I…” you start, then stop. Your voice doesn’t want to cooperate. You shake your head slightly, a small, almost helpless motion. “I don’t know what to say. I thought it was just stress.”

“That’s okay,” he says immediately. Too quickly, almost, like he doesn’t want you to feel like you have to say anything. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”

You nod faintly, even though your thoughts are anything but still. Everything is moving too fast and not at all at the same time. 

“Would you hate me if I kept it?” You can’t stop the words before they leave your mouth, you don’t even know why the thought feels so important to you, but in this moment it’s a question every fiber in your body needs an answer to. You don’t look at him, you can’t. It’s like something in you is bracing for impact.

Dennis stills. “Hate you?” he repeats softly, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.

You don’t look at him. Your gaze stays fixed somewhere low. “I don’t know…” you murmur, your voice small, fragile in a way you can’t quite hide. “I don’t even know what I want.” Your voice barely holds together by the end of it.

“No,” he says. His voice cuts in softly, but not sharply. Just catching you before you spiral too far ahead of yourself.

You still. You don’t look at him.

There’s a small pause. You can feel him shift beside you. not away, just adjusting, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without crowding you.

“No, I wouldn’t hate you for that,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less steady. “ Not for anything.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I just,” you shake your head slightly, your voice barely holding together. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel about it. It’s like…” your breath stutters, “like if I even think about wanting it, I’m already messing everything up.”

That lands deeper than you expect it to. There’s a shift beside you again, closer this time, but still careful. Always careful. “You’re not messing anything up,” he says gently.

You let out a quiet, shaky breath, but it doesn’t quite steady you.

“I don’t even know what you’d want,” you admit, finally glancing at him, your eyes searching his like you’re bracing for something you’re not sure you can handle.

That’s what this is really about. Not just the question. Him. You don’t even know what you want, but not knowing what he wants somehow feels worse. Not knowing what you want is overwhelming, but not knowing where he stands? That feels like standing on something that might give out beneath you at any second.

“I want you to be okay,” he says first. It’s not a deflection. It’s just the most honest place he can start. Then, after a small breath. “And yeah,” he adds, quieter, more personal now, “I care about what happens. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

Your chest tightens again, and you gather all your courage to look up and meet his eyes again. There’s something so rawly vulnerable in his expression now. 

“But that doesn’t turn into pressure on you,” he continues quickly, gently. “It doesn’t get to.” His hand shifts slightly on the bed, closer again, still not assuming, still leaving the choice with you. “This is your decision,” he says softly. “Not mine to make for you, or mine to judge.”

You swallow, your throat still tight, but something in your chest has shifted, just enough that you can breathe a little deeper than before. “I know,” you say quietly, and you mean it. You can feel how careful he’s being, how hard he’s trying not to tip the balance one way or the other.

A small pause. Then, more carefully. “If you kept it, I wouldn’t hate you.” His voice softens even more. “And I’d… want to be there. If you wanted me to be.” That last part is quieter, almost tentative.  “Honestly, I would want to be there even if you wouldn’t want me to.” 

He stops himself. Like he hears it as he’s saying it and realizes how it might sound too much, too fast, crossing a line he’s been so careful not to cross.

A small breath leaves him, and he shakes his head slightly, softer now, correcting, not taking it back, just placing it better.

“I mean,” he says quietly, “I wouldn’t force that. I wouldn’t show up where I’m not wanted.” His eyes meet yours again, steady, open. “But I wouldn’t just stop caring either.”

That lands differently. No pressure, just truth. 

“But we don’t have to figure everything out right now,” he continues, voice steady but soft. “This is just… information right now. Okay? Just one step.”

“Just one step,” you repeat, like you’re testing the shape of it.

His thumb shifts lightly against your hand, careful, reassuring. “Yeah.” The words sit between you, quieter now. You both let the silence settle. Your breathing evens out a little more, your shoulders lowering inch by inch, like your body is finally catching up to what your mind is trying to process.

His hand is still there, steady against yours. Not holding tight, not claiming, just present. Close enough that you can feel it if you need to. And you do.

 “You need to stay for monitoring,” he says gently, voice slipping a little more into something professional, but still soft, still him. “Just for a couple of hours. Given the fainting earlier, we need to make sure everything stays stable. And we have to check a few other things, just to be sure,” he finishes gently, smoothing the sentence as it comes together.

He glances at you, like he’s checking how it lands before continuing. You nod, a small, quiet motion, your eyes still on him. “Okay,” you say softly.

“It’s just routine things,” he adds, softer again. “Blood pressure, heart rate, maybe some blood work. Nothing invasive unless we have a reason,” he adds quickly. “And we’ll talk you through everything before we do it.”

You nod again, a little more firmly this time.

“Okay…” A small breath leaves you. “That sounds… manageable,” you admit. 

There’s the faintest hint of relief in his expression, not because the situation is easier, but because he seems to care a lot about your reaction.. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s the goal.” 

“Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say quietly. The words come out softer than you expect, but they feel important to say. 

He stills for just a second, not surprised exactly, but like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says gently.

You shake your head a little, your fingers shifting faintly against his. “I know,” you murmur. “But still.” Your eyes meet his again, steadier now. “Thanbk you for not making this feel worse,” you finish softly.

The words hang there for a second, fragile but honest. He doesn’t answer right away.

You can see the moment it lands, really lands, in the way his expression shifts. Something quieter, more affected than he’s been letting himself show. 

“I’m really glad to hear it didn’t,” he says finally, voice low, but a sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small and a little self-conscious, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with being seen like that. His gaze dips for a second before coming back to you, even softer now.

Your fingers move slightly against his again, a small, unconscious motion, but you don’t pull back at all. There’s a pause. Then, more quietly. 

“If everything looks good, you should get discharged around the time my shift ends, so if you… I don’t know, uhm… maybe we could go grab something to eat after,” he says quietly, almost as if testing the idea out, letting it hover between you. “If you want to.”

You blink, caught off guard, but the thought warms your chest in a way nothing else has in hours. “Yeah,” you manage, voice small but steady, “I’d like that.”

A small, genuine smile spreads across his face, softening the tension you didn’t realize had been holding you so tight. “Okay,” he says, letting the word linger, careful not to rush it.

Robby chuckles, “And you’re probably right, but not here. You think I’d raise our kid in a shitty neighborhood?”

“No, I—“ Your eyes flick downwards towards the key in his open palm. “Yeah, um, sorry,” you flip the key once, then twice in your palm. “So this is for me?”

Robby nods. “Yeah,” he says softly. “So you can come and go as you please– Elijah, too.”

“Of course.”

Robby tugs at the collar of his shirt. Is it getting hot in here? His hand slides around to scratch the back of his neck, “I hope it’s not too much.”

“No, it’s…” You shake your head, then grab the key from his hand, tucking it in your pocket. “Thank you, Michael.”

Robby lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Now that he’s not shitting bricks, Robby gets a good look at you. You’re dressed up, dressed well.

For the first time, Robby gets a true glimpse into you-before-Elijah.

Last Friday, when you called Robby to ask if he could watch Elijah while you had lunch with someone, he hadn’t said anything other than yes. He was surprised, though. It was the first time you asked him to take Elijah for something that wasn’t medically or emotionally necessary. Then, when you showed up to his house dressed up with your hair and makeup done, Robby still didn’t say anything, more than a little scared that if he made a comment or acted too enthusiastically about your newfound care in yourself rather than solely Elijah, you would backslide or take it the wrong way.

You’ve been doing better lately. So has Robby. Not because he doesn’t have to worry about you (he still does plenty), but because half the time you’re staying the night at his house or the other way around. Having you in arms’ reach does his anxiety wonders.

You haven’t had sex yet. The closest you’ve gotten was your date, before you fell asleep on Robby. His back was furious the next morning, but he finds the pain well worth it. Intimacy is changed. Shit, intimacy exists now. The air between you is charged. When Elijah isn’t around to see it, you’ve been plenty on top of one another– heavy, late night makeouts with curious, wandering hands.

Every morning feels closer to that dream he shared with you the night after he ran into you again, the night he met his son. The dream of being a family. That same night he told you he wanted to live together, one unit under one roof.

I want to be involved in his life as a father. Full-time. Not that joint-custody nonsense. He needs a present mother and present father, together. He deserves it.

Elijah does deserve it. So do you. So does Robby.

Today, he finally decided to do something about it. Once you left for lunch, Robby secured Elijah in the stroller he bought last month and headed off to the locksmith a few blocks from his house. Elijah babbled the whole way there and back, even during the half hour that it took for Robby to get his house key copied.

Robby knows you’re not ready to move in, but this could be a start.

Once the key was sorted, it was time for Robby’s second order of business. Elijah is six months old today. To celebrate, Robby bought a small cake. It’s really not a treat for him, but Robby’s just looking forward to your face when you see Elijah sitting in front of the ‘6’ candle Robby picked up at the bakery (a moment that will no doubt be memorialized as his newest phone wallpaper).

“Listen, I have another surprise for you,” Robby says. As he pushes himself up, his knees let out a loud pop. He hopes you don’t notice, distracting you with a kiss. “In the kitchen. Bring Elijah.”

You gasp dramatically, adjusting your hold on Elijah, “A surprise? For us?”

“Oh, no, no. He knows what it is,” Robby says. “Our Elijah is an accomplice.”

“Is he?” You tickle Elijah’s belly and he chuckles. “What is it, baby? Is it… a puppy? Or… a cake? Or… a kitty cat?” Each time you suggest a possibility, your voice raises, bright and warm in a way that makes Elijah coo. “What did you get mommy?”

Robby slips ahead of you as you continue to make guesses. He swiftly pulls the box out of the fridge and meets you in the dining room.

You gasp when your eyes land on the bakery box. “It is a cake! Oh, my—“ You laugh, “Michael, why did you get a cake?”

Robby sets it down on the table, pulling the cake out of the box entirely. From his pocket, he procures the candle he purchased. “Our little guy is six months,” he explains. “I thought we should celebrate.”

“Aw!” You stick your bottom lip out, eyes watering when they slide to Elijah. “Don’t remind me…”

Robby slides behind you and kisses your cheek. “I do good?” He asks.

You chuckle, “Let me taste the cake first, then I’ll decide.”

You sit Elijah in his high chair, and you and Robby spend way too long taking photos of the smiling boy. Only when the ‘6’ candle has melted almost a third of the way, dipping wax on the frosted top of the cake, do you stop. Robby grabs two forks from the kitchen. He hands one to you. You raise your brow at the lack of plates present, but don’t comment.

“Are we bad parents if we eat this whole thing without him?” You ask. “He’s too little to have a slice… but, I mean, a whole cake is a lot to not give him any…”

Robby shrugs, “It’s a mini cake. I think he’ll find it in himself to forgive us one day.”

“I guess, but… You know what? Here, baby,” you swipe a finger through the bright blue frosting, holding the dollop up to Elijah’s mouth. He parts his lips immediately.

“Don’t do that,” Robby responds quickly.

You pull your hand away like it’s been burned, though your face is twisted in clear displeasure. “Why? Will it kill him?”

Robby hesitates, “Uh...”

“Okay,” you roll your eyes. “He’s six months old, he can have some fr—“

“What if he’s allergic?” Robby blurts. “What if there’s cross contamination with nuts— peanuts!”

Robby’s been an emergency doctor long enough to have seen his fair share of infants having allergic reactions. The stories usually go something like this— two parents giving their little one a little treat, and the next thing they know, their precious one’s airway closes up. What would Robby even do?

You sigh, oblivious to, or ignoring, his panic. “Luckily, my friend is a doctor.”

Yes, Robby’s a doctor, but that hardly means anything. The hospital is a drive away, and in that time anaphylaxis could—

Wait.

“Did you just call me your friend?” Robby crosses his arms, “Is that what I am to you?”

“Well, you’re certainly not my husband.”

Robby stares at your smug grin, so disgruntled that he almost entirely misses the way you sneak Elijah the frosting anyway.

“You wanna get married?”

“Michael.”

“You brought it up!”

“Because you were about to have a panic attack over ice cream.”

“I was n–” Robby stops himself when you raise an eyebrow. “I was.”

“And look,” you put your face next to Elijah’s, pressing your cheek to his. “No allergic reaction! Say, ‘All good, papa!’”

At your prompt, Elijah just laughs, babbling something that neither you or Robby can understand, but it warms your hearts all the same. Robby sees your face soften, just as his own does when you smooth Elijah’s hair and give him a wet kiss on the cheek.

“My handsome, half-birthday boy,” you coo. “Mommy and daddy love you so much.”

*****

“Baby, can I ask you something?”

Your voice pulls Robby out of his slumber, brought on by a cruel combination of a sugar crash (maybe splitting a cake with you wasn’t the best idea at his age), the drone of whatever show you’re watching, and the gentle caress of your fingers through his hair. His eyes protest as he peels them open to look at you. Your eyes are still on the TV, but by the way you’re chewing your lip, Robby would bet that you haven’t been paying attention to it for a while.

“Of course,” he says, hoping his exhaustion isn’t too evident in his voice. “Is everything alright?”

That gets you to look at him. Your eyes flick downwards, brows furrowed, “Yeah, I just… I got a commission. For a piece.”

Robby’s eyebrows shoot up. He quickly stills his face. This is great. Really great. You’re working again. Or, more importantly, you’re well enough to work again.

“Congratulations,” he says. “Baby, that’s wonderful!”

“Yeah,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Is something wrong?” Robby furrows his brows. “You wanted to ask me something?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep breath through your nose and out of your mouth. “Uh,” you slowly peel your eyes open. “Could you maybe… help me a bit more with Elijah? Not that you’re not doing that already! But if I’m working, I just… I need more help.”

Without hesitation, Robby answers, “Absolutely.”

“I can’t paint with Elijah around,” you continue. Your voice is shockingly tight for the normality of the situation. “If he’s sleeping, sure, but there’s barely any room, and I can’t worry about him getting hurt because I’m not looking or he gets into the paint and then–”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Robby soothes. He reaches up to cradle the side of your face. You sigh and lean into his touch. “You don’t need to explain it. I get it.”

For a terrifying moment, Robby thinks you’re about to cry. You tamp it down with a deep breath though, shutting your eyes for a five count. When they open again, you smile, “Thanks. So… um, you can?”

He wants to tell you to paint here. You could use his office, which is already half-filled with cobwebs and dust. It would get far more love as a studio. Robby stops himself though, figuring that mentioning you moving in after the key thing might send you running. Or maybe it won’t. You haven’t run off yet, and it’s not like Robby has been subtle about letting you know what he wants with you.

Still, Robby settles with a simple, “Yeah. I can.”

Because he can take care of Elijah. In fact, the timing couldn’t be better.

A few months ago, on a particularly harsh shift, Robby put in for sabbatical. From July forth to September forth this year, he’s a free man. No doctoring. No PTMC. Nothing.

He hasn’t mentioned it to you yet because, well, he was honestly thinking about calling the thing off as soon as he learned of Elijah’s existence. His life has been so busy though, with you and Elijah and all the baby-proofing he’s done at home, that Robby hasn’t had the time to think about the sabbatical. Sure, he’s done it in passing, figuring that it wouldn’t hurt to have some time off of work, but his life has changed a great deal since he first planned the sabbatical.

A motorcycle trip to who knows where. It’s strange how trite that all seems now. He wouldn’t dream of a solo free love motorcycle ride now. No, he wants to spend time with his family.

Now, his sabbatical is dauntingly close, two and a half weeks now, and Robby has yet to say a word. Maybe not his best moment.

“I have something to tell you,” Robby cautions.

You scrunch your nose teasingly, “You’re just full of surprises today.”

Robby chuckles nervously, “Yeah, yeah I am.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

Robby takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. They’ve been running wild today, and now is no exception. Luckily, his voice is almost even as he simply states, “I’m taking a sabbatical.”

“A sabbatical,” you repeat. The amusement is slipping from your face. “What’s that mean?”

“Well,” Robby shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m off of work for three months.”

When he opens his eyes, your face is scrunched, perplexed. “Like… completely?”

“Completely. No work for me from July forth to September forth. Think that’s enough time for you to work on the commission?”

“Yeah, I–” You open and close your mouth a few times, “You’re gonna be able to handle that?”

Robby shrugs, “I didn’t think I could, back when I first put in for it– that was before I, uh, knew about Elijah. Now, though…”

“You’re a father?” You finish for him, a smile tugging at your lips. Are you making fun of him? “The most important job of all?” Oh, you’re definitely making fun of him.

“Listen, do you want me to take the time or not?”

 “I do, but you–”

“Ah, ah. This isn’t about me. I’ll be fine. Hell, I’d quit if you asked me to.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I would,” Robby states. “I’d do anything if you asked.”

“You should do anything for Elijah,” you say, shaking your head. “Not me.”

Robby sits up, his back screams, but it’s well worth it to be face-to-face with you. “I would do anything for him, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do the same for you.”

“Thank you,” you say, but it’s flat, almost as though you don’t believe it.

“I mean it, baby.” Robby wants to kiss the pout on your face. It’s too much for now. He reasons it’d be counter to his point. The last thing Robby wants is for you to think he cares about you just for the sex (or, more accurately, this weird co-parenting sexual tension/occasional makeout you two have been practicing). “I care about you. I value you.”

“Thank you,” you say again. This time, it sounds like you mean it. “I won’t ever ask you to quit, but… I think a sabbatical does sound nice.”

Robby smiles, finally giving in on his desire to kiss you. It’s quick and chaste, but well worth it when he feels you smiling against his lips. “Good,” he says as he pulls away, “Maybe during that sabbatical we can get you moved in.”

“We are glad to have you here, mandalorian.” Senator Trystan adds brightly. He starts rambling like the politician he is, and you tune him out, especially as your focus remains on the mandalorian.

“Your majesty,” the timbre of his voice is striking like a steady river. “I vow to keep you safe until the assassin is caught.”

Hiding your voice within the composed steady tone the Queen of Naboo is known for, you thank him.

With a final nod, the warrior departs.

You notice a brown satchel slung at his hip half hidden under his cloak. You swear the minute the mandalorian leaves the room, a small tiny green clawed hand crawls out from the bag.

—

“I bet he’s ugly”

“No, I’m sure he’s handsome.” You and your handmaidens have discussed the new mandalorian guard for weeks now.

He’s a rather elusive figure. Silently moving around the castle, he reminds you of a sleek phantom just out of reach. When the mandalorian does accompany you anywhere, he remains silent. You simply amount it to the warrior doing his job diligently, which you greatly appreciate.

His presence alone seems to deter any more attempts. The tension in the palace already has eased greatly. So much you now roam without any supervision along the grand lakeside today.

The glory of Naboo is one you take pride in, from the illustrious buildings, to the underwater depths of the Gungan city. You savor these moments when you can freely walk among the splendor of your planet.

There’s a secluded, normally untouched, lake villa near this area you enjoy visiting from time to time.

Until you discover it’s no longer abandoned.

The sight stops you frozen in your tracks. By the edge of the lake, under the soft shade of the looming trees, stands the mandalorian. But he is not alone.

A wonderfully tiny and precious green creature waddles around through the grass.

Both of them turn towards you. It feels like you’ve just stumbled upon an ancient secret.

“Handmaiden.” The mandalorian greets you steady, cautious.

For a split moment, you had forgotten you’re in these robes.

“Mandalorian.” You greet back, thankful you don’t have to hide your voice.

Being under the guise of a handmaid offers you this freedom.

“And may I ask, who is this little one?” You smile and kneel down to the height of the small creature staring up with starry curious eyes.

A moment passes.

“He…is my son.” His words hit you like a blaster shot.

“Your son?” The monarch mentality leaks out momentarily as your voice jumps. You never would’ve hired this hunter knowing he has a child who could be put in harm's way.

“Yes.” The mandalorian nods.

“I’ve never seen him around before.” His little hand must have been the one you saw that first day in the throne room.

The mandalorian’s son curiously shuffles to you. You don’t miss his father’s fists clenching tense, hesitant and cautious, worried about this interaction.

“I…was not sure the queen would allow him to accompany me. So I keep him hidden.”

The baby is adorable with shimmering eager eyes. He rests his tiny hands against your robes. You can hear all your advisors screaming at you to consider releasing this hunter from your duty.

But you can’t now. Not when you tickle his son’s chin and the little one giggles sweet like a bell.

“Don’t worry,” you tell the mandalorian confidently. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“And besides,” you add casually. “Between you and me…The Queen won’t mind. She has a soft spot for little ones.”

You smile as the baby, now deeming you worthy, starts climbing onto your knee.

“What’s his name?” You ask.

“…Grogu.” The mandalorian answers.

As if on cue, Grogu chirps hearing his name and you laugh.

“Well it’s nice to meet you Grogu.” You nod then gently poke his tiny nose.

Infectious giggles greet you.

You then officially introduce yourself to the youngling, and in turn his father, freely giving your name.

Again you can almost hear all your advisors' horrified screams. Of all the things sacred and needed to be hidden, your name is the most important.

Even though the crown keeps you protected under an alias, it doesn’t mean your true identity is forever safe.

But you believe you can trust this warrior.

Or you hope so.

The University’s belltower rings off in the distance. You didn’t realize how late it got. You’d need to head back soon.

Grogu chirps confused when you softly place him back on the grass. His bright moon eyes almost make you stay longer.

“It was wonderful meeting you Grogu. I hope I can see you again soon.” You truthfully tell the little one.

Then you glance at his father.

You knew enough about mandalorian culture to understand how precious children are to them and how protective they are of their own.

Grateful for this moment, you thank the mandalorian for allowing you to meet his son.

Without another word, the warrior silently nods.

This strong hunter with the most adorable son plagues your mind the rest of the day. So much that you rearrange your calendar so you’re available to walk along the lake again.

You continue sneaking back to the lake home as much as you can.

The moments here away from the palace, from the politics and headache, are a precious respite. Currently Grogu watches enraptured by the butterflies fluttering in the air.

You glance back at the lake house secluded in the lush countryside and how it perfectly fits a mandalorian.

“Is this where you’re staying?” You ask.

“Yes. Unless I’m needed at the palace.” The mandalorian answers.

“Thankfully it’s been rather quiet again since you’ve arrived. So I’m grateful for that.” You speak as both handmaid and queen.

“I…” the warrior begins then stops, as if realizing he shouldn’t be saying much.

“You can talk freely. Trust me, whatever you say the queen probably already knows.” You almost dryly laugh at your own joke.

The hunter nods.

“I believe the threat is still at large. Simply hiding and waiting for the right time.” He admits strained.

You agree. It’s what everyone close to you believes as well.

There have been whispers, rumors, of a darkness looming among the edges of space. Now it seems to be slithering into your home.

But for now, you simply hold onto these glimmers of peace - like watching Grogu chase after the butterflies among the field.

His little claws reach for the soft colored creatures, and you think of your own childhood days where you chased after them too. You remember the trick your old tutor taught you when you were little.

So holding out your finger, you wait. Patience pays off. A lone butterfly flutters to land on your finger believing it to be a branch.

Grogu instantly notices, makes a noise of surprise, and scurries over.

But his fast movement scares the butterfly, and it rapidly flies away. The sad confused noise Grogu gives breaks your heart.

“It’s alright, they just get frightened easily.” You explain.

So again you hold your finger out, a welcoming rest spot. This time you place it closer to the baby.

Another butterfly thankfully floats down on your finger.

“Bweh!” Grogu shrieks giddy.

Very steadily, you move your finger closer to Grogu trying not to scare the bug.

“Here… can I see your hand, little one?” You softly ask.

The mandalorian helps his son out, raising Grogu’s little claw besides yours.

The butterfly gently wanders from your finger to Grogu’s hand, and the sweet baby giggles in pure joy.

The bug of course doesn’t stay long and flutters away. But it brings enough excitement to Grougu. He’s completely taken over by twinkling giggles the rest of the time, eagerly chasing after more butterflies.

“Are you often away from the queen for this long?” The mandalorian’s sudden curious question takes you by surprise.

“As long as one handmaiden is with the queen, no protocol is broken.” You effortlessly recite the mandate.

“Besides, we all deserve a bit of fresh air and some time alone.” You add.

From the corner of your eye, the mandalorian nods.

Then, the belltower rings signaling your return.

Grogu, now in his fathers arms, waves at you goodbye then yawns.

Wishing the little one good night you, you then bid the same goodbye to his father.

“Take care, mandalorian.”

“…Din...”

The phrase stills you.

“My name is Din.” He reveals. “Seems only fair since you gave me yours.”

Din, it fits him beautifully.

“Until next time, Din.” A grateful glow swirls in you knowing his name.

You vow to keep it sealed safe in your heart. You wouldn’t be able to use his name while wearing the crown anyway. Faintly, it reminds you how in the same way the mandalorian, Din, would never know your true name as queen.

That realization digs a hollow hole into your heart.

—

Peace doesn’t last long.

The assassin fires shots from one of the high towers near the capitol. Chaos erupts wild and dizzying, sending everyone into a panic.

Except the mandalorian, Din.

Effortlessly he jumps in front of you blocking the second blaster shot with his armor, a literal shield before you.

Once you’re secured safely, your eyes widen witnessing Din in action, flying up to the tower.

Even with the distance, you catch glimpses of the mandalorian fighting before you’re escorted away.

And he’s marvelous.

There’s a swift deadly power to him, a legend of myth right before your eyes.

Then he’s by your side again.

“Are you alright?” He immediately asks returning to you breathless.

You want to ask if he’s the one alright, if Grogu is with him. Instead all you can do is nod, earnestly thanking him.

“He’s doing his job, m’lady.” Hildegard jokes.

But it’s true.

You’re getting tangled in a web of emotions over a man who will vanish from your life once the threats are eradicated.

Yet it still doesn’t stop you from visiting him again. It takes more convincing this time to sneak away, but you’re thankful you still can.

Worried you’ll miss seeing Din and his son, you rush to the lakeside. But you forget how hot the handmaiden robes can get, and exhaustion hits.

Your heart drops seeing the field vacant.

Guess you were too late.

Exhausted and annoyed at yourself, you rip back the robe’s hood allowing yourself a relief of air before you dejectedly walk back to the palace.

Someone says your name, your true name.

Din steps out from the villa, a sleek beautiful hunter emerging from the shadows.

Soon he stands frozen, his sleek helmet focused on you. A moment passes, an awkward stand off of you and him simply staring at each other.

Petrified, you suddenly realize you’re facing the mandalorian without any cover or protection of the robe’s hood.

“Sorry, you must be busy.” You blurt, ready to turn around and scurry away.

Din again says your name.

“It’s fine. I was just gathering my things.” He explains.

“Oh?” The confusion in your voice or on your face must be embarrassingly blatant for him to explain.

“I’ll be staying at the palace full time after today.”

Oh… so you’ll be seeing him more.

“You were amazing today.” Admiration flows from you.

He thanks you with a hesitant mumble, vaguely shy.

“Are you alright? Is Grogu okay?” You immediately ask, knowing those questions have been bothering you since this morning.

“We’re both fine. You should be worried about the Queen.” Din replies firm.

“The queen’s fine.” You snort, hoping he doesn’t notice your dryly amused tone.

“There was an amazing mandalorian that made sure everyone was safe after all.” You mean those words.

Din stays quiet keeping his helmet directed on you. A dread sets in, worried if you’ve overstepped or said something you shouldn’t have.

The sun has just set over the horizon casting an illuminating glow on the planet. It paints the mandalorian a shining warrior bathed in golden glory.

You wonder if you’re staring at him too much.

A familiar coo arrives, and soon after Grogu waddles out of the villa. Witnessing this armored warrior move to cradle his son, who snuggles into his father’s arms, unfolds a warm wave in you.

“I’ll let you two get back to your evening,” you smile gentle as Grogu yawns adorably in agreement.

“And I guess I’ll be seeing you around more.” You half joke with Din.

He dryly chuckles, and the sound is a gift.

“If you’re heading back to the palace I can return with you. So that you’re not walking alone.” He offers and your eyes go wide.

You immediately accept his offer.

With a nudge of his helmet you follow him inside the cabin. The layout is similar to all the other lake homes, except a cluster of weapons sit on the table. You’re in awe knowing he knows how to handle so many of these.

Grogu now wiggles fussy in Din’s hold.

“Here, I can take him.” You offer.

Hearing your words immediately Grogu lifts his little arms towards you ready to be carried.

“Kid,” Din dully sighs.

You reassure Din and happily scoop the baby up. Feeling him snuggle against your shoulder is a precious thing

Din goes silent and returns to gathering his belongings.

Now the night sky casts a blanket of midnight blue over the lake.

Out of the villa, a gleam of silver draws your attention. You inhale sharp but try staying quiet with Grogu sleeping peacefully in your arms.

“Is that a N-1 Starfighter?” Your voice, even whispering, jumps shocked. The familiar bright yellow coating has been stripped, but you could recognize that ship anywhere.

Din chuckles beside you.

“You know your ships.” He sounds impressed.

You didn’t. You just know that one.

You remember seeing the starfighters in your history lessons. They looked like beautiful sea creatures soaring among the clouds. You were heartbroken finding out they were retired.

You even tell all of this to Din.

A humorous thought emerges. You wonder if one dramatic last act as Queen could be you reinstating the starfighters.

“How does it fly?” You ask Din curiously.

“Like a dream.” His wistful voice lets your mind soar into a daydream wondering what it would be like to witness the N1.

“Maybe one day you’ll see it fly.” Din offers and you turn to him, grinning.

“Now that would be a dream.” You warmly mirror his phrase.

If you manage to make it through your final days as Queen, maybe you could beg the mandalorian to let you see the ship in action.

The walk to the palace is peaceful among the lake. You treasure Grogu snoring soundly in your arms, and you’re thankful Din allows you to hold his son.

But approaching the palace, you return the baby back to his father to hide him, just in case.

Your instincts are right. At the very edge of the palace steps, all your advisors, along with the senator and his aids, wait anxiously.

You stayed out too late.

Immediately they spot you with the mandalorian, and the reactions are mixed. You’re however more worried when Din reacts.

“Seems you were needed.” He comments.

“I stayed out later than planned, that’s all.” You half lie.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” You joke again, and he nods.

Even though you made the joke, you do end up seeing Din much more.

Except as the Queen of Naboo.

He stays in your personal guard close to the head captain. Even when you return to your private study, you’re surprised Din stays, truly acting as a loyal personal guard.

While overlooking legislation orders, a rustling comes. Off to the side, the mandalorian fidgets with his satchel.

Grogu.

“Mandalorian,” you speak in your composed tone. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” He huffs, trying to sound calm himself.

But it’s too late. One of Grogu’s adorable ears pops out from the satchel. And despite his father’s best attempts to settle him, the baby pokes his entire head out.

Two of your handmaidens gasp excited.

“I apologize.” Din quickly stammers.

You don’t even hide the grin on your face seeing the baby.

“No need to apologize. I’m quite fond of little ones.” You assure Din, remembering what you told him previously.

“Mweh.” Grogu squeaks glancing around at the new room with sparkling curious eyes.

Your handmaidens are already smitten, trying not to rush over to him.

“Is it a pet?” One asks eager.

“No.” Din bluntly answers, and you even feel a bit insulted for him.

Ever the trouble maker, Grogu climbs out of the bag and starts waddling around exploring with ease.

“Kid.” Din sighs, a frustrated parent, and your handmaidens giggle amused.

“It’s fine, mandalorian.” You again reassure him.

Grogu turns to blink curiously up at you. Under the thick ceremonial makeup, wearing your ornate headpiece, you understand how strange you must look to a child.

Instantly he scurries towards you, little clawed hands grabbing the air signaling he wants to be picked up.

Panic seizes your breath.

There’s no way Grogu could recognize you. You rationalize that this is simply him finding your Queen persona interesting.

Din moves to snag Grogu, even saying his name sharp and reprimanding.

But you chuckle swooping down to the little creature first. Your gown today weighs heavier, yet you don’t mind knowing Grogu gets to settle in your arms.

His sweet eyes search your face. You smile politely and gentle. Then his tiny hands press against your cheeks, and a bright smile lights up his face.

And you can’t help it, you smile back.

The curious eyes of your handmaidens burn holes into your face. They whisper like a pack of loth cats plotting their next attack. So diverting their attention you place Grogu back down on the ground letting him roam.

Immediately your handmaids rush kneeling at the baby’s level, completely captivated by the new arrival.

“He seems to enjoy the attention.” You tell Din.

The mandalorian simply hums, an agreeing sound.

You wonder if he’s upset or possibly nervous about all of this.

“Please know he is safe here and free to roam.” You say encouraging, hoping to soothe the tension.

“Thank you…m’lady.” Din replies low, and your heart trips over itself.

It’s the first time he’s ever addressed you by the proper title, and his voice sparks a wildfire.

After this introduction, Grogu happily now enjoys being carried in the arms of your handmaidens or resting openly in Din’s satchel. A little wave of jealousy rises when the baby plays with one of your handmaids during a council meeting. You ache to trade places with her more than ever.

Seeing his son giggle freely unhidden relaxed Din more. He starts walking besides the captain of your guard and chatting with her, the two of them now easy comrades.

Now Din steps in pace right behind you, a beskar coated shadow you think of often.

During a particularly rainy day, you accidentally slip among the sleek stair tiles.

Immediately Din grabs you fast, steadying you from falling. His hand, unwavering and strong, holds you. Your heart thrashes furiously hearing his magnetic voice so close asking if you’re alright.

This unfortunate infatuation towards the mandalorian blooms a wicked weed digging its roots into your heart, and it’s become more unbearable.

Thankfully, your final months as Queen help keep your mind mostly occupied.

After meeting with the current Gungan Boss, you sigh exhausted.

Glancing at the wall, the portraits of monarchs past loom watching you, waiting to see what you do next.

“Many of the queens seem… younger than you.” Din suddenly comments observing the previous rulers.

“Are you calling me old, mandalorian?” You tease as much as your steeled composed tone allows.

“I…” he’s stunned, taken off guard for a minute. It’s adorable. For a split moment you smirk, keeping a laugh firmly locked away.

“I jest.” You recover quickly.

You explain how customarily many of the previous rulers were chosen at a young age, some even children. The belief was that those who possessed a child like wonder and wisdom should rule. Of course, that slowly faded away over time.

“And when the empire arrived?” Din asks.

When the Moff assigned to Naboo arrived, dark days followed. Terror seemed to choke your planet. You quietly tell Din of this.

“I…understand. I’ve seen the damage that can be done because of a Moff’s rule.” An ancient sorrow hangs within his voice.

Your eyes flicker to the shining warrior besides you. Din is striking, incredibly so. A selfish desire grows wishing to know him more, to know the face of the man taking residence in your heart.

Until another asassination attempt reminds you danger persistently lurks ready to steal your peace.

One of the food testers in the kitchen has a dangerous reaction to your meal. Thankfully she is tended to in time and will make it. But these threats grow deadlier.

“This might be … when we should start considering you going into hiding, m’lady.” One of your advisors suggests.

Those words hang over you an ominous storm.

After the recent attempt, you hide in handmaiden robes more.

You shouldn’t be wandering around this late in the night among the hallways, but you can’t sleep.

Turning the corner, you stumble upon Din standing by the hallway’s edge. He focuses on his transmitter, reading a holo message.

Ever a warrior, his keen senses notice someone else is here and he looks up. Not wanting to startle him, you pull back the robe’s hood to reveal yourself.

He exhales your name, and it flutters into your heart.

“It’s been a while.” You sleepily grin.

“Indeed.” He nods, and his voice sounds warmer.

“Been a bit busy around here.” You joke, but a somberness hangs.

“It has.” Even his reply mirrors the underlying tension.

“It’s also been difficult trying to figure out which handmaiden you are.” Din says, as if trying to break the thick tense clouds.

You laugh, and it’s freeing.

“That means it’s working.” You snicker. “No one should know who a handmaid is, much less what they look like.”

Each handmaiden was handpicked because of how similarly they fit your height and vaguely your appearance.

Handmaids are the silent heroes of the crown, quiet protectors ready to step in and surround you any given moment. Guilt festers in you knowing their lives are at risk too.

“And yet… you let me see you.” Din curiously notes, and your chest tightens.

“Well, I trust you.” You tell him simply. And you do, completely and irrevocably.

“Besides, if you decide to do anything suspicious the Queen would be the first to know.” You jest, enjoying the double meaning.

“Never.” He shakes his head earnest.

Under the lowlights of the hallway, Din steps closer. Your fingers itch to touch his beskar, to run the cool armor beneath your touch.

You wonder every night what color his eyes are.

The sound of glass shattering erupts, and suddenly the world blurs. You’re in Din’s arms falling to the floor.

His hand cradles your head from colliding on the hard marble floor. But you don’t have time to process that. Instantly you reach for the small blade hidden in your robes.

“Are you alright?” Din rapidly asks, and you nod stunned.

Someone shot at you through the window.

Someone knows who you are.

—

“You must go into hiding,” Hildegard, ever your most trusted and wise advisor, urges begging now.

Stubborn, feeling raw, exposed, you sit in angered silence. No makeup on, no crown, just a simple soul at the mercy of fate.

“Maybe we should keep the queen here?” Senator Trystan suggests.

“Because…to me, it seems like the Mandalorian isn’t quite living up to the legends told of his people.” He adds dangerously untrusting.

A blazing fury bursts in you.

“I’m alive because of him.” You snap glaring at the senator.

“And he is the only one I’ll trust accompanying me if I must go into hiding.” Your declaration rings absolute, the voice of a ruler.

Yet that night you can’t sleep. Neither can your handmaidens, especially with how curious they are.

“So…are you going to tell us what you were doing with Mando in the hallway?” One of them asks curiously.

Partially lying, you say how you couldn’t sleep and simply ran into him.

“Are you having secret rendezvous meetings with the mandalorian and haven’t been telling us?!” Another handmaiden shrieks giddy, and you rapidly deny.

But it’s hard when the fluttering feelings in your stomach now thrash wanting to fully take flight and escape, revealing your truth.

As playfully pestering as they are, this time with your handmaidens lightens your spirits immensely.

Because you know the looming decision.

The spring equinox here on Naboo will be your official final outing as ruler. That day, you’ll give your final address to the planet, sign your final law into action at the gala, then step down in the eyes of the New Republic.

It will be a momentous day.

For one month until then… you’ll be in hiding.

One moon cycle away from Naboo.

But as declared, you’ll be departing alone with the mandalorian.

A war rages in your heart as you clutch your small pack.

You wish to stay and fight, stand your ground. Yet you understand the danger that will come if you stay.

So walking into the darkness alone, you find a gleaming warrior among it.

A curt nod is how he greets you.

Din has been quiet since your identity was revealed. You wonder if he’s disappointed or angry knowing who you are.

But all the emotions get shoved aside when you see your mode of transportation.

The starfighter gleams glorious under the moonlight.

“Will we fit?” You wonder aloud a bit hesitant.

“Might be a tight squeeze, but we’ll make it. The trip is not too far.” Din answers and his voice again does strange things to your heart.

He wasn’t lying about the tight fit.

You’re practically slotted between his legs in the compact pilot’s seat. His arms reach around you effortlessly readying the systems. Your mind goes over boring litigations and mandates trying not to let it wander into dangerous territory.

Then, the ship bolts to life airborne.

Immediately your gaze flickers back to your home planet watching it drift further away in the night sky.

“Don’t worry,” Din suddenly mutters, comforting. “Everyone will be fine.”

You swallow hard and nod.

The atmosphere dissipates all around until you’re among a sea of stars.

“So…you’re Queen of Naboo.” Din speaks first. It feels like a peace offering.

Your lips twitch back a laugh.

“Apparently.” You joke.

His chuckle lightens the ache trying to consume you.

The trip, as promised, isn’t far.

Nevarro resides in the outer rim. Even though Naboo is considered mid-rim, its bordering location is close to the outer rim, so you know of Nevarro. The planet’s growth and evolution has been admirable to witness.

You find it’s easy to settle in and embrace the planet wholeheartedly.

Or… you embrace Din’s world wholeheartedly.

His home sits peaceful at the edge of the lava flats. You begged him to let you stay at an inn in town so you wouldn’t be a bother. He adamantly shut that option down.

“Being here means I can keep you safe.” He explained.

So now you take the spare room in Din’s abode. The spartan walls, bare minimum furniture, they all strangely perfectly reflect Din. But you enjoy spotting the various stuffed toys littering the floors.

Grogu enjoys being back at home, showing you the pond he loves chasing creatures around.

Suddenly he magically lifts a small frog into the air and you gasp. These abilities…

In secret, you briefly had studied the Jedi, the ways of the force, and knew of the strange abilities that came with it.

“He can use the force?!” You squak, turning to Din.

The mandalorian simply tells you it’s complicated. You don’t press the topic. Yet it makes sense now remembering how Grogu was able to notice you single you out even in your makeup.

He really is a special star. His giggles brighten the home, a joyous little light.

Currently he sleeps peacefully in your arms, belly full from the dinner you cooked.

“A queen who knows how to cook?” Din had joked earlier when went into the market to grab supplies.

“I haven’t always been queen.” You huffed back.

You had a life before your crown, but now you wonder how it will look after.

“What was it like before you were queen?” Sitting besides you outside on the porch, you’re surprised Din is this curious.

This spot here is quickly becoming a favorite of yours. The warm Nevarro air floats thicker than Naboo, yet there’s a gentle comfort to it.

You tell Din of your early university days, secretly holding a dream of abandoning everything to become a rebel spy.

“A spy?” His voice curls amused, and you wish you could see his face.

“I read too many adventure romance tales.” You shrug.

You used to dream of meeting a handsome rebel pilot while fighting for your home planet and then falling in love.

Now your dreams only contain a warrior clad in beskar.

“Were you always a bounty hunter?” You now question Din about his life as much as you can.

You treasure all he gives you, telling you about days hunting bounties across the galaxy until he stumbled upon a certain little green creature.

The mudhorn, the empire hunting Grogu, the days they spent apart from each other… It all led to Din gaining a son. And it’s all because of that single bounty.

“Your job led you to a wonderful gift.” You fondly praise while Grogu snores peacefully against your shoulder.

“Yes...” Din agrees, yet his voice seems to trail off.

“After you step down, what will happen to you?” He softly changes the subject, pressing another question.

One that strikes deep.

“There are two recommended options…” you mutter.

The first choice is to marry a noble and stay within the royal sphere.

The other option is becoming a senator.

For some reason, your heart doesn’t feel compelled thinking of either option.

You aren’t attracted to any of the nobles trying to court you. And the role of a senator is demanding. You already feel frustrated with the state of politics and after being around it for this long…you wish for quieter days.

“What if you don’t want either?” Din sounds somber, yet inquisitive.

You suppose you could simply walk away from everything, slip into the galaxy to become another soul simply passing through.

You’ve never given that option much thought.

“You could stay here.” Din says, and a burst of light crashes into your chest.

Here? With him?

“Nevarro has good housing options. You would always be welcomed here.”

Then his second comment, more formal in tone, becomes a splash of water immediately diminishing any hope wanting to ignite you. You weakly grin.

“You just want me nearby for the free babysitting services.” You joke hoping to quell the heartbreak trying to leak in.

He chuckles amused.

You still earnestly thank him for the offer. But now, the future looms more nebulous than ever.

—

Through secret comlinks and encrypted messages, you discover another assassin tried striking the palace.

“You think it’s a group at work?” You ask Din, sounding more like the concerned ruler you are.

“No, it feels too planned, like the culprit is trying to mislead us or lure you back.” And he sounds like the sharp skilled hunter he is.

“May I ask… why does someone want you dead?” He questions hesitant.

You sigh.

The last law you want to sign into action would undo a final decree the Moff put into order. You want all traces of that evil gone.

“It could be an old sympathizer wanting to stop you.” Din immediately concludes.

That doesn’t narrow down any choices. But you suspect the assassin is connected to someone within your circle since they knew when to attack you even as a handmaid.

Paranoia has you restless, on edge. It’s why you return to your blade.

The familiar self defense moves flow through you. Simple, effective, enough to strike before you can try making an escape.

“Your arms need to move faster.”

You swore Din had been working on the starfighter and with Grogu down for the night, you took the alone time to practice among the fading twilight.

Now he saunters to you eased.

“Your arms have the right motion. They just aren’t steady.” He instructs.

“Well it would be different if someone was attacking me.” You scoff.

“Alright then,” something excited sparks in Din’s voice. “Spar with me.”

You think you misheard him. Then Din pulls out a seasoned, rather deadly looking, vibroblade and stands at the ready.

You stammer out excuses. There’s no way you can fight a mandalorian.

Suddenly he strikes first. Din rushes fast, darting forward and swinging his blade to swipe at you.

It becomes a fast dance, evading and dodging as Din attacks unrelentlessly.

“You haven’t tried striking me.” He doesn’t even sound tired while you’re barely hanging on.

“Because I have a mandalorian after me!” You wheeze frantic, and he chuckles.

Din stops his offensive and places his blade away.

“The way I moved is how you should.”

“I’m not a trained warrior.” You huff catching your breath. Even without seeing his eyes, the way his helmet tilts you know he’s rolling his eyes.

Gently, his gloved hands slide to your arms, and you freeze. Your mind momentarily shutting down. He touches you gingerly, delicate. Then he begins maneuvering you into the same stance he was in.

In a steady patient voice, Din explains every move and guides you through them. The close position, feeling his sturdy build pressing against you, the way his voice oozes with a gentle dominance, it overwhelms you.

Din makes you go through the motions repeatedly, a patient teacher.

“Your stance is good. You were taught well.” He admires, and you shakily thank him.

“Had to be ready as both queen and handmaid just in case.” You say lighthearted trying to battle the raging emotions swirling like a dangerous riptide.

“At first I didn’t understand your guard system or the handmaidens.” Din explains.

“Now I see why you go to great lengths to hide your identity. It reminds me of mandalorian tradition and why we hide our faces.” Din’s voice floats out kind and gentle.

The realization unfurls in you quietly that you almost miss it. You and him have run parallel in different ways, wearing masks to protect yourself and your people.

You’re grateful the force brought you to this man, one you will always hold in your heart even when fate decides to take him away.

You and him practice late into the night. He even lets you spar with his blade. Surprisingly, you take to it well, and Din even notices.

“Keep it.”

You gawk, stunned at his words. Immediately panicking, you tell Din you could never take a weapon from a mandalorian.

“I have another. And trust me, it will be useful if…I’m not around.”

His somber words dig into you, another sharpened knife, one you wish he could take back.

—

Your final week on Nevarro approaches and sorrow tangles itself around you constricting. You’ve grown attached to this planet. You’ve made friends with the floral shop keeper. The merchant who sells your favorite dried fruits now jokes with Din wondering how a grumpy mandalorian snagged someone as lovely as you.

You laugh weakly at the jokes, yet Din stays silent.

The silence has multiplied between you and Din, creating a terrifying canyon separating you from him.

Grogu senses it. Whimpering, he stubbornly tries hanging onto both you and Din more.

You shove away tears at night.

This dream, this carved out home you’ve started settling into…you knew it was going to end eventually. You just became so foolish hoping it wouldn’t.

Slowly, you start packing, childishly dragging your feet as if it will prolong your stay.

A knock arrives at your door, and it slides open.

“Can I show you something?” Din’s voice, hesitant and cautious, snaps your spine straight.

You agree without hesitation.

With Grogu currently enjoying a play date with one of the children in town, it’s just you and Din together for the day.

But you regret your choice of not accompanying the baby when you realize you’ll be jumping back into the starfighter.

Having Din’s arms enclosed around you, his strong chest pressing against your back, all the close proximity heats your skin, a reminder of what you’ll be losing in just a few days.

“You said you wanted to one day see how she flies.” Din says soft.

You technically had seen her fly when Din brought you here. Unfortunately your mind was so foggy you honestly couldn’t savor the journey.

“You didn’t get to see much last time. So…Let’s stretch out her legs.” Din’s voice holds a proud smile.

Your eyes widen. He remembered. Before you can say anything else, you become one with the wind.

Din was right. The N1 soars like a dream. She glides gracefully among the craters and canyons, dipping low among the lava flats and zooming with ease past the town.

But you also realize, Din is an amazing pilot. He effortlessly maneuvers the ship with a fluid flow and striking awareness. As if you couldn’t be anymore attracted to him, knowing he’s not just an amazing warrior but an incredible pilot makes your blood hum.

“You’re amazing.” You tell him earnest and true.

You swear his arms curl around you tighter.

“Ready to see the best part.” He purrs, sounding eager.

“Wait, best part?” You can’t imagine what’s next.

He points to a switch and when he hits it, you fly out of your body reaching a speed you never expected.

And it’s dazzling.

You laugh bright and alive. The weightless sensation overflows into your bones.

The atmosphere melts away as Din pushes the ship to the very edges of the planet.

The stars float just out of your reach, twinkling with knowing eyes.

Suddenly, Din lets the ship drop. The N1 plummets into a free fall that has your stomach jumping into your mouth. You almost scream.

In the descent, Din quickly spins the starfighter swiftly, a dramatic turn that sends it flying fast in a new direction. The move is a trick, one he seems to be showing off proudly.

You laugh breathlessly relieved.

“You know I’m still queen. I can punish you for that!” You wheeze.

“I’d like to see you try, m’lady.” He challenges back amused. You grin wild and greedy hearing the title.

The flight, the exhilaration, it dissipates the tension of this week, almost purifying you. Because now you notice… you’ve fully melted against Din’s chest.

Your head even leans back to rest against his helmet.

Yet Din hasn’t moved you.

The silence thickens as he flies the ship back towards town.

“Thank you for showing me this.” You mutter, barely able to get those words out.

Din’s helmet nods moving against the side of your head. One of his hands leaves the control panel and gently rests against your thigh.

You and him remain this close the rest of the flight.

The next time you’re in the N1 -

You’re flying home to Naboo.

The entire flight is silent.

You sit as furthest away from him as physically possible within the cramped space. Din maneuvers the controls and trying to keep yourself steeled, composed, your eyes focus on his movements.

That’s when you catch it.

His gloves shift and a sliver of his skin is exposed.

Sun kissed and beautiful, you think you just imagined it. Until you notice it again when Din steers the ship out of the atmosphere.

Countless nights you thought about what he looked like under his helmet, wondering how his lips would feel against yours. Now you’re allowed this one small peek at the man beneath the armor, and a dangerous greed immediately slithers in.

Your lips ache to kiss that spot, that glimmer of Din unmasked.

Greed morphs into a deadly lust. You imagine yourself, if you were braver, grabbing his wrist and lifting it to your lips to kiss him, taste him, at least once.

How would he react if you did that? Embrace you? Reprimand you?

Punish you in a way that turns filthy…

You wonder how extra tight this cramped space would be trying to ride him in, to feel the heat between you and him build into a blazing cloud. Even now, if you concentrate hard enough in this terrifyingly quiet flight, you can hear his soft breathing, his gentle exhales modulated through the helmet.

Your mind melts thinking of him whispering deep against your ear as he thrusts up into you-

Instantly your mouth goes dry at the erotic thought and you close your eyes, trying to reset yourself.

When you open your eyes, Naboo approaches fast, a gorgeous gemstone among the stars. Your dreams and lustful wishes shatter like broken titles leaving you feeling empty to pick up the pieces.

—

Your final gown as Queen gleams stitched with a final goodbye. It’s glorious, dripping in grandeur and beauty. Wearing it, clusters of emotions clash with each other. You’ve allowed yourself a minute alone just to compose yourself. Giving one final glance at a mirror, you silently bid farewell to this piece of you.

A knock comes, and one of your handmaid's pops her head into the room.

“Senator Trystan wishes to speak with you.”

Of course you let him in.

The familiar face beams at you proud.

“You look splendid, m’lady.” The senator bows his head, and you thank him.

He updates you on the various monarchs and other planetary senators who have arrived. Your mind unfortunately only thinks of one beskar wearing guest.

Tonight is your last night with Din. Once the grand event finishes and if you remain safe, he would receive his hefty sum. Your paths will seperate.

He hasn’t spoken more than five words to you since you’ve returned. You’ve barely seen Grogu either.

You understand the rush of trying to prepare for everything has kept you busy. But you catch the looks your handmaidens give you of heartbroken understanding as though they can sense the turmoil in you.

Your mind, even now, feels like it could burst holding so many thoughts.

Then footsteps stamped forward.

The senator, blade in hand, lunges at you.

A surprised scream escapes you before you swiftly move, jumping into action.

Pulling out your vibroblade, Din’s blade, you swipe at the traitor.

The moves Din taught, his weapon, they become your saving grace.

You keep the attacker on his toes. But Senator Trystan acts fast stepping on your gown causing you to trip before you can run to the door.

You fall hard onto the floor. Hissing in pain, your eyes close.

Move, a voice in your head sounding intensely like Din, urges you to react.

Then a thundering collision crashes into your chambers, and your eyes snap open.

One moment the senator stands poised above you, blade in hand ready to attack. The next he’s gone.

Scrambling up, you discover Din wrestling Senator Trystan onto the floor.

“The Moff was right!” The traitor screams in anger trying hard to thrash against Din’s hold.

“You’re pathetic!” You snarl back.

“You are ruining our world!” Sentaro Trystan screeches staring you down. “Long live the empire-”

Din aggressively knocks the raging senator unconscious.

Immediately your handmaidens and a few healers rush to your side tending to you, trying to calm you down.

A thick haze swirls in your mind. Senator Trystan was the one behind the assassinations. Why hadn’t you noticed it?

Suddenly a warm gloved hand grabs yours and squeezes. Blinking out of the mental haze, Din now kneels before you. The stark black visor of his helmet stares unwavering.

He whispers your name.

Tiny little hands climb their way up your gown. Glancing down, you find Grogu staring up and whimpering worried. You stroke his soft head and it eases you and him both.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” Din asks cautious, concerned.

You nod still slightly overwhelmed.

“I owe you my life, mandalorian.” You tell him through a shaking voice.

Din doesn't reply, instead squeezes your hand tighter. The exhaustion slowly creeping into your body begs you to lean forward, to rest against Din’s shoulder. But you don’t know how he’ll react.

And even if you did try to lean on him, you noticed your grand headpiece would’ve gotten in the way of you moving closer to Din, a literal barrier reminding you of the truth.

New Republic officers along with the rest of your advisors and guards storm in.

You’re grateful the threat is over, eternally in debt to Din. But the truth settles in cold and bleak. Your time is up. The mandalorian will be leaving you.

“Your reward will be doubled.” Hildegard says grateful through tears patting Din on the shoulder.

“I was just…doing my job.” He nods curt.

A job, that’s all you are.

You eventually hand Grogu to one of your handmaidens. This night will be busy. Din however refuses to leave your side.

“She needs to rest.” Din orders sharp after realizing you’re still attending the gala.

“I can rest once this is all over.” Your monarch's voice, the voice of a queen, slips in.

Din remains silent.

Even though you feel caught in the waves of a turbulent sea, a queen must bottle all those things and store them away.

So wearing your crown proudly, you sign your final law into motion and hold your head high.

The previous queens still alive arrive at your side. You kneel, and their hands lift the weight of a planet from you.

Queen no more.

Among the roar of applause, among the illustrious crowd, your eyes only seek out one guest.

Din leans against a column, hands crossed over his chest sticking out a sore thumb. And he’s beautiful.

“I suppose you want this back.” You hold out his blade waiting for him to take it.

His helmet shakes an adamant no.

“I told you, it’s yours now. Knowing it kept you safe is even more reason for you to keep it.”

A thick sorrow and adoration, the strangest mixture, shred your heart wide open. But under the glimmering lights, along the magnificent marble ballroom, you have to seal everything away tight.

The Gala is a gorgeous celebration, the triumph of Naboo slowly returning to its beauty. The Gungan Boss teases how his nephew would make a fine match now that you’re available for marriage. He isn’t the only one making suggestions.

Many suitors from noble families blatantly make their courting intentions known. You smile with as much grace as you can.

One of the noblemen, a man you vaguely remember from your university days, even gets bold and places a kiss on your hand when he bids you farewell.

“It seems royal marriage is what everyone wants for you.” Din comments stiffly.

You stay quiet, numb.

“What do you want?” He asks.

Your eyes return to him, his glorious helmet, and you wish more than ever to know his eyes.

“What I want doesn’t matter.” You reply just as stiff.

“But it does. You deserve to make that decision.” He argues low, deadly, reminding you of the bounty hunter he is.

“Maybe who I want doesn’t want me back.” Your words strike sharp under your breath.

“Who…who do you want?”

Terror barrels in hearing Din’s question. You didn’t even realize you had said who.

Din’s stare, even without seeing his eyes, is unflinching.

An overwhelming panic overtakes you like a feral rancor.

So you flee, scurrying away fast.

Immediately you tell your advisors and handmaidens you need to be excused, saying how the rush of the night has finally caught up to you.

Understanding, everyone allows you to slip away from the gala’s ballroom towards the palace.

But ever the persistent shadow, Din stays close behind.

“I don’t need your services anymore, mandalorian.” You snap, refusing to turn around to him.

“I’m your guard until the night ends.” He growls back.

“I thought our agreement was fulfilled when the threat was discovered. Besides, my crown is gone. You can leave Din Djarin.” Your voice bounces off the empty hallways like an angered ghost.

Earlier, the new republic officers had scanned his chaincode and when you heard his full name, it felt like a final goodbye.

“Is that what you want? For me to leave?” Din’s tone cuts deadly, stopping you in the middle of the hallway.

You don’t want him to go. You never want to leave him.

Din says your name, pleading.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. Leave.” You robotically order, except your voice cracks, and you regret speaking.

You force yourself to move forward.

He doesn’t follow, and your footsteps echo alone in the hallway.

Arriving at your chambers, your hands shake as you wipe away tears.

Queen no more, now all alone.

A solid knock arrives at your door making you jump out of your skin.

Still worried from earlier, you cautiously open the door, holding Din’s blade at the ready.

Then you slide it open fully and let the weapon drop instantly.

Din stands in the doorway.

“Tell me what you want, who it is you want. And then you will never see me again.” A plea aches in the mandalorian’s voice.

“It’s you, Din…” you sob, unable to hold it in anymore. “I want you, you ridiculously stubborn man-”

His warmth is engulfing. His strong arms wrap around you tight with the promise of never letting go. Beskar presses hard and unyielding, but you welcome it.

Your arms wrap around him just as tight.

“When I thought you were just a handmaid, I searched for you every time and I felt guilty. I knew my loyalty needed to be with the queen, when all I wanted to do was protect you.” His voice whispers soft, tender, soaking into your bones.

“It was only until I realized… I’ve been protecting you this entire time.” He squeezes you tighter.

Gravity shifts. Your orbit now becomes tied to this warrior.

Gently, you lean out of his embrace to stare at him. Placing your hand against his helmet, imagining his cheek below your palm, you reverently stroke the sacred beskar.

“My future is with you, whatever it is. I want it to be with you, Din.” You tell him through watery croaks.

A gloved hand now holds your face. Din exhales your name, delicate and reverent. Then he moves forward.

His helmet leans against your forehead, a holy act that makes your eyes close. The cool beskar against your skin feels like a sealed vow, the promise of a kiss and the hope of many to come.

Now, no crown keeps you from him.

—

Sunlight gently wakes you.

Your mind groggily starts thinking over the things you have to do today. An exasperated sigh escapes you.

The bed is cozy. You don’t want to leave, but you need to. So wearily you wiggle to slip out from the covers.

Until a solid sturdy arm drags you back into the blankets, pulling you against a warm broad bare chest.

“You can’t keep me in bed all day.” You mutter half asleep, half amused.

“We’re on our honeymoon. We’re allowed to stay in bed all day.” Din’s voice, unmodulated and thick with sleep, drips with pure delicious decadence.

Soft kisses pepper your bare shoulder. The soft scrape of his facial hair, the tickle of his mustache, feel glorious.

“We did that yesterday. And the day before that.” You remind him amused.

“Then today should be our final time.” Din smirks, nipping at your shoulder while his hands map out your skin.

“There’s still things I need to do for the coronation.” You try sounding determined, but your voice instead is a dreamy sigh, blissed in pure newlywed reverie.

“A queen’s job is never finished.” He teases letting his lips kiss across your jaw lazyly.

“Not a queen anymore.” You cheekily remind him, and your hand reaches back to run into his soft curls.

You’re a wife now, a title you cherish just as much as Queen.

“Always will be a queen to me… m’lady.” He mutters into your skin.

Immediately his words make you twist in his arms. You take a quick glance at your husband - your incredible husband with the most gorgeous rich soil soulful eyes. Then you lean forward to kiss him fierce.

Din meets your frenzy passion with a steadiness that disarms you. He kisses you slowly, unworried, like he plans to savor every moment, and you become a cloud ready to float into his atmosphere.

Then a small crash comes from the living room. An amused little giggle reveals the culprit.

You and Din now sigh for another reason.

“We should have let your handmaids keep him another day.” Din mumbles.

You laugh swatting at his shoulder.

With a final playful kiss, you grab your robe and slip out of bed.

Grogu squeals excitedly seeing you. Scooping him up into your arms, you kiss his sweet adorable cheeks.

“You adorable little trouble maker.” You snicker ticking his tummy.

You don’t even mind that Grogu knocked over the lovely congratulations bouquet the gungan boss sent. Your son’s giggles are worth it.

The morning sun dances beautifully across the grand Naboo lake. Sitting among the lush grass, you now watch Grogu once again chase after the fluttering butterflies.

Heavy boots crunch approaching. Then Din presses against you. You snuggle closer to lean against his paladin covered shoulder. His arm slides to curl you even closer into his side.

“Always hoped we would get to come back here.” Din admits.

You did too. It’s why when the coronation for the next Queen of Naboo arrived, coincidentally taking place just a month after your wedding, you eagerly convinced Din to take a break from Nevarro to return to this special place.

“Thank you for bringing us back.” You tell him grateful, pressing a kiss to his beskar.

“No, thank you for suggesting this.” You knew Din was kind hearted before. But now, as your husband, he shows you a pure adoration that doesn’t feel real at times.

“They will need you at the palace soon.” Your mandalorian reminds you gently.

He’s right of course. So many events, things to plan, all wait for you.

Usually, it’s the opposite. Usually, it feels like you’re being evaluated, quietly measured against some invisible standard you’ve already failed to meet. But she doesn’t look at you like that. There’s no impatience in the way she moves, no thinly veiled skepticism when she glances in your direction. Just calm, steady attention.

You drop your hand back into your lap, fingers curling together. The nausea ebbs slightly, replaced by a dull, lingering shakiness that makes your limbs feel like they don’t quite belong to you.

“Your doctor will be with you in just a minute,” she says kindly. “In the meantime, I’m gonna start taking your vitals, alright?” 

You nod, shifting slightly on the bed as another small wave of nausea rolls through you. “Yeah, okay,” you mumble.

She gives you a small, reassuring nod before reaching for a blood pressure cuff and wrapping it around your arm. Quietly explaining while she does so.  

“Just relax,” she says softly.

You try. The cuff tightens, squeezing your arm, and you focus on the steady hum of the machine instead of the lingering unease in your stomach and now your arm, before it slowly loosens again. 

She glances at the numbers on the monitor. “Well, your blood pressure is on the lower side,” she says. “That could definitely explain the dizziness.”

You just nod, not really trusting yourself to say anything without your voice giving you away.

“Did you eat today?”

“Yeah, some toast,” you admit. “That’s about it.”

She nods again before reaching for your arm to remove the cuff, her touch light and careful as she slides it off. “Alright,” she says softly, setting it aside. “And have you been eating normally lately?” she asks.

“No… not really,” you admit. “I’ve been feeling kinda sick the past few days.”

“Nauseous?”

You nod again. 

“Okay. Have you experienced any stomach pain?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Any vomiting?”

“No…” you hesitate, glancing down at your hands. “But there have been a few times I’ve felt like I might,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

Then, in that same neutral, routine tone, she asks, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

The question lands heavier than it should. You’re just about to blurt out no, out of pure instinct, something automatic, easy and safe. But the word catches in your throat. Your love life hasn’t exactly been active the last year or two. And that’s why your brain wants to say no without thinking. 

But there was that one night about a month ago. 

It was the kind of night out that wasn’t supposed to turn into anything. Just a way to get out of your own head for a few hours, to feel normal again. You hadn’t expected anything from it. You had just met up with some of your friends, some of your friends’ friends. And a few people who turned out to be friends of friends of friends –people you didn’t know, names you didn’t catch, faces that blurred together after a while.

You hadn’t planned on staying long. Just a drink or two, a laugh and a light conversation, then leave. But then you noticed him. He looked even more out of place than you felt. Leaning against the wall, drink in hand, like he wasn’t sure where he belonged. His eyes roamed the room but didn’t settle on anyone, not until they landed on you.

You smiled first, almost without thinking. He looked surprised, a little caught off guard, and then he smiled back, awkwardly, nervously, but genuine. And somehow, that was enough. It was awkward, sure, but real in a way that made you want to stay a little longer than you first intended. 

You started talking. He was one of those friends of friends of friends. The kind of person you could’ve missed entirely if things had gone just a little differently that night. At first, just small talk to fill the time, but then it wasn’t just small talk anymore. It was laughter and shared glances, a kind of ease that felt like it had slipped through the cracks of the night. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way. Sweet, earnest, a little clumsy, completely unlike anyone you’d met in a long time.

And it was so nice. Someone kind, nervous, and a little awkward. Someone who had made you feel lighter than usual. One drink became two, two turned into standing a little closer than before, conversations dipping softer, quieter. There had been a moment, just a small one, where neither of you were really talking anymore, just looking at each other like you were both trying to decide something at the same time. And then you had.,. 

You swallow. Your fingers curl tighter in your lap, nails pressing lightly into your skin 

“There might be a little chance.”  

The nurse doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look at you differently. She just nods, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. 

“Alright. We’ll have you take a pregnancy test just to rule it out.”

Your stomach twists again, though this time it’s not entirely because of the nausea. Because technically, there is a chance.

The thought settles heavy, sinking somewhere deep in your chest. The nurse gives you a small, reassuring smile, like nothing about this is unusual, like this is just another step in a routine process.

“I’ll see if your doctor is ready now,” she says gently.

“Okay,” you manage, your voice quieter than you intend. “Thank you.” 

The curtain shifts as she steps out, leaving you alone with the low hum of the machines and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. You exhale slowly, leaning forward again, elbows resting on your knees, trying to ground yourself.

It’s probably nothing. It has to be nothing. Low blood pressure. Not eating enough. Stress. Your fingers tighten together, then loosen again as you force yourself to breathe.

After a while the curtain rustles. You glance up, and everything in you stills. You are met by a friendly smile from your nurse, kind brown eyes, soft and familiar. But it is not her who makes your breath catch. It’s the person stepping in behind her. 

He is looking down at the ipad in his hands, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, like he’s trying to finish reading something before stepping fully into the room. It gives you a second, just one, to see him without being seen.

The familiar slope of his shoulders. The way he holds himself, a little unsure, like he’s still getting used to being here. Light brown hair falling over his forehead, and curling up at the nap of his neck. 

Then he looks up, and his eyes meet yours. Those wide, blue eyes, you remember all too well. 

“This is Dr. Whitaker,” the nurse says softly, her tone carrying the gentle authority of routine, but your gaze doesn’t leave him. She tells Dennis your name, not knowing that he already knows it. “We already took her blood pressure, and you ordered a pregnancy test.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the nurse, then back to you. “Thank you, Perlah,” he says, voice small. 

There’s a pause, the kind that makes the air between you feel thicker. She gives him a quick look, a brow slightly raised, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Then she gazes back to you, smiling softly, as if nothing unusual has happened. 

“If you need anything, you can call on the button and I’ll be back. But in the meantime, you’re in good hands with Dr. Whitaker.”

You give a small nod, your throat tight, words catching somewhere between nervousness and surprise. She steps out, the curtain swishing closed behind her, and the door closes, and suddenly the room feels impossibly quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing a little louder, your heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears. 

“Hi,” he says, an awkward smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, just enough to make it feel human, approachable.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice smaller than you would like, uneven, caught somewhere between nerves and surprise. 

“So, uh, you fainted…” he continues, voice careful, like he’s stepping lightly around fragile ground. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of the ipad, a subtle rhythm that seems to mirror your racing heartbeat.

You glance down at your hands, twisting them together in your lap. “Yeah… I guess,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Uhm.. If you would prefer another doctor, I can call them in,” he says, voice gentle, careful not to push. His gaze flickers to your face, giving you space, but holding just enough attention to make it clear he’s listening.

You shake your head quickly, almost automatically. “No… no, it’s fine,” you murmur. “You’re… you’re fine.” Your voice catches, tight and shaky.

He nods, a small, understanding smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he says softly. 

There’s a pause as he studies you, and even in the sterile, buzzing hospital room, there’s a strange sense of understanding between you. The way he leans slightly, careful not to crowd your space, makes it clear he’s not in a rush.

“I could understand from Perlah that you have been feeling nauseous… Can you tell me when it started? And if it’s been constant, or comes and goes?”

You hesitate, twisting your fingers tighter in your lap, and then let out a quiet breath. “A few days… maybe longer,” you mumble. “It… comes and goes. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes I feel it all day.” 

He nods slowly, laying the ipad gently on the counter beside the computer, before sitting down on the stool near the bed. The movement is careful, deliberate, as if he’s trying to make the space feel less clinical and more… manageable.

Neither of you say anything for a moment. “This was not something I had expected today” he then says softly, his tone low and careful, like he’s aware of how fragile the moment feels.

You glance up, caught somewhere between nerves and disbelief. “Yeah… me neither,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gives a small, awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck as if to ease the tension.

“I, uhm… I regretted not asking for your number that night,” he admits softly, voice low, careful, like he’s letting you in without forcing anything. There’s a vulnerability there, subtle but impossible to miss.

You feel your chest tighten, words catching in your throat. “Me too…” you hear your own voice, small and fragile, but it somehow feels like the only honest thing you can say. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, it’s heavy, yes, but also intimate, like the room has shrunk around just the two of you.

He nods slowly, as if letting your words sink in, the awkward smile lingering just a moment longer before he shifts slightly on the stool, just enough to lean a little closer without closing the space between you.

“I… I kept thinking about it,” he admits quietly, voice almost swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent lights. “I mean not in a weird way! Just… I don’t know, wondering if I’d get another chance to actually talk to you.” 

Your heart tightens, and your fingers curl in your lap again. “We did a little more than just talking that night…” 

He blinks, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Right.” His eyes flicker away for a moment, like he’s gathering courage, before returning to yours. 

The quiet stretches, heavy but intimate, as if the room itself has shrunk to hold just the two of you in this suspended, fragile moment. 

“A lot of things can make someone feel nauseous, or make them faint” he continues softly, like he’s searching for the right words, careful not to overstep, not to make you feel any more exposed than you already do. His voice, low and careful, like he’s trying to build a bridge across the nervous tension in the room. “Low blood pressure, stress, anxiety, not eating enough… but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

You nod, your throat tight, the simple act of acknowledging him feeling heavier than it should. Your fingers fidget in your lap. 

He pauses, letting the words settle. “The first thing we’ll do is a urine pregnancy test. It’s quick and easy, just to rule it out before we look at other causes. Pregnancy can lead to low blood pressure and nausea, so it’s a standard step,” he explains gently, keeping his tone calm and steady, though there’s a subtle hesitancy in his voice, like he’s aware of how loaded the moment feels. He meets your eyes, letting the weight of the words hang without pressing you, giving you space to react.

“And what if it is positive?” you say, though it’s closer to a whisper, your voice catching, trailing off as your fingers twist in your lap. The words feel heavier than you expect, like stepping over an invisible line.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes steady, patient, giving you space to let the words settle without rushing in. His lips press into a thin line before he finally speaks, slow and careful.

“Then, uhm… Then we’ll figure it out,” he answers softly, like the word takes a second to find its way out. His voice is gentle, a little unsteady, but sincere in a way that makes it land. 

His words make something in your chest tighten, then loosen all at once. It’s something warm, unfamiliar in a moment that should feel cold and clinical. You swallow, your fingers stilling in your lap for the first time since he walked in. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t answer the question hanging between you. But it softens it, just enough to breathe around.

Your eyes stay on him, searching, like you’re trying to understand how he can feel so steadying, while looking so nervous at the same time. 

He clears his throat softly, like he’s grounding himself back into the role he’s supposed to be playing here. Professional, steady, your doctor. But there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t quite let him be just that.

His hand shifts against his knee, fingers curling slightly, like he’s grounding himself the same way you’ve been trying to. His gaze flickers briefly away, then back to you, and there’s still that same openness there, uncertain, but real.

For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But instead, he exhales quietly and gives a small nod, almost to himself. 

“Okay,” he says, softly, like he’s settling into something steadier. “I’ll go get you something to drink, so uh…” he trails off, glancing briefly toward the door before looking back at you. “So you can take the test,” he finishes, voice quiet, the words coming out a little uneven. 

The words hang there, simple and clinical on the surface, but they don’t land that way between you.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than it needs, like he’s checking something unspoken. Making sure you’re okay. Or maybe trying to make himself believe that you are.

You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay.” 

He gives a small nod back, almost mirroring you, like that’s enough to anchor him. 

“Okay,” he echoes. But he doesn’t move right away.

There’s a hesitation, subtle, but there. His fingers press lightly against his knee, then release, like he’s debating something he doesn’t quite let himself say.

“Hey,” he adds softly, drawing your attention back up to him. Your eyes meet his again. “If you start to feel lightheaded again… just lay down, and use the call button, alright?” he says, slipping gently back into that steady, professional tone, but it’s warmer now. More personal.

You nod, even though your throat feels tight again. “Okay,” you whisper.

He watches you for a moment longer, like he’s making sure you really mean it. Like he’s trying to memorize something. Your expression, maybe, or just the fact that you’re still sitting there, still steady.

“Alright,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.” 

You nod again, a little more firmly this time, like you’re trying to hold onto that steadiness he’s offering you.

“Okay,” you repeat, barely above a whisper.

He gives you one last look, longer than necessary, softer than it should be, and then finally turns, pulling the curtain aside. The hallway noise spills in again, distant and impersonal. Voices, footsteps, the faint clatter of something metal against tile. It all feels far away. 

And then he’s gone. The curtain falls back into place with a quiet swish, and the room settles into stillness again. You sit there for a moment, unmoving. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined now instead of clenched. Your breathing is a little uneven, but not as tight as before.

· · · · · 

Dennis leans back against the cool wall just outside the exam room, exhaling slowly through his nose like he’s been holding his breath for the past ten minutes without realizing it. His heart is still beating a little too fast, faster than it should for a routine case. For any case, really.

So for a moment, he just stands there, staring down at the floor, trying to put himself back together into something useful, something professional.

Because the second he walked into that room and saw you he was brought back to that night he met you, and that night wasn’t supposed to follow him here. It had been… simple, surprisingly so. Unexpected, but simple. A rare kind of ease he didn’t often get. 

You had felt easy, talking to you had felt easy. Being around you had all felt easy, and nice, but also kind of terrifying in a way he hadn’t really let himself sit with until now. Dennis lets out a quiet breath, dragging a hand down over his face. Yeah. That’s the word. Terrifying. Not because of what happened, but because of how easily it had happened. 

Trinity had dragged him along to the bar, and he hadn’t even wanted to go. Pittsburg hadn’t felt like home yet, not really. It still isn’t really, but that night had felt like something close to it. Or at least like a break from everything that didn’t.

Everything still feels slightly unfamiliar, like he is walking half a step out of sync with the rest of the world, but with you, he hadn’t felt so out of sync. It was as if something real had slipped in where it wasn’t supposed to. No expectations, no pressure, no weight. Just someone sweet, someone pretty and kind, who laughed at his awkward jokes like they were actually funny. Smiled at him like you meant it.

He shifts, the back of his head resting briefly against the wall as he now stares up at the fluorescent lights. They buzz faintly, steady and indifferent, like none of this matters outside of that room.

But it does. Because you’re in there. And there’s a chance that… He cuts the thought off before it can fully form, jaw tightening. This must be scary enough for you, he can’t let himself spiral. Because right now, your health, the test, the possibility… it’s about you. Not him 

He technically doesn’t even know if he is the father if it turns out that you are pregnant. You could have had other sexual partners within the period of a possible pregnancy. And you would be totally justified in that. 

The thought lands quietly this time, without resistance. And he lets it, because it’s true. You would be justified. It’s your life, your choices, your body. One night, no matter how real it felt to him, doesn’t give him any kind of claim or expectation. 

Dana is standing by the nursestarion, watching him with that same calm, observant expression she always has, but there’s something a little more knowing in it now. Subtle, but enough to make him straighten instinctively when he notices that she’s looking at him.

“You okay, kid?” she asks, tone light, but not casual enough to ignore.

He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Dana doesn’t push. She just tilts her head slightly, letting the silence hang long enough for him to notice he’s holding himself too rigidly. Then she turns, returning her focus to the computer in front of her, fingers moving over the keyboard with practiced ease.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut for a second before opening them again, blinking a few times, to get himself back together. You need fluids. Ideally something with sugar. That’s an easy task, something manageable he can do right now. Fluids and a pregnancy test, he can get you that. 

· · · · · 

You sit in the quiet for a moment, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the space between your thoughts. Your fingers fidget in your lap, twisting together, letting the tension work itself out in small, unconscious movements. 

The shock of seeing him, of him being the one stepping into the room, of being told that he was the doctor that should help you, curls around your chest, tightening in a way that makes your breath catch even though you’re trying to calm yourself.   

Your gaze drifts toward the door, half-expecting it to open again, for the curtain to rustle, for him to step back in like this is all some strange, suspended moment that hasn’t quite decided what it is yet. 

Out of all of the ER’s in Pittsburgh and all the doctors, it had to be him. The thought doesn’t even feel real when it settles in your mind. It just… sits there, heavy and impossible, like something that belongs to a different version of your life. 

A month ago, he was just a stranger. Someone you weren’t supposed to see again, at least not under these circumstances. But somehow, here he is. And here you are. It’s not like you wouldn’t have wanted to see him again but not like this.

The thought settles heavy in your chest, quieter than the others, but somehow almost sharper. Because you had thought about it. Seeing him again. Not in any serious way. Not something you let yourself linger on too long, but it had crossed your mind in those quiet moments afterward. A passing what if. A soft, almost embarrassing curiosity about whether you’d ever run into him again.

Maybe at another bar, or at a house party Trin would drag him along to. Somewhere casual, somewhere easy. Somewhere you could’ve just smiled when you saw him, maybe teased him a little about that awkward first conversation, and about what followed, asked for his number this time without overthinking it. Something simple. 

Your chest tightens faintly. Because that version of it doesn’t exist anymore, and it never will, no matter what that test says.

Your stomach shifts again, a low, uneasy roll that makes you press your lips together. You swallow it down, one hand coming to rest lightly against your abdomen, as if that might steady something deeper than just the nausea.

A pregnancy test. The words echo faintly in your head, softer now, but the words aren’t feeling any less heavy. You exhale shakily, dropping your hand back into your lap.

It’s probably nothing. You cling to it again, even as doubt presses in at the edges. Low blood pressure, not eating enough, stress. All things that make sense. All things that don’t change your life in an instant.

Unlike the alternative. 

Your foot taps lightly against the side of the bed, a quiet, restless rhythm. And then, without meaning to, your thoughts drift back to that night. The way everything had felt so easy. Like you hadn’t been trying so hard to be okay for once. Like you hadn’t been overthinking every word, every movement.

He was different. Not in any obvious, overwhelming way. Not in the kind of way that demands attention the second someone walks into a room. No, he was much quieter than that. Softer. He hadn’t tried too hard. Hadn’t filled every silence or pushed every conversation forward like he needed it to go somewhere. There had been pauses, small ones, where neither of you spoke, and somehow they hadn’t felt awkward. 

Or actually, they had, a little at least, but not in a bad way. Not the kind of awkward that makes your skin itch or your mind scramble for something to fill the space. It was just a little unsure. Like both of you were still figuring each other out in real time, neither quite knowing what to say next, but not wanting to walk away either.

You remember noticing that. The way he looked at you like he was actually listening. Like he wasn’t just waiting for his turn to talk. Your chest tightens faintly. And the way he smiled. A little unsure, a little crooked, like he wasn’t entirely used to it landing somewhere it was truly wanted. It had made something in you soften. 

You shift a little on the bed, the paper cover beneath you crinkling softly. The sound feels too loud in the quiet room, making you pause for a second before exhaling slowly. Time feels strange in here, stretched thin. You have no idea if it’s been a minute or five since he left the room–maybe even ten.

Your gaze drifts back to the curtain again, like it might give you some kind of answer. It doesn’t. It just hangs there, still and closed, separating you from everything outside this room.

You exhale slowly, shoulders rising and falling in a measured attempt to stay grounded. But without anything to distract you, your thoughts keep circling back to the same place. The test, him, that night.

Because if it’s negative… Your chest lifts slightly with the thought, something almost like relief brushing against the edges of your ribs. Then this can just stay what it was. A strange coincidence, an almost, something soft and unfinished that you can tuck away and maybe, maybe, come back to later, under different circumstances.

Your throat tightens faintly. Maybe you would actually get that second chance. Maybe you could  both laugh about this someday. The absurdity of it, running into each other here, of all places. 

But if it turns out to be positive… Your lips press together. The thought doesn’t finish forming before your stomach twists again, sharper this time. Your hand instinctively comes back to rest against your abdomen, fingers pressing lightly like you’re trying to steady the unease from the outside. 

If it is positive, everything changes. Not just tonight, not just this moment. Everything.

Your breath comes out a little uneven, and you force yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, exhale through your mouth, like you’ve done a hundred times before when things start to feel like too much. 

It wouldn’t just be yours to figure out. Your eyes flicker toward the door again, something uncertain settling in your chest. It would be his, too. Not in the same way, of course. Not in the way it would live in your body, change your body, ask things of you every single day. But it would still be his as well as yours. Shared.

And that thought, that’s the one that lingers the longest. Not fear, exactly. Surprisingly, not even panic. Just a heavy, unsure weight. Because you don’t really know him. Not beyond a single night and a handful of soft, unfinished moments. And yet, you know enough to remember the way he looked at you. The way he touched you. The way he held you as you both caught your breath afterward. He didn’t rush you, didn’t push, didn’t make anything feel like it had to be more than it was.

Your chest tightens again, quieter this time. Would that change? Would this, whatever this is, turn him into someone else? Or would he still be that same person, just in a situation neither of you had asked for? 

The thought lingers, unanswered as a soft knock breaks through the quiet before the door opens again, the curtain shifts, not waiting long enough for you to respond to your own questions. 

Your head lifts instinctively. Dennis steps back in, the back of one hand pushing the curtain aside, in his arms he’s holding five different small sealed cups, a bottle of water, a can of La Crox. And in his right hand he’s holding another type of cup wrapped in sterile plastic and a packet of test strips. 

His eyes find yours immediately. And for a second he hesitates. Like he’s checking the temperature of the room. 

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping inside as the curtain falls closed behind him again. His voice is gentler this time, steadier, like he’s had a moment to pull himself back together. But there’s still something there under the surface. “I, uhm, I didn’t know what you like, so I brought a few options,” he finishes a little awkwardly, lifting his arms slightly like it might explain itself, as if he’s only just now realizing how much he’s carrying

Your lips part slightly, a quiet breath slipping out before you can stop it. “Thank you,” you say softly. 

The cups shift a little in his hold, and he lets out a small, self-conscious breath before stepping closer to the table beside your bed. “I might’ve… overestimated how many choices you’d need,” he adds quietly.

There’s something almost endearing in the way he says it. Like he’s aware of it, but not enough to undo it. You can’t help it, the faintest hint of a smile tugs at your lips, soft and brief, but real.

“It’s okay,” you murmur.

He gives a small nod, like your approval matters more than it maybe should, like it settles something in him. He put the cups down on the little table next to the bed beside you, a little more carefully than necessary, like even that small action requires focus.

“The apple juice is, uh… probably better,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, gesturing lightly toward it. “You need some sugar.”

“Okay.” You nod, meeting his eyes with a sudden feeling of shyness. “I like apple juice.” 

“Yeah?” he says, a little too quickly, like he didn’t expect an actual answer. Then he lets out a small, almost sheepish breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sweet, shy smile, like he is happy to learn even the smallest thing about you.

You nod again, a little more certain this time, though the warmth creeping up your neck gives you away.

“Yeah,” you murmur, almost like you’re confirming it for both of you.

His smile lingers for a moment longer than necessary. He removes the lid before handing you the juice cup. You take a sip, the sweetness hitting your tongue a little sharper than you expect, but not unpleasant. It settles something small in your stomach, even if the unease doesn’t fully go away.

You lower the cup slightly, your fingers still wrapped around it. “Good?” he asks, a little tentative, like he’s not entirely sure why it matters so much, but it does.

You nod. “Yeah… it helps.”

Something in his shoulders eases at that, just a fraction. “That’s good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

There’s a quiet pause, the kind that feels softer now, less strained. Like the edges of the moment have smoothed just a little.

“I know this is… a lot,” he says finally, voice lower now, less clinical, more honest. “The fainting, and feeling sick, and then… this on top of it.” He gestures vaguely, like the words possible pregnancy is too heavy to just drop into the space between you again.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands. “Yeah… it is,” you admit quietly.

He nods, like he understands that in a way that goes beyond just the medical side of things. His fingers shift against the edge of the table, restless for a second before stilling again. There’s something else sitting with him now. You can see it. He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he’s circling something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.

“I, uh…” he starts, then stops, a faint crease forming between his brows. He lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a quiet laugh at himself, like he’s aware of how awkward this is about to sound. “I’m trying to figure out how to ask this without making it weird…” he admits softly.

Your grip on the cup tightens just slightly.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” he starts, the words slow, deliberate. “And you don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable, I just…” he exhales softly, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Timing-wise…” He trails off, glancing at you briefly, then back down, then back up again. Then, more carefully. “That night was, what… about a month ago?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He nods too, like he expected that, but hearing it still makes something in him settle—and tighten at the same time.

“Okay,” he murmurs. Then another pause. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says. “Really. I mean that.” His hand comes up briefly, rubbing the back of his neck again before dropping back down. “It’s just… medically, it helps to know, and…” he hesitates, then corrects himself, more honest now, “and not just medically,” he admits, quieter now.

That lands a little heavier. The way he says it, so careful, so indirect, makes your chest ache a little. He’s not pushing. Not claiming anything. Just asking for a place in something that maybe don’t een exist, but already feels bigger than either of you can name.

“There hasn’t been anyone else,” you say softly.

His eyes widen just the slightest fraction, a flicker of relief passing through them before he smooths it down into calm attentiveness. He doesn’t smile or anything, but you can see the tension in his shoulders ease, just a little.

“Okay,” he says softly. His voice low, steady and careful. “That… helps, a lot. Thank you for telling me.” He lets the words hang for a moment, letting them settle between you both.

“Dennis?”

He blinks at your voice, a faint pause filling the space as if the single word pulled him up from a careful orbit around himself. His eyes flick to yours, wide, attentive, the weight of that moment settling on him too. “Yeah?” His voice is soft, still careful, like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next but ready to meet it.

“Can I get your number?” 

You don’t even know why you are asking him right now, the timing is weird, but it suddenly feels very important.

His eyebrows lift just the slightest fraction, like the question took a second to land. “Yeah,” says finally, voice low, almost shy. “Of course.”

You pull out your phone, swiping your thumb across the screen and unlocking it with quiet, deliberate motion, trying not to let your hands shake. You open up your contacts, fingers hovering over the ‘+’ button for a new entry. Your thumb hesitates just above the name field for a moment, and then, with a quiet breath, you type in Dennis. You tap the number field and carefully hand the phone toward him, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he takes it. 

His hand is warm, steady, and there’s a soft, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he glances down at the screen. He types in his number slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing the motion as much as the digits. Then he hands the phone back to you. 

“Thank you,” you say softly as you press the button to save the contact. You tuck the phone back into your pocket. 

He hesitates for a second, like he is weighing something, then finally lifts his phone. “Uh… can I get your number too?” His voice is quiet, careful, almost shy, as if he’s afraid of breaking the fragile rhythm between you.

You feel a small warmth rise in your chest at the request. “Of course.”

It’s his turn to pull out his phone, fingers fumbling just slightly as he unlocks it. You watch him for a moment, the soft concentration on his face, the way his eyebrows draw together just a little, and it makes your chest tighten in a good, nervous way.

You hold out your hand, and he hands over the phone, your fingers typing again, warm and familiar before handing it back to him again. His eyes meet yours with that shy little smile before pressing save. 

He glances down at the small collection of cups on the table beside your bed, then back up at you, eyes soft and careful. “Do you need some more to drink?” 

You shake your head just slightly, still feeling the warmth from the phone exchange linger in your chest. “Maybe just a little,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intend, like the words are tentative, testing the space between you. You have to be able to pee to take the test, but you don’t feel ready, even though you know you should. 

The thought of standing up, moving, letting go of control for even a moment, of taking a test that could change everything, twists your stomach in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.

“What would you like?” he asks, eyes soft, giving you room to choose without pressure.

“Just some water.” 

He nods right away, like the answer really matters “Yeah, okay,” he says softly, reaching for the bottle. He screws the bottle open before handing it to you, the sound of the plastic breaking softly in the quiet as the seal of the bottle cap breaks.

You take a small sip, then another, your throat easing as the water settles. He stays where he is, close but not too close, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other. His hands hover like he’s not entirely sure what to do with them, before one comes up to rub the back of his neck again. 

“So, uhm, Perlah will come back in a few minutes,” he says, voice a little uneven at first before he steadies it. “She’ll, uh… take you to the bathroom. And she will explain what to do, she is definitely a lot better at that than me.” He clears his throat softly, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. He shifts his weight again, glancing briefly at the door before looking back at you, softer this time. “And then it only takes a few minutes,” he adds. “For the result, I mean.”

A few minutes. It sounds so short, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You swallow, taking another sip of water, letting the coolness settle. “Right.” 

There’s a soft knock at the door before either of you can say anything else. The curtain shifts a second later, and Perlah steps in, her presence gentle but efficient, like she’s done this a hundred times before.

“Hi,” she says with a small, reassuring smile, glancing between you and Dennis before focusing on you. “How are you feeling?”

You hesitate. “A little better,” you manage.

“Alright.” She nods, like that’s enough for now. “When you’re ready, we’ll have you give us a urine sample so we can run the test, okay?” 

“I, uhm, I think I’m ready,” you say, your voice small, almost swallowed by the quiet room. You take a last sip from the water bottle before setting it down on the table

“Okay.” Perlah nods, her smile steady and patient. You’re glad you know her name now, you had been too nauseous and out of it to catch it when she first introduced herself and you were too embarrassed to ask again. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Dennis hands her the specimen cup, sealed in clear wrapping, along with the small box of testing strips. His movements are careful, almost tentative, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile rhythm of the room. Perlah accepts them with a nod, her hands steady and practiced.

“Follow me, hun,” Perlah says gently, her voice warm but professional. She steps toward the door, holding it open for you with a soft, encouraging smile. Dennis shifts slightly, giving you a reassuring glance before staying where he is, letting you move forward. 

When you reach the bathroom, she gestures toward it. “Alright, just like I said. You can use the cup here. When you’re done you can just leave the cup on the counter and I will take it to testing.”

“Okay, thank you,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening just slightly around the cup.

Perlah gives you one last reassuring nod. “I’ll be right outside, but you can take all the time you need,” she says softly, before stepping back and letting the door close behind you. 

The small click of it feels louder than it should. For a moment, you just stand there. The bathroom is simple, clean, thank god. The cup in your hand feels light, but your chest doesn’t. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders rising and falling as you try to steady yourself.

When you’re done, you set the cup carefully on the counter before washing your hands. You catch your own gaze in the mirror, and for a second, you don’t quite recognize yourself.

You let out a sigh before looking away. You dry your hands slowly, buying yourself an extra second before reaching for the door. When you open it, Perlah is right where she said she’d be. She looks up immediately, her expression soft and steady.

“All set?” she asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Perfect.” She steps inside, her movements easy and practiced as she picks up the cup from the counter. “I’ll take this to testing now. It won’t take long.”

You nod again, even though your chest tightens at that.

She pauses for just a second before stepping back out, her voice gentler now. “You can head back. I’ll come find you as soon as we have something.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

The walk back feels quieter than before, like the air has thickened somehow. When you step through the curtain, Dennis looks up immediately, like he’s been listening for your steps. His shoulders ease the second he sees you.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

There’s a small pause as you move back toward the bed, sitting down carefully. Your hands come together in your lap, fingers beginning fidgeting before you even notice that you’re doing it. It’s starting to become a bad habit. 

Your eyes drift to his hand for a second, then back up to his face. He notices, just barely, and something in his expression softens even more. 

For a second, neither of you says anything. Then, slowly, carefully, he steps closer. You scoot just slightly, making space for him without thinking about it. He notices. Of course he does. He sits down beside you, careful with the distance, close, but not crowding. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness he carries with him.

Your hands are still fidgeting in your lap, fingers twisting together, and after a moment, his gaze drops to them. But it’s not in a way that makes you self-conscious. 

Then his hand shifts. Slowly, deliberately, he rests it on the bed beside yours. It’s tentative, like a question, an option. 

You hesitate, your breath catching just slightly. Your fingers still for a moment, like they’re deciding something before you are. Then, almost without thinking, they drift, just enough to brush against his.

The contact is light. Barely there. But it’s enough. His shoulders drop a fraction, like something in him settles.

“Sorry,” he murmurs softly, though he doesn’t pull away. “I just…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, your voice quieter than you expect. You glance down at your hands for a second, then back up at him. “It’s… nice.”

That earns the smallest, most relieved smile from him. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself.

The silence that follows feels different again. Still quiet, still heavy with waiting—but softer around the edges now. Less alone.

Your thumb shifts slightly against his without you realizing it, a small, grounding motion. His hand responds instinctively, just barely tightening, like he’s anchoring himself there too.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks after a moment, voice gentle. “Or… not talk about it,” he adds quickly, a hint of nervousness slipping back in. “Either’s okay.”

You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting somewhere past him for a second. “I don’t even know what there is to say yet,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s fair.”

“I think I’m just scared of knowing,” you add, quieter now.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

The honesty of it sits between you, simple and unguarded. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe. But it doesn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat as the sound of soft, but firm knock lands against the door. It cuts clean through the quiet and both of you still. 

Your hand tightens just a fraction before you even realize it, and he responds immediately, steady, present.

“Hey,” Perlah’s voice comes gently from the other side before she steps in, her expression changing for a split second when she sees the two of you sitting on the bed. Not judgment, just a slight surprise. Like she’s clocking the moment and choosing, very deliberately, to handle it gently.

Your heart jumps into your throat. She steps fully inside, glancing between the two of you, briefly, not intrusive, before her attention settles on you. 

“The results are ready to be confirmed, so I need Dr. Whitaker for a moment,” Perlah finishes gently. The words land softly, but they shift something in the room immediately. 

Dennis stills beside you. There’s a small pause, like he’s switching something inside himself, stepping back into a role he can stand on. His hand slips from yours this time, slower, more deliberate. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Of course.” He says to Perlah before he glances at you, and for a second the doctor is still there, but there’s something else underneath it. Softer. More personal. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod, even though your chest feels tight. “Okay,” you echo, your voice barely above a breath.

He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, like he wants to say something more. Then he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a small, reassuring nod before standing.

Perlah steps back slightly to give him space as he moves toward her. There’s a quiet efficiency in the way they fall into step with each other, like this is familiar ground for her and something he’s trying very hard to navigate correctly.

The curtain shifts closed behind them. And just like that, you’re alone. The room feels different without him in it. Quieter. And now bigger, somehow.

You stare down at your hands, still curled slightly like they’re remembering the shape of his. Outside, their voices are low. Too low to make out clearly, it’s just the soft murmur of conversation, the faint rustle of something, the clinical rhythm of confirmation.

Minutes stretch. Or maybe it’s seconds. Yeah, it probably is just second, but you have a hard time telling. Every second in here feels like a minute. Your knee starts bouncing before you notice it, a restless energy you can’t quite contain. You press your hands against them to make them still, but the movement doesn’t fully stop. 

But then the curtain moves. Dennis steps back in, and you know. You don’t know how, but you just know. It’s in his face, not panicked, nor cold, but very careful. Grounded in a way that feels intentional, like he’s choosing how to hold this moment before he gives it to you, but there is still a small hint of both nervousness and shock that he can’t really hide.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Your throat feels tight. “Hey.”

He doesn’t come all the way in right away. There’s a brief pause, like he’s giving you a second to breathe, to brace, like he understands that once he says it, there’s no taking it back. Then he steps closer.

“Can I sit?” he asks gently.

You nod. He sits beside you again, leaving just a little space this time, professional and careful, but still close enough that you don’t feel alone.

A breath passes. Then another. And then, quietly. “So… as your doctor I needed to confirm the result.” He glances at you, just briefly, like he’s making sure you’re with him. “And, uh… It did come back positive.”

The words settle into the room slowly, like they don’t quite know where to land. Positive. For a second, everything feels very still. Your ears ring faintly, like the world has stepped just half a pace away from you. Your gaze drops somewhere between your hands and the floor, unfocused.

Positive. It echoes again, quieter this time, heavier. Your breath comes in, but it’s shallow. Not enough. You swallow, your throat tight, like there’s something lodged there that won’t move.

“Hey.” His voice is soft. Careful.

You don’t look up right away.

“I know this is… a lot,” Dennis adds gently, and there’s something in the way he says it, like he’s holding the weight of it with you instead of just handing it over.

You let out a small breath, but it shakes on the way out. “Yeah…” you manage, though it barely sounds like you.

Silence stretches again, but it’s different now, thicker, more real.

Your hand drifts, almost without thinking, back to your abdomen. It rests there lightly, like before, but now the gesture feels different. Your chest tightens.

“I…” you start, then stop. Your voice doesn’t want to cooperate. You shake your head slightly, a small, almost helpless motion. “I don’t know what to say. I thought it was just stress.”

“That’s okay,” he says immediately. Too quickly, almost, like he doesn’t want you to feel like you have to say anything. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”

You nod faintly, even though your thoughts are anything but still. Everything is moving too fast and not at all at the same time. 

“Would you hate me if I kept it?” You can’t stop the words before they leave your mouth, you don’t even know why the thought feels so important to you, but in this moment it’s a question every fiber in your body needs an answer to. You don’t look at him, you can’t. It’s like something in you is bracing for impact.

Dennis stills. “Hate you?” he repeats softly, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.

You don’t look at him. Your gaze stays fixed somewhere low. “I don’t know…” you murmur, your voice small, fragile in a way you can’t quite hide. “I don’t even know what I want.” Your voice barely holds together by the end of it.

“No,” he says. His voice cuts in softly, but not sharply. Just catching you before you spiral too far ahead of yourself.

You still. You don’t look at him.

There’s a small pause. You can feel him shift beside you. not away, just adjusting, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without crowding you.

“No, I wouldn’t hate you for that,” he repeats, quieter now, but no less steady. “ Not for anything.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. “I just,” you shake your head slightly, your voice barely holding together. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel about it. It’s like…” your breath stutters, “like if I even think about wanting it, I’m already messing everything up.”

That lands deeper than you expect it to. There’s a shift beside you again, closer this time, but still careful. Always careful. “You’re not messing anything up,” he says gently.

You let out a quiet, shaky breath, but it doesn’t quite steady you.

“I don’t even know what you’d want,” you admit, finally glancing at him, your eyes searching his like you’re bracing for something you’re not sure you can handle.

That’s what this is really about. Not just the question. Him. You don’t even know what you want, but not knowing what he wants somehow feels worse. Not knowing what you want is overwhelming, but not knowing where he stands? That feels like standing on something that might give out beneath you at any second.

“I want you to be okay,” he says first. It’s not a deflection. It’s just the most honest place he can start. Then, after a small breath. “And yeah,” he adds, quieter, more personal now, “I care about what happens. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

Your chest tightens again, and you gather all your courage to look up and meet his eyes again. There’s something so rawly vulnerable in his expression now. 

“But that doesn’t turn into pressure on you,” he continues quickly, gently. “It doesn’t get to.” His hand shifts slightly on the bed, closer again, still not assuming, still leaving the choice with you. “This is your decision,” he says softly. “Not mine to make for you, or mine to judge.”