maxine⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

9th March 2017 

4:15pm, Broken Bow, Nebraska

“It’s rotting.” Dennis stood over a young buck, a wrinkle setting between his brows. Maggots squirmed where the eyes should've been, its flesh torn and destroyed by other animals, jaws hanging open. He lowered down and picked up a stick. As he leaned closer to exam how the neck bent, he wondered how it had been broken, morbid curiosity overwhelming his mind. “We should probably move it.”

You watched him gently jab the stick into its throat, shaking his head slightly. You cleared your throat, adjusting your footing awkwardly. “Where?”

“Off the road.” He stood up straight again, rubbing the back of his neck. The buck had been disembowelled, its’ viscera a fly breeding ground. The smell was unbearable, sweet rotten flesh, sour like milk, faeces so pungent it hurt your nose to inhale. Dennis walked around the corpse, eyeing it before flexing his hands over the antlers, seeing how they felt in his grip, sucking a breath in between his teeth. “I mean I could drag it.” 

“This feels wrong.” You shuddered as he gave it a quick tug, the body dragging across the asphalt. The guts had fused with the ground, not willing to move with it.

“All creatures deserve a peaceful rest.” His voice was quiet and he didn’t look up, hands gripping tighter on the antlers as he dragged the poor animal towards the side of the road. You had no rebuttal. He used all his strength to get it on the grass by the road, frowning to himself. 

Wildflowers and colourful weeds grew in abundance along the road, so you pulled as much as your hands could hold, and gave them to Dennis. He concealed the gore, placing the flora in every opening, butterfly weeds in the eye sockets, daisies in the ears, wild bergamot filling the stomach cavity. Once he was finished, he blessed himself and gripped your hand.

“May the Lord lead this poor soul to paradise, amen.” He whispered, letting out a sigh. 

“Amen.” You said, gaze fixed on the animal.

He turned his head to you, “Let’s go.”

-

Dennis had never really been well liked by anyone. He didn’t fit in anywhere, he was quiet, shorter and skinnier than most kids, didn’t play sports anymore and didn’t seem interesting enough to attract any attention. Until high school, a bond with you formed under the strain of needing desperately to be liked. You were sat together in English, some sort of forced proximity that brought you two together, an unlikely pair but at the same time, the perfect duo. Since that day, you both hadn't really made a huge effort to make other friends, you only really needed each other. Dennis hated to admit it but he used to pray for a friend like you. Someone who he genuinely could be himself with.

 -

“Runt!” His oldest brother, Stan, shouted as you both walked down toward the house. A rusty faded red truck was parked out front, his other two brothers, Elijah and Noah, were working on it. 

“Thought you would at least wait for me.” Dennis slipped off his backpack, tossing it by the truck. 

“We want this finished, like yesterday. I left work early for this and I have to pick my kid up from daycare at six.” Elijah grumbled before shooting a look at you, his expression softening, a dimple appearing on his cheek. “What’s the little lady doing here?”

“We have an assignment to work on.” Dennis brushed it off, watching you get yourself settled on the porch steps. Out of all his brothers, Elijah had a soft spot for you. He treated like you were family, even though you'd only known Dennis for about three years. 

“Can we get moving?” Stan grunted, opening the bonnet. “We all got families here.”

Dennis and his brothers got to work on the truck, working while talking in a low mumble, while you sat off to the side and flipped through a book, eyes flickering between Dennis and the pages in front of you. Ever since Dennis was a kid, his brothers would call him Runt, the smallest and youngest Whitaker, but he worked harder than all of them combined. He seemed to be faster, more focused. 

“Dennis has been working on this truck for weeks without any of your help and I think he did a pretty decent job.” You pointed out, realising when you got glares from his brothers that you probably shouldn’t have said a word.

“Of course you’d say that, according to you, Dennis shits rainbows.” Noah snapped, turning to look at you with a mocking smirk. Noah was only a year or so older, had a stinky attitude and even worse temper. 

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Dennis’ gaze landed on Noah, fingers curling into his palm before relaxing.

“Cut the shit Noah, they’re kids.” Stan butted in, regretting that he even agreed to help. 

“Dude, since when did you give a shit about them being kids?!” 

Stan walked around the car, glaring at Noah. 

“It was a joke, alright?” He scoffed.

A silence fell over them, Elijah looking at you with wide eyes and an awkward grin. His brothers could be nice when they wanted to be, the four of them together were really good friends but they bickered like no other. Dennis could take it but he hated it when Noah dragged you into it, which happened more than he liked. 

Within an hour, they started packing up so you jumped up, fishing a small box out of your backpack and handing it to Dennis. He mindlessly took the box from your hand, not even looking at you, holding it in his grasp until he was finished. 

“What is it?” He finally looked at the box and then turned his body to face you.

“It’s to make sure you drive safely.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek.

“My god, I think I’m gonna vomit!” Noah groaned, watching from the porch.

“Noah-” Dennis started, glancing at his brother who had his hands up, turning to go inside the house. Opening the box, there was a wooden rosary inside. His eyes met yours, smiling softly. 

“Do you like it?” You asked shyly.

“Yea, I really do. Thank you.” He replied timidly, his expression so gentle as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into him.

“I’ll see you at the weekend, Denny.” Elijah called from his car, opening the driver side door before looking at you. “Have a nice evening, little lady.”

“Bye Eli!” You grinned, waving as he got into his car. Dennis removed his arm, getting into his car, hanging the rosary beads from his rearview mirror. He sat back and stared at them, head tilted and face scrunched up, before he adjusted them again. 

-

Later that evening, the sun was setting, darkness slowly swallowing his bedroom. 

“D’you know you’re the first person I think about when I wake up?” Dennis admitted casually, not lifting his eyes from the textbook laid out in front of him. 

“Why?” You questioned, resting your chin in your palm and looking at him. 

“Because I always have so much to tell you.” He spoke as if it wasn’t flattery, flipping the page before looking at you. “I kind of never run out of things to say to you.”

“Is that a good thing?” 

“Hmm.” His gaze dropped to the textbook again. “Guess it is.”

-

14th April 2017

12:25pm, Broken Bow, Nebraska

A beetle scuttled across the lunch table, its little legs going as fast as they could. Dennis’ watched silently, inspecting as it zig-zagged and darted in different directions, going in an endless circle without even realising. It had trapped itself in a loop, out of fear or confusion, Dennis couldn’t say. He thought about helping it, but then he’d probably end up killing it. Would death be a better fate than to live the rest of your life in fear?

You sat beside him with a thud, sighing out of exhaustion. In your hands, you carried a collection of novels and textbooks. You were frazzled, sweat building on your brow, mind running over a million different things but all Dennis noticed was that you hadn’t got lunch. 

“Why aren’t you eating?” He picked at his lunch, his stomach turning looking at it. 

“Not hungry, too busy, too tired.” You dropped the books on the table, resting your head atop them, briefly closing your eyes. “Why are you just moving your food around?”

“Not hungry, too busy, too tired.” He mimicked you, resting his chin in his palm. “What’s got you so tired in the first place?”

You opened one eye, looking at him in a half scorn before closing it again. “Dragged into helping plan prom, I’m not even on the student board.”

“Can you eat something please before you pass out?” He turned to his backpack, digging through it and pulling out a grain bar. “Please.”

You looked at him then at the bar, staring at it as you felt your stomach groan. “Feed it to me?”

Dennis diligently obliged, opening the wrapped and bringing it to your mouth. You took a bite and chewed, eyes drifting closed again, humming in delight. You were busier than normal, Dennis had barely seen you the past couple weeks. 

“Are you going to prom?” He asked very plainly, not expecting much from your answer.

“Probably…” You mumbled. “I’ll have to show my face.”

He brought the bar to your mouth again, letting you get a bite before dropping his hand once more. “Who are you gonna go with?”

You lifted your head and looked at him, chewing fast to get your words out. You frowned. “Who are you going with? We always go together to these things Denny.” 

“O-oh I’m not saying I’m going with anyone! I just thought you might change your mind but we can go.” He was flustered, stammering over himself. 

You groaned, resting your head down again. “You know there’s a guy planning on proposing at prom?” 

“What? You’re kidding.”

“His mom caught him with a girl, apparently told him that they couldn’t do that unless they were planning to marry so he said they were.” Your eyes watched his face.

“Will the girl say yes?”

“Our Lord Jesus Christ only knows!” You grinned, sitting up straight. You reached forward and fixed Dennis’ hair, moving it out of his eyes. “How have you been?”

“I mean I’m alright. Noah’s being unbelievable, he just never stops.” He complained, rubbing his forehead. You frowned, rubbing his back gently. Then you spotted a guy, Zach Henry coming towards you and Dennis, a spring in his step as his eyes locked in on you, a sly grin pulling across his face. You went still. Dennis caught your expression, turning to see where your gaze was. 

“Hey pretty girl.” He smiled smugly. 

You felt your body go tense, gaze zoned in on him.

“Aww, is the pretty girl angry with me? I think you’ll wanna hear what I have to ask you, you’ll be so happy.” He didn’t acknowledge Dennis, he probably didn’t even realise he was there. You didn’t reply, just watched his face. “I bought two tickets to prom.”

“Okay?” You responded dryly.

“And I’m taking you, baby.” 

You scoffed and stood up from your seat, gathering your books. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you later, Denny.”

“Baby please.” He trailed after you, mockingly pleading.  “Gimme a chance.”

“Please, leave me alone.” You bit back, rushing away. 

It made Dennis’ skin crawl; a rage built in his stomach that he didn’t know how to get out. You could defend yourself, he knew that but he was your friend, he should’ve been able to help you. Zach Henry was an asshole, and viewed you like a target, a girl he couldn’t get. It spurred him on, made him crave it more. He’d already fucked his way through most of the girls in Broken Bow and surrounding towns but he hadn’t had you. Dennis was a meek child growing up, letting people walk all over him but things felt different when you were involved, his chest would tighten and his head would feel light. He thought he deserved what he got from people but you didn’t. 

After school, he drove him, still reliving it, thinking how he could’ve done better. He felt stupid and weak. You deserved a better friend than that. 

When he got home, Noah was sitting on the porch, drinking a beer like he usually did after work, covered in cow shit and mud, stinking up the whole house. Dennis slowly approached him, hands shoved into his pockets, body almost shrivelled. 

“What’s up with you?” Noah’s lip curled in disgust. 

“What would you do if someone was bothering a friend of yours?” It slipped out faster than he wanted it to, words stumbling over each other. 

“What do you mean?” He questioned, taking a swig of his beer. 

Dennis explained what happened between you and Zach, and that he felt frozen, useless, like he couldn’t help you. Noah didn’t seem impressed.

“I don't know dude, smash his shit up.” He shrugged. 

Dennis nodded, processing his words slowly before walking into the house.

-

His fingers tightened around the bat, eyes fixed ahead on the washed-out green pick-up parked outside the Dollar General. He felt anger simmering underneath his skin, his stomach twisting and aching. He steadied his breathing, chest tightening. He didn’t hesitate as he strode toward the truck. With a quick exhale, he lifted the oak baseball bat and slammed it down on the windscreen, the glass splintering off in different directions. His breath knocked out of him, but he kept going. Swinging the bat again, he hit the wing mirror, breaking it right off the car. His body felt hot, adrenaline pulsing through his blood as he pulled out a pocket knife, bending down and slashing the tires. 

“Dennis?” He heard a voice, close enough that he sent a chill down his spine. 

“Ah...” He blanched, standing up straight to see you staring in bewilderment with a grocery bag in hand. He tried to smile, a little lopsided grin that he thought would make you ease up but your face didn’t shift. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wh-what? Why?” You stuttered, eyes dancing between him and the truck. “Whose car is that?”

“I’ll explain later.” He turned towards his truck but you followed, grabbing his hand tightly. He broke into a sprint and you struggled to keep up as he dragged you behind him. He stopped by the driver side and fumbled as he pulled out the keys and unlocked the car.

“Get in.” He muttered, opening the door and letting you in first before jumping in behind you. You slid across the bench seat, giving Dennis more room to get the engine started up. In his wing mirror, he could see Zach stood frozen in shock with car keys in hand.

“Is that who I think it is?” Your body went still when you caught a glimpse.

“He got this thing called karma.” Dennis stated matter of fact as he started driving, pulling out of the parking lot, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. 

“He’ll know it was you.” Your mind was running wild with possibilities before you realised what had just happened. “Where are you taking me?”

“He didn’t see us, plus that Dollar General doesn’t have cameras.” He reassured before digging in his pockets, furrowing his brows together. “How did you get here?”

“My mom…” You went numb. Zach would know it was Dennis, or that it had something to do with you. A shiver ran over your body, it made you feel sick. 

“Tell her you met me, and I’ll drive you home.” He was definitely speeding, your hands gripping the seat. 

“Why did you do that?” You looked at him but he was staring ahead at the road.

“He was bothering you.” His voice lowered.

“Dennis…” You shrunk back into the seat.

“I should’ve said something yesterday.” 

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, I should be able to… back you up.”

“Well smashing up his truck probably wasn’t the brightest idea.” You let out a nervous laugh, waiting for Dennis to react but he stayed still.

“It was Noah’s.”

“You asked Noah for help?!” You gasped, jolting forward. “Oh my god, Noah? At least if you asked Eli, he might have actually helped.”

“I know.”

That sinking feeling consumed Dennis while he mindlessly parked outside your house. Not a word uttered to you as you got out of the car, your voice drowning in white noise.

-

A few days later, on a Monday evening, you heard a knock at the door. You jogged over quickly, opening it to reveal Dennis, hanging his head, blood trickling down his chin onto the porch floor. There was some blood soaking through his shirt and it was all over his arms. When he finally lifted his head, it was clear he had a black eye.

“Oh my god what happened?” You could already put the pieces together. 

“I guess Zach found out who busted up his truck.” He forced out a laugh which dropped as soon as he saw the look on your face, you were glaring at him with a scowl. 

As quickly as you could, you brought him inside, guiding him towards the bathroom where you could get a better look at him. You told him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, while you searched for the first aid box. Dennis lifted his shirt, looking at the fresh blood and cuts across his stomach and chest, fingers touching where they shouldn’t. Dennis had taught you how to treat stuff like this, he said it was a useful skill when you’re always around on the farm where it’s easy for a wound to get infected. You found the first aid, handing it to Dennis while you washed your hands, feeling rage building in your gut. 

“Where did it happen?” You faced him, a hand gently moving his face to examine it.

“I was walking back to my truck after school. I stayed back to catch up on some stuff and they must’ve been waiting.” He winced, talking made the cut on his lip sting. 

“They?” Your eyes met his. “How many?”

“Like four? I don’t remember.” He winced.

Dennis held the first aid kid on his lap, opened and ready for you. You stood in front of him, your fingers touching his face gently to see how bad the damage was, making a start on the cut on his lip. It wasn’t deep, but it had stopped bleeding unlike his busted brow or the cut on his forehead. He closed his eyes momentarily, while you cleaned the wound, using a cotton swab to dap some antiseptic cream on it. Releasing you needed to move closer, you took the first aid kit from Dennis, putting it on the sink.

“Can I stand between your legs? It’ll make my life a lot easier.” You asked.

He nodded, opening his legs enough so you could stand closer. You filled the gap, a hand holding the side of his head, guiding him to tilt it backwards. The cut on his brow was a lot deeper, it almost made your stomach turn with how fleshy it was. Blood still trickling down, dripping off his jaw. You took your time cleaning, holding some gauze against the wound to help stop the bleeding. A silence had fallen over you two, Dennis’ eyes opening to watch you. 

“They really did a number on you.” You sighed, brushing his hair back from his forehead with your fingers.

“I probably deserved it.” He muttered. 

“I don’t think so.” You lifted the gauze, finding the bleeding had stopped. “Thank you.”

“For what?” His hands were touching the back of your knees, eyes staring up at you. 

“For looking out for me.” You whispered, cleaning the cut slowly. 

“That’s what friends are supposed to do.” His thumb mindlessly stroked the side of your knee.

“I know but I can be thankful.” A small smile pulled on your lips while you applied paper stitches, eyeing your own handy work. “It ain’t too bad. We can get some ice for the bruises, lift your shirt.”

He obliged without hesitation, lifting it up. His ribs where badly bruised, tender to the touch and his stomach had a few cuts, but nothing too bad.

“Your mom might take you to the ER if she sees that.” You cleaned the wounds across his stomach, they were quick. 

“It’ll be fine.” He groaned, lowering his shirt again. You stepped back, sighing at how he miserable he looked.

You held out your hand, wiggling your fingers. He took your hand, standing up slowly. His other hand held his stomach as he followed you out of the bathroom and towards the living room. You tapped a spot on the couch which Dennis filled, while you ran into the kitchen, coming back with a bag of peas wrapped in a towel. You sat beside him, tapping your lap with a small smile. Dennis shuffled around, turning to lay across the couch, head resting on your lap. He took the peas from you, holding them against his chest. 

“I think God guided me to you.” He whispered, looking up at you. 

“The lord gives us who we need.” You replied quietly, playing with his hair.

“I definitely needed you.” He admitted, staring a little too long. Fear swallowed him, he jolted up, clearing his throat and scrambling to get off the couch. "My mom is probably worried."

He was gone before you could call him back.

-

21st June 2017

11:46pm Broken Bow, Nebraska

Dennis' faded red truck pulled up by your house, his tired dishevelled body stumbling out the driver side, with a pizza box. You were already sitting waiting on your porch steps, smiling as he walked towards you, a limp grin pulling across his face. 

“You’re up late.” He slotted himself beside you. “Were you waiting for me?”

“You have a pizza box.” You leaned into his arm, looking at him. “I told you I’d wait.” 

Dennis was starting to look older, a late puberty one would say but you called it filling out. He was slightly taller than last summer, taller than you finally and he had decided to grow out his hair this summer and it had gotten so light in the sun and it was almost in soft ringlets. He had been picking up weekend shifts at a local pizza place, just a little extra money for his pocket and every weekend since, he'd come to you before going home. He met your gaze, a hand reaching to move hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. 

“I won’t stay long, you look tired.” His mouth lifted into a small smile before he opened the box, inside an already cold, beat-up cheese pizza. “Ah, it looks worse than I thought...”

“It’s the thought that counts, I like cold pizza.” You mumbled sleepily, taking a slice. 

You started eating, a comfortable silence falling over you both, the gentle breeze rustling the trees near your house. You started rambling about what you'd done all day without him, running through every mundane task you completed, whether it be getting out of bed at three o’clock in the afternoon or making lunch all by yourself. 

"You are very boring." He chuckled. "But you already know that though."

"Hey! I'm not boring. I am bored." You corrected him, smiling smugly. 

"Oh, I forgot, I got you this." He pulled out your favourite soda from his hoodie pocket, handing it to you. 

The following ten minutes were silence, eating and drinking with your eyes closed in bliss.

Once you had finished, he closed the pizza box, tossing it behind him. You unknowingly leaned closer to him, trying to steal his heat, uncontrollably shivering. 

“Okay, now you’re tired. Let’s get you inside.” He patted your head, getting ready to stand up but you held his arm tight, pulling him back down. 

“I want to stay out here with you.” You sluggishly murmured. 

“How about a blanket?” He matched your tone mockingly. "That box is still here, right?"

You nodded with a hum. 

He gently removed you from his arm, standing up to search your front porch. He eyed it sitting by the front door, quickly grabbing the biggest one in there and settling back down beside you, wrapping you both in it, his arm hugging you close to him. You snuggled into his side, feeling how warm he was. Without thinking, he placed a kiss on the top of your head, letting out a contented sigh while you listened to his heart beating in his chest. 

"My hands are cold…" You murmured, rubbing them together. "I think I am tired."

He laughed softly, taking your hands in one of his. Dennis’ heart started to beat a little faster, his body almost tensing when your cold skin met his. He brought them closer to him, tucking them under his hoodie, a warmth enveloping your skin. Suddenly a fear consumed you, not wanting to look at him or move, not wanting to ruin it but curiosity won. You lifted your head and you saw he was already staring at you, his eyes filled with a defeated sadness, his eyebrows tugging together. 

When your eyes meet, it’s like something exploded inside of you. A want you’d never felt before devoured you, every nerve in your body buzzing with anticipation. His gaze dropped to your lips and all thought disappeared, his mouth opened slightly, a breath leaving his lungs shakily. Everything you had known died the moment you placed your hand on his cheek and guiding him toward your lips. When he kissed you, your stomach twisted, your legs feeling almost weak and fussy. Dennis was kissing you like he’s been waiting forever, like he had been hiding it from you. His arms tightened around you and a warmth inside you slowly kindling. You let your hand move, fingers feeling his wispy hair. A sigh left his nose, shoulders relaxing as his tongue delved into your mouth. His hands splayed over your back, fingers hot like embers through your clothes. You broke away, there was a sudden fear of it getting out of hand. Dennis entered back into his body, looking at you with a frantic look in his eyes. 

“Uh… I-I think I’d better go.” He shuttered, lifting his hands from you carefully.

“Y-yea, I’ll see you tomorrow?” The realisation of what you’d just done crashed into you and you slid away from him. 

“Th-that… uh- Goodnight.” He stood up abruptly, his lips still glistening, face flushed red with embarrassment. 

All you could get out was ‘yea’ before he was briskly walking back to his truck, leaving you on your porch steps alone. 

-

Alone in his room, an unexplainable terror filling his entire body. He collapsed by his bed, hands clasped tightly as he thought of how to explain himself to God. He had convinced himself that these feelings only led to sin. 

"Protect me from my mind." He rested his head against his hands, feeling the guilt weighing him down. He wiped it from his mind, telling himself he'd never do it again.

-

16th July 2017

9:20am, Sunday Mass, Broken Bow, Nebraska

“If you love me, keep my commands.” The priest read aloud, eyes never lifting to look at his parishioners. His voice felt like chalk in Dennis’ ears, making his back itch, and skin sweaty. As he droned on, reading gospel with a tongue of fire, Dennis grew more anxious. His fingers picked at the scab on his knuckle; he couldn’t leave it alone. The deafening sound of preaching consumed him, the sin of existing ripping him from the inside out. The harder he tried to zone out, the more guilt chewed on him. He brought his fingers to his mouth, biting on his flesh, a habit he had tried to drop before. 

The past month, he fought himself, the thought of you a constant in his mind. The priest had turned to using scripture to condemn the actions of sinners in his usual hateful ramble. It was killing him, eyes aching when he looked up at the altar, the image of Christ staring down in disgust, or what Dennis believed to be disgust. Had God seen the things living in his mind? If God knew what he thought about, he’d surely never see heaven. He’d fall forever, skin flayed from his meat, organs cooked in the fires of hell. The impureness of his mind, his own perversions that he couldn’t get rid of. Dennis picked his skin harder, making himself bleed, it would never be punishment enough for his deplorable thoughts. It would rot inside him if he didn't confess to it, poisoning the good still left in him. Every waking moment he replayed you kissing him, thought of how it could've gone, how he could do it again and again and again. 

He wished he could move on from it. You hadn't mentioned it, at all, acting like it hadn't done anything to change how you felt for him. He felt crazy. The mass drew to a close, his heart racing, his mind swirling with disgust and yet, he immediately searched for you.

-

25th August 2017

8:45pm, Broken Bow, Nebraska

"I bestow onto you," He mimicked the voice of Gandalf, a bad impression you'd say. His hands opening in front of you. "My faithful iPod nano."

"How old is this thing?" You jeered, holding back a laugh.

"It's not old." He frowned, dropping the act sadly. "Are you taking it or not?"

"Oh, right yes, thank you, the great wizard Gandalf!" You played the part of a faithful hobbit, taking his old iPod nano into your hands. You carefully placed it inside your bag, like it was a precious stone that would explode if handled wrong. "You have brought me great fortune! I will cherish this treasure for an eternity!"

The sun was beginning to set, you both sitting in the middle of a field, hidden by the long grass and weeds. You had been there all day, just talking, spending the last moments of freedom together before you left for college. 

"Will you miss me?" He leaned back on his hands, head tilted back to the sky. 

"Immensely." You smiled, lying back on the grass, not caring what creepy crawlies found their way to you. "You still set on Theology?"

"It's locked in." He murmured, closing his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it for myself or my parents."

"Why?" Your head turned to look at him.

"They've never been proud of me. I'm the first in our family to even get into college and the only thing they're happy about is that I'm studying theology. I never got a congratulations for getting into Creighton, or getting a scholarship but once I mentioned studying God, then they were interested." 

"Well, if they won't say they're proud of you, then I will. I am proud of you Dennis Whitaker, wherever life takes you, I will always be right behind you." 

"Thank you, I'm proud of you too."

The sky grew darker, the darkness revealing flecks of gold as the moonlight spilled over you and him. He had laid beside you, leaning back on his arms, admiring the constellations above. Dennis would never tell you that he loved quiet moments with you, knowing you were there, knowing you wanted to be there, was enough for him. He didn't need you to speak, or do anything. 

You let out a sigh, gaze shifting to him. He was contented, searching the sky, breathing slowly. Staring felt guilty, it felt wrong but you couldn't help it. You wouldn't see him for months, you were terrified that this friendship would fizzle out, that he'd find new people, more interesting people to be around. You were scared that he'd change, or worse you'd change and that you would be different together, an uncontrollable twist of fate that kept you up at night. But you didn't know he felt the exact same way.

-

14th July 2018 

3:50pm, Broken Bow, Nebraska

The summer after freshman year, you both had come back to Broken Bow, you both said it was to see family, to get a break from college but you both were only looking forward to seeing one another. The last time you had seen him in person was Christmas, you had been calling him every week, keeping him updated with everything you'd been doing at college, and he did the same. You had walked to his house, gravel crunching beneath your feet as you walked towards the porch, the sound of raised voices spilling through the ajar door. Your eyebrows furrowed, climbing the steps before getting to the door. You could hear more than three voices and one was Dennis, apologising profusely. You shoved the door open, your blood pumping harder in your veins and then you saw him, head lowered in shame as his parents paced, shouting and ranting about everything and nothing. They saw you, faces scrunching up in disgust as Dennis lifted his head, eyes widening at the sight of you. It didn't take him long to decide to run to you. 

"Dennis? What's going on?" You panicked, looking over him. 

"Can we just go?" He walked by you, his pinky finger looping around yours. You didn't respond, just followed him out to his truck. You both into his truck, Dennis' lifeless eyes stared ahead, his breathing irregular as he started the engine, driving out to the main road. 

"What happened?" You slid across the bench, touching his leg. 

"I believed they'd be proud of me, even if I wanted to be somewhat progressive, at least it would be under God." He muttered, a tear rolling down his face. "They found a paper I wrote, a discussion on the teachings of Jesus. I took the route of progression, how Jesus fought for the minorities, the misfortunate, the homeless, the refugees. They, uh… called me a traitor."

"What?" You froze. 

"Traitor to the glory of Christ, that I had fallen to the ways of sinners." He shrugged, the tears still spilling out, chin wobbling as he held back cries. "How… is the way of sinners?"

"It isn't…"

He shook his head, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, driving down a dirt road, toward a spot you both knew well. You stayed quiet, rubbing his leg in the weak attempt to comfort him. The rest of the drive was silent until he parked by the field. You both climbed out, your fingers laced with his as you walked into the field, the tall grass swallowing your lower half. When you both found a spot, you sat beside him, leaning into his arm knowing he just needed you there. His fingers clung to yours, bringing them to his chest. 

"You are everything right with the church…" You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear you. "You are kind, and loving."

He turned his head, looking over your face. 

"Your parents are wrong." You met his gaze. "You are good."

His gaze dropped, letting out a breath before lifting his eyes to yours again. "Do you really think that?"

"With all my heart," You felt a pull, your eyes falling to his lips. "Dennis."

His name on your tongue was all he needed, he leaned in and captured your lips, wrapping his arm around you. Your hand held his face, his lips moving against yours in fluid motions, your body tingling under his touch. It was tender, your heart pounded in your chest. His tongue dragged along your bottom lip, begging for more. You tilted his head, letting him explore you deeper, hands clinging to his shirt. 

"We shouldn't…" You whispered against his lips, catching your breath.

"Mhmm, we shouldn't." He muttered before pulling you back into him, kissing you a little harder than before. The way he held you, the way his fingers slipped beneath your shirt, sprawling across your back. You let a moan slip out of your mouth, a hand finding his hair. 

It was too much, you pulled away and looked at him, trying to catch your breath. The gold cross hanging from his neck, twinkled against the sun as it spilled through the clouds. He was breathing raggedly but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stop watching you. Nothing crossed your mind as you stared at his lips, wet and reddened. His dirty blond hair fell into his eyes, sweat making it cling to his forehead.

“I think I need to kiss you again.” He closed the gap. You inhaled him, kissing him eagerly, his moans pouring down your throat as he tugged you onto his lap, straddling his legs. You couldn't stop, even when you felt yourself getting wet as you brushed yourself against his growing erection. His lips broke from yours, finding your neck where he sucked and nipped, guiding your hips when you moved, aching for friction. 

“Sh-shit.” He ripped himself away with his hands held up like he was at gunpoint. His hair was a mess, a bulge straining in his jeans. He said your name as if that would break you both out of it.  “We have evening service." 

-

His fingers brushed against to yours in the pews, the priest’s voice echoing throughout the church. His body felt your warmth radiate from your skin, nudging his foot against yours to get you to look at him. He was drawn to you even when he knew it was wrong, when he knew this would all build up. When you met his gaze, he smiled so sweetly as he let out a breath through his nose, shoulders settling. Sinful as it was, he couldn’t help but want you, in every way he could think of. In his arms, on his bed, in his truck. He wanted to be with you and to love you like you deserved to be. He wanted you to himself. He wanted a life with you, to move out of Broken Bow and never come back. As the priest droned on, he couldn’t look away from you. He knew he loved you; that wasn’t hard for him to figure out and it terrified him, his whole life ahead of his crumbling in his eyes.

Outside the church, the Priest lingered close by, eyeing you two, how you held each other’s fingers, smiling in such sappy childish admiration. He walked closer, tapping Dennis on the shoulder, telling him he needed a talk. 

"Yes Father?" Dennis followed him, not worried in the slightest. 

"The acts of the flesh are obvious, sexual immortality, impurity and debauchery…" He started, glaring coldly at Dennis. He continued on, "I warn you, as I did before that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God. Galatians, fifth chapter, verses nineteen through twenty-one."

"I don't understand." Dennis' whole body went cold, his heart feeling like it might shrivel up. 

"I have watched that friendship, you have brought sin into the house of God." His words ripped right through Dennis' chest. "Imagine what your parents would say if they saw your actions within this church."

He shook his head, almost frantically, stumbling over his words. "N-no, I didn't do anything."

"If you wish to continue as part of the church, I recommend you face your truth with the lord. If you break that covenant, you can never turn back." He flippantly said before quoting Colossians. "Put to death therefore what is earthly in you."

Dennis stood in shock, heart racing now that he couldn't catch a breath, hands reaching up to grasp at his throat. It was all together hysterical, how his body felt as if it were shutting down, his skin burning when he saw you looking all worried and confused.

"Den?" You touched his arm feverishly. 

He unclasped his cross necklace from around his neck, shoving it into your palm. 

"I'm sorry, I have to go. I'll … see you later." He doesn't take a moment to think about how it felt for you, to have him look so disgusted, so disappointed as he turned away from you, striding away without looking back. He drove him in silence, throat tightening as he held back sobs. It was a blur, before he knew it, he was in his room, gasping for air, pacing back and forth while he broke down, sobbing harder than he ever had before. 

"Lord, I would tear my throat out if that's what you wanted from, I'd cut myself and bleed for you. Why do you keep testing my faith in you? I am already embarrassed and tired. You wouldn't let me have her, she was all I had. How is it not pure when she is all I think about? She is good to me, please." He slowly lowered himself onto his bed, holding his head in his hands.  

-

18th January 2019

11:45pm Chicago

It had been months since you heard from him. Once summer ended, you went back to college and he didn’t reply to your texts as often as he used to. The only way you knew he was alive was a really active social media that had posted him with about thirty other people, all celebrating their love for God through pilgrimages. It wasn’t out of character Dennis to be involved with the church but this felt forced. A video was uploaded, Dennis standing alongside others preaching about how God is good, how “God is the Truth”. 

It was a Sunday night, middle of winter, you were wrapped in blankets trying to combat the chill. You had been rereading the bible, attempting to find what would’ve pulling Dennis back in, what appeal it had to take him. Your phone started buzzing, lighting up to reveal Dennis’ contact. You answered.

“Hello? Dennis?” You said, almost scared for what he might say. 

“Hey.” His voice crackled over the line, then a silence settled over you both. It felt wrong speaking to him, like something would go incredibly wrong.

“Hey, how are you?” You let out a sigh. You had to admit that hearing his voice felt nice.

“I’m alright, if I’m honest, I’ve been missing our talks.” He sounded different, not that you could really put a finger on what it was, he was just different. 

“Really?” 

“Of course… What have you been up to?”

You hated that you couldn't answer him. You couldn't admit that you’d been rereading scripture, that you’d been attending church almost every day, searching for him in everything.

“You still there?” He broke you from your thoughts.

“Yea sorry, I’ve been… going to church…”

“Really?” He chirped excitedly. 

“Every day, for about two months.”

“Wow…” Suddenly, his excitement dulled. “Why?”

“What?” You blanched.

“Why have you turned to God? Did something happen?” There was a noticeable shift in his voice.

“Nothing in particular, no.” You lied. 

“You can tell me anything, you know what right?”

“Okay then, can I be honest?”

“Of course, always.”

“It makes me feel like I know you.”

He went quiet, the sound of your heart echoed in your ears.

“When I go to church, I feel like I can understand you.” You hated admitting it. It was humiliating to sit and confess to being so caught up with him.

“Th-that’s good.” His voice sounded like it was trembling. He was teetered too close to the edge, he knew he shouldn't have called you.

“I’m lost, you don’t talk to me anymore. I don’t know what I did to you.”

“I miss you.” His voice sounded like him when he whispered, his breathing shaky. It felt like he was changing the subject, it all felt wrong. “You have no idea. I think about you every day.”

“I miss you too.” You confessed.

A soft grunt echoed over the line, followed by a frustrated sigh. The pit of your stomach twinged, a satisfying buzz filling you. That simple sound from him made your head light. 

“What are you doing Dennis?” You questioned, feeling the hairs on your arms standing on end.

“I miss you so much.” He breathed out, an almost muted moan following it. 

You didn’t answer, almost frozen in fear. 

“I never told you how much I needed you. I still do.” He was growing more confident, his voice not as faint. 

You were scared to speak, scared you say the wrong thing, scared you'd send him running but your whole body was on fire.

“I-I’m so hard.” He admitted before immediately sobering. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I called.”

“You can touch yourself if you need to...” You snaked a hand down to your underwear, a weird feeling building in your gut. "Why did you call Dennis?" 

“I can't…” He shuddered. "I can't tell you."

“I won’t tell, why did you call me?" You persisted. 

"Needed to hear your voice, I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I missed you, I miss you." He panted out a groan. 

"It's okay, you can touch yourself." You were already teasing yourself, lightly brushing a finger over your slit.

"It's sinful." His voice was barely audible.

"Your secret is safe with me." You whispered.

He breathed out a moan. “C-Can you watch me?”

“If that’s what you want.” 

When his camera turned on, it was total darkness but he could see you, your features softened by the warm yellow light on your bedside table. 

“So pretty…” He said, a small light illuminating his face, his cheeks already flushed. He started to set his phone up on the side, giving you a full view of him in bed. He was wearing a black hoodie and grey sweats, palming over his bulge as he made sure it was angled right. He sat facing his phone, back against the wall. 

He pulled his sweats down just enough to get his cock out, gently stroking it in his hand, eyes staring at you on his phone. He started slow, cupping his balls and teasing himself. 

“Every time… I think about you, it gets… so so hard.” He whimpered, looking down at his cock as he started pumping himself with his fist. “Is it turning you on?”

You nodded, a finger tracing along your slit. 

“Show me.” He whined, head leaning back against the wall. “Show me how much I’m turning you on.”

You shimmied off your pants, pulled your underwear down to your ankles, panning the camera down to reveal how soaked you were already. He watched eagerly, his breathing shifted, fucking into his hand harder when you teased your hole with your middle finger. 

“What do you want me to do?” You hovered your finger over your hole. 

“F-Finger yourself…” 

You slid a single finger in, breathing heavier as you curled it. 

“Use your thumb to rub your clit.” His voice echoed from the phone and you followed his instruction. “Does it feel good?”

“Y-yea…”

“Do you wish it was me finger fucking you?” 

You held back a moan. “I wish it was you Dennis…” 

A bang echoed through his room, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes growing wider as he slowly looked toward his door. 

“Shit, I have to go, I’m sorry.” He pulled his boxers back on and leaned forward, taking his phone. “I-I’ll call you tomorrow."

-

12th August 2020

2:30pm, Broken Bow, Nebraska

Sweat clung to the back of your neck, the humidity made everything feel claustrophobic, your whole body was sticky from the heat. You were back for a week to spend time with family but you were already growing bored. You had thought of visiting Dennis' parents, hoping deep down that he'd be there, hoping that you'd get some answers out of him but fear pushed you to stay put. He hadn't spoken to you since that night. A stupid thing that you would've looked past if he had asked you to. You had heard from his brothers that he'd been travelling across the country but he hadn't been home since Christmas last year. It was mean but keeping in contact with his brothers was the only way for you to know that Dennis was alive and not floating in a creek somewhere. Apparently, he was focused on remaining within the faith, wanting to teach the word of God.

You mindlessly played with the cross that hung around your neck, eyes closing as you felt a light breeze washing over you, cooling you down. The sound of an engine running grew louder followed the crackling of gravel on the road. You sat up, looking ahead at the truck pulling in front of your house. 

"What the fuck?" You nearly jump out of your seat, the pit of your stomach sinking at the sight of a red truck. Your feet moved by themselves, carrying you towards the car as the driver killed the engine. The door swung open and he was almost unrecognisable. His gaze settled on you, startling backwards lightly. 

"Hey." He managed to get out.

"No, no. This isn't happening." You felt sick but looking at him, how his eyes softened, how his lips parted to speak only to close again at your rage. "You disappear for a year and a half and then show up at my house?" 

"I know, I had a lot to think about." He admitted, climbing out of the truck. "I can explain everything."

"How am I supposed to stand here and listen to you?" You felt tears coming and you hated it. He didn't look himself, his hair was short, eyes hollowed out like his soul had been sucked dry but he felt taller, more muscle on his bones, the way his white shirt hugged his arms, it was like he had hit a second puberty. You couldn't pull your eyes from him.

"I felt ashamed, I had to repent." He stepped closer to you. 

"And that meant leaving me in the dark? Wondering for months about what I must’ve done to hurt you? Dennis, you called me that night!" You couldn't help it, the tears tripped you up, choking on your breath. 

"I-I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." He muttered. "Can we go for a drive and talk?"

You wanted to laugh in his face, to shove him away, to tell him to get away from you and never come back. You hated him so much, but still felt yourself pulled toward him. He was your person which only made you feel worse. It felt impossible to say no so you said yes. 

You climbed into his truck and it smelt the same as it always did. He started the engine and drove in the silence, not daring to look in your direction. He drove in silence for about twenty minutes, until he pulled into the side of the road. You both jumped out of the car, you made a beeline for the fence which led into a field, climbing over it while Dennis followed. It started awkward, an uncomfortable silence that you felt you couldn't break through. He stayed focused ahead, walking alongside you as if there was purpose behind it all. 

"Put to death therefore what is earthly in you." He blurted out, staring ahead. 

"What?" You glanced at him.

"He told me that two summers ago." His voice turned hoarse.

"Who did?" You stopped in your tracks, grabbing his arm to make him stay.

"The priest before our new one." 

"What do you mean?"

"He watched us, thought we were impure, sexually. Told me I had brought sin into the house of God." He felt sick admitting it.

"Dennis…"

"I have repented…"

"There is nothing to repent for Dennis, we didn't do anything wrong."

He didn't respond to you, slowly walking on as you followed behind. It was silence again, as your feet dragged you back to the car. You both climbed back in, and sat staring out at the road, sitting with him felt uncomfortable, different in how the air shifted around you, how the words stuck in your throat when you tried to talk. He didn't move, staring into space. Suddenly, his hand inched closer, fingers brushing against yours but it was like he didn’t want to startle you. It was like hot and cold.

“It’s not the same anymore.” You whispered, misty-eyed. He turned to face you, eyes widening as you started weeping quietly.

“H-Hey...” His hand held your face, making you look at him, but you crumbled when you looked into his eyes, seeing how he became frantic.

“It’s all different, we’re not us anymore.” You cried, squeezing your eyes shut, scared to look at him anymore. 

“We are, we are…” He reassured, wiping your tears with his thumbs. 

“He has his pull on you. God convinced you that you had to change to be devout. You were always good. What happened to my Dennis?” You couldn’t catch your breath, uncontrollable sobs racking through your body. Dennis dropped his hands, staring at you as he inhaled a shaky breath. His heart split in his chest, fingertips growing numb. You composed yourself enough to look at him, noticing how his face morphed, your breathing unsteady, sliding across the bench closer to him. It was pathetic, how you touched his thigh, his body tensing. 

“You were mine.” You got closer, searching his face, looking for something that wasn’t there anymore. It didn’t get through to him, even as your lips found his cheek, kissing along his jaw, messy and wet from tears. “You were my Dennis… Be my Dennis again, please.” 

Tears spilled from his eyes, his voice weak, he whispered your name. “Please... Don’t do this.”

“You’re mine, p-please Dennis.” It repeated like an involuntary jerk out of you, kissing over his face in the childish attempt to bring him back to you. “You were always mine.”

He repeated your name like a mantra, telling you he couldn’t do it, that it wasn’t right but he didn’t push you away or stop you, even as your mouth found his neck, sucking and nipping. No matter how hard he devoted himself to God, he couldn’t turn away from you. He let you move closer, hands on his chest as you climbed onto his lap, strands of hair sticking to your face. He took his sleeve and wiped your face, delicate as it dragged over your cheeks. Your hands cupped his face, wanting so desperately to kiss him. He let his fingers rest against your tights, fear rising to the surface. 

A sob slipped out of his lips, a force pulling it out of him before he could stop himself. He didn’t need to tell you how he felt, you could see it in his eyes, as they searched your face. The way his eyebrows twitched together, his lips parting slightly when his eyes looked over your face. He breathed out your name. Fear and pleasure washed over you, you’d never crossed this boundary with him, never opened yourself up for him, never showed him what existed in the depths of your mind. 

You leaned closer, lips brushing against his. A soft sigh poured from his mouth. He caught your lips with his. He was so gentle, his fingers barely touching you as he held your waist awkwardly, whimpering when your hands slid into his hair. Each touch seemed to push you both further, testing with nods of consent and soft hums. A desperate ache filled your stomach as one of his hands held the back of your neck, holding you firm as his tongue swiped across yours. It was messy, childish but all consuming. The moonlight illuminated the cab of the truck, the movements between you two making it rock, the cross hanging from his rearview tapping against the windshield. He guided you, one hand gently rocking your hips against him. You felt him getting harder, high-pitched whines pouring into your mouth. You moaned out his name, feeling yourself getting wetter each time you grinded against the solid bulge in his shorts. He grew louder, messier when he kissed you, groaning when you tugged his hair. 

It was hunger, the way his fingers slipped beneath your dress, finding your underwear, tugging them aside. Once you’d awkwardly shimmied them off, you watched his face as you pawed at his cock through his shorts. 

He shuddered a moan, looking down as he pulled it out, throbbing and pink, so delicate. He couldn’t help but whine as he fondled with himself, precum trickling down his shaft, cock twitching. “N-nghh..”

You lifted his chin, kissing him again, this time harder and more desperate as you lifted your hips. 

“O-oh…” His head fell back against the seat, his tip rubbing against your clit. You guided him to where you ached the most, nudging him into your cunt. Desire overrode your fear, your cunt stretching around him as you slowly swallowed his cock. 

“Y-you feel… oh f-fuck, so good, so g-good.” His breath was knocked out of him, panting helplessly as he bottomed out inside you. His pupils dilated, never looking away from your face, even when you pulled down your dress straps, the fabric falling down your torso. His eager hands trailed up your back, clumsy fingers working to unclasp your bra. You continued hungrily grinding on his cock, feeling him stretch and fill you. The clasp of your bra unlatched and Dennis slid his hands over your shoulders, slowly taking it off, mouth hanging open as your tits laid bare for him. He brought his mouth to your hardened nipple, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub before sucking gently. Your fingers sunk into his hair, tugging softly as you lifted your hips slightly, slamming back down on his dick. You kept going, bouncing as much as the space allowed, while he sobbed, whimpering incoherently while the sounds of your sloppy fucking filled the truck. 

It didn’t take long until you were riding out your orgasm, head falling back as you choked out cries. Your cunt clenching as you came down from your peak. Dennis followed soon after, holding you in place as you leaned against him with your forehead on his shoulder exhausted. He fucked up into you, breathy moans filling the cab until he was filling you with cum, milking his cock with your pussy. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, both of you leaning against one another to gather yourselves. You sat up, pulling him out, feeling his cum spilling out of you. 

He went silent, pulling his shorts back on as you sat back beside him, waiting for him to talk but he didn’t. His expression completely unreadable. You curled into yourself, pulling up your dress straps as quick as you could, feeling tears fill your eyes again.

“Are you angry?” You managed to get out. “Do you hate me?” 

“No.” He shook his head, looking down at his hands. “I could never hate you.”

He started the engine, still trying to catch his breath, swallowing hard. He drove in silence, parking outside your house. You opened the door and jumped out, turning to face him with your hand still on the door.

“We shouldn’t see each other again.” He muttered, staring down at his hands. 

“What? Why?” Your heart started racing.

“We’re not good. You deserve someone who can give you more.” He sighed, avoiding your gaze. You felt bile rising in your throat, tears spilling down your cheeks when you slammed the door, watching him start the engine and drive off. 

-

Present Day

Omaha, Nebraska

You weren’t sure why you accepted the invite.

You were back in Nebraska, after what felt like a lifetime and having spent the last five or so years building a life for yourself in Boston. You were happy, secured with a flexible job that you loved, settled in a studio apartment that you made your own. You had friends, plenty of them, and you were seeing someone new. Perhaps you accepted the invite, in the hopes of seeing him and gloating about how great you were doing, but you wouldn’t admit to that.

You huffed, dragging your suitcase through a hotel lobby, sweat beating down your back.  Familiar faces surrounded you at every turn, nearly half of Broken Bow had shown up and the thing that surprised you was that they’d actually travelled to Omaha. You finally got to the front desk, feeling like your legs might buckle from underneath you, and you told the receptionist that you had a reservation with the wedding party.

“Room 290 on the 2nd floor. Hope you enjoy your stay.” He smiled, handing over your room key. “If there are any issues with the room, don’t hesitate to dial 1 on the room phone and I’ll send someone to help.”

“Oh, thank you very much.” You nodded and made your way towards the elevators. You were exhausted from the journey and you just needed to lie down and turn off your brain. You took the elevator up to the second floor, dragged yourself to room 209 and started fumbling with the key card.

The door beside you opened and out walked a dark-haired woman, grumbling about being ‘in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by country bumpkins’ while rubbing her forehead. She glanced your direction, giving a less than friendly smile before turning around to face whoever was following her out of the room.

“It won’t be that bad. I’m surprised you even agreed to come to my brother’s wedding in the first place.” A voice you could pick out of a lineup spoke from inside the room. You turned your attention, hands frozen still. Dennis walked out of the room, arms folded across his chest, smiling smugly. You stared at him, feeling your bones turn to mush, your heart racing. He looked different, happy and healthy. You felt sick for wishing that he wasn’t. When his gaze caught you, his smile dropping instantly. His body turned to face you, his eyes reading like he wanted to talk to you, like he wanted to be near you. You started panicking, trying to unlock your door with no luck. You heard his friend muttering about him being weird before you slipped the key card into the slot and the door clicked open. You scrambled inside, slamming the door behind you. You muttered a curse to yourself, leaning against the door and decided to wipe it from your memory, and go for a nap before Noah’s rehearsal dinner.

-

The rehearsal dinner was as busy as you thought it’d be. You had been seated at your table for a while before any other guests were beginning to show up so you retreated into yourself, absorbed in your phone, responding to emails and messages.

“I think this is us.”

You lifted your head, seeing the dark-haired woman standing by, reading the table number with Dennis by her side. You wanted to die, shrinking into your seat with your phone as your shield. They took their seats, not noticing how you nearly slithered off your seat. Your skin felt clammy, heart pounding off beat as the seats slowly filled, the lights dimming. Dennis and his date seemed to be chatting each other’s ears off, while you sat watching. It was some sort of sick joke, seeing him so happy with someone, you wanted to peel your skin off. You kept your attention to Noah and his soon to be wife, who you hadn't had the fortune of meeting yet. The meal dragged on, courses and toasts, and more drinks, and more talking and more and more drinks. You zoned out for most of the meal, watched as servers came and went, the laughing of the soon to be married couple split through your mind before fizzling into nothing. It felt like an eternity, and he hadn't stopped watching you the whole time. His gaze bore into you even when his date rattled on, and you had tried to ignore it.

Once the food had stopped being served and it socially acceptable, you jumped out of your seat and went to say hello to Noah, hoping Dennis didn't get the same idea. They were chatting happily, until Noah's gaze landed on you, a childish grin pulling on his face. 

"Are you enjoying your company?" He poked, his fiancée looking slightly confused. 

"You sat me there on purpose?" You couldn't be hurt, Noah was an asshole. 

"Thought it might bring you two back together." He shrugged. 

"What's happened?" His fiancée butted in, a worried look washing over her face. "If you're uncomfortable, we can move you around for the reception tomorrow."

"Oh, don't worry, please." You shook your head, smiling at her. "I just came over to say congratulations, and that I’m happy for you both."

"Thank you! and I'm sorry about him, I had no idea." She subtly jammed him in the ribs with two fingers, smiling sweetly before turning her full attention to him. You slipped off, feeling like you'd been slapped by a ton weight of bricks. You wandered across the room, noticing Elijah and Stan with their families so you make yourself known to them, waving over to them with a big smile before turning to go back to your seat, only to see Dennis. He was coming towards you, striding towards you. It couldn't happen. Your eyes scanned the room, looking for an out, until you settled on slipping past and making a run for the door.

-

“So, you’re the ex-friend Huckleberry mentions all the time?” Dennis’ date smirked, her eyes almost twinkling with interest. The whole day had been a blur for you, the ceremony had come and gone, it was all beautiful but being near Dennis was messing with your head. How he stared at you every chance he got, even when he stood by the altar as Noah's best man, his eyes didn't break from you. Now you were sat at your table again, forced to be close enough to him and his date, forced to engage in conversations. 

“A-ah who?” You looked at her, unsure if she was talking to you, glancing at Dennis, you could see he was sweating, diverting his gaze from you.

“You so are.” She looked at him, wanting to laugh. “God.”

“I’m really sorry.” He finally met your eyes, his voice low. You already wanted to leave but hearing him speak to you almost sent you off.

“I’m not! I have many questions and you have all the answers.” She scoots her chair over closer to you. “I’m Trinity by the way.”

You introduce yourself hesitantly. “Are you two um- “

“Ew! God no!” Trinity gagged, throwing a look of disgust back at Dennis. “Ew.”

“She’s my coworker… and roommate.” Dennis butted in from the other side of Trinity. "Just making that clear."

She glanced at him, rolling her eyes before turning her full attention back to you. Trinity asked about everything from his family, to his upbringing, to what he used to wear, the sports he played, the church he attended, how you two met. It edged on digging for something to laugh at but she was disappointed, you only gave shit short answers because you could see Dennis out of the corner of your eye, head in his hands, uncomfortable. 

Dinner slowly passes, you ended up drinking a little too much, a fantastic attempt at distracting yourself and by 9pm, you were more drunk than you wanted to be, sitting by yourself with a glass of champagne still in hand. You had opted to sit off to the side, smiling as you watched people dancing with and celebrating the newlywed couple but then you saw him, standing by the doors, holding his drink and staring right at you. You had forgotten in that moment that you both hadn't spoken in years, you looked at him like you'd been waiting to see him, like you wanted to tell him something but you held back. You gulp the rest of your drink, abandoning the glass on a nearby table before you made a beeline out the door, aiming for the elevator, wanting this day over so you could go home. You ride the elevator up to your floor, and went to your room, slipping off your shoes as soon as you got in the door. There was a beat before there was a frantic knock on the door. You glanced through the peephole, seeing Dennis standing there with his head hanging low, so you tugged the door open.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” You stuttered, feeling like you might throw up.

He met your eyes, he looking at you as he whispered your name so quietly.

“No, no, you don’t get to do this.” You shook your head, going to close the door but he stopped it with his foot.

“Let me talk please.” He leaned against the door frame. “Please.”

You hesitated, grip tightening on the door handle as you fought yourself internally before you put your foot down. You sternly said, “No. You need to go…”

“I shouldn’t have left you that night.” He said, regardless of your objections. “I was scared but it doesn’t make up for the fact that I did it to you.”

You stayed quiet, your head feeling light and tingly.

“It was the greatest sin I’d ever committed and it freaked me out that I didn’t regret it. I couldn’t get you out of my mind, how it was with you. I was blinded, delusional in believing in God’s truth. I thought I was disgusting, or that I had ruined you in the eyes of God.” His chest heaved. "It's a shitty excuse but I was so..."

You opened the door, looking at him as he hung his head in defeat.

“I should've been up front with you, told you everything. Leaving you like that was the worst thing I could've done. Fuck, a better way would've been to ask you to marry me.” He tried to laugh it off, before his voice steadied. “I was so stupid.”

“You can’t say that." You flinched backwards, staring at him. "It wouldn’t have changed anything and you know that.” 

“Why can't I? Would you have said yes?” Your reaction ignited something in him. He was looking at you now, focused on how you’d answer, if you even answered. 

“Dennis… That's mean. You can't ask me that.” You stepped back, feeling your breath leaving your lungs, tears threatening to start. You didn't understand what he was doing. 

“No, sorry, I can and I am.” He was stern, you'd never seen this side of him before.

“I’m not giving you an answer.” You mournfully muttered, bitting the inside of your cheek.

“Would you have married me?” He pleaded your name. 

“Okay, yes.” It hurt you being honest, admitting you wasted all those years. “Is that what you want to hear? You fucking idiot!” 

His body flinched, eyes welling up. 

“I thought I had left this all behind. I was the one running after you while you pled your innocence to God who would never answer you.” You sobbed. You hated it so much. “I was real, I was right there Dennis, every single time! Now you come to me, asking me if I would've married you? Are you fucking crazy?”

He said your name, as tears fell down his face.

“Don’t. I was willing to give you everything and you threw it back in my face, please go.” You shook your head, trying to hold back your cries.

“Please, just...” He wept.

“Dennis, leave me alone.” You felt more tears, your chest tightening.

“I’m sorry, please.” He touched your arm. You jolted it back and then you looked at him. Messy blond-haired Dennis, staring at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive, floods spilling out of his eyes. “I-I’m sorry.” 

“I can’t forgive you Dennis.” You choked out, wiping your face.

“I don’t expect you to, I need you to know that I’m sorry. Having feelings for you was the only real thing I had ever felt, I guess it outweighed the faith I had in God. You were everything to me and I fucked it, I’m sorry.” 

 “I can’t, Dennis.” You struggled to turn him away, it broke you.

He accepted your answer, nodding his head and turning to leave you.

You grabbed his hand to stop him, a word not spoken. He looked at you, glassy eyes. You gently tugged him towards you, stepping backwards slowly. He willingly followed you, closing the door behind him. 

“What are you doing?” He whispered, watching you closely.

“I don’t know…” You let out a breath, tears filling your eyes as a quiet sob escaped your throat. “I don’t know Dennis, are you going to disappear again?”

He shook his head “Never… I want to make it up to you, I’ll do anything… everything for the rest of my life.” 

He stepped closer, hand sliding it up your arm, goosebumps spreading across your skin.

You met his eyes, letting out a defeated breath. “I won't chase after you anymore…”

His breathing turned shaky, eyes flickering over your face, fingers burning against your skin. He didn’t push, didn’t dare move.

You stepped closer, body almost pressing against him, whispering, “I can’t...”

His gaze fell to your lips, leaning down closer to you. He murmured, “Then don’t…”

You leaned up, feeling your body move on its own, your nose brushing against his. 

“I’m so sorry” He whispered, hands reaching up to hold your face. “I love you.”

You broke into a sob, “D-Don’t say that.”

 “I’m sorry.” He started kissing your face, going down along your jaw, down your neck and onto your chest, whispering your name. He slowly lowered to his knees, forehead resting on your thighs, arms wrapped around you.

“I’m sorry.” He broke into a painful sob, shoulders shaking as he gripped your dress. You looked down at him, hesitantly letting your fingers go through his hair. His face was so close to your crotch, you could feel him brushing against you as he cried. You hated that it turned on, watching him kneeling in front of you, face buried in your dress.

You started breathing heavy. “D-Dennis? Get up.”

He looked up at you, face all wet, eyes red and puffy from crying, looking up at you like you hung the moon. He was so beautiful, you couldn’t help but stare at him. He slowly rose to his feet, hands cupping your face. He leaned close, his breath fanning over your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

You hesitated, your mind thinking about the last time you two kissed. His eyes begged you, his mouth so close to yours. Finally, you nodded and he kissed you. It was so gentle and tender. His lips were so soft, his body relaxing the moment you leaned into it. You could feel his breathing still stuttering, face still wet from crying. You slowly placed your hands over his, letting him break away to catch his breath every few seconds. He breathed out a moan, kissing you again desperately.

You stumbled backwards together, you hitting back against the wall behind you, his enclosing you between him and the wall. His hands moved to hold your waist while your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close. You pulled back, gaze looking over his face, a thumb wiping his cheek. You took a few seconds, admiring him. Then you snapped back to reality.

“We can’t...” You breathed.

“Why?” He leaned back to get a good look of your face.

“I’m seeing someone…” You felt disgusting.

Dennis’ eyes meet yours again. “Who?”

“This guy in Boston.” You admitted, hands still on his body.

“Is he good to you?”

“Y-yea...”

Dennis nodded, his expression defeated. “And are you happy?”

“I think so” You nodded, forcing a pathetic smile.

He pulled away, backing up from you and then he held out his hand, “So, friends?”

“Yea, friends.” You took his hand, squeezing it tight. 

 “I won’t leave this time, I promise you. I’m happy you’ve met someone.” He took a breath and told you goodnight, leaving your hotel room. 

The following morning, you found a note by your door.

forgot to give you my new number - dennis

-

Boston, Massachusetts

A couple months had passed since you last saw Dennis and you both were still in contact, chatting almost every day. He enjoyed sending you photos throughout his day, during work, after work, at the gym. He preferred it over typing out a response. You hadn’t had the chance to meet again, you both having busy lives and living in two completely cities. But, out of the blue, at 8pm on a random Tuesday night, he called.

“Hello?” You answered half scared, holding the phone between your cheek and shoulder while put away your laundry.

“Hey, so are you busy this weekend?” Dennis said casually.

“As busy as I usually am.” You sarcastically jabbed while folding clothes. “Why?”

 “There is a medical conference in Boston on Friday, I’m going… and it’s super last minute but I was wondering if you maybe wouldn’t mind me spending the weekend with you?”

“They aren’t paying for your hotel, are they?” You smiled to yourself.

“Well that too, I’m not paying hundreds of dollars for a couple nights in a shitty hotel.” His voice was loud enough to crackle over the line.

“I’ll be here, I’ll send you the address.” You chirped. “I can't wait to see you!”

“Thank you, thank you. I really appreciate it, I can’t wait.”

-

Friday came around quick, Dennis told you he was heading straight to the venue and that he would be at your apartment by 7pm, which gave you enough time to get home and have your place looking as nice as it could be. At 7:12pm, the doorbell rang. You jogged over to the door, opening it to find Dennis standing in front of you, a small suitcase by his side. You immediately pulled him into a tight hug, feeling him hesitantly hugging you back.

“Did you find it okay?” You pulled back, smiling at him widely.

“Yea, it wasn’t too bad.” He nodded quickly.

“Come on in! It’s only a loft studio,” You stepped aside and let him come into the apartment, pointing at the stairs. “So, the bed is… up these stairs, you can have it. I’ll take the couch.”

“Oh god no, please don’t do that. I’m happy on the couch, please.” He looked almost upset with you for even offering.

You giggled a little and shook your head. “You’re a guest, I made it all nice for you.”

He didn't object a second time. You walked towards your kitchen, tucked underneath where your bed was. You spun around to face him, saying. “The restroom is just through that door. Shower can be temperamental but nothing too crazy.”

He watched you intently, leaving his suitcase by the stairs as he slowly dropped his backpack on the floor near the kitchen door. “It’s cozy in here.”

“It’s small, I know but it’s usually only me so,” You shrugged. “Are you hungry?”

“I, uh, ate at the conference. Flying makes me hungry so…” Dennis awkwardly shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Okay, well, want a drink?” You turned to face him, leaning back against the counter.

“What d’you got?” He slowly walked closer to you.

You opened the fridge, scanning it before glancing up at the shelves above it. “Water, milk, beer, orange juice, red wine… I got stuff to make a tequila sunrise.”

“A tequila sunrise?” He echoed.

You didn’t even bother answering, quietly making the drinks while he wandered around your living room, taking in all the little photos you had hanging all over your walls. He’d missed out on so much. There were photos of you in college, out partying with friends, New Years Eve, Halloweens, and then your boyfriend. His arm around you, kissing the side of your head while you grinned so wide, it looked like your cheeks might split. He could only be mad at himself, you had decided to leave that pain behind and you’d lived.

“Ta-da!” You announced, setting the drinks down on the coffee table. “Tequila sunrise!”

“Wow, it actually looks like a sunrise, cool straws too!” He chuckled, walking over toward you. “Is that...”

“I didn’t have any oranges to garnish with so I used banana... you can just take it off.” You waved your hand in the air.

“No, it’s nice.” He took a sip, slightly coughing. “Strong too.”

You sat beside him, getting yourself comfortable on the couch with a blanket before taking a sip of yours. “Oh, it is strong, sorry.”

“It’s good, I like it.” He was staring, not realising it then he froze, feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. “I’m gonna get changed.”

He left you sitting on the couch, flicking through different channels to find something interesting. By the time he came back, you had already drunk half your drink, looking at it with confusion. You noticed him coming back down the stairs so you smiled at him. “How’s work?”

“Stressful. Working in the ER is, um, a lot.” He answered, settling on the couch beside you.

“I can imagine. Are your coworkers nice?” You played with your straw, voice quieting.

“Oh yeah, for sure. You met Santos, uh Trinity... She’s probably not the best example but yea they’re all nice.” He laughed awkwardly.

You nodded, smiling sadly. “Feels like a whole life you’ve lived.”

“It does.” He sighed. “I feel the same with you.”

“Have you been home since?” You quickly changed the subject, avoiding his gaze, feeling your skin grow itchy.

He stayed silent for a bit, almost planning his answer before saying, “I couldn’t go back.”

You let out a sigh, drinking the rest of your drink before standing up. “Another one?”

-

Several hours and six tequila sunrises later, you and Dennis were still on the couch, talking about everything and nothing. The alcohol was getting to your head, your body warm and tingly, and your mind warped.

“How’s things with your man?” Dennis was leaned back against the arm of the couch, legs sprawled out in front of him haphazardly like they had a mind of their own. You sat opposite him, legs crossed as you nursed your drink. 

“Meh.” You shrugged, scrunching your face up.

“What?” He laughed, sitting forward. 

“He’s nice, don’t get me wrong but … real boring.” You sighed, bringing your straw to your lips.

“Why are you still with him?” He teased, a smirk pulling across his face as he shifted his sitting position. 

“I’m not getting any younger.” You morbidly admitted.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” His eyebrows furrowed, lips pursing together.

“I’m terrified of never settling down, guess I’m with him because it’s a sure bet.” As the words came out of your mouth, you realised how awful it sounded, how miserable you genuinely felt in your relationship. There was no excitement, no passion, no anything. He was an empty slate, you thought maybe you could mould but he never budged. 

“What about me?” He was sitting up straight now, gaze zoned in on you. 

“Dennis…” You shook your head. “No…”

“Come on, he’s not making you happy. I would leave it if he was genuinely good for you.”

“We can’t go there again, the night of the wedding was stupid of us.” You kept shaking your head as if it would make it all stop but the moment you met Dennis' gaze, he was staring at you, something indescribable behind his eyes. It was the alcohol, it had to be. 

You needed out, so you stood up, only for him to catch your hand. 

“Dennis, I’m serious.” You tried being stern but it fell flat. 

“So am I,” He stood up, searching your face. “Try us.”

“You live in Pittsburgh.” There were so many reasons why you couldn't do it and yet, they all vanished from your mind. 

“We can do long distance; the drive isn’t long. I’ll come to you when I can.” He was pleading, you needed to get away from him. 

You laughed it off, tugging your arm back. “You’re drunk, fuck, I'm drunk.”

“Let me prove it to you.” His voice had dropped, it made your stomach clench. 

“And what happens when you fuck it up?” 

“I won’t, I promise, I’ll prove it to you. Do you want me to beg?” His pathetic voice whined. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You turned away and walked towards the kitchen. 

He followed behind you, leaning against the doorframe, eyes heavy from the alcohol. He called your name. “I can beg.”

“My god, you are such a light weight.” You scoffed, washing your hands in the kitchen sink to make yourself look busy. When you glanced back, he was lowering to his knees, blocking your exit.

“Please.” He whined. 

“Jesus Christ.” You rubbed your forehead with the back of your hand, walking closer to him. “Get up.”

“Not until you say yes.” He bit his lip, staring up at you, his face all flushed. 

“I’m not going to.” You inhaled a breath. “It wouldn’t work.”

He leaned his face lazily against your thigh. “I’d make it work for you.” 

You mindlessly ran your fingers through his hair, chewing on your cheek and contemplating, your own boyfriend not even crossing your mind. With your hand still in his hair, you brought it down to his cheek, slowly sliding your thumb over his jaw and to his chin. His lips left a trail of kisses on your hand and thumb as they went past his mouth. Your thumb stopped by his lips, watching how his mouth opened for you. He took it in his mouth, gently sucking on it, tongue swirling around it as he whimpered. When you pulled it back out of his mouth, you ran it against his bottom lip. 

He was so pathetically desperate. “I could make you happy.”

You let out a shaky breath. 

“Let me prove it.” His hands crept up, holding the back of your legs.

You couldn't pull yourself away, watching him slide his hands to your waist, t-shirt rising, exposing a small sliver of your stomach. His lips pressed soft kisses on your skin. He brought his mouth lower, against the waistband of your pyjama trousers, teeth pulling the ties undone before looking up at you again.  “Please.”

You were already so wet, you could feel it soaking through your underwear. You felt drunk with arousal, words almost slurring. “I-I… have a boyfriend.” 

“Mhm.” He pressed a kiss right over your clothed pussy. “Yea, that boyfriend…”

A moan resonated in your throat, a hand reaching down to hold Dennis’s head. He tugged down your pants, letting you step out of them before he kissed your panties. 

“So wet already, does he get you this wet?” He whispered against you, open mouth kissing the fabric.

You couldn’t admit that you’d never slept with him, he was traditional, waiting for marriage. You’d barely made out with him, he was so cautious, so normal, so fucking boring.

“Do you want me to stop?” He sat back, your eyes immediately spotting the erection straining against his sweats. He slowly got to his feet. 

You shook your head, taking his face in your hands. Without a second thought, you kissed him so hungrily. He moaned into your mouth, his hands all over your body. You needed him, as much as he seemed to need you. His tongue filled your mouth, so messy as his hands slid down to your ass, causing you to yelp. 

"Is that too much?" He whispered against your lips. 

"N-no, I like it, just weird having your hand on my ass." You panted out a laugh through kisses before pulling away. You took his hand, guiding him upstairs, glancing back at him once you reached your bedroom. 

You walked backwards until you got to the bed, sitting down with your legs spread slightly, chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing. He closed the gap between you both, looking down at you. 

"Lie back sweetheart…" He lowered to his knees, gently tugging you closer to the edge of the bed. He slowly slipped your underwear off, eyes connecting to your glistening cunt, so wet and aching for him. He lifted your legs so they were resting on his shoulders. 

Dennis didn't take a beat, softly pressing his lips between your legs, savouring your taste with gently kisses and little licks. You whined, wanting more, so he gave you more, licking long strips up your pussy, before swirling his tongue around your clit. He sucked on the sensitive nub, then let his tongue flatten over it. Your body was awash with pleasure. He brought his hand up, fingers tracing along your slit, his eyes looking up at you, waiting patiently for your permission. He continued teasing, gathering up your juices and then you nodded, meeting his gaze. 

"Please Dennis…" You cried, hips bucking for more pressure. 

"Of course, baby…" He said, words muffled by your soaked pussy. 

He split you with his fingers, gently inserting two, knowing you were ready for it. He took his free hand, and grabbed yours, moving it to tug on his hair, which you did happily.

He pumped his fingers into you, curving them to brush against your g-spot.

"Oh f-fuck..." You cried, holding his head in place as he added his tongue into the mix, slipping it in with his fingers. He was so gentle and tender. He took his free hand and started palming his erection, searching for some friction, some relief. 

He brought his tongue back up to your clit, slowly massaging it as it grew firmer. 

"I-I'm cumming, oh my god." You lifted your head, watching as his face moved between your legs, how he took your frantic movements and fluidly moved with them. You grinded against his face, riding out your orgasm as he lapped you up, letting himself sob moans into you. He lifted his head and watched your body twitch and squirm, a proud smile pulling on his lips. 

“I’m so hard for you.” He whined, getting to his feet and pulling down his sweats, slipping a hand into his boxers and pulling out that pretty pink dick. You sat up, catching your breath. His cock was right in front of your face, your mouth salivating. 

“Is this for me?” You softly pressed a kiss against his tip

“Sh-Shit, it’s yours. Fuck it’s all yours.” He watched as you wrapped your fingers around the base, tapping the tip against your tongue when you opened your mouth. He gasped out a moan, a hand coming up to hold the side of your face. “It’s all for you.”

You hummed contently, taking him inch by inch into your mouth. You swirled your tongue around him, sucking him in. He shuddered out a loud moan, watching you intently. 

He caressed your cheek, mouth open, breathy whimpers spilling out uncontrollably. “S-so sweet to me.” 

Pleasure started building in his lower stomach, causing him to gently pull himself out of your mouth. 

“Can I fuck you now please?” He was dishevelled, lips swollen, hair messy, his cock covered in your saliva. “I’ll be good for you… I’ll make you feel so good...”

You moved up on the bed, leaning back on your elbows. “Y-yes, please...”

He pulled off his shirt, kicking off his sweats while you removed the last of your clothes then he climbed onto the bed, kneeling in front of you, stroking himself while admiring you, his gaze softening. “You’re so beautiful…”

He leaned over you, a hand either side of your head and kissed you again, slower than earlier, but more intense and passionate. He took a hand, pumped his cock a few more times before aligning himself up with your cunt, slowly sinking in, feeling how you stretched around him, you watching as his jaw tightened, eyes locked on yours. “Shit...you're so wet and so warm, baby.”

You held back a moan until he started moving, pulling back before slowly sinking back into you. 

“Dennis…” You mewled, eyes glossed over as you held his face. 

“Oh sweetheart, so needy for me huh?” He leaned down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, grinding against you. His tongue swirled around the tight nub, gently tugging it between his teeth. Your back arched as you uncontrollably moaned. He pounded into you, loud wet slapping filling your apartment as he hid his face in your neck, whimpering out, “Is this okay? Does it feel good baby?”

“So good.” You drawled, your vision blurring as you clung onto his shoulders.

He pulled back a little, looking into your eyes, fucking into you slow and hard, watching as pleasure washed over you. He reached a hand down between you both, using his thumb to rub circles on your clit and his fingers to push against your lower stomach.

“F-fuck.” You cried, feeling tears pricking your eyes. 

“Oh baby, you’re taking me so well…” His voice muffled against your skin, lips pressing slobbering kisses all over your shoulder and neck. “F-Fuck, I-I love… you…”

“I l-love you…” You sobbed, feeling your orgasm fast approaching, “I-I’m gonna cum again...”

“Not yet, hold it. You can last a little longer for me… what a pretty girl…” His forwardness was shocking you, Dennis had never been so confident. He held you with a hand and rolled his hips into yours. “This is all for me…do you like it like that?”

You roughly pulled him down, kissing him hard, bruising your lips while he fucked you through your orgasm.

"Fuck… fuck baby.” He felt you cum around his dick, your cunt clenching down. “That’s it...”

He fell over the edge, cumming hard soon after, hiding his face in your shoulder as tears spilled out of his eyes. 

"Thank you, thank you baby...” He kissed all over your face, breathing out a sigh.

There was a second of silence and then he collapsed beside you breathing heavily. When you looked at him, he brushed your hair from your face, pressing a kiss on your nose. He wrapped you in his arms, pulling the blankets over you both. It didn't take long until you were both asleep. 

-

By morning, you woke up alone to the sound of quiet music, pots and pans hitting together and Dennis' singing. Your body ached, eyes stinging against the daylight but you sat up anyways, stretching your limbs before standing up. You pattered downstairs, swinging around the kitchen’s doorframe. Dennis stood by the stove, dancing to himself as he cooked. 

“Den?” You smiled, walking up behind him.

“Oh morning.” He looked over his shoulder at you, welcoming you into him with his free arm opened out. “How did you sleep?” 

You stood by his side, snuggling into him while his arm hugged you close. “Good.”

“Is that right?” He shyly teased. 

“I’m not drinking around you ever again.” You groaned, slapping his stomach, fingers lingering against him for a second longer than you should've. He leaned down, pulling you closer that you were squished against him, and then he kissed you, a big smooch. 

"Go sit down, I’ll be in soon yea?" He planted another kiss on your lips before releasing you.  

 -

The weekend had been different but nice. You forgot what life you even had without him. That Saturday, you took him out sight-seeing, wandering through the city without a care in the world. He wanted to see the harbour, spend the day aimlessly walking. You took him to all your favourite bakeries, drank yourself silly on caffeine until you ended up back at your apartment, where you watched a movie, snuggled on the couch, finishing the day with his head buried between your legs. It was domestic, and it didn't scare either of you. By Sunday evening, it was impossible to let him go. He had his bags ready by the door, you felt like sobbing when he pulled his jacket on. 

"I'm scared Dennis." You admitted as he turned to face him. "I don't want to throw away everything I've made here." 

"I don't expect you to." 

"I can't break up with him. What if it all goes to shit? What if we try this and it goes wrong?"

"I promise you, I will make this work." He brought his hands to your face. "I'll do the long distance, fuck I’ll transfer, I’ll move to Boston or you could come to Pittsburgh."

"You can't do that." You wanted to say yes, put your arms around him and never let go but you couldn't. Boston didn't have much for you, it didn't make you happy like it used to. 

"I'd do it all for you. I'm not going anywhere." 

-

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 

The front door to his shared apartment with Trinity opened with a bang as he shoved it open with his foot, dragged his miserable self into the house, dark rings evident around his eyes. 

“How was your lovers retreat?” Trinity joked, sprawled out on the couch, switching through channels on the TV. Dennis dropped his bag by the door, his gaze fixed ahead, almost glazed over as he walked in the living room. “Dude? You good?”

“Sorry.” He broke away from his thoughts, looking at her with bloodshot eyes. 

“Did something happen?” She abruptly sat up, a slight smile on her face, focusing her attention on him. 

“A lot happened and I’ve just sat and thought about it for hours.” He had to admit to himself that his brain was fried.  “You have to tell me. Leave no detail out, unless it’s something I don’t wanna know. Roommate privileges apply.” She was almost at the edge of the couch. “Please tell me you did something other than cry and talk.” 

He shot her a look, sighing out his nose before plopping himself on the armchair. He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling exhausted. 

“Hurry up and get talking.” She snapped. 

“After the conference, I got to her apartment and she was…” He stopped and shook his head. “We talked for a couple hours and had a few drinks.”

“You’re shitting me. That’s not what happened.” Trinity didn't have much patience left.

“No, it isn’t. I think I got a bit too tipsy.” 

“Keep going.”

“I… shit. I kind of…” He covered his face again with his hands. “I begged her.”

“You what?” She was stunned. “Begged her for what?”

“To give me and her a try but then-”

"Don't tell me ew… Then what?” 

“I kinda started begging for her to let me... you know...”

She slowly covered her mouth. “Huckleberry, you dirty dog.”

“Okay forget I said anything.” He stood up, going red. “I never reacted when you told me about you and Garcia.” 

She froze, glaring at him. “Do you want everyone to know what you begged for sex?”

“I didn’t beg for sex. I just… Alright yea.” He sighed defeated. 

“And she said “ew get away from me” and you slept on the streets of Boston like a little sad rat, and then came home miserable." She joked, eyes rolling over her own lines. 

His face darked redder, his mind flashing images of what you two had done. 

“Oh, my fuck, she agreed?!” Never in her life did she think Dennis would actually get laid but here she was, jaw hanging.

He didn’t answer, just stood there.

“She did!” Trinity gasped. “I have to tell-”

He opened his mouth to speak but she shrunk back. 

“I have to tell no one because your secret is safe with me, of course." She smiled as sweetly as she could before continuing professionally, "So, you had sex?”

“We did, yea.”

“Okay, go Huckleberry!” She pumped a fist in the air.

“But she’s got a boyfriend.”

“No Huckleberry." She brought her fist down, eyes widened. "She cheated on her boyfriend with you?! Fuck dude, what powers you got there?”

He didn't enjoy opening up to Trinity but this moment felt like the right time. He admitted his true feelings, spilling out years of hidden emotions that barely made sense to Trinity but she listened, and that surprised him. He told her about God, the church, how it dragged him away from you, how he felt like he had been suffocated by faith. He'd spent years beating himself. He told her that he had only known the truth with you. 

"You can't force her to make a decision. She'll decide what's right." She didn't sound sincere, or like she even really cared but Dennis knew her enough to know that was her best. He felt a weight lifting from his shoulders. 

“Thanks, Trin.” His eyebrows softened, a small smile on his lips. 

“Eww, don’t. Get away from me.” Her face scrunched up, jumping to her feet and making a beeline to her bedroom.

 -

“Dennis had sex in Boston!” Trinity held her tongue for a record time of three minutes of the Monday morning shift, the words tumbling out of her mouth faster than her brain could comprehend, catching her breath once she’d spilled. “Oh my god, I couldn’t hold it any longer, I had to tell someone.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dennis muttered, dropping his head in shame, feeling his skin itch. Victoria stared with blank expressions, looking at Dennis confused while Trinity leaned against the front desk.

“Didn’t you go to that conference?” Victoria furrowed her brows, looking around the ER for the cameras because this had to be a joke. There was no way Dennis was getting laid.

“Yea, yep.” He needed this day to be over already, or more preferably, he wanted to drop dead.

“You had sex at a conference?” She enunciated, confused.

“No, I had sex in an apartment.” He corrected her, awkwardly grinning like he'd made a point before snapping back to reality. “Why am I telling you?”

“He went to her apartment and begged for it.” Trinity added, glancing at Victoria before looking up at the board for something juicy. 

“Begged for it?” Victoria repeated with a look of disgust, before looking at Dennis and seeing his miserable expression. She shook her head. “Sorry. Why?”

“I didn’t beg.” He tried to save himself but he always already looking more pathetic.

“She has a boyfriend too.” Trinity added, tapping her chin with a pen. “Why is there nothing good? I need something teetering on dangerous.”

“Who has a boyfriend?” Robby appeared behind them, hands stuffed in his pockets. “And why are you all standing gossiping like we don’t have patients waiting?”

“Whitaker went to that conference in Boston and had sex in an apartment with someone who already has a boyfriend.” Victoria blurted out, before realising what she’d just done. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“Well congratulations Whitaker, we all have our needs but can this conversation happen outside of my ER?” He sternly said, looking at Dennis.

Dennis wanted the ground to swallow him whole, hanging his head in defeat. He muttered, “I’m going to south 12.” before leaving the conversation. 

The day dragged on, he hadn’t heard from you since he left and he had spent every waking hour since rethinking what he could’ve done differently. He was distracted; he had to admit. He'd fucked up on the simplest procedures, mixed up patients and was completely out of it most of the day. He slipped out of a room, head buried in his phone, a small frown on his lips. You'd read his message but not replied. He didn't know what else to do. He'd already apologised, and apologised again and then apologised some more. He'd said everything he thought you wanted to hear, fuck he was going crazy.

 -

A couple weeks went by. Dennis had tried contacting you every day but you had been giving him so little. A few short-worded responses, sometimes a photo or just an emoji. If he rang, you never picked up. It was driving him crazy so he booked a last-minute flight to Boston, the first flight out on a Saturday morning. By the time he landed and made the journey to you, it was already 10am. He knocked on the door, somewhat impatiently and stood tapping his foot while he waited for you to open the door. You seemed to take your sweet ass time and it made him even more irritated.  

You finally opened the door, eyes widening at the sight of him. “Dennis?”

“What are you doing to me?” He deflated, his once fiery rage had shifted to a luke warm worry. 

“What?” You looked confused.

“Ignoring my texts and calls? Giving me barely anything?” He stepped closer to you, hands reaching for yours. 

“I’ve been dealing with something.” You baulked. 

“You couldn’t spare a few minutes to tell me that?” His shoulders dropped, hands clinging to yours. "Are you done with me?"

"What? Dennis, no." You shook your head. "I actually um… I broke up with that guy."

"You did? Why?" He felt a rush of heat in his head. You just smiled, and it set him off, he manoeuvred his way inside and closed the door behind him. There were boxes all over your apartment, walls that used to be covered in photos, now bare. 

“Oh, secrets over! I’m moving.” You grinned, gleefully.

“Where?” He looked at you, gaze trailing over you. He couldn’t help him himself. "Where are you moving?

“Where do you think?” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “Good thing I can work anywhere in the country, right?”

“You’re not…” He felt his stomach clench, his skin tingling. "Are you…?"

“Moving truck is coming tomorrow and then I’m driving my car.” You couldn’t hold back your excitement. “I was supposed to surprise you.”

“You’re really moving?” He felt the tears welling in his eyes. 

“I want to try us and if we don’t work, well I’ve made a really dumb decision.” You furrowed your eyebrows, suddenly realising Dennis was actually in your apartment. "Wait, did you fly here?"

“God, I love you.” He stepped closer, hands holding your face before pulling you to meet his lips, kissing you softly while his thumb caressed your jaw.

"I love you too Den." You muttered, your lips smushed as he pushed your cheeks together, he kissed you over and over and over again. He grew passionate, sinking his tongue into your mouth as he took his time devouring you. It was slow, intense even until his movements grew frantic, desperate even, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you into his body. 

"Dennis." You let a moan slip out, his lips kissing down towards your neck. "The moving van will be here in fifteen minutes." 

"I can be fifteen minutes." He whispered against your skin, hands slipping under your dress to touch your thighs and ass. "This dress is so nice."

"We can't, what if they come early?"

"Please, I need you." He left sloppy kisses all over your collarbone, rubbing his hardening cock against you. "Please baby."

"We have to be quick, sit on the couch." You chewed on the inside of your cheek. 

"W-wait really? Oh my god." He rushed over to the couch, unbuckling his jeans, watching as you followed, straddling his legs. His hands gripped your hips as you leaned down, taking his lips with yours, all tongues, messily making out while you reached out, pulling his dick out, stroking it slowly. 

"I missed this." You drawled against his mouth.

"Fuck I missed you." He panted, feeling as your gently squeeze his cock with your fingers. "I-I need you, please." 

You hummed, taking the same hand to push your underwear to the side, aligning him with your pussy, only to take your time brushing his tip against your lips. 

"Sh-shit, you said quick." He whimpered, squeezing your hips. "You can't do this to me."

"Dennis..." You smiled against his lips, leaning back to see how his face reddened, how he desperately needed you to fuck him. "You're already so needy."

"Sh-shut up, please fuck me." He dropped his head back, his tip so sensitive against your clit before you sink down on him, swallowing his entire cock with your cunt, you weren't ready for it, but you savoured how you stretched around him, the sting turning you on more. "F-fuck!"

"Shh." You brought your fingers to his mouth, covering his mouth but Dennis took your fingers in his mouth, sucking and licking. 

"F-fuck me, please." He tried to buck his hips up into you. You started pulling up until the head of his dick was kissing against your entrance before slamming back down. You were rough, riding him like he was a toy, using his cock to chase your orgasm. 

"God, it's so good, it's so good baby." He mumbled with your fingers in his mouth, eyes half lidded as he watched you bouncing on his cock. 

"Dennis, I'm close already." You grinded down on his cock, your clit rubbing against his pelvic bone, 

"Y-You can cum, I can take it." He whispered, biting his lip as he held back moans. "I can take it."

"I want you to cum, can you cum for me Den?" You placed a kiss on his forehead. 

"I-I can- Oh god." He whined, eyes watering as tears rolled down his cheeks, fingers bruising your hips as he fucked up into you. "I'll cum for you, I can do it, I can." 

Suddenly, you burst, slamming down on last time before grinding out the rest of your orgasm, muffling your cries in his shoulder, immense pleasure consuming your entire body. He didn't slow down, moving you onto your back without letting you breath, and fucking your cunt without mercy. He was rabid, whimpering so loud as he snapped his hips back before ramming his cock back in. He was crying, you were crying, your clit so sensitive, you might cum again.

"I'm cumming, fuck baby," He moaned shakily, tears falling onto your face. "Can I cum inside? Please let me cum inside you, fuck I’ll do anything, please."

"Y-Yes, cum in me." You barely got out before he was using your clenching pussy to pump his cock, spilling hot cum in you. He sobbed into your shoulder, body shaking as he rode out the rest of his orgasm. You struggled to catch your breath, rubbing his back as he collected him. He lifted his head, eyes red and watery, lips swollen. You both lay there for a few seconds before Dennis leaned up on his hands, looking over your face under him. 

"You're so beautiful, I love you so much." He whispered, kissing your forehead. He got up, offering you a hand which you took. "You can relax, get ready to leave and I'll deal with the movers."

-

The drive to Pittsburgh wasn't so lonely when Dennis offered to drive there with you, taking your car keys right out of your hand and sliding into the driver’s side. The trip passed in no time with him, how he'd kiss your cheek at red lights, his hand never leaving yours. In such a last-minute pinch, a few weeks ago, you were able to find a studio apartment with a six-month lease. 

The moving van arrived not long after you, your boxes and large furniture brought up within a few hours, your stuff scattered across the floor. 

You were unboxing the kitchen items, shoving pots and pans wherever they'll fit, when Dennis appeared behind you.

"Everything okay?" You glanced over your shoulder at him.

"Can you come sit with me?" His hands are tucked behind his back.

"I have to unpack…" You frowned, turning to face him.

"And I spent weeks in purgatory." 

"Oh fine!" 

He slumped on the couch, arms open with a small grin pulling across his face. "Come on baby."

"What are you doing? What are your motives?" You planted yourself beside him, eyeing him suspiciously as his arm wrapped around you. 

He shrugged, looking confused and slightly offended. You rested your head against his chest, listening to his heart beating, his fingers tapping your skin. It was quiet and comfortable. To exist with you was a blessing, and if he played his cards right, he'd get eternity. 

You were at the computer by the nurses’ station, trying to finish a note with one hand while eating a protein bar with the other, when the radio crackled.

“Trauma incoming. Male, mid-thirties. High-speed MVC. Hypotensive in field. GCS thirteen. ETA two minutes.”

The department shifted instantly. That was the thing about the ER. Chaos was constant, but trauma gave it direction.

You abandoned the note. The protein bar went into your scrub pocket, half-eaten and forgotten, as you moved toward trauma bay two. A nurse tossed you a gown before you even asked.

Langdon was already there. Of course he was.

He stood at the head of the bed, pulling gloves on with sharp, efficient movements, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms, his jaw set like the entire room had been waiting for him specifically. He glanced at you as you stepped into the bay.

“No,” he said immediately.

You stopped tying your gown. “Good morning to you too.”

“I’m taking this one.”

“You’re standing in the trauma bay,” you said. “That’s not the same thing.”

His eyes flicked over you, quick and assessing, like he was triaging your usefulness and finding it irritatingly high. “I’ve got this.”

“Congratulations,” you said, snapping your gloves into place. “So do I.”

His mouth tightened. You smiled sweetly.

The doors burst open before he could respond. EMS rolled the patient in fast, their report firing over the noise.

“Thirty-six-year-old male, driver, hit on passenger side at approximately fifty miles an hour. Restrained. Airbags deployed. Brief loss of consciousness at scene. BP eighty-six over fifty in field, heart rate one-thirty. Complaining of chest pain and abdominal pain. Decreased breath sounds on left. Two large-bore IVs established. Gave five hundred fluid en route.”

Langdon moved without hesitation. “On my count. One, two, three.”

The patient transferred onto the bed with a heavy, coordinated lift. He groaned, eyes half-open, blood streaked across his temple and down the side of his face. You took the left side. Langdon took the head.

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” Langdon asked, leaning over him.

“Mark,” the patient rasped.

“Mark, I’m Dr Langdon. You’re in the emergency department. We’re going to take care of you.”

You reached for the shears. “Airway intact. He’s talking.”

“Breathing,” Langdon said. “Oxygen on. Fifteen litres. Get me sats.”

“Already on it,” one of the nurses said.

You cut the shirt open. Purple bruising was already blooming across the patient’s chest where the seatbelt had caught him. His breathing was too fast, shallow. You pressed your stethoscope to his chest.

“Decreased air entry on the left,” you said.

Langdon nodded. “Portable chest. Trauma labs. Type and cross. FAST scan.”

“Pressure’s seventy-eight systolic,” the nurse called.

You looked down at the patient’s abdomen as he flinched under your hands. Firm. Guarding.

“Langdon.”

“I heard it,” he said.

“You heard the pressure. I’m talking about the abdomen.”

“I said FAST scan.”

“You said chest X-ray first.”

“Because he has decreased breath sounds after blunt trauma.”

“And he’s hypotensive with abdominal guarding.”

Langdon’s eyes cut to you. “I’m aware of how blood pressure works.”

“Great. Then you’ll understand why I want blood in the room before radiology gets here.”

His hands stayed steady at the patient’s jaw, but his tone sharpened. “We need to identify the source.”

“We need to stop him crashing before we make him pretty for the CT scanner.”

“I didn’t say CT.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

A nurse made a noise that was almost a laugh and wisely turned it into a cough.

Langdon ignored her. “Chest first. If he’s got a tension pneumo, we can fix that now.”

“And if he’s bleeding into his abdomen, we can kill him by pretending the chest is the only exciting organ in the room.”

His nostrils flared. “I did not say that.”

“You implied it with your whole personality.”

“Can you two flirt after he has a blood pressure?” Robby said from the doorway.

You and Langdon both turned.

“We’re not flirting,” you said.

“At all,” Langdon added, with more offense than the accusation required.

Robby raised his eyebrows. “Then argue quieter. I need a team, not a podcast.”

The patient groaned again, trying to curl to one side.

You looked back down at him. Focused. “Mark, stay with us. Where does it hurt most?”

“Chest,” he gasped. “And… belly. Left side.”

“Left upper quadrant tenderness,” you said. “Possible splenic injury.”

Langdon’s expression shifted. He had heard you. That was the infuriating thing. He always heard you, even when he was being unbearable about it.

“FAST now,” he said.

You were already reaching for the ultrasound. For half a minute, neither of you argued. The room compressed into motion and information. Probe gel. Monitors. Blood pressure cycling again. The ultrasound screen flickering grey and black beneath your hand. Langdon leaned closer, watching over your shoulder.

“RUQ negative,” you said.

“Pelvis?” he asked.

“Give me two seconds.”

“Your angle’s too steep.”

“My angle is fine.”

“Then why am I looking at bowel gas?”

“Because the patient was inconsiderate enough to have intestines.”

“Move superior.”

“I am moving superior.”

“There,” he said.

“I see it.”

Free fluid.

The room seemed to tighten around the finding.

“Positive FAST,” you said.

Langdon was already turning. “Activate massive transfusion protocol. Surgery now. And get the chest X-ray in here.”

You looked at him. “Now the chest X-ray?”

“Now the chest X-ray,” he said, briskly. “Because unlike some people, I can care about two life-threatening problems at once.”

“Beautiful growth. Really proud of you.”

“Don’t make this emotional.”

The blood arrived. The patient’s pressure dipped again, then steadied under the first unit. Chest X-ray rolled in, the plate slid behind him, everyone moving with that controlled urgency that looked like panic from the outside but felt, from within it, almost elegant. The film came up.

“Left hemothorax,” Langdon said.

You were already moving. “Chest tube tray.”

His gaze snapped to yours. Not surprised. Not approving exactly. But something close.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“You’ll supervise.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a year ahead of me, Langdon, not a prophet.”

“This is not the time for your complex about hierarchy.”

“I don’t have a complex. I have hands.”

“And I have seniority.”

“You have a badge with a slightly older date on it.”

Robby appeared beside you both, expression flat. “She does the tube. You supervise. If either of you says one more word about seniority, I’m intubating myself.”

Langdon’s jaw flexed. You smiled again, quick and victorious, then turned back to the patient. The smile vanished as soon as your scalpel touched skin. After that, there was no room for performance.

You made the incision. Langdon passed the clamp before you asked for it. You spread through muscle. His hand appeared with gauze at exactly the right time. You entered the pleural space, guided the tube in, and dark blood surged into the chamber.

“Good,” Langdon said quietly.

It was so quiet you nearly missed it. Nearly.

You secured the tube while surgery arrived, the patient’s pressure climbing into something less terrifying. His colour improved by degrees. His breathing eased. The room exhaled, not all at once, but person by person.

Surgery took over with the brisk confidence of people who preferred their disasters open and bleeding under bright lights. The patient was transferred out, still critical but alive, moving toward an OR that might actually save him.

For five seconds after the bay emptied, there was silence. Then Langdon said, “You cut me off in there.”

You blinked at him. “That’s what you’re opening with?”

“You did.”

“You were taking too long to get to the correct answer.”

“I was explaining my reasoning.”

“That’s what I said.”

He pulled off his gloves with unnecessary force. “You can’t just steamroll because you think you’re right.”

“You just tried to pull rank over a chest tube.”

“Because I am senior.”

“By one year.”

“One year matters.”

“In medicine, yes. In making you king of trauma bay two, no.”

His eyes narrowed. “You are impossible.”

“And yet the chest tube went beautifully.”

“The chest tube was fine.”

“Fine?” You laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “That was textbook.”

“It was acceptable.”

“You are physically allergic to praise.”

“I praised you.”

“You said ‘good’ like it caused you internal bleeding.”

“It may have.”

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself. “You know what your problem is?”

Langdon stepped closer too, because apparently self-preservation was not one of his clinical strengths. “I’m sure you’re about to misdiagnose it.”

“You think being ahead means being better.”

“No, I think being ahead means having more experience, which is objectively true.”

“And you think experience means no one else in the room can have a good idea.”

“I listened to your idea.”

“After arguing with me for five minutes.”

“Because your delivery is a war crime.”

“Your face is a war crime.”

There was a short, stunned pause. Somewhere behind you, a nurse whispered, “Jesus Christ.” Robby walked between you and Langdon like he was breaking up a bar fight.

“Enough,” he said. “Both of you. You’re giving me a migraine and I work in emergency medicine.”

“He started it,” you said.

“She escalated it,” Langdon said at the exact same time.

Robby looked from one of you to the other. His face changed. It was subtle, but you saw it. The shift from irritation to calculation. That was never good. Robby only looked like that when he was about to make someone’s life educational.

“No,” you said immediately.

Robby pointed at you. “I haven’t said anything.”

“I can feel you about to manage me.”

“Good. Saves time.” He turned to Langdon. “You too.”

Langdon straightened. “I don’t need managing.”

Robby stared at him.

Langdon looked away first.

“You two,” Robby said, “are a nightmare.”

“Thank you,” you said.

“Not a compliment.”

“Still taking it.”

“But,” Robby continued, ignoring you, “you are also annoyingly effective together. Which means I can’t just separate you like misbehaving children, despite the fact that both of you seem committed to the role.”

Langdon’s mouth opened. “Robby-”

“No.”

“I really don’t think-”

“That much is clear.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Robby turned back to you. “And you. Stop smiling. You’re not innocent. You argue with him because you like that he can keep up.”

Your smile died. “I do not.”

Langdon looked at you.

You looked at Robby.

Robby looked exhausted by both of you.

“For the next two weeks, when you’re both on shift, you’re paired.”

The room went very still.

“No,” you said.

“Absolutely not,” Langdon said.

Robby nodded. “That’s the spirit. Shared patients. Shared notes. Shared sign-outs. You present together when appropriate, and you figure out how to disagree without turning the department into a debate club with central lines.”

“Robby,” Langdon said, voice tight, “with respect, this is not necessary.”

“With equal respect,” you added, “this may actually worsen patient outcomes by increasing homicide risk.”

“Then don’t kill each other,” Robby said. “Growth opportunity.”

Langdon dragged a hand over his face. “I am a year ahead of her.”

You made a noise. “Oh my God.”

Robby closed his eyes briefly, as if asking a higher power for strength or a transfer. Then he opened them and pointed between you.

“You two are going to learn how to work together without turning every chart note into a courtroom deposition.”

Langdon looked like he had swallowed a scalpel.

You looked like you were considering throwing one.

Robby smiled thinly. “Excellent. Glad we agree.”

“We don’t,” you both said.

“Progress already,” Robby said. “You’re saying things in unison.”

Then he walked away, leaving you and Langdon standing in the wreckage of trauma bay two, surrounded by discarded gloves, blood-specked gauze, and the horrible realisation that your next two weeks had just become significantly more irritating.

Langdon looked at you. You looked at him. His expression was grim. Yours was worse.

Finally, he said, “Try to keep up.”

You gave him your brightest, sharpest smile.

“Try to be worth following."

By the third shared patient of the shift, you had decided Robby was a sadist. A professionally respected one, obviously. A gifted attending. A steady hand in a crisis. A man who had once calmly talked a hypoxic patient through a panic spiral while simultaneously directing a central line placement and telling an intern not to faint into the sterile field.

But a sadist nonetheless. Because there was no other explanation for why you and Langdon were standing side by side at the same computer, reviewing the same chart, after seeing the same patient, for the third time in six hours.

“Scroll up,” Langdon said.

“I am scrolling.”

“You scrolled too far.”

“You have eyes.”

“I have more experience interpreting what my eyes see.”

You stopped scrolling and looked at him. “You are genuinely committed to being unbearable.”

“I prefer consistent.”

“You would.”

He leaned past you without asking, reaching for the mouse.

That was the first problem. Langdon had no concept of appropriate physical distance when he was focused. None. In ordinary conversation, he kept himself neatly arranged behind sarcasm and seniority, all sharp edges and professional posture. But put a chart in front of him, give him abnormal labs and a patient with three vague symptoms, and apparently his entire body forgot other people existed.

His shoulder brushed yours. It was not dramatic. Not even intentional. The contact lasted less than a second, just the dark fabric of his scrub top grazing your sleeve as he angled toward the screen.

Still, your brain noticed. He smelled faintly of hospital soap, coffee, and something clean beneath it, like whatever detergent he used had survived a twelve-hour shift through sheer force of will. His forearm crossed in front of you as he took the mouse, sleeve pushed up, tendon shifting under skin as he clicked into the medication history.

You stared for half a second too long.

Not at the chart.

At his arm.

At the flex of muscle near his wrist. At the faint blue line of a vein. At the tension in his hand where it rested over the mouse.

And then, because your mind apparently wanted to ruin your entire professional life, at his ring.

Plain. Silver. Simple. Caught in the fluorescent light as his fingers moved.

He must have felt you looking, because his hand stilled.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

You dragged your eyes back to the monitor. “With your note? Yes."

You reached across him and stole the mouse back. “Your note says the patient denies chest pain twice.”

“He denied it emphatically.”

“Then write emphatically once. Not twice, like you’re trying to convince the insurance company through repetition.”

“I value clarity.”

“You value hearing yourself document.”

He leaned closer, reading over your shoulder as you edited. Again, his shoulder touched yours. Again, not on purpose. Probably.

“You’re changing my wording,” he said.

“I’m improving your wording.”

“My wording was precise.”

“Your wording was a hostage situation.”

Langdon made a low sound of disapproval, then pointed at the screen. “Don’t delete the family history.”

“I’m not deleting it. I’m moving it.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t belong between the physical exam and your dramatic description of his ankle swelling.”

“It wasn’t dramatic. It was relevant.”

“You wrote ‘markedly pitting’.”

“It was markedly pitting.”

“You enjoyed writing it.”

“I enjoy accuracy.”

“You enjoy adjectives.”

His mouth opened, presumably to argue, but before he could, the charge nurse appeared behind both of you with a chart in hand and an expression of deep amusement.

“Your next shared case,” she said.

You turned. “Already?”

“Robby’s orders.”

Langdon took the chart. “What is it?”

“Fifty-two-year-old female. Dizziness, nausea, some vague chest discomfort, says she feels ‘off.’ Vitals stable. ECG done.”

The moment the clinical details hit, Langdon changed. It was subtle but immediate. The irritation sharpened into focus, the bickering folded away into something more useful. He flipped the chart open, eyes scanning quickly.

“Dizziness and chest discomfort could be posterior circulation, ACS equivalent, electrolyte, vestibular, hypoglycaemia, medication effect, panic, but we don’t call it panic until everything else has earned the right to be excluded.” He started walking before he finished speaking, forcing you to match him. “Any diaphoresis? Radiation? Neuro deficit? Did triage note nystagmus? Of course they didn’t. Why would anyone note the thing that matters?”

“You know,” you said, falling into step beside him, “some people ask questions with the expectation that another person might answer.”

“I was building a framework.”

“You were monologuing.”

“I was thinking aloud.”

“You do that a lot.”

“Because I think a lot.”

“And aloud, apparently.”

He pointed the chart at you without looking. “Mockery is not a diagnostic tool.”

“It is when I’m diagnosing you.”

He glanced over. “And what have I got?”

“Terminal seniority.”

“Tragic. Untreatable.”

“You’d refuse treatment anyway.”

You introduced yourself first. Langdon let you. That surprised you enough that you almost looked at him.

Mrs. Alvarez described the dizziness as a sudden wave that came while she was making tea. No true spinning. Nausea. A pressure in her chest she insisted was “probably indigestion,” which immediately made both you and Langdon exchange a look. Her ECG was not dramatic, but it was not perfectly comforting either. Slight ST depression in the lateral leads. Nothing screaming. Just enough to whisper. Langdon saw it at the same time you did.

“Troponins,” you said.

“Serial ECGs,” he added.

“Full neuro exam.”

“Glucose.”

“Electrolytes.”

“CXR if the chest pressure persists.”

“Orthostatics.”

“Medication review.”

Mrs. Alvarez looked between you. “Do you two rehearse?”

“No,” you said.

“Unfortunately,” Langdon said.

Her mouth twitched. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You did the neuro exam while Langdon took the history, and this was where you discovered something else about him. Langdon was a yapper.

Not in the useless way. Not in the nervous intern way where silence felt like failure and every thought spilled out unfiltered. Langdon’s talking had structure, technically. It just had far too many doors, and he insisted on opening all of them.

One question about recent illness turned into a brief explanation of viral labyrinthitis, which became a tangent about how often dizziness was mislabelled, which became a story about a man he had seen the year before who came in for vertigo and turned out to be anaemic, which then somehow became a complaint about the way people used the word “dizzy” to mean eight different sensations and expected doctors to perform linguistic archaeology under fluorescent lighting.

Mrs. Alvarez seemed entertained. You were fascinated despite yourself.

His mind moved fast. Too fast sometimes. It leapt from symptom to mechanism to anecdote to warning sign and back again. He interrupted himself. Once, he interrupted you, caught your look, and said, “Sorry, continue,” in a tone so reluctant it barely qualified as an apology.

Then, ten minutes later, while you were ordering bloods, he said suddenly, “Family history.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Her father had an MI at fifty-four. She said it when you were checking sensation in her left leg.”

“I heard.”

“I forgot to put it in the note.”

“That must have been very difficult for you to admit.”

“It was. Be respectful.”

He wrote it down, then immediately started tapping his pen against the desk. Fast. Rhythmic. Annoying.

Tap tap tap tap.

You waited.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

“Langdon.”

“What?”

“The pen.”

He looked down like he had never seen his own hand before. The tapping stopped. For six seconds. Then his knee started bouncing. You turned slowly toward him.

He was reading the chart, completely absorbed, one hand at his mouth, the other hovering over the keyboard, knee vibrating beneath the desk like he was personally powering the department. His coffee sat untouched beside the monitor, the lid off, gone cold.

“Do you ever stop moving?” you asked.

“Do you ever stop making observations no one asked for?”

“No.”

“Then we understand each other.”

You should not have laughed.

It slipped out before you could stop it, small and surprised. Langdon looked at you like you had done something unexpected. Not impossible. Just unexpected from you. Then his mouth curved. It was not a smile, not fully. But it softened him by a dangerous margin.

The blood results came back while you were both still at the computer. First troponin mildly elevated. Potassium low. Creatinine slightly up. Enough to complicate things. Enough to make the case interesting.

Langdon leaned in again. You felt him before he touched you. A shift of warmth at your side. The brush of his shoulder against yours. His arm reaching past you, close enough that you could see the faint indentation the ring left at the base of his finger. He clicked through the labs, eyes narrowed.

“She needs admission,” he said.

“Agreed.”

He looked at you quickly.

“What?” you asked.

“You agreed too fast.”

“I can disagree if it would make you feel safer.”

“It would feel more familiar.”

The word sat between you, strangely weighted. Because the worst part was, he was right.

The arguing had already developed a rhythm. You knew when he was about to lecture because his eyebrows lifted half a second before he started. He knew when you were about to challenge him because you inhaled like you were loading a weapon. You passed each other things without looking. You corrected his notes. He caught your missed boxes. You rolled your eyes. He pretended not to enjoy it.

Mrs. Alvarez was handed over to medicine with a neat plan, a cardiology discussion pending, and strict instructions for repeat ECGs. Langdon presented the case to the attending, and to your deep irritation, he did it well. Concise, intelligent, no unnecessary adjectives. He included your neuro findings without claiming them as his own.

When the attending nodded and moved on, you looked at him.

“That was almost humble.”

Langdon slid the chart under his arm. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late. I’m documenting growth.”

“I’ll dispute the note.”

“You dispute everything.”

“Only when it’s wrong.”

You walked side by side back toward the nurses’ station. The ER was still loud, still overcrowded, still held together by caffeine, compression socks, and the collective denial of everyone working past hour eight. But something had shifted. Not softened exactly. Nothing about Langdon was soft. But the edges of the day had changed shape.

At the computer, he took the chair before you could.

You stared at him. “That’s my seat.”

“I got here first.”

“You are such a child.”

“I’m senior.”

“Move.”

“No.”

You leaned over him to reach the keyboard, deliberately crowding into his space this time. “Fine. I’ll chart standing.”

He looked up at you, eyes bright with challenge. “That’s terrible ergonomics.”

“Then move.”

“Ask nicely.”

“I would rather develop spinal pathology.”

He laughed under his breath and rolled the chair back half an inch. Not enough to be useful. Just enough to be annoying. You squeezed beside him anyway, shoulder pressing against his. Neither of you moved away. For a few seconds, you both looked at the screen in silence.

Then Langdon said, “You spelled haemorrhage wrong.”

You closed your eyes. “I’m going to sedate you.”

“With what order?”

“With my bare hands.”

“Poor technique.”

“Poor survival instinct.”

And this time, when he smiled, you saw it properly.

By the end of the first week, people had started making comments. Not helpful comments. Not clinical comments. Comments made by nurses who had worked too many consecutive shifts and thrived on emotional blood sport.

“Where’s your other half?” one of them asked as you reached for a new set of gloves.

You froze. “My what?”

She nodded toward the trauma board. “Langdon.”

“He is not my other half.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You gave her a look. “That is a professionally reportable statement.”

She grinned. “To who? Robby? He started this.”

That was, unfortunately, true. Robby had started it, and now the entire department seemed invested in whether you and Langdon could stand beside each other for more than ten minutes without starting a constitutional crisis. The worst part was that you were improving. Not peacefully. Not gracefully. But improving.

You still argued. Of course you argued. Langdon remained physically incapable of saying a simple thing when a longer, more irritating version existed. You remained incapable of letting him get away with it. But the arguments had become shorter. Sharper. Almost efficient.

Sometimes you caught him changing his mind before you finished making your point. Sometimes he caught you doing the same. Neither of you acknowledged this. Acknowledging it felt dangerous.

You were finishing a discharge summary when triage called over.

“Can I get someone to eyeball bed nine? Twenty-six-year-old female, shortness of breath and chest tightness. Vitals mostly fine. Says she feels like something is wrong. No cardiac history. Looks anxious.”

Langdon, standing beside you with a chart tucked under one arm and a pen between his fingers, sighed.

You looked at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to say panic attack.”

“I was about to say that ‘looks anxious’ is rarely a useful diagnostic category.”

That surprised you enough to stop typing. He noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like you’ve just discovered I’m not entirely negligent.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

You stood, grabbing your stethoscope. Langdon followed without being asked.

Bed nine held a young woman sitting bolt upright, one hand pressed against the mattress, the other curled tightly against her chest. She was pale beneath the harsh lights, dark hair pulled back messily, lips slightly parted as she tried to slow her breathing.

Her chart said: Maya Ellis. Twenty-six. Shortness of breath. Chest tightness. Anxiety?

You hated the question mark.

“Hi, Maya,” you said, pulling the curtain closed behind you. “I’m one of the doctors. This is Dr Langdon.”

Maya looked between you and him quickly. “Are you two together?”

The question landed with the force of a dropped instrument tray. You blinked. Langdon went completely still beside you.

“No,” you said at the exact same time he said, “Absolutely not.”

Maya’s eyes widened. “Oh. Sorry. You just came in together, and you’re standing like—”

“We work together,” Langdon said, too quickly.

“Against our will,” you added.

Maya stared. You felt heat crawl up your neck. Beside you, Langdon’s ears had gone pink. Actually pink. You had never seen anything so gratifying in your life.

You turned to him slowly. “Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m warm.”

“It’s freezing in here.”

“I have circulation.”

“Apparently too much.”

“Patient,” he said through his teeth.

You turned back to Maya, who looked slightly less frightened now, if only because she had been distracted by whatever that had been.

“Tell me what happened,” you said gently.

Maya swallowed. “I was at work. I got this pain here.” She touched the right side of her chest. “Not really pain, like pressure? Then I couldn’t get a full breath. My hands started tingling. Everyone said I was having a panic attack, but I’ve had panic attacks before. This feels different.”

Langdon’s posture shifted.

You saw it because you were starting to see too much where he was concerned. His focus sharpened. His gaze moved over Maya’s face, her breathing, the way she held herself too carefully.

“When did it start?” he asked.

“Maybe an hour ago.”

“Any recent travel?” you asked.

“No.”

“Birth control?”

She hesitated. “The pill.”

Langdon glanced at you.

You were already looking at him.

“Any leg pain or swelling?” you asked.

“My calf hurt yesterday,” Maya said. “But I thought I’d pulled something at the gym.”

You reached for the pulse oximeter. Her oxygen saturation was technically acceptable, but lower than you wanted for a healthy twenty-six-year-old. Her heart rate flickered between one-oh-eight and one-fifteen. Not dramatic.

You checked her chest. Clear. No wheeze. No crackles. No obvious infection. Her blood pressure was stable, but her skin had that faintly grey look that made your stomach tighten before your brain had finished catching up. Langdon was watching you.

You looked at Maya. “We’re going to run some tests.”

Her face tightened. “So you don’t think it’s just panic?”

“I think panic is a diagnosis we can consider,” you said, “after we’ve ruled out the things that like to disguise themselves as panic.”

A voice came from the other side of the curtain.

“Seriously?”

Dr Patel, one of the other residents, pulled the curtain back slightly, holding Maya’s triage sheet. He was not unkind, exactly, but he had the slightly rushed expression of someone who had already decided the department had bigger problems.

“She’s twenty-six,” Patel said. “Normal ECG. No hypoxia. She’s anxious, hyperventilating, tingling hands. This is classic.”

You felt your spine straighten.

“She’s tachycardic, on the combined pill, pleuritic chest pressure, calf pain yesterday, and says this feels different from previous panic attacks.”

Patel gave you a look. “You want to PE workup every anxious young woman with chest tightness?”

“I want to work up this one.”

“It’s overkill.”

Langdon stepped in before you could answer.

“She’s right,” he said.

You blinked. He did not look at you.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he added. “It’s not cute.”

You immediately stopped blinking and glared instead.

Patel looked between you both. “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” Langdon said. “D-dimer, troponin, VBG, pregnancy test, CXR. If the D-dimer’s positive, CTPA. And repeat the ECG if symptoms change.”

“Radiology will love that.”

“Radiology has survived worse than clinically justified imaging,” Langdon said.

Maya’s eyes moved between you again, something like hope breaking through the panic. “So you believe me?”

You looked at her. “Yes.”

Langdon was quieter when he added, “We do.”

The we should not have hit you. It did anyway. After that, the case moved quickly.

Bloods. Cannula. Chest X-ray. A nurse getting Maya changed into a gown. Langdon arguing with the lab about turnaround time as if personally offended by coagulation delays. You reassessing Maya when her breathing worsened, catching the way she clutched at the side rail and tried not to cry.

Her D-dimer came back high. Very high. Patel, to his credit, swore softly and stopped arguing.

Langdon was already beside you at the computer, shoulder pressing against yours as you both stared at the result. He had moved in close without thinking again, but this time the contact did not feel accidental in the same way. Or maybe you were just becoming too aware of him.

His arm brushed yours as he reached for the mouse. You did not move. Neither did he.

“CTPA,” you said.

“Already requesting it.”

“Pregnancy negative?”

“Just resulted.”

“Renal function?”

“Fine.”

“You checked?”

“I knew you’d ask.”

You looked at him. He kept his eyes on the screen, but his mouth twitched. “Don’t make it sentimental.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were considering it.”

“I was considering whether that counts as teamwork or just fear of my standards.”

“Both can be true.”

The scan happened fast because Langdon made it happen fast. You did not ask what he said to radiology. You suspected it involved an unbearable amount of confidence and at least one phrase like “clinically indefensible delay.”

When the result came through, the department seemed to narrow around the words.

Bilateral pulmonary emboli. Evidence of right heart strain.

For a second, no one spoke. Then you and Langdon moved at once.

“Get Robby,” you said.

“I’ll call ICU,” Langdon replied.

“Anticoagulation?”

“Unless contraindicated. I’ll check with Robby.”

“Echo?”

“Bedside first. Formal after.”

“Maya needs explaining before she hears it from six strangers talking over her.”

“I’ll do ICU. You talk to her.”

There was no argument over who should do what. You went back to Maya while Langdon made the call, his voice low and rapid behind you. Maya looked up as you entered. She knew from your face.

“It wasn’t panic,” she said.

“No,” you said, pulling a stool close. “It wasn’t.”

Her eyes filled. You explained as clearly as you could. Blood clots in the lungs. Serious, but treatable. The team was moving quickly. She had done the right thing by coming in. She had done the right thing by insisting it felt different.

Langdon appeared halfway through, standing at the foot of the bed. He did not interrupt. He did not take over. He listened. When Maya asked if she could die, you paused for half a second. Langdon answered, not over you, but beside you.

“That’s why we’re treating it aggressively,” he said. “You’re in the right place.”

Maya looked between you both again, tears on her cheeks.

“You’re sure you’re not together?” she asked weakly.

The blush hit you so fast you almost hated her. Langdon’s face changed colour too. A faint, unmistakable pink rising under his cheekbones.

“Maya,” he said, with immense dignity, “you have a pulmonary embolism.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m still observant.”

Despite everything, you laughed. Then Robby swept in, and the spell broke.

“Okay,” he said, scanning the chart. “Talk to me.”

You and Langdon presented together.

Not one after the other. Together.

You gave the history. Langdon gave the imaging. You gave the clinical progression. He gave the plan. You caught the missing contraindication question before he asked it. He remembered the calf pain and added it into the handover. Robby listened, eyes moving between you both with increasing interest.

When you finished, he nodded.

“Good. Very good. ICU are aware?”

“On their way,” Langdon said.

“Anticoagulation?”

“Ready once you confirm.”

“I confirm.” Robby looked at you, then at Langdon. “See? That. Do that more.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Whatever that was where neither of you made me want to walk into traffic.”

Langdon looked offended. “We are always professional.”

Robby stared at him.

You stared at him too.

Langdon looked away. “Intermittently.”

Maya stabilized over the next hour.

The anticoagulation was started. ICU came down. Her breathing eased, her colour improved, and she squeezed your hand before they transferred her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You caught it,” you said. “We just listened.”

Maya’s eyes flicked to Langdon, then back to you. “He listened because you said it.”

You did not know what to do with that.

Apparently, neither did Langdon. He became intensely interested in adjusting the line that did not need adjusting.

After Maya left, the ER swallowed you both again. There were discharge summaries to finish, a drunk man singing in curtain three, a child with a bead stuck in his nose, and an elderly woman insisting she had not fallen despite arriving with leaves in her hair.

Normal chaos returned.

Except Langdon was quieter.

Not silent. Never silent. Langdon being silent for too long would have caused genuine concern. But quieter. His comments came slower. His sarcasm lost some of its bite. Once, when you corrected his medication reconciliation, he simply said, “You’re right,” and kept typing.

You nearly checked his pupils.

Later, while you were speaking to a nurse near the supply room, you felt it.

The awareness of being looked for.

You turned.

Across the department, through the movement of stretchers and staff and families and monitors, Langdon stood near the central desk. A chart was open in his hands, but he was not reading it.

He was scanning the room.

Searching.

His gaze moved past trauma, past triage, past the medication room.

Then he found you.

For one second, his expression changed.

Not relief exactly.

Recognition.

As if some part of him had been tracking your absence without permission and settled only once you were accounted for.

Your breath caught.

Then he seemed to realise what he was doing.

His attention dropped abruptly to the chart.

Too late.

You had seen.

When you came back to the desk, you said nothing at first. You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost touched his, and reached for the keyboard.

He cleared his throat. “Where were you?”

You kept your eyes on the screen. “Working.”

“I didn’t ask because I cared.”

“Obviously.”

“I needed the chart.”

“The chart was here.”

“Yes. Well.” He tapped his pen once against the counter, then stopped himself. “You weren’t.”

You looked at him then. He looked back. The ER moved around you, loud and fluorescent and alive, but for a moment, the space between you went very still. Langdon’s ring caught the light as his fingers tightened around the chart. Then a nurse called his name from across the department.

“Dr Langdon!”

He blinked first. The moment broke. He stepped back, all at once professional again, but something remained in his face as he turned away. Something unsettled. Almost frightened.

And you understood, with a strange ache of certainty, that whatever was happening to him had very little to do with your face, or your body, or the fact that sometimes you caught him looking too long.

It was not just attraction. It was worse. He trusted you.

He trusted your eyes on a patient. Trusted your instincts. Trusted the way you stood your ground. Trusted you enough to back you publicly before he had time to remember all the reasons he should be careful.

And for a man like Langdon, that seemed to scare him more than wanting ever could.

The ER went quiet at 2:17 in the morning.

Not truly quiet. It never managed that. There was always a monitor complaining somewhere, a printer coughing out labels, the distant squeak of wheels against linoleum. Someone in curtain five was snoring with the violent determination of a man who had denied sleep apnoea for twenty years. A nurse laughed at something near triage, low and tired, and the sound slipped through the department like a match struck in the dark.

But for the first time in hours, no one was actively dying. No one was shouting. No one was bleeding onto your shoes.That counted as peace.

You found refuge in the breakroom beneath the cold buzz of the fluorescent lights, sitting at the small table with your back against the wall and one leg hooked around the chair beside you. The vending machine hummed in the corner with the smug authority of the only thing in the hospital that got regular maintenance. Your coffee was terrible. Your crackers were worse. You ate them anyway.

Half a packet remained in front of you, along with a bruised cereal bar you had no memory of buying and a banana so far past optimism that even the bin seemed reluctant.

You were staring at the wall without seeing it when the door opened. Langdon walked in. Then stopped. He had not known you were there. That was obvious from the brief, unguarded second before he rebuilt himself. He looked wrecked.

Not in any dramatic, tragic way. Not bloodied, not frantic, not visibly broken. Just worn down past the point where sharpness could hide it. His hair was slightly mussed from where he had dragged a hand through it too many times. His scrub top was creased. The sleeves were still shoved to his elbows, but the movement looked less deliberate now and more like he had been too tired to fix them.

He stood in the doorway for half a breath, one hand against the frame. Then he exhaled, rubbed both hands over his face, and muttered something under his breath. You caught only the last word.

“...ridiculous.”

“Me or the hospital?” you asked.

Langdon’s head snapped up. For a second, he looked genuinely startled. Then his face arranged itself into offence. “Do you make a habit of sitting silently in dark corners?”

“The lights are on.”

“They’re hospital lights. They barely count as illumination.”

“Fair.”

He stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind him. The room was small enough that his presence changed its temperature. Or maybe that was just your exhaustion making everything feel too close. He moved to the counter, picked up the coffee pot, looked inside, and grimaced.

“That’s been there since midnight,” you said.

He poured it anyway. You watched him add one sugar, then another, then stir it with a wooden stick so aggressively it sounded personal.

“That coffee owes you money?” you asked.

“This coffee is a crime.”

“And yet you’re drinking it.”

“I’m building a case.”

“Against the coffee?”

“Against whoever allows this hospital to call itself a place of healing while serving liquid despair in a paper cup.”

You pushed the crackers toward the empty chair opposite you. “Eat something before you start litigating beverages.”

He looked at the crackers. Then at you. Then back at the crackers, as if they were beneath him morally.

“No.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t want crackers.”

“Okay.”

“They’re dry.”

“They are crackers.”

“That doesn’t mean they have to be aggressively joyless.”

You broke one in half and held it out. “Langdon.”

He stared at your hand. A long second passed. Then he took it.

He sat down opposite you with the air of a man being forced into an indignity by his own body’s basic requirements. He ate the cracker, frowned, then reached for another. You did not comment. You wanted to. You deserved an award for not commenting.

The two of you sat in a silence that should have been awkward but was, strangely, not. The vending machine hummed. The fluorescent light flickered once overhead. Langdon’s coffee steamed faintly between his hands. He took one sip and made a face like it had betrayed him.

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“Still building your case?”

“Class action.”

“Against the hospital?”

“Against medicine. Possibly society.”

You smiled into your coffee. He saw. That was the problem now. Langdon saw things. Worse, he was beginning to see you. Not just your mistakes, or your stubbornness, or the exact second you were about to disagree with him. He saw the small things too. The way your mouth twitched when you were trying not to laugh. The way you went quiet after paediatric cases. The way you rubbed at your temple when you were hungry but too busy to admit it.

And you saw him. You saw that his knee had started bouncing beneath the table. Saw that his left hand was around the coffee cup, but his right hand had drifted toward his ring. Saw the thumb brush once over the metal, then stop, then return.

He looked down as if catching himself. Then, perhaps to cover the movement, he started talking.

“I had a patient last year,” he said abruptly, “who came in convinced he had been bitten by a venomous spider. Very insistent. Had pictures on his phone of spiders that were not, in fact, in this country. He’d printed off an article. Highlighted sections. Presented it like a dissertation.”

You leaned back. “Was he bitten?”

“No. He had an infected ingrown hair.”

“Devastating.”

“Deeply. He was furious. He wanted antivenom.”

“For the hair?”

“For the imaginary spider.”

“Naturally.”

“He told me I lacked imagination.”

“You do sometimes.”

Langdon pointed a cracker at you. “I have an excellent imagination. I simply refuse to waste it on medically implausible arachnid conspiracies.”

You laughed, and he kept going.

That was how it happened.

One random story turned into another. The spider patient became a woman who had swallowed a dental crown and demanded a written guarantee it would not “attach to anything important.” That became a short but passionate complaint about patients describing pain numerically but then adding “but I have a high pain tolerance,” which somehow became an explanation of a study he had read about pain reporting, which became an argument with himself about whether the study design was flawed, which became a detour into how much bad research got repeated because the abstract sounded confident.

He talked with his hands. Even exhausted, he could not seem to stop them. They moved around the coffee cup, sliced through the air, tapped the table, reached for a cracker and forgot about it halfway there. His thoughts jumped tracks but never fully derailed. They circled, looped, returned. Ten minutes after mentioning the dental crown, he suddenly said, “Actually, the crown did pass uneventfully,” as if you had been waiting in suspense.

You had been, a little. You let him talk. Not because he needed humoured. Because he was interesting. Annoyingly interesting.

He knew too much and said too much and somehow carried a dozen half-connected thoughts in his head without dropping any of them. He could be arrogant, yes. Insufferable, obviously. But when he forgot to perform seniority at you, when he stopped trying to win, he was something else.

Alive with thought. Messy with it. Almost boyish beneath the exhaustion, though you suspected saying so would get you murdered in a professionally deniable way.

Eventually, his words slowed. Not stopped. Langdon did not stop. But slowed enough that he noticed the silence on your side of the table. He looked at you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Observing.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“You’re not clinically observing me.”

“No?”

“No. You’re personally observing me. It’s unsettling.”

You took another sip of coffee and regretted it. “You know, for someone who acts like he hates talking to me, you talk to me a lot.”

“That’s because you keep being wrong.”

“I haven’t said anything in seven minutes.”

“Exactly. It was unsettling. I had to compensate.”

You laughed again. This time he smiled properly. It was tired. Crooked. Brief. And maybe because it was late, or because the room was small, or because the ER outside had gone soft around the edges, the smile felt more dangerous than all the shoulder brushing in the world.

Then his hand moved again. Thumb to ring. One pass. Another. The smile faded before it fully had time to live. Your eyes followed the movement before you could stop them.

He saw. Of course he saw. This time, his hand did not disappear beneath the table fast enough. His fingers curled over the ring, not hiding it exactly, but protecting it. Or protecting himself from being asked.

The room changed. Not dramatically. The vending machine still hummed. The coffee was still awful. Somewhere outside, someone called for a blanket. But the small pocket of ease between you thinned into something fragile.

Langdon’s jaw tightened. You could almost see him preparing. For the question. For the pity. For the polite, terrible concern people used when they wanted information more than they wanted to help. You looked at his hand. Then back at him.

“I’m not asking,” you said gently.

The words landed harder than you expected. He went very still. Not like before, when you had startled him in this same room and he had hidden the ring beneath the table. This was different. This was not being caught. This was being spared.

His face did not change much, but something behind it did. Some defensive structure he had been holding upright with both hands seemed, for one impossible second, to weaken.

“Good,” he said. His voice was quiet. A pause.

“Because I wouldn’t answer.”

“I know.”

Langdon looked down first. His thumb moved once more across the ring, but slower now. Less like panic. More like acknowledgement.

“I don’t hate talking to you,” he said.

The words were so quiet you almost thought you had imagined them. You held very still. He seemed immediately annoyed with himself.

“I mean,” he added, “you are frequently wrong.”

“There it is.”

“And argumentative.”

“Mm.”

“And you edit my notes without consent.”

“Because they need help.”

“And you have an extremely concerning relationship with being right.”

“You’re describing yourself.”

“I’m describing a pattern.”

“Again. Yourself.”

He breathed out, but it was almost a laugh. Almost. You broke the last cracker in half and slid one piece across the table. He took it without complaint this time.

Outside the breakroom, the ER began to wake again. Footsteps quickened. A monitor alarm rose, cut off, then rose again. Someone knocked once on the door and opened it just far enough to say, “Langdon? Bed twelve’s asking for pain relief.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

“Coming.”

The nurse disappeared. Langdon stood, taking the coffee with him despite having insulted it for twenty minutes. At the door, he paused. You expected a joke. A correction. Some little piece of armour placed back over the exposed thing between you.

Instead, he said, “You should eat the cereal bar.”

You looked at the sad, bruised thing on the table. “That an order?”

His mouth curved.

“No,” he said. “Unfortunately, you don’t outrank me.”

“Yet.”

The smile stayed for one more second. Then he left. You sat alone beneath the fluorescent lights, listening to his voice rejoin the chaos outside, low and quick and familiar.

And you knew, with an ache you did not want to name, that something had shifted. Not enough for either of you to speak of it. Enough that silence no longer felt empty when he was in the room.

Time passed strangely in the ER. Hours stretched until they felt like punishment. Days vanished inside the blur of patient names, blood results, chest pain pathways, sepsis protocols, discharge summaries, and cold coffee. You measured time less by clocks and more by what had gone wrong: the night of three overdoses, the morning the CT scanner went down, the shift where paediatrics overflowed and everyone in the department aged five years before lunch.

Somewhere inside all of that, working with Langdon stopped feeling like a sentence. It became a habit. An irritating one. A persistent one. One you would still complain about if asked, loudly and with evidence. But a habit all the same. He brought you coffee one morning and set it beside your keyboard without looking at you.

“What’s this?” you asked.

“Coffee.”

“I know what coffee is.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Why are you giving me coffee?”

He opened a chart. “They made an extra.”

You looked at the cup. It had your usual amount of milk. Your usual one sugar. Your name was not on it, but it might as well have been.

“They made an extra exactly how I take it?”

“Miracles occur in emergency medicine every day.”

“Langdon.”

“Drink it before I regret being generous.”

“You mean before you regret being caught.”

He did not answer, which was answer enough.

Later, you corrected his charting grammar while he stood over your shoulder pretending not to care.

“You cannot describe someone as ‘very febrile,’” you said.

“They were very febrile.”

“They had a high fever.”

“That loses emphasis.”

“It gains dignity.”

He leaned closer to read the screen. He stood beside you by choice now. That was the dangerous part. At first, proximity had been practical, both of you crowded around the same computer because Robby had forced you to share cases and there were never enough workstations. But now Langdon appeared at your side when there were other computers open. He rested one hand on the back of your chair. He leaned in, shoulder brushing yours, as if the space beside you had become his natural place in the department.

The bickering remained, but it changed texture. Less blade, more spark. He still corrected you when he thought you were wrong, but now there was a glint in his eye when he did it. You still challenged him, but sometimes the challenge came with a smile you failed to suppress quickly enough.

The nurses noticed. Of course they noticed. Nurses noticed everything. If you ever committed a crime, you were certain an ER nurse would know before the police and would critique your technique.

“Your shadow is looking for you,” one of them said as you came out of bed four.

You frowned. “My what?”

She nodded across the department. Langdon stood near the central desk with a chart in his hand, scanning the room in that way he had. Not frantic. Never frantic. But intent. His eyes moved over beds, curtains, staff, doorways.

Searching. Then they found you. His expression settled for half a second before he looked back down at the chart.

The nurse beside you made a small humming sound.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was simply observing a workplace relationship improving.”

“This workplace relationship is none of your business.”

“In this department? Everything is everyone’s business.”

You had no defence against that, so you left.

Langdon was still pretending to read when you reached him.

“Lose something?” you asked.

“No.”

“Looked like you were searching.”

“I was assessing departmental flow.”

“With your eyes?”

“That is traditionally how assessment works.”

“You found me pretty fast.”

His pen tapped once against the chart. Stopped. “You were in my way.”

“I was across the room.”

“Obstructively.”

You smiled before you could help it. He watched you with patients. You caught him doing it during a difficult discharge with an elderly woman who had no one to collect her and kept insisting she did not want to be a bother. You sat beside her for ten minutes you did not have, explaining the plan twice, then a third time when she looked embarrassed for forgetting. You wrote it down in large letters. You found her a sandwich. You got social work involved before anyone could rush her out. When you stepped back out, Langdon was at the counter, looking at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Personally observing me. Apparently it’s unsettling.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re good with them.”

The compliment was so direct that you nearly missed a step.

“Patients?”

“No, vending machines. Yes, patients.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you ill?”

“I can retract it.”

“No. Too late. I’m keeping it.”

“Use it sparingly.”

“I’m going to document it.”

“I’ll dispute the note.”

You expected him to turn away after that, but he did not. His gaze lingered, not on your face exactly, but on the part of you that had stayed soft despite the shift, despite the noise, despite the endless pressure to become brisk where kindness took too long. You felt seen.

His defensiveness appeared in other ways. When a surgical registrar asked if you were “sure” about an abdominal finding in a tone that implied you might have confused guarding with enthusiasm, Langdon cut in before you could.

“She knows the difference.”

The registrar looked at him. “I wasn’t asking you.”

“No,” Langdon said. “You were patronising her. It’s a subtle distinction, but I’m confident you can learn it.”

You stared at him.

The registrar stared too, for different reasons.

Afterwards, you followed Langdon to the computer. “I had that handled.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you say something?”

“Because he was being an idiot.”

“I can handle idiots.”

“I’ve noticed. You handle me daily.”

He shrugged, but there was colour high on his cheekbones. He did not apologise for defending you. He did not make it into something noble either. He simply stood beside you, close enough for your arms to touch, and let the moment pass into charting.

Then there was the procedure. A straightforward abscess drainage, nothing dramatic, nothing you had not done before. Langdon was supervising because technically he had seen more of them, a fact he had only mentioned twice, which for him was basically restraint.

He stood across from you, sleeves rolled up, gloves on, forearms tense as he adjusted the tray.

You looked. You meant only to glance. Unfortunately, Langdon had very nice arms.

This was not clinically relevant. This was not professionally useful. This was not information you had asked your brain to collect. And yet there it was, filed somewhere between “patient needs follow-up antibiotics” and “Langdon’s veins are a public safety issue.”

He was explaining something about incision placement. You heard none of it. He stopped. You looked up. His eyes were bright with terrible understanding.

“Were you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Then what did I say?”

“Something about antibiotics.”

“Devastatingly specific.”

You pressed your lips together.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough that only you could hear. “Were you distracted?”

“No.”

“By the sterile field?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Because the sterile field is lower.”

“Langdon.”

“Were you staring at my arms?”

You wanted the floor to open.

For one second, his face went blank. Then pink. Then unbearably smug.

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I think I do.”

“You think a lot of things. Many are wrong.”

“Not this.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“I intend to enjoy it for years.”

“Touching confidence in your life expectancy.”

He smiled through the rest of the procedure. You considered sedating him. But beneath the humour, beneath the coffee and the charts and the almost-smiles, something darker was moving.

His marriage was getting worse. You did not know details. Langdon gave no details. He guarded them with the same stubborn competence he brought to trauma bays and difficult airways. But the shape of the pain became harder to miss. He took phone calls outside now. Not many. Just enough.

His phone would light up. He would look at the screen and something would close in his face. Then he would step into the hall near radiology, voice low, back turned. Once, you saw him through the narrow window in the door, one hand braced against the wall, head bowed as he listened to someone on the other end.

When he came back, he was pale. Not sick-pale. Worse. Angry-pale. Hurt-pale. The colour of someone holding himself together through muscle memory alone.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He did not look at you. “Fine.”

You hated that word from patients. You hated it more from him.

Another night, after a messy resus, you both stood at the sink scrubbing blood from your hands. Langdon pulled his ring off to wash beneath it. That was normal. Practical. Sensible.

But then he stopped. Water ran over his wrist while he stared down at the band resting in his palm. The moment stretched too long. You looked away first, giving him the privacy of pretending you had not seen. When he put it back on, his hand shook once. Just once.

He slept in the on-call room more often too. You knew because you found him there one morning, still in yesterday’s scrubs, hair wrecked, one arm thrown over his eyes like he was trying to block out the entire world. He woke when the door creaked and sat up too quickly.

“I was reviewing notes,” he said.

“In the dark? Horizontally?”

“Advanced method.”

One night, close to the end of another impossible shift, when the ER had settled into a thin, watchful lull and the two of you ended up outside by the ambulance bay doors, stealing five minutes of air that smelled faintly of rain and petrol.

Langdon stood beside you, shoulder nearly touching yours, coffee cooling untouched in his hand. For once, he was not talking.

“You’re quiet,” you said.

“I’m capable of quiet.”

“Medically unproven.”

He huffed, but it was not quite a laugh. The automatic doors opened behind you, then closed again. Somewhere in the distance, a siren rose and faded. Langdon looked out across the wet pavement.

“Things at home are…”

He stopped. His hand closed around the coffee cup, then shifted. His thumb found the ring. Pressed hard. Once. Twice. His jaw worked.

“Never mind.”

You could have let him have it. Maybe you should have. Maybe the kinder thing would have been to pretend he had not started to open a door and then lost the courage to stand in it.

But you were tired too. Tired of fine. Tired of never mind. Tired of watching him bleed invisibly and then turn sharp because sharp was safer than wounded.

“Okay,” you said.

He looked at you, wary. “Okay?”

“You don’t have to tell me. But don’t pretend you’re fine and then bite my head off because I’m the nearest available target.”

The words hung between you. For a second, you thought you had gone too far. Langdon stared at you. Not angry. Not exactly. Exposed. The kind of exposed that made anger tempting.

You waited for it. The snap. The correction. The reminder that he was senior, that you were overstepping, that whatever was happening behind the closed door of his marriage was not yours to observe.

It did not come. Instead, he looked at you for a long time. Long enough that you became aware of the small distance between your shoulders. Of the coffee cooling in his hand. Of the ring beneath his thumb. Of his mouth, pressed into a line to keep back words that had nowhere safe to go.

He wanted to say something. You could see that. Maybe not the whole truth. Maybe not even a useful part of it. But something. Something more honest than sarcasm. Something more dangerous than fine.

He could not. Because he was still married. Because you worked together. Because he was technically your senior by one year, a ridiculous fact he had turned into armour and identity and distance. Because whatever this was, it had grown in the wrong season. So he chose something safer.

“You’re very annoying,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“It’s becoming a problem.”

“For you?”

His thumb stilled against the ring.

“Mostly.”

The next shift was brutal in a way that made time feel physical. It pressed into your shoulders. Settled behind your eyes. Lived in your hands even after you washed them three times.

There had been a pile-up on the motorway just after seven. Three ambulances at once, then a fourth twenty minutes later. Trauma bays full. Corridors narrowed by stretchers. Blood on the floor that someone cleaned and then someone else bled over again. A child crying for a father who was still in imaging. A woman asking the same question every five minutes because shock had turned her memory into water.

You and Langdon had worked together without thinking. No bickering. No sharp comments. No seniority. No courtroom deposition.

He called for suction before you asked. You handed him gauze before he reached. He caught your eye over a patient’s chest and you knew, instantly, what he needed. You moved like the same thought split between two bodies.

It should have felt satisfying. Instead, it felt terrifying. Because the better you worked together, the harder it became to pretend it was only work.

By the time the department settled into its ruined version of calm, your scrubs felt too tight and your skin felt too aware of everything it touched. The last trauma had gone upstairs. The family had been updated. Robby had disappeared to make three phone calls you were glad you did not have to hear. The nurses moved with the blank efficiency of people who would feel all of it later, somewhere private, if they were lucky.

Langdon vanished after the final handover. You noticed because you always noticed now. You hated that about yourself. You told yourself not to look for him. You had charts to finish. Patients to reassess. A bladder scan that had been requested an hour ago and a discharge summary that might have been written in ancient code for all the sense it made to you.

You lasted six minutes. Then you found yourself walking. Not toward the breakroom first. That would have been too obvious. Not toward radiology. Not the ambulance bay. You checked the medication room. Empty. The on-call room. Empty. The small alcove by the staff lockers. Empty.

Finally, you reached the storage room at the far end of the department, the one no one used unless they needed extra blankets, spare tubing, or somewhere to fall apart for forty-five seconds between catastrophes.

The door was half open. Inside, the light was off except for the weak strip spilling in from the corridor. Langdon stood between a stack of folded sheets and a metal shelving unit lined with IV fluids. His back was to you. His head was bowed. One hand braced against the shelf. The other held his ring.

You stopped in the doorway. The air seemed to leave the room. The silver band rested in his palm, small and bright and devastatingly quiet. He must have heard you, because his shoulders tensed.

For once, he did not turn around immediately. Did not snap. Did not cover. Did not construct himself into something sharp enough to keep you back.

He only said, “I thought I locked the door.”

“You didn’t.”

“Obviously.”

His voice was flat. Worn thin.

You should have left. Everything in you knew that. You should have given him privacy. You should have turned around, walked back to the nurses’ station, and written your notes like a sensible person with appropriate boundaries and no instinct for emotional self-destruction. Instead, you stepped inside and let the door fall halfway shut behind you.

“Langdon.”

He closed his hand around the ring.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. You’re worse when you don’t.”

He turned then. You had seen Langdon tired before. Irritated. Wired. Brilliant. Unbearable. Pale after phone calls. Quiet in the ambulance bay. Almost gentle with patients who would never know what it cost him to be that careful.

You had not seen him like this. He looked stripped down to the bone.

His left hand was bare. The absence of the ring was louder than the ring had ever been. Your eyes dropped to it before you could stop yourself. His hand flexed once, as if he felt the nakedness there too. Langdon looked down at the ring in his hand.

“We’ve been over for a long time.”

The sentence was quiet. Direct. Terrible.

You swallowed. “Langdon…”

“I know.” His head lifted quickly. “I know what it sounds like. I know what people say. I know every version of this story makes someone look selfish or weak or cruel, and maybe I am. Maybe that’s the point. But I need you to understand that I’m not saying it because I expect anything from you.”

Your heart was beating too hard. He kept going, words gathering speed now, not quite his usual yapping, not a tangent, not a lecture. More like he had been holding them in for so long that once one escaped, the rest tore after it.

“I’m not saying it so you’ll pity me. I’m not saying it so you’ll forgive me for being difficult. I’m not saying it because I think my marriage ending is some romantic inconvenience that clears the way for—” He stopped, jaw tight, eyes shutting briefly. “God. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“You’re saying enough.”

His eyes opened. That hit him. You saw it hit him. He looked at you like he had expected judgement, or interruption, or the clean, clinical slicing of your intelligence through whatever mess he had dragged into the room.

His voice lowered. “We’re separating.”

“It’s been coming for months,” he said. “Longer, probably. We just got very good at living around the truth. Different rooms. Different schedules. Conversations that sounded like logistics because anything else would have been war.” He looked down at his bare hand. “I kept wearing it because taking it off felt like admitting failure. Then keeping it on started feeling like lying.”

You did not know what to say. There were a dozen things you could have said. I’m sorry. That must be hard. Are you okay? What happened? How long? Why didn’t you tell anyone?

“I won’t be the reason.”

His eyes lifted to yours immediately.

“You’re not,” he said.

“Langdon-”

“You’re not.” He stepped closer, then stopped himself, like the movement had escaped before he could decide whether he was allowed to want it. “I need you to know that. Whatever this is, whatever I’ve been-” He broke off, breath unsteady. “You are not the reason.”

You believed him because you had seen the shape of the pain before you ever became part of it. You had seen the calls, the silence, the way home pulled colour out of him. You had seen him twist that ring like a man trying to keep a door shut with his bare hands.

“Then why are you telling me?” you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment. The storage room felt too small. Too warm. Too crowded with things neither of you had said. His hand closed tighter around the ring.

“Because lately,” he said, “when something happens, you’re the first person I look for.”

He laughed softly, almost in disbelief at himself. “I don’t know when it started. Maybe when you argued with me in trauma two and somehow made the correct call while insulting my entire personality. Maybe when you noticed the ring and didn’t ask. Maybe when I realised the ER could be on fire and I’d still know exactly where you were standing.”

You could not look away from him. He looked ruined by his own honesty.

“I know where you stand,” he said. “That’s the problem. I know which computer you go to when you’re annoyed. I know you forget to eat when paeds is bad. I know you pretend not to care when someone underestimates you, but you do. I know you take one sugar and then act like it’s a moral failing when I remember.” His mouth twitched, pained. “I know when you’re about to argue because you breathe in like you’re loading a weapon.”

Despite everything, your eyes stung. “Langdon.”

“I know your hands are steady when mine want to be. I know you’re kind when you’re exhausted, which is infuriating because I can barely manage civil. I know I trust you before I have time to decide whether I should.”

He stopped. The silence after was immense. You stared at him, at the bare hand, at the ring trapped in his fist, at the man who had spent weeks making seniority into a wall only to stand in front of you now with nothing left to hide behind.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re still—”

“I know.”

“We work together.”

“I know.”

“You’re my senior.”

That made him let out one broken, breathless laugh.

“By one miserable year.”

The laugh almost undid you. Almost. You crossed your arms tightly, not because you were angry, but because you did not trust your hands. “I can’t be where you run because your life is falling apart.”

“You’re not.”

“I won’t be your escape.”

“You aren’t.” His voice roughened. “You’re the first thing that’s made me want to stop escaping.”

The words hit so hard that for a second you forgot how to breathe. Langdon looked like he regretted them instantly. Not because they were untrue. Because they were too true. He turned away, pressing the heel of his hand to his brow. The ring glinted between his fingers.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” you said.

He froze. You stepped closer. Not all the way. Just enough that the air between you changed.

“No,” you repeated, quieter. “You probably shouldn’t have.”

He turned back slowly.His eyes found yours. That was when the room became impossible. You had stood close before. Shoulder to shoulder at computers. Hip to hip beside bedsides. Elbows touching over notes. His hand reaching past yours for the mouse. Yours brushing his when you passed him a pen.

All of that had been deniable. This was not. The distance between you was a decision now. Langdon’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Long enough to set your whole body alight. Then he looked back at your eyes, and the restraint there was almost worse than wanting. He was waiting. Not taking. Not assuming. Holding himself so still it looked painful.

“Tell me to leave,” he said.

Your voice barely worked. “This is a storage room.”

“Then tell me to stop looking at you like this.”

Langdon crossed the distance between you and then stopped with barely an inch left, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that his breath stirred against your cheek.

He did not touch you yet. That restraint was the final undoing. You reached for him first. Your fingers caught the front of his scrub top, and he inhaled sharply, eyes closing for half a second as if the contact hurt. Then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was not gentle. It tried to be. For one brief, trembling second, it was careful, uncertain, a question asked against your lips. Then you answered. And it caught fire.

Langdon made a sound low in his throat, one hand coming to your waist, the other still closed around the ring like he did not know how to let go of anything. He backed you against the shelving unit with enough care not to hurt you and enough urgency to make your head spin. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, then into his hair, and he kissed you harder, like restraint had been a language he was fluent in until you touched him.

He tasted like bad coffee and exhaustion. He kissed like a man who had spent weeks arguing because wanting you quietly had become impossible. You pulled back for air and he followed, mouth finding the corner of yours, your cheek, the line of your jaw, stopping himself there with a sharp breath.

“Tell me this is a bad idea,” he said against your skin.

“It’s a terrible idea.”

He kissed you again. You let him. For a moment, there was no ER. No ring. No one-year seniority. No Robby. No charts. No impossible circumstances waiting outside the door.

There was only Langdon’s hand at your waist, his body warm against yours, the hitch in his breath when you tugged lightly at his hair. Your fingers slid down his arm, and yes, even now, some absurd part of you noticed the muscle beneath your palm. He noticed you noticing. Even like this, even breathless, ruined, mouth swollen from yours, he found the energy to be unbearable.

“Are you still clinically observing my arms?”

You laughed against his mouth. “Shut up.”

His forehead dropped against yours. For a few seconds, you both stood there breathing the same air, half-laughing, half-shaken, holding on to each other like the floor had tilted beneath you.

Then the world returned. A cart rattled past outside. Someone called for extra blankets. The department beyond the door kept living, kept needing, kept demanding.

He looked at you then, and the kiss had not solved anything. That was the terrible, honest thing. It had not made the circumstances simple. It had not erased the hurt or the timing or the consequences. If anything, it had made everything sharper. But it had also made lying impossible. Langdon opened his hand. The ring sat in his palm.

“I’m going to do this properly,” he said. “Not because of you. Not for you. For me. Because it should have been done before I ever looked at you like this.”

Your chest ached. “And until then?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. “Until then, I behave.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “You?”

“I said behave. Not become likeable.”

That almost made you smile. He stepped closer again, but this time he did not touch you. The space between you was deliberate. Painful. Necessary.

“I meant what I said,” he told you. “You’re the first person I look for.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you reached out and touched his bare left hand, just once, your fingers brushing the place where the ring had been.

“I know.”

For a second, neither of you moved.

Your fingers were still against his hand, resting over the pale strip of skin where the ring had been. It was such a small place to touch him. Barely anything. Barely pressure. And yet Langdon looked at you like you had put your hand around his throat.

His breath changed first. A quiet inhale. Unsteady. Controlled only because he was forcing it to be. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth. His eyes came back to yours, darker now, the last of his restraint trembling visibly at the edges. For one breath, he just stared at you. Then something in him snapped.

Langdon crossed the space between you in one hard step, his hand catching your waist as his mouth found yours again. The kiss was rougher this time, less question than surrender, and the force of it drove you back until your shoulders met the storage room wall.

The impact was soft, cushioned by his hand sliding behind you just in time. You made a sound against his mouth, half surprise, half relief, and his grip tightened like it had undone him. His body pressed close, heat and tension and the sharp, clean scent of hospital soap beneath exhaustion. One hand stayed at your waist.

You felt the thought pass through him too. For one second, his mouth slowed. You caught his lower lip between yours before he could retreat. Langdon groaned. It was low, helpless, and completely unlike any sound you had ever heard from him. It went straight through you. His forehead tipped against yours, breath uneven.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said.

“You’re very dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Then he kissed you again. This one was slower, somehow worse. His mouth moved over yours like he was trying to learn you and forget you at the same time, like every second of contact was both a mistake and the only honest thing left in the room. Your hands slid up his chest, over the tense line of his shoulders, into his hair. He shuddered when your fingers curled there.

“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth.

“Why?”

“Because if you keep doing that, I’m going to stop pretending I have any self-control.”

You tugged lightly. His answer was immediate. His hand dropped from the wall to your hip, pulling you more firmly against him, and the kiss turned hungry. You could feel the hard line of his body against yours, the restless energy he carried everywhere finally given somewhere to go. His mouth left yours, dragging along your cheek, your jaw, stopping at the side of your neck with another sharp breath.

He did not kiss you there at first. He hovered. Waiting. Asking without words. You tilted your head. That was all the permission he needed.

His mouth pressed to your neck, hot and deliberate, and your fingers tightened in his hair before you could stop them. He kissed you there once, twice, then lingered like he was trying to brand the moment into memory. His hand at your waist flexed.

“Langdon,” you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

The sight of him nearly finished you.

His hair was disordered from your hands. His mouth was swollen. His eyes were bright and wrecked and fixed on you like the entire ER could collapse outside the door and he would still need one more second. Instead, you kissed him.

He answered like he had been waiting his whole life to be interrupted. The shelf beside you rattled as he pressed you harder into the wall, his hand sliding from your waist to your back, holding you there, close enough that you could feel every uneven breath he took. You arched into him without meaning to, and his control slipped visibly.

His hand moved to your face then, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness so sudden it made the heat in your chest turn painful. The contrast was unbearable: the press of him against you, the urgency of his mouth, and then that careful touch, like even now he was afraid of taking more than you wanted to give.

You covered his hand with yours. For a moment, the kiss softened. Not cooled. But deepened into something more dangerous than want. Something that knew names. Habits. Coffee orders. The exact place the other person stood in a crowded room.

Langdon pulled away first, but only barely. His mouth hovered over yours. His eyes shut for half a second, tortured.

Then he laughed under his breath, low and disbelieving. “I’m behaving terribly.”

“You warned me you wouldn’t become likeable.”

“That was different.”

“You’re still not likeable.”

His eyes opened. There he was again beneath all of it. Infuriating. Brilliant. Yours to argue with, though not yours to keep. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The uncertainty made the moment sharper. But his smile, small and breathless, was real.

“You say that,” he murmured, “but your hands are still in my hair.”

You immediately started to pull them away. He caught your wrist.

“Don’t.”

For one more impossible moment, you stayed pinned between Langdon and the wall, your hand in his hair, his mouth close enough to yours that every breath felt stolen. Then voices passed outside the storage room.

The hospital. The shift. The ring still in his hand. The fact that his left hand was bare because he had chosen honesty too late and too close to you.

Langdon stepped back slowly, like it cost him. The air rushed cold between you. But his eyes dropped to your mouth again, and you hated him a little for how badly you wanted him to ignore his own promise.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to make me forget every decent thought I’ve ever had.”

You gave a shaky laugh. “That many?”

“Three. Maybe four.”

“Impressive for you.”

His smile faded into something softer. Then, carefully, deliberately, he reached up and smoothed his thumb over your lower lip, as if erasing the evidence of himself and failing completely.

The voices outside faded completely, but the tension in the small storage room only thickened, charged and electric. Langdon’s thumb lingered on your lower lip a second longer, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with want. The ring was still clutched in his other hand like a talisman he refused to let go of, but the way he was looking at you said the “properly” he’d promised was about to be tested to its breaking point.

His smile faded into something softer. Then, carefully, deliberately, he reached up and smoothed his thumb over your lower lip, as if trying to erase the evidence of himself and failing completely. The pad of his thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your mouth like he was memorizing it. Like he was already mourning the loss of this moment before it had even ended.

You watched his eyes darken. Watched something shift behind them, the last thread of restraint finally snapping.

Then his hands were on you again, sliding under your scrub top, palms flat against your ribs, possessive and sure. His fingers splayed wide, spanning the curve of your waist like he was claiming territory. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin just below your breasts, and you gasped at the contact, at the heat of his hands against your flushed skin.

"One minute," he muttered, voice gravel-rough, his mouth already dropping to your throat. "I just need one goddamn minute of you."

His teeth grazed your pulse point, and your head fell back against the wall with a dull thud. His mouth was everywhere, hot, insistent, trailing fire down the column of your neck. His fingers found the hem of your scrub top and pushed it higher, exposing your stomach to the cool air of the storage room.

"Langdon-"

"Don't." His voice was muffled against your collarbone. "Don't say my name like you're about to talk sense into me. Not now."

He dropped to his knees. The sight of him there, brilliant, infuriating Langdon, on his knees in a hospital storage room, looking up at you with hunger and devotion tangled together in his dark eyes, nearly undid you completely.

"You have no idea," he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your hipbone, "how much I've thought of this." His fingers hooked into the waistband of your scrub pants, tugging them down with agonizing slowness. "Of you."

He kissed lower, his lips tracing a path along your stomach, your hips, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His breath was hot against you, and you could feel the tremor in his hands as they gripped your thighs, spreading you open for him.

"So pretty," he breathed against your skin. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate line along your inner thigh, and your knees nearly buckled. "So fucking smart. Do you know what you do to me? The way you argue with me in front of the whole department, like you're not the only thing I can see?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but whatever you might have said dissolved into a sharp cry as his mouth found you. He was thorough. Unhurried despite the urgency that had driven him to his knees. He took his time, learning you with his tongue, his fingers, the occasional scrape of his teeth that made you gasp and grip his hair. Your fingers tangled in the dark strands, tugging, and he groaned against you, a low, desperate sound that vibrated through your entire body.

"Langdon-" His name was a broken plea on your lips.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you. His mouth was slick, his eyes dark and hungry. "Tell me what you need."

"You. Just please-"

He rose then, fluid and commanding, guiding you backward until your knees hit the narrow exam table. He lifted you onto it, the paper crinkling beneath you, and positioned himself between your thighs in a single, decisive movement.

His hands found your hips, pulling you to the edge of the table. He kicked his own pants down just enough, and then he was there, pressing against you, the heat of him making you ache.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and dominant. One hand pinned your wrist above your head, fingers lacing with yours. His other hand gripped your hip, steadying you. "I want to watch every second I'm finally inside you."

He pushed in slowly. Deliberately. Inch by agonizing inch, giving you time to feel every stretch, every pulse of heat. Your back arched off the table as he filled you completely, and he groaned, a raw, guttural sound that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Jesus," he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. "You feel, God, you feel like you were made for this."

Then he moved. Deep. Rough. Commanding. Each stroke drove you higher, the table creaking beneath you as he set a relentless rhythm. His hand released your hip to find your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your scrub top. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

"Eyes on me," he reminded you, voice strained. "I want to see you. All of you."

You obeyed, meeting his gaze as he drove into you again and again. His expression was wrecked. All pretence gone, every carefully constructed wall reduced to rubble. The composed, infuriating man who could diagnose a cardiac arrest with clinical detachment was nowhere to be found. In his place was someone raw, undone, completely at your mercy despite being the one driving into you with commanding precision.

His hips snapped against yours, each thrust deep and deliberate, angling to hit that perfect spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. The narrow exam table creaked beneath you, its thin paper crinkling with every movement. One of his hands remained wrapped around your wrist, pinning it above your head against the thin mattress. The other gripped your hip hard enough to leave bruises, and you wanted them. You wanted every mark he would leave on you.

"Look at me," he ordered again, his voice strained and wrecked. "Don't look away. Not now."

His pace quickened, growing more urgent. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the small room, obscene and perfect. His jaw was tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek as he fought for control and lost, over and over. Sweat beaded at his temples, and a lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look younger.

"I thought about this every night," he confessed, his voice breaking as he thrust deep, holding there for a moment before pulling back and driving into you again. "When I was with her." The word came out bitter, almost angry. "It was always you.”

His mouth found yours, bruising, desperate, consuming. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you tasted yourself on him, tasted the salt of his sweat, tasted the raw honesty he'd never given anyone else.

"I imagined you," he continued against your lips, each word punctuated by another thrust. "All the time. Every time I closed my eyes, it was you." His hand slid from your hip up your side, pushing your scrub top higher until your breasts were exposed. His thumb found your nipple, circling it with devastating precision. "The way you argue with me. The way you challenge me. The way you look at me like I'm not just some broken asshole."

His pace grew punishing. Relentless. Each stroke drove you higher, your body clenching around him, drawing desperate groans from his throat.

"I'd be inside her," he said, voice dropping to a ragged whisper, "and I'd close my eyes, and I'd see you. Feel you. Imagine it was your legs wrapped around me, your mouth on mine, your voice telling me to go harder, faster, more."

His rhythm faltered slightly, the only crack in his commanding facade. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes screwed shut, breath coming in harsh pants against your lips.

"And when I finished," he breathed, "I'd say your name. Every fucking time. I'd whisper it into her hair and pretend I hadn't. Pretend it didn't mean anything."

He opened his eyes then, and what you saw in them nearly undid you. Guilt. Desire. Years of suppressed want finally unleashed. He looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth—like without you, he'd spin off into nothing.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, and the apology wasn't for the confession. It was for the weight of it. The admission that he'd been carrying you in his chest while lying beside someone else. "I'm sorry I couldn't." His voice cracked. "I should have left her the first time I said your name. I should have found you. Should have told you-"

You silenced him with a kiss, arching up into him. His hand found your free wrist, pinning both above your head now, and he drove into you with renewed intensity. The admission had shattered something inside you, something you hadn't even known was holding you back.

Your release hit like a wave, unexpected and overwhelming, pulling you under as you cried out his name. Your body clenched around him, pulsing, drawing him deeper. Your back arched off the table, and he watched you fall apart with an expression of pure reverence, like he was witnessing something sacred.

His control broke completely. He followed with a guttural groan, burying himself deep as he finished, his forehead pressed to yours. His hips stuttered against you, his body shuddering, and he buried his face in the curve of your neck as he came undone. You felt every tremor, every gasp, every ragged breath he took against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, his breathing harsh and uneven, his weight pressing you into the thin mattress. One of his hands released your wrists, sliding down to cup your face. His thumb traced your cheek, and when he finally lifted his head, his eyes were wet.

"Say something," he whispered. "Please. Tell me I didn't just ruin everything."

You reached up, brushing the dampness from his cheek. "You didn't ruin anything."

He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead to yours again. His body was still trembling, still connected to yours in the most intimate way possible.

"I'm yours," he said quietly, the words almost lost against your lips. "I've been yours since the first time you told me I was an insufferable asshole."

You laughed weakly. "You are an insufferable asshole."

For a long moment, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, breathing ragged, his hand still tangled with yours. The only sounds were your mingled breaths and the distant hum of the hospital beyond the door.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you. The loss of him made you ache, but he didn't leave you empty for long. He reached for a spare scrub top from a nearby shelf and cleaned you both with surprising gentleness, his touch reverent. He pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, your hip, the inside of your knee.

Then he gathered you into his lap on the edge of the table, pulling your scrub pants back up before wrapping his arms around you. One hand stroked slow, soothing circles down your back, tracing your spine through the thin fabric.

Then, softer, almost reverent. He kissed you slowly, tenderly, the roughness melting into Langdon stayed inside you for a few more heartbeats, then eased out carefully. He cleaned you both with a spare scrub top, surprisingly gentle despite the roughness from minutes earlier. He pulled you into his lap on the edge of the table, arms wrapped around you, one hand stroking slow circles down your back.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.

“More than okay,” you whispered, still catching your breath.

A beat of silence. Then the absurdity of it all—hiding in a storage room, half-dressed, the weight of everything still hanging between you—hit at the same time. A small laugh bubbled out of you. Langdon’s chest shook with a low chuckle that turned into quiet, helpless laughter against your shoulder. The shared sound broke the heavy tension like a release valve, warm and real.

From the hallway, Robby’s voice carried through the door.

“Whoever stole my extra blankets, I am choosing violence.”

You and Langdon both looked toward the sound. Then at each other. Despite everything, despite the ache and the ring and the kiss still burning on your mouth, you laughed. Langdon’s smile faded first, but only because something softer replaced it.

“I should go first,” he said.

“Probably.”

“People will talk.”

“People already talk.”

“Yes, but usually because you’re impossible to work with.”

“You’re confusing me with yourself.”

“There she is.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand lingered near his for one second longer. Then he stepped back. At the door, he paused, the ring still held in his hand.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, voice low, “this changes nothing at work.”

“Obviously.”

“We remain professional.”

“Painfully.”

“No favouritism.”

“You’re still wrong half the time.”

“A third at most.”

“And you’re still only one year ahead of me.”

His mouth curved. This time, when he looked at you, he did not hide any of it.

“Try to keep up,” he said.

You smiled, still breathless.

8:21. 

You checked your phone for the millionth time. 

You were supposed to meet him at the restaurant at 7pm, and he was almost an hour and a half late. 

Well, you hoped he was late. You hadn’t yet accepted the probable fact that you’d been stood up. I mean, you were no stranger to chaotic schedules, unplanned overtime, and last minute catastrophes that had to be dealt with. Residency often rendered your social life moot; you could barely keep up with your commitments at the hospital, let alone a vibrant dating life. Maybe he had an equally demanding job; maybe there was a plausible excuse for why he left you stranded in this Italian restaurant without the decency of a “sorry, not interested anymore” text. 

You looked at your phone again–8:26. Okay, you’d give him 4 more minutes before you decide to pack it up. You try to subtly survey the restaurant for any sign of him, but are met only with the pitying looks of the waitstaff, who would, in all likelihood, be the only ones benefitting from this humiliation ritual. The hostess checked in with you at the bar regularly, the bartender had given you a glass of merlot on the house, and a very kind server brought you a charcuterie board to nibble on–had even brought you extra olives when you commented on how they were your favorite. They were all getting fat tips–or at least as fat as you could afford. 

8:31. Despite your best efforts you felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your throat got that tight, achy feeling that precedes a sob. You felt so foolish. 

You looked up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away and tried to even out your breathing. 

You didn’t even want to go on this date. You’d all but sworn off of dating, the ROI not worth the emotional whiplash you were subjected to more often than not. It was becoming harder and harder as you got older to open up to people, expose your vulnerabilities and greatest fears, only to have them spit back in your face when things didn’t go their way. 

So you stopped with the apps, stopped the meaningless dates that were nothing more than a hookup vehicle for most. But your friends had convinced you that you needed to get back out there, that things would be better in Pittsburgh–the proverbial ocean filled with different, better fish than your hometown. And perhaps they were tired of hearing you wax poetic about the hazel-eyed night shift attending that you had no chance with. 

But you did want to find that person. As much as you were an independent, capable woman–doctor, even–the truth was you were lonely. Your days consisted of going to work, where you spent 12+ hours caring for Pittsburgh’s sickest, and coming home to microwave whatever sad frozen meal you had in your freezer. Sometimes you had the energy to join some of the night shift for post-shift breakfast, but that was about it. 

You wanted someone to share your life with, to ask about your day or if you’ve eaten. Someone who knew that your favorite flower was lily of the valley, but since they were too expensive you would settle for a bouquet of peonies; that you loved horror movies even though they scared the daylights out of you; that knew you loved olives but hated pickles. Someone who knew you, inside and out. 

There was a chasm in your chest that ached, that yearned for someone to take care of you–not financially, though you wouldn’t be opposed to that–but emotionally. To tell you that you were good, worthy, that you weren’t too much or too clingy. That wanted you as much as you wanted them. That felt the tension leave their shoulders when they looked at you, because you just being there made things better. 

Was that too much to ask for? 

It’d been so long since someone had even flirted with you, and even longer since you’d hooked up with anybody. Your dry spell was bordering on sahara levels of arid. Hell, at this point, you think you’d cum for the next guy who called you pretty. 

You shake yourself out of your pity party, dabbing your eyes with a napkin and gathering up the courage to ask for the bill, when you hear someone calling your name. Great. You’re halfway to a breakdown over some stupid guy who stood you up, and now you would have to sit through pleasantries with someone when you desperately wanted to go home and cry into a bottle of wine.   

You turned, fake smile plastered on your face.   

The person you least expect to see is the aforementioned hazel-eyed attending. He’s standing by the hostess stand, off to the side, dressed in dark blue jeans and a tight black shirt. It was unfair, really, how good the man could look in the most basic outfit. His shirt was pulled taut across his chest, muscles straining against the fabric and outlining the planes of his pecs. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his strong, freckled arms on display, and sinful thoughts ran through your head at how those arms would feel around you.  

You smiled and waved at him, reluctantly making your way over. It’s not like you can avoid him at this point, though these are less than ideal circumstances to meet him outside of work. 

“Small world,” he joked as you approached, a soft smile gracing his features. 

“I guess so,” you said sullenly, not up to your usual banter.  

“Big plans for the night?” he asked, eyes skating over your form, taking in the pretty red dress you’d donned for the evening, the light coat of makeup you applied, the hairstyle you wrangled your locks into. In any other scenario, you’d be preening under his watchful eye, giddy that he was eyeing you up and down.  

Now, though, you wilted under the attention. The humiliation from the night and the tingly feeling pooling in your gut at his gaze swirled together in some rancid amalgamation of emotions. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry or both, but ideally not in front of him.  

Your silence, apparently, concerned him. He looked at you seriously now, his eyes getting that clinical, assessing look in them as he took you in, “You okay?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his features.  

It was the one question you did not want to be asked. Because, for some reason, you could keep it all inside, bury the feelings as deep as they’d go, as long as someone didn’t ask if you were okay. The barest expression of concern had your lip trembling, throat tight as you managed to squeak out a meek, “I’m fine!” 

You could feel a tear tracing down your cheek, and you wiped it away furiously. Your eyes focused on a spot over his shoulder, unable to bear the pitying look that was undoubtedly on his face.  

“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, hand coming up to rest lightly on your upper arm.  

You shook your head, powerless to staunch the flow of tears now running down your face. “Sorry, I just, uh, I had a date tonight and he didn’t show, so,” you made a helpless gesture, your shoulders shrugging in feigned nonchalance. You felt ridiculous, crying over being stood up in front of your attending who was just trying to make small talk with you. 

You let out a garbled laugh, “Shit, sorry,” you hiccup, “this isn’t your problem, I don’t wanna interrupt your night any more than I already have. Have a good night,” you said, moving to push past him and scurry out the door.  

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, his body blocking your exit. 

“You’re not interrupting. I was just about to place a to-go order,” he said, a hesitant look crossing his face before he continued, “But, uh… would you like to have dinner with me instead?”

You're taken aback. It’s the last thing you expected him to ask you. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t thought about him in this context. On the contrary, Jack Abbot had been the subject of many a ‘boyfriend’ dream over the past year you’d worked with him. He was kind and generous and funny, his humor as dark as yours. He was steady in the face of chaos, a lighthouse in the foggiest of days–a man you could depend on when shit hit the fan. It’s part of the reason you switched to nights. You always felt calmer in his presence, more assured of your capabilities because he believed in you. 

And he was undeniably gorgeous–his fine wrinkles and graying curls set your body ablaze each time you looked at him, your panties soaking through in record time. You loved especially when he went a day or two longer without shaving, his scruffy cheeks looking like a delectable place to sit. 

Your mind was plagued by obscene fantasies of him, the sinful images assaulting you at the most inopportune times. You knew he’d treat you right, wouldn’t prioritize his pleasure over yours. He was older, experienced, not a kid fumbling around in the dark, searching for your most sensitive spots and coming up empty. You imagined the way his stubble would feel on your skin, his jaw scraping down your neck as he pressed kisses there, moving lower and lower until he was nestled between your thighs, mouth hot against your aching pussy. The way he would stretch you out and fill you up, have you desperate and begging for more. 

You’re snapped out of your lustful daydream when he says your name, an inquiring tone meant to prompt a response. Oh right, he asked you a question. 

You shook your head, not because you didn’t want to have dinner with him, but because you didn’t want to do so under these conditions; you didn’t want to be a charity case. 

“That’s very kind, but you don’t have to have a pity dinner with me. I’m a big girl, I can handle a little rejection.” 

“It wouldn’t be a pity dinner,” he shook his head immediately, “come on, you got all dressed up, let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble.” 

He cleared his throat, “Unless you really don’t want to, obviously, and I’ll let it go,” he said, “but I’d hate to see you go home cryin’.” And he looked so sincere, his pretty eyes so soft and squishy, all but pleading for you to accept his offer.  

You chewed on your lip, considering it. It wouldn’t be the worst way to spend your night. As of now your plans for the rest of the night were getting sadder by the moment. Things could only go up from here, you supposed. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure,” you nodded. 

“I’m positive,” he said, hand coming up to rest on the small of your back, guiding you back up to the hostess stand. “Table for two, please.”

The two of you were sat at a corner booth near the back of the restaurant, the section secluded and not too loud. It was a classic Italian restaurant–warm, dim lighting illuminated the space from antique sconces on the wall, the walls were a beautiful exposed red brick, and the tables were candlelit and laid with red and white checkered cloths. The leather of the booth was soft but worn, the cracks spidering out and indenting into the back of your thighs a sign of how well loved this place was. 

The booth forced you close together, your thighs not quite touching each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. His scent is intoxicating, all warm amber and oud, mixed with a hint of citrus and his natural musk. It took all your power not to burrow your nose into his neck and inhale deeply. 

You were lucky to have the same waitress that checked on you at the bar, though you did have to assure her that this was not the man who stood you up. You were honestly a little concerned at the death glare she gave him at first–a true girls girl. 

“So, Dr. Abbot, how was your day off?” you asked, fiddling nervously with the hem of your dress. Despite your easy rapport at work, it felt awkward to be sitting here with your attending, especially when you were desperately trying to keep your feelings for him at bay. 

“Oh it was fine, picked up a shift with the SWAT unit and didn’t get shot at, so, you know, all things considered,” he said, then waved his hand dismissively, “and please, call me Jack. We're not at work,” a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“Okay, Jack,” you laughed, the tension easing a bit as you threw formalities out the window.  

“I would ask you how your day off was, but I think I have a pretty good idea,” he said with a teasing lilt.

“Yeah, not my best moment. This is partially why I stopped dating, I hate getting my hopes up,” you said, a little more vulnerable than you intended but you supposed you were past that now. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I think whatever man decided to let you slip through their fingers is a fuckin’ idiot.” 

You sputtered a bit at that, your cheeks heating up. It was a kind platitude, and you wished that it made you feel better, but it did little to alleviate the pit in your stomach that made you feel small; that screamed that you weren’t good enough.

“But enough about that asshole. Do you want to order an appetizer?” he asked, scanning the menu. 

“Oh no, I’m okay, thank you.” 

“You sure? My treat, remember, don’t worry about prices.” he looked up, concerned. 

“I’m fine, really,” you bit your cheek, reluctant to spit it out, “our waitress may or may not have given me a pity charcuterie board at the bar.” 

His face was still for a moment before you saw the edge of his mouth betray him, quirking up in a suppressed smile. 

“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned, your own resolve already breaking as you took in how pathetic the situation actually was. “It’s not funny!” you laughed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the menu. 

“No, no, definitely not,” he intoned, a look of mock-seriousness on his face before he broke out into a laugh, “I’m sorry! But it is objectively a little funny,” he hedged, hands held out defensively to block another menu attack.  

“It is not! It means that the poor waitress had to go talk to her boss and ask if they could comp an appetizer for the miserable sad sack at the bar!” 

“She probably didn’t call you a miserable sad sack. Maybe sad puppy dog girl, but not miserable sad sack,” he teased. 

You gasped exaggeratedly, “I am not a sad puppy dog girl!” 

“Oh yes you are. It’s the eyes. And the general obedient demeanor," he smirked. 

Oh. Your tummy twisted at that, but you quickly filed it under things that I simply do not have enough time to unpack right now. 

“You’re mean,” you pouted, lip jutting out and arms crossed. You weren’t really upset, but it felt fun to play it up a little bit.  

“Aww,” he pouted back at you, his tone just a tad condescending, “let me make it up to you. What do you say to some good wine and garlic knots?” 

You gnawed on your lip, considering his offer, “what the hell, let's do it. It’s not like I’m going to be kissing anybody tonight anyway,” you said, a little bitter, before realizing that was probably not an appropriate joke to make in front of your boss. 

“You never know, we could always pull a Lady and the Tramp,” he joked, not looking up from the wine menu. 

You were a little stunned at that. Was he… flirting? No. Definitely not. This was a strictly platonic date. Right? I mean, the puppy comment you could explain away, but this… this was different, wasn’t it? Who just jokes like that about the most romantic canine kiss in history? A joke, you settled on. Because you’d already gotten your hopes up enough for one night. 

Dinner was nice. Really nice. 

Conversation flowed freely, starting out in neutral territory with updates about patients, work gossip, whatever the fuck was going on with Robby. But you soon moved out of the work realm and into personal matters. You told him about your childhood–where you grew up, your favorite childhood pets, how much trouble you got into as a teen. 

And you learned a lot about Jack. That he came from a military family that moved around a lot, but spent a large chunk of time in North Carolina. He had two sisters, both older than him. One stayed in North Carolina and the other lived in West Virginia. Both married to military men, and both notorious for giving Jack shit about everything. But they were his rocks when he lost his leg, and then again when he lost his wife, and he was endlessly grateful for them. 

You both loved 90s alternative rock, which surprised you because you took Jack to be more of a classic rock fan, to which he merely glared at you and said that he wasn’t that old. You both had childhood crushes on Winona Ryder; his borne from her role in Heathers, and yours from Girl, Interrupted. He surprised you with the fact that he was a good cook, a fact that seemed unfathomable to you based on his general vibe. 

Now, though, you’d moved to med school stories, and Jack was regaling you with stories about him and Robby back in the day.  

“We must have been… god, I must have been a third year med student, and Robby was… an R2? and he had really pissed me off that night. I don’t even remember what he did, I just remember being so annoyed at him,” he laughed, shaking his head at the memory, “It was a quiet night, so he snuck off to the on-call room to catch a few hours of sleep, leaving me to do all the scut. So, I recruited the help of the charge nurse, Carol, and our attending, Mark, and we applied a cast to his right leg while he was knocked out.” 

He’s cackling now, almost unable to finish his story between wheezing gasps of air, “we paged him, like, 10 times until he answered, and next thing we know he’s bursting out of the on-call room and onto his ass before he even realized what happened!” 

You’re laughing hard now, too, trying to picture a younger version of Robby gracelessly tripping over an unnecessary leg cast in his hurry to answer his page. It sounded so unlike the self-assured, stoic version you knew him to be.  

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “how mad was he?”  

“Oh he was pissed. Not because of the cast, but because 5 minutes after we paged him, a 15-car pile up came in and he got benched until he could get the cast off. He had to wait for it to dry before he could saw it off, and the whole time he just sat there glaring at me.” 

“Did he get you back?” you asked, hungry for more crumbs of their life before you, before the Pitt as it was now.    

“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “the fucker taped nails to his shirt, took an x-ray, and switched out the real film for the fake before I noticed. I was freaking out to Mark, yelling about how this patient needed surgery before they perfed. Meanwhile Mark was in on it, and made me feel crazy when he pulled out the perfectly normal x-ray for my patient. He said, ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you in school these days, but this looks like a perfectly normal x-ray,’” he said, in an impersonation you could only assume was Mark.

“That’s fucking crazy,” you giggled, “can you imagine someone doing something like that in the Pitt? I think Robby’d actually have an aneurysm.” 

“Yeah, the old man’s lost a bit of his whimsy over the years,” he shook his head. 

“Old man, huh? Those are fighting words from a man merely 3 years younger than him,” you teased, “and much grayer,” you added with a wink.  

“Watch it, missy,” he warned, then, quieter, “not too old to teach you some manners.”

Feeling emboldened by the wine, you leaned a little closer, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Tracing the rim of your wine glass, you looked up at him. You swear his eyes drifted to your lips, but before you could do anything about it, he cleared his throat, steering the conversation back into safer waters.  

“So, why did you get into emergency medicine?” 

You thought about it for a moment, considering how honest you wanted to be. “I wanted to meet people where they were at, help them in a real, immediate way. The traumas are great and exciting, and there’s nothing like making a pickup that saves someone’s life. But I like the less exciting stuff, too. The mundane care that doesn’t save a life, but makes someone feel better. Helps them get over a cold, or helps soothe a burn; suturing up a lac, or removing foreign objects from patients and not making them feel worse about their predicament. That stuff is just as important as the traumas.

Especially with how fucked healthcare is in this country, people come to us when they’re at their most vulnerable, and usually don’t want to be there. I just hope that I can make things less scary for patients when they come in, make sure they feel like they’re cared about and not being judged for coming to us.” 

It’d been a long time since you’d answered that question honestly. Usually, you had your stock answer that you pulled out, which was a more eloquent version of “I want to save lives!” And that was still true, but there was so much more to working in the emergency department than just saving lives. It was paperwork and insurance and bed shortages and nursing shortages and all the other fucked up shit in the world that inevitably contributed to the cases you saw come through the doors at the Pitt. 

“What about you? Was emergency medicine always it for you, or did you ever consider going into something else?” you asked. 

He shook his head, “Not seriously, no. Considered switching to critical care after my leg. I wasn’t sure if I was cut out for the hustle and bustle of the emergency room after that. But it was the only place I wanted to be, so I figured it out, did what I needed to do to get back to where I was before the accident.” 

“Well, for what it's worth, I’m glad you stuck with EM. I couldn’t imagine working at the Pitt without you. I don’t think I’d be half the doctor I am without you,” you said, looking up at him. 

You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten, his arm slung over the back of the booth and your thighs pressed against each other. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, you’d be amazing with or without me,” he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know, I’ve taught a lot of residents in my years, and you… you’re really cut out for this. Not everyone is.” 

The praise made you preen, the proximity of his hand to your face doing nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart. For a brief moment, you think he might lean in, might press those pillowy pink lips to yours, kiss you until you can’t think stra–

“Hi, sorry to interrupt but we’ll be closing in 15 minutes. Here’s your check when you’re ready,” the waitress said, setting the check down and scurrying away. 

You checked the time on your phone: 11:15. Did you really spend almost 3 hours talking to Jack? It certainly didn’t feel like it. 

“I guess we should get out of here before they kick us out,” Jack said, sliding out of the booth and offering you his hand.

You’re giggling at another one of Jack’s jokes as you leave the restaurant, the bill graciously paid by him despite your best efforts to split it. Your limbs were loose from the wine, goosebumps springing up on your arms from the early summer air turned chilly. 

“Thank you for dinner. You salvaged an otherwise shitty night,” you laughed. 

“It was no problem, really. I had a nice time,” he said, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed.

You mirrored him, shoulder scraping against the gritty brick, and looked up at him. 

“Hold on, I think you have a little sauce on your face,” he said, and before you could grab a tissue from your purse, he reached out. His thumb gathered the sauce at the corner of your lips, going further to brush the pad of it across your bottom lip. The movement dragged your lower lip down slightly, your mouth parting involuntarily with it. You’re not sure why, but your tongue darted out, licked the pad of his thumb and the residual sauce.

Jack’s breath hitched, the sharp intake of air the only thing you could hear despite the sounds of car alarms and drunk party girls on a Friday night in downtown Pittsburgh. 

You looked up at him, tongue still pressed flat against his thumb, and searched his eyes for a sign that the heat building between you is mutual. 

Fuck it, you decided. 

Without thinking about it too much, you leaned up and pressed your lips against his. And god, did they feel nice. They were soft, but firm, and he tasted faintly of the wine you’d shared earlier mixed with the slight acidity of the tomato sauce from his dinner. Your hand tangled in the curls at the base of his neck, and they’re so soft, but also a little stiff. You wondered, briefly, if he uses mousse, or hairspray, or if he’s got a whole curly girl routine down before realizing that oh my god he wasn’t kissing you back. Oh no, oh fuck. 

How did you misread this situation so horrifically? You thought you were getting all the right signals, thought that he liked being with you, that he was flirting with you. But maybe it really was just a courtesy, a pity dinner. 

Your cheeks are hot when you pull away from him, shame sitting thick and heavy in your stomach, numbness prickling up your arms in staticky goosebumps. And Jack is just standing there, the dumbfounded look on his face doing nothing to assuage your embarrassment.  

You backed up, trying to create some distance, to lower the temperature between you that apparently only you felt. 

Looking down at your shoes, unable to make eye contact, you babbled out, “I-I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate and I don’t know why I-” your voice cracked and it felt like your lungs weren’t properly inflating with oxygen, “I don’t know how I misread things, but I guess I did so again, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna go home and pretend this never happened,” you said, turning around and starting down the street, despite the fact that you most certainly needed to Uber home, not walk. 

You’re trying not to cry for the umpteenth time that night when you hear him calling your name, “Wait!” 

He caught up with you, only a few strides away from where you were standing, and grasped your arm gently. “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, a little breathless, “I just… you surprised me.”

“Surprised you?” you laughed, “I damn near sucked your thumb, Jack,” you said, genuinely confused how a man like Jack Abbot could be surprised that a woman would try to kiss him; that the next logical step from erotic thumbsucking would be a kiss. “And you flirted with me all night! You made a Lady and the Tramp joke! How else am I supposed to take that?”  

He rubbed at his jaw anxiously, a slight blush coating his cheeks, “I mean, yeah, I was surprised. I’ve liked you for a while now but then I heard you talking to Santos about how you didn’t want to go out with that cardiology attending and just assumed I didn’t have a shot,” he admitted sheepishly. “And maybe I got a little brazen with my flirting because I thought you didn’t see me like that anyway, figured it couldn’t hurt.” 

It’s your turn to be surprised now. You hadn’t realized he heard that conversation, or that he’d taken the wrong idea from it; the opposite idea, actually.   

You took a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers finding his curls again, “Well, if you recall, snoopy, I said that part of the problem was that I just didn’t want to fuck that cardiology attending,” you said, looking up at him and batting your eyelashes, “that isn’t the case with you.” 

He looked shocked, but recovered quickly, his confident air returning to him. “Oh, is that so?” he asked, lips quirking up into a smile as he backed you up against the rough brick wall. His hand rested on the wall next to your head, the other on your hip, stroking you through your dress. 

“In that case, please allow me to make up for my rude behavior,” he said, dipping down to kiss you properly this time. 

You’d pictured this moment countless times before, but nothing compared to the real thing. Jack Abbot is a no nonsense man–a wartorn vet who understands more than most the importance of not wasting time. You expected your first kiss with him to be hungry, maybe a little sloppy, but when his lips meet yours, he’s achingly tender. It wasn’t uncertain–there was no question underlying his kiss–it was deep and languorous, like he was content to take his time up against this brick wall and savor the slide of your lips against his because he knew he had you right where he wanted you, finally. 

He commanded you, his hand cupping your jaw to angle your head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened up for him. The slide of his tongue against yours was delicious, the slick muscle curling around yours before moving back to your lips, sucking at your bottom lip and biting down gently. Your mind felt fuzzy at the way he handled you, guiding and taking you how he saw fit.

Some of his restraint dissipated, your mouths moving feverishly against each other. You couldn’t get enough of him; you pulled him into you and hooked your leg around his waist to draw him as close to you as possible. Pathetic, embarrassing whines and whimpers escaped you involuntarily, your body unable to mask how this man was making a mess of you.

His hand fell to the thigh wrapped around him, calloused fingers sliding up under your dress and gripping the bare flesh. He pulled you close, his pelvis rolling against yours sinfully. You could feel the hard outline of his cock against your cunt, your hips thrusting forward to meet the friction. A frustrated moan fell from your lips at the clothes separating you, at the inability to feel his skin against yours. 

You pulled away only when air was necessary–and because you were very close to being cited for public indecency if things went any further. 

“Sorry, I probably taste like garlic,” you said dumbly, fingers tracing over your spit slick lips, numb and swollen from Jack’s attention. 

He laughed, forehead resting against yours, “you taste incredible,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nose, then your cheek, and then under your ear. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but my place is a couple blocks from here, if you’d like to come home with me.”  

You nodded, a giddy smile breaking out across your face, “I would very much like to go home with you,” you said, already grabbing his hand and dragging him down the street. 

The entryway is dark as you stumbled into Jack’s townhouse, the walk talking longer than it should have due to your need to drag him into searing kiss after searing kiss every dozen or so steps. 

Jack navigated the two of you through the dark, your bodies unceremoniously plopping down on his couch. You fell onto his lap, knees sinking into the leather cushions and thighs stretching over the wide berth of his hips. Your kisses had devolved from slow and deep to fast and hungry, teeth nipping and clashing against one another, your breathing ragged from the exertion.   

He was rock-hard and throbbing under you, the outline of his cock pressing deliciously against your pussy. The only articles of clothing separating you were the thin, lacy excuse for panties you were wearing and his jeans. Your eyes fluttered closed as you ground your hips down on him, the combination of rough denim and the drag of his cock on your aching cunt forcing loud moans and whimpers from your lips. 

Jack was just as loud, his hips canting up to meet your rolling hips. His hand travelled to the back of your dress, fingers playing with the zipper, “this okay, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. You nodded, too caught up in his lips to give a verbal answer. 

He chuckled as he pulled the zipper down, easing the sleeves down next and pulling away to get a look at you. He let out a sharp breath, the air stolen from his lungs as he took you in, hands gripping your waist tight and rolling his hips hard against you.  

Your pretty tits were held up in an unlined white bra, your hardened nipples peaking through the barely there lace. He threw his head back against the couch, pupils blown wide as they fixated on your chest. ““My pretty, pretty girl. Was this all for him?” he asked, thumbs running in circles around your areolas. You nodded shyly, a bit embarrassed that you’d put on your good lingerie for some random guy. But it wasn’t all for nought, if Jack’s reaction was any indication. 

“What a fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbled before enveloping your nipple between his lips, sucking the bud through the lace. He captured the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging and pinching it, then soothing it over in soft circles. The sensation was dizzying. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, and he knew exactly the right pressure to ride the line between pleasure and pain.

But the lace was getting in the way; you couldn’t feel the scratch of his stubble like you’d dreamed of for so long. You unclasped your bra, tugging on his curls and pulling his face back just enough to let the garment fall down between you. 

A guttural sound left him as he dove back in, lips suctioning onto your nipple and sucking hard, cheeks hollowed out and tongue swirling around the bud. Your hand tightened in his curls, arching your back and pushing your chest against his mouth. He alternated between the two, sucking, licking, and biting at one and kneading, flicking, and pinching the other. You could finally feel the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin, your eyes rolling back in your head as your hips doubled their effort, grinding hard against his cock. 

He released your nipple with a wet pop, “you know how hard it’s been keepin’ my hands to myself, pretty girl? and all this time you’ve been hidin’ this pretty set of tits under your scrubs,” he shook his head in disbelief, “don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything other than stuffin’ my face between these tits when I see you at work.”  

His lips returned to your chest while his unoccupied hand moved under your dress, his rough palm gripping the fat of your ass and guiding you over his length faster. Every grind of your hips had your clit bumping up against the head of his cock, the pressure exquisite. Your slick was dripping down your thighs and seeping into his jeans, the schlick schlick schlick steady background noise among your moans and groans.  

You didn’t realize how fast your orgasm was building until you were nearly on the precipice of it, letting out a strangled moan and, “I’m gonna–” before the wave crested. Your thighs trembled, a dull ache forming from keeping them stretched around Jack’s bulk, but it only added to the pleasure that zipped through you. That staticky feeling radiated through you, your pussy contracting and fluttering around nothing. 

You’re panting into the crook of his neck as you ride out the aftershocks, your hips still grinding against his clothed cock, your lips letting out tiny gasps and whines. 

“Did you… did you just cum, sweetheart?” Jack asked, a stunned look on his face. 

You could feel how hot your cheeks were, shame curling through you because yes, you did cum from a little nipple play and grinding on his cock. 

“I-i’m sorry, it’s just been a long time and no one’s touched me in so long and you feel so good, I didn’t think that would happen so quickly,” you said, panicked, “I’m sorry if I ruined things.” 

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said, thumbs brushing away the embarrassed tears you weren’t even aware had fallen, “you didn’t ruin anything, okay? I was just surprised, is all. I’m sorry if anyone’s made you feel that way, but you don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me. Never,” The sincerity of his words triggered a new bout of tears. You buried your head in the crook of his neck again, his scent a calming balm to your nerves. 

“Plus, do you know how much of an ego boost it is to know I had such a pretty girl cummin’ on lap in under five minutes? That’s the stuff of dreams, baby,” he teased, pulling you out from your hiding spot and pressing kisses to your cheeks.

You laughed, still sniffling a bit, “gosh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a crybaby tonight.” 

“It’s okay, honey,” he said, then, teasing, “but I can think of much better reasons for you to be cryin’, and none of them have anything to do with you being sad or embarrassed,” he said, kissing you properly now, tongue licking deep into your mouth. 

You moaned into his mouth, then squealed as he hoisted you up, carrying you to his bedroom. He set you down at the edge of the bed, then properly removed your dress from where it was awkwardly gathered at your waist.

He didn’t waste any time, dropping to his knees and parting your legs, pushing them up toward your chest. “Hold 'em there for me, baby, wanna take a good look at you,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the damp fabric between your legs. You did as he told you, hooking your hands under your knees and spreading yourself open for him. You felt exposed, but the awestruck look in his eye as he examined your pussy sent shockwaves through your body. 

“This all because of me?” he asked, thumbing at your center over the fabric, pressing lightly against your clit with each stroke. Your panties were soaked through, the tiny scrap of fabric doing nothing to obscure your puffy folds that were sticky with a mix of your slick and cum. “What a mess you made, honey. Guess I’m gonna have to clean you up,” he said, pulling your panties to the side and licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit.

You moaned, hips lifting off the bed and chasing his mouth. The contrast of his hot tongue on your cool flesh was blistering. His hands grabbed the back of your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there and stopping any movement of your hips. You whined at the restriction, your hands fisting in the soft sheets instead.

“Waited so long for this honey, shit, fuckin’ dreamed about how you’d taste,” he moaned into your pussy, mouth lapping and sucking at your folds, gathering all the spend and slick and swallowing it down like nectar. His face was nestled deep into your cunt, tongue exploring every crease and crevice your cunt had to offer, licking, sucking, biting–and taking note of what made you scream. 

And once he discovered it, he didn’t just eat you, he devoured you. He was a man possessed, with no regard for his own need for air. His tongue assaulted your clit, alternating between rubbing tight circles around it, short kitten licks, and long, languorous licks that had him shaking his head between your thighs. Every now and again he wrapped his lips around your clit and suckled it, the light leaving your body every time. Your hips rocked against his mouth despite his hold on you, wrecked moans falling from your lips.  

“Fuck, jack, please–r-right there!” 

“That’s it, baby, let me hear you, tell me how good I’m makin’ you feel,” he said, pulling back just far enough to spit onto your cunt before running two fingers up your slit, pushing them in without preamble. The stretch was delicious, his thick fingers curling deep into your wet heat and finding that sweet spot in no time. He exploited it mercilessly, massaging it with the pads of his fingers. His lips returned to your clit, sucking harshly now, giving you no reprieve from his ministrations. 

“Feels so good Jack! Never felt this good before!” you cried. 

The slurping and squelching was lewd, your moans and breathless cries of his name intermingled to create an obscene symphony that you’re sure the entire population of Pittsburgh could hear. 

“You gonna cum on my face, honey? Gonna give me another one?” he asked, fingers massaging your g-spot. “Wanna–fuck–wanna feel this tight cunt squeeze my fingers when she cums.” 

“Y-yes, please Jack, ‘m gonna cum, feels sosososo good” you cried out, your second orgasm crashing over you. Stars burst behind your eyes, back arching uncomfortably off the bed and walls clenching so hard around his fingers you’re not sure how he hasn’t lost circulation. Your legs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you rode out your orgasm, hips rutting against his mouth and fingers. He didn’t mind, licking and sucking you through it, his fingers keeping pressure on your g-spot until you were pushing him away.

He peppered your body with kisses as you came down, starting at your thighs and making his way up over your tummy, ribs, and breasts. He came to rest above you, a dopey smile on your face as you pulled him in for a lazy kiss. His face was soaked with your spend and you could taste the tang on his tongue when he kissed you. 

“You’re stupidly good at that,” you whispered, body still boneless and floaty. 

“Yeah? Want me to show you want else I’m stupidly good at?” he asked while finally shucking his shirt off. 

“Yeah?” you said absentmindedly, eyes glazed over at the majesty that was Jack Abbot’s chest. You immediately began pressing kisses across the newly exposed skin–to his neck, collarbone, pecs, and tummy. You’re even able to scrape your teeth across a nipple before he holds you back at arms length, laughing.   

“Yeah, honey,” he laughed between your frantic kisses, “but you gotta let me breathe for a sec, gotta take care of my leg.” 

“Let me,” you said, slipping down to the floor and sitting back on your heels. You ran your palms up his thighs, hands coming to rest on his belt before going any further.

“You don’t have to do that, honey.” 

“I know,” you said softly, “but I want to. If you’re okay with that.” 

He cradled your face in his hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You turned into it, kissing the palm of his hand to assure him that you wanted to do this. 

“I care about you Jack, and this is part of you. I just wanna help you, wanna make you feel good,” you said earnestly, giving him your puppy dog eyes.

“Yeah. Okay, honey, go ahead,” he nodded, sitting back on his elbows to watch you. You grasped his belt again, unfastening the buckle and pulling the belt through the loops, discarding it somewhere behind you. You moved to the button of his jeans, deftly popping it open and hooking your fingers into the waistband, tugging them down with Jack’s help. 

Your breath hitched at the sight of his dark gray boxers, a wet spot front and center that made your mouth water. You learned forward and kissed the damp fabric, moaning at the slight taste of precum that danced across your lips. 

“Careful, sweetheart…” he warned, but there wasn’t much heat behind his words. 

You just grinned up at him before getting back to the task at hand. Your fingers travelled down to the sleek metal attached to him, getting a feel for the mechanism before unlocking and twisting it off. The liner came next, tossed to the side before you pressed your fingertips into his skin, massaging the skin to get some blood flow back into the residual limb. You pressed sweet kisses to his flesh, from the front of his knee to the scarred flesh of his leg, tongue dipping out to trace the prominent scar just above his amputation site. 

Jack breathed heavily above you, tiny groans escaping him unbidden. A look flickered across his face, and you think, briefly, that this may be the first time you’ve seen him truly vulnerable. It wasn’t a secret that he’d lost the lower portion of his leg in the war, but he didn’t flaunt it either. You wondered if there was an insecurity that lay deep within him, despite his overt confidence; if other women had reacted differently, cruelly even to the sight of his prosthesis. It made your heart ache to think about it, to think of someone doing anything but worshipping his beautiful body the way he deserved.  

“So pretty, Jack,” you whispered, kisses inching higher up his thigh now, “wanna taste you now.” 

When you’re met with the sight of Jack’s cock, you’re well and truly speechless. You knew he was big from your time on the couch, but seeing it was different. He was thick and veiny, the tip flushed a deep red and leaking precum furiously. It rested against his belly, curving slightly to the left. And did you mention that he was thick? Mouth agape, you wondered how you were going to fit him in your mouth. Or pussy. 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, hands perched against his thighs, just staring at his cock, until Jack tilts your head back, fingers tightening in the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. 

“Thought you wanted a taste, honey. You just gonna sit there and stare at it all night?” he asked, a smug smile on his lips. 

“Maybe,” you mumbled, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

Before you can do anything of your own accord, his hand is guiding your head forward, the head of his cock pushing gently against the seam of your lips. You take over from there, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his tip, the precum gathered there salty and sticky against your lips. Your tongue dipped out to caress the spot just below his head, running the flat of your tongue along it before moving back to his head, spitting a glob of spit onto him and wrapping a hand around his base. You started with long, slow strokes, squeezing and twisting on the upstroke, your hand meeting your lips where they suckled at his tip. 

You moaned at the steady stream of precum invading your mouth, “taste so good Jack,” you said before taking more of him into your mouth. You're only about halfway down and your lips are already stretched tight around him, spit leaking from the corners of your mouth in filthy waterfalls. You hollowed your cheeks out, bobbing your head up and down his shaft, your tongue massaging the underside of his cock. 

“Fuck, baby, who knew you had such a filthy fuckin’ mouth on you,” he groaned, hips rutting up slightly. 

His tip occasionally hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag and tears to prick behind your eyes, but you don’t care; the feeling of him weighing heavy on your tongue is reward enough. 

You feel a light pressure applied to the back of your head, “deeper, baby, know you can take it,” he groaned. You obliged, breathing deep through your nose and sinking down further onto his cock until you felt him hit the back of your throat and your nose was nestled in the trimmed grey curls at his base. Your hand grappled for his where it was perched on your head, using it to push harder against your head, trying to convey to him that you wanted him to take over; to fuck your face. 

He groaned, hips jerking involuntarily as he realized what you wanted. He gathered your hair in his hands, hips shallowly trusting into the wet heat of your mouth. His mouth was slack, grunts and groans loud as he fucked your face. His pace builds, his cock roughly pistoning in and out of your mouth. Tears are falling freely now, your mouth stretched to capacity and throat being used and abused by his fat cock. 

“See? These tears are much prettier, baby,” he huffed out, thumbs brushing the trails where they fell. “So fuckin’ pretty, crying with my cock in your mouth.” 

You moaned around him at that, the praise and shame swirling in your tummy. Your hand came up to cup his balls, massaging and squeezing them gently between your fingers. 

You’re suddenly pulled up off his cock and into his lap, spit stringing from your shiny, swollen lips. You whined at the loss of him, your mouth feeling uncomfortably empty now. 

“Fuck–you feel too good, honey,” he grunted, setting you back against his pillows, “can’t cum in that pretty little mouth tonight, need to be inside you.” 

He grabbed a condom out of his drawer before moving back to you, sitting back on his knees and rolling the condom on. You let out an annoyed whine. You’ve never hated the more rational side of your brain more than you do right now. You craved to feel him bare inside you–to feel him cum deep inside you, the hot white ropes painting your walls. And while you trusted him implicitly, you knew safety was of the utmost importance, so condom it was. 

“Don’t worry, baby, soon as we get tested, you won’t be able to stop me from fuckin’ this pussy raw,” he groaned, settling between your spread thighs. His body was a soothing weight above you, the warmth he emanated relieving any anxiety you had. 

He gripped the base of his cock and ran it through your sopping folds a few times, the tip catching slightly on your entrance on each pass. “Please, Jack, need to feel you,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him close. 

He cursed before giving in, notching the head of his cock against your entrance and entering you slowly, letting you feel and adjust to every inch on its own. Your head fell back into his plush pillows as he sank fully into you, your mouth open in a silent scream. Your walls were tight around him, clenching viciously at the intrusion–you’d never been stretched so wide, or filled so thoroughly. It felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs and replaced by his cock. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your short nails biting at his skin. 

You were still for a moment, both your chests heaving as you adjusted to the feeling of one another. Then, once Jack composed himself, he started to move–slow, shallow thrusts at first, your pussy still clenching tight around him, sucking him in greedily with each thrust. 

“Relax for me, honey, that’s it, doin’ so good for me,” he grunted, eyes closed, “pussy feels so good.” 

You willed your body to relax, for your muscles to go lax around him. You shifted your legs up higher, the heels of your feet digging into the soft flesh of his ass. 

“There you go, so good for me,” he moaned, “knew you’d be so good for me.” 

He pulled out again, easier this time, until only the tip remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward. His thrusts were slow but hard, his hips slamming against you each time he bottomed out. The drag of his cock against your walls felt so good, his thick, throbbing length rubbing up against every sensitive spot. You felt every thick vein and ridge, as if they were imprinting into your walls, making a home there. You moaned at the thought of eternity, of Jack making your pussy his again and again and again. 

He was watching you with a wondrous look on his face, his eyes flitting between your blissed out face and bouncing tits. “So fuckin’ sexy, baby, you don’t even understand how fuckin’ gorgeous you are,” he groaned, hips picking up speed, fucking you faster and harder. 

The adrenaline and emotions from the night came crashing down around you. The feeling of his cock dragging through your walls mixed with the sweet words he was whispering into your ear had you feeling exposed and vulnerable, made you feel seen. Your hands were frantic, running over every bit of skin you could get your hands on, needing to feel his skin against yours. You pulled him impossibly closer, his chest now flush against yours, the friction it provided to your nipples dizzying.  

You didn’t notice the tears until Jack was kissing away the salty tracks, his tongue sneaking out to lick up the length of your cheek. “You’re my little crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked, a sweet hint of condescension in his tone, “just can’t help babbling over my cock, huh, baby?” 

You could only whimper at that. The words should feel shameful, degrading, even, but the fondness on his face, the constant reassurance he’d been giving you all night only made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Because you weren’t a crybaby, you were his crybaby. 

The coil in your stomach tightened, your orgasm fast approaching. He was fucking you hard and fast now, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet smack. “Jaack, I’m gonna–fffuck–I need–” you gasped at a particularly hard thrust, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

But Jack knew what you needed before you did, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it, and you were done for. Your toes curled, heels pressing harder into his ass as you came, white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Your walls spasmed wildly, your orgasm crashing through you in waves. You were absolutely drenched, your pussy gushing around his cock, leaking down your ass and onto the bed. 

Jack wasn’t far behind, his hips stuttering as your walls seized his cock in a vise grip. “F-fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, his hips going into overdrive now, chasing his climax and fucking you hard and deep.

"Cum for me, Jack, wanna make you feel good," you cried.

He ground his hips into one last time, cumming with a loud moan, cock buried deep inside you and hips pressed flush against yours. 

He collapsed on top of you, head resting on your chest. He pressed lazy kisses to your sternum, collarbone, the soft flesh of your breasts–whatever he could get his lips on from this angle. Your fingers carded through his curls, the motion soothing as you tried to catch your breath. 

Eventually, though, you had to part. 

You whined as he pulled out, your cunt empty and cold now that he’d taken his warmth away. He grabbed his arm crutches, disposing of the condom and retreating to the bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and began cleaning you up, gently wiping at your swollen pussy and sticky thighs, making sure you were comfortable before tossing the rag in the hamper.  

He slid back into bed when he was finished, laying on his side and pulling you close against his chest. Your head was cushioned by this arm as you curled into him, your sweat slick bodies cool to the touch now that the heat had dissipated. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he said, fingers brushing up and down your ribs, the touch featherlight.  

“Mmm probably as long as I have,” you said, snuggling closer to him.

“Really? When did you realize you wanted to kiss me?”

You didn’t have to think about it at all. “My birthday, on the roof. I gave you a cupcake and you got frosting all over you,” you giggled at the memory, “and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to kiss it all off of your stupidly handsome face.” 

He laughed with you, the creases around his eyes deepening as he did. He was so pretty, you thought for the thousandth time that night. 

 “I remember that,” he smiled, “I remember being so proud that I made you laugh that night.” 

“What about you?” you asked. 

He thought about it for a minute. “I think the need to kiss you has been simmering in me since I met you, but the first time I had the conscious thought was when you patched me up after that patient clocked me in the head,” he said, his hand now on your cheek, stroking the bone there, “you were standin’ between my legs, stitchin’ up my forehead, and all I could think about was pulling you close and kissing you until I couldn’t breathe.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

He sighed, “I’m your superior and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn't feel the same way.” You knew he didn’t want to delve into the ‘superior’ thing right now, didn’t want to have the long, complicated conversation that was sure to come in the following days. 

“And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself once I started,” he said, lightening the mood a bit. 

You giggled at that, rolling your eyes affectionately. But something nagged in your head about what he said. 

“Wait…” you said, piecing together a timeline, “that was nearly a year ago! You’re telling me we could have been doing this for a year!?” you exclaimed, slapping him on the chest lightly. 

He shook his head at you, a sheepish look on his face. You were both idiots. 

“Well, I guess we have a lot of lost time to make up for, then, don’t we?” he said cheekily, capturing your lips again and pushing you onto your back, determined to make you a very happy woman.

a/n: thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it <33

———————

Present Day

Mystic Falls

It had been one hundred and forty-six years since you had seen your brothers. Actually, it had been one hundred and forty-six years since they had seen you. You kept tabs on them over the years, always so close but not close enough for them to find you. As far as your brothers were concerned, you were dead and technically you were.

In truth, you didn’t want to see them but you had to. You had to for him.

So here you were, driving past the Mystic Falls welcome sign. Your jaw clenches at the sight of it, you hadn’t been here since 1864. Every fiber of your being was screaming at you to turn around, that you didn’t want to be back here, that it was going to hurt you. You shoved the feeling away and continued driving until you reached your destination.

The old Salvatore Boarding House, your old home.

You take a deep breath before walking up to the door. It’s wide open and you can hear Stefan and Damon arguing inside. Your best guess is Stefan tried to walk away from Damon by slamming the door on him and all it did was make Damon angrier and he flung it open.

You followed the yelling to the living room, they were so caught up in their argument that they hadn’t noticed you leaning on the door frame.

“I see you two still fight like cats and dogs… I’m sure this is about some silly girl,” you finally speak up, announcing your presence.

They both immediately stop and look at you.

“Who the hell are you?” Damon asks instantaneously and you couldn’t blame him, the last time he saw you, you were just a kid.

You pout, placing a hand over your heart, “that hurts Damon.”

Letting out a dramatic sigh you place your hands on your hips, “I guess that’s fair though… I mean, it has been a really long time, one hundred and forty-six years in fact and I was just a little kid then.”

“I was about this tall…” you gesture with your hand then gasp, bringing your hand to your mouth, “And the last time we spoke was in this house, in this room!”

Stefan’s eyes widened a bit, his face becoming one of shock and realization, “Y/N?” he whispers.

You smirk and Damon scoffs, “That's not possible, our sister is dead.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that, though, I believe the proper term is undead—“

You’re cut off by Damon rushing at you, slamming you into the wall, and holding you up by your throat.

“Damon.” Stefan warns.

“This isn’t Y/N, Stefan! It can’t be! This is some sick imposter! I don’t know how they found out… but Y/N… she’s been dead for over a hundred years!”

You knee him in the stomach, causing him to double over and drop you, “Undead.”

Damon grunts, stumbling back but he quickly recovers, “Okay, let’s say you are our sister… Why now, huh?! Why find us now, after a hundred some years?!” he shouts.

You scoff, standing up straight, “Because I saw you both die! I saw father shoot you both dead! You remember that night right? The night you both tried to save Katherine? The night you were turned?”

You paused for a moment, directing your next words to Damon, “The night you told me I wasn’t your sister anymore.”

You knew being back here would be hard, you knew it would hurt. What you didn’t expect was for Damon to seemingly forget everything that happened in 1864. He looked away from you causing you to scoff.

“That woman ruined our family the moment she stepped foot in Mystic Falls.”

1864

Mystic Falls

You stood next to Stefan, rocking back and forth on your heels as you watched the carriage approach.

Your father had told you that a woman was coming to stay with you all, a woman named Katherine Pierce. You were excited for her arrival, you loved Stefan, Damon, and occasionally your father but you were ecstatic to have another girl around.

The carriage opened and two women got out, you followed Stefan down the stairs, standing right next to him.

“You must be Miss Pierce,” your brother says with his hands still behind his back.

Miss Pierce smirks, “Please,” she reaches her hand out for him to take, which he does, “Call me Katherine.”

They stare at each other for a moment, seemingly having a silent conversation before you interrupt, “Hello!”

Katherine seems taken aback by the sudden voice but puts on a smile, “And who might you be?”

“Y/N!”

Stefan chuckles and places his hand onto your shoulder, “This is my little sister, father jokes that she’s my shadow,” your brother teases, “She’d be following Damon around as well but he’s off at war.”

You frown at the mention of your other brother, not noticing the way Katherine’s gaze hardens.

Katherine would grow close with Stefan over the next weeks and unfortunately for you, she made it abundantly clear that she didn’t like you. You couldn’t figure out why but Stefan continually reassured you that Katherine had no problems with you so you tried to let it go.

Then after some time, Damon returned home and you were overjoyed. You had always been close with your brothers, they were practically your only friends. You had been lonely since Katherine had arrived due to Stefan’s infatuation, you hoped now that Damon was back you wouldn’t be so lonely.

“Damon!” you cheered upon seeing him, “Day! You’re back!”

He chuckles, “That I am!”

You rush to hug him which he quickly reciprocates, patting your head. But his gaze focused elsewhere.

“Who is she?” he points.

You turn to see who he’s looking at and sigh, “That is Miss Katherine Pierce, she’s been staying with us for some time now.”

You beckon Damon to lean down so you could whisper in his ear, “I think Stefan may be in love with her.”

Your eldest brother raises a brow and stands up straight, “Hm? Well… I suppose I should introduce myself to our guest…”

Just like that, Damon was infatuated as well. It was as if Katherine was a siren and both your brothers had been tricked by her song.

You watched Katherine as she led on both your brothers, knowing that at least one of them would be getting a broken heart. Though, you had a feeling they’d both end up heartbroken.

The one event that really broke you was when both your brothers were nowhere to be seen on your birthday, and when you did find them it was like they had no idea what the day was.

You hated Katherine, but you weren’t scared of her. Until you saw her true face.

You knew what she was, a vampire. Your father had told you stories about vampires, they’re evil monsters. He told you if you ever even heard whispers of a vampire that you had to tell him and he’d take care of it.

So you told him and he came up with a plan that you would enact within the week.

“What is that delicious smell?” Damon asks as he walks into the kitchen.

You let out a little laugh, “I baked cookies! Would you like one?”

“I’d love one,” Damon takes one of the cookies from the tray, patting your head as he did.

The first step of the plan was complete, now all you had to do was sit back and wait.

It wouldn’t take long for Katherine to come back to the boarding house with Stefan, he goes and sits on the couch while Katherine begins to go upstairs. She turns to give Damon a look and he immediately rushes to follow her up the stairs.

Moments later there’s a scream, followed by shouting from your father, Damon, and some men you don’t know. Stefan is off the couch quickly and at the steps immediately.

Multiple men are dragging Katherine down the stairs while Damon yells at your father. Stefan stands in shock as you reach his side. Katherine is taken out of the house by the men and put into a guarded carriage. Your father holds Damon to the wall as the carriage leaves your home, finally, his eyes land on you and he lets go of Damon, rushing to you, he places a kiss on your head.

“You were right, my dear. You did good.”

With that, he rushes out the door to the carriage, leaving you alone with your brothers.

Stefan’s voice is quiet, “You know what she is…”

“And you told father!” Damon shouts.

“She’s a monster Damon!” you yell.

He scoffs, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’re ten! A child!”

Your frown, “My birthday was a month ago Damon… I’m eleven… or have you forgotten?”

“It doesn’t matter! How you could be so cruel… I don't understand… I don’t recognize you… you’re no sister of mine. Not anymore.”

“Damon!” Stefan yells.

Damon shakes his head, shoving past you to the door, “Let’s go Stefan! If we’re quick we can save her!”

And just like that, they rush out of the house without sparring you a second glance. They didn’t know it at the time, but moments later you would run out of the house after them.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

“I never went back home… it wouldn’t be home if you were both dead... So I ran and ran and didn’t look back… I travelled all over… never staying in one place for too long.”

Stefan steps forward and pulls you into a tight hug and you allow him too. It had been a century since you had hugged anyone, you almost forgot how to. He pulls away to get a better look at your face, how you’ve grown since he last saw you.

“How old are you? Physically?”

“It’s rude to ask a woman’s age, Stef…” you giggle before giving an actual answer, “Nineteen, I was turned in 1872… which I guess makes me your big sister.”

He chuckles, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

Damon crosses his arms, “How’d you turn?”

“Willingly, if that’s what you’re asking… my boyfriend at the time turned me, we wanted to spend forever together.”

“Ironic, sounds a lot like my story with Katherine.”

You furrow your brows, “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying, you’re a hypocrite.”

You scoff and Damon takes that as his signal to continue, “Where is this boyfriend of yours now?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.” you lie.

“I’m sorry Y/N,” Stefan smiles softly, placing a hand on your shoulder.

Suddenly, the floorboards creak causing all of you to look at the sound. There she stood, Elena Gilbert.

“Oh… I’m sorry I didn’t realize you had company…” She clears her throat, “Uh… Stefan, you called me?”

Thinking quickly, you speed away from Stefan and slam the girl into the wall. You weren’t dumb, you knew who she was and you knew she wasn’t Katherine but your brothers didn’t know that you knew. Everything would be fine as long as you didn’t kill her, he wouldn’t mind if she was roughed up a bit.

“You keep the bitch around?! After everything?!”

Stefan and Damon sped to your side, Damon ripping you away from her.

You scoff, “You still protect her!”

“This isn’t Katherine,” Stefan says before pulling Elena to him, the girl holding her throat.

“Looks exactly like her!”

Damon rolls his eyes, pulling you farther away, “We know. We have eyes. It’s weird, some weird, freaky nature thing but she’s not Katherine. Smell her, she’s human.”

You turn your attention to Stefan and Elena who are both looking at you, waiting for your next move. Stefan is ready to jump in front of Elena to save her, you almost roll your eyes but resist, this would be like 1864 all over again.

You walk over to them, slowly, tilting your head at Elena.

“I’m Elena…Elena Gilbert.”

You give her a half smile, “Y/N. Sorry.”

You hold out your hand for her to take, which she does after looking at Stefan to make sure you were safe.

“This happens a lot, you’d be surprised…”

“No, I wouldn’t be. Katherine’s a bitch. A lot of people want her dead,” you pause, “Consider getting a tattoo on your forehead,” you brush your pointer finger and thumb across your forehead, “‘Not Katherine’.”

Elena giggles, “In size forty font.”

You crack a smile, she seemed sweet, you almost felt bad about what was going to happen, almost.

“You’re a friend of Stefan and Damon’s?”

“I’m their sister,” you smirk, chuckling at the shocked expression on her face.

“Our sister who we thought was dead up until about five minutes ago,” Damon adds, still suspicious of you.

“I didn’t know you were alive either until I heard rumors from some vampires that fled from here…” another lie.

Stefan and Damon share a look and you look between them, “What?” You ask.

“The tomb vampires.”

Stefan pats your back, “C’mon, we got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Well, this is lovely but are we going to discuss what we’re here for?” A new voice cuts in, she looks familiar but you can’t quite place her.

Elena on the other hand looks terrified, “You…”

“Like he said, a lot of catching up to do,” the woman smiles.

You all sat down in the living room while the woman who you learned to be Rose began to pace back and forth while speaking, “Okay, you have to understand, I only know what I’ve picked up over the years- and I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. That’s the problem with all this vampire crap but Klaus I know is real.”

You keep your expression neutral, you had been told the story of Katerina Petrova, Katherine Pierce as you knew her and how she escaped her death by Klaus and Elijah both. That’s why this woman was familiar, she had played a role in the escape.

“Who is he?” Elena asks.

Damon speaks up, “He’s one of the originals. He’s a legend,” he widens his eyes for dramatic flair.

”From the first generation of vampires,” Stefan gestures with his glass.

“Like Elijah?”

Rose sighs, dropping her shoulders, “No, Elijah is the Easter Bunny compared to Klaus. He’s a foot soldier, Klaus is the real deal.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face, Elijah? The Easter Bunny? Now that was a funny joke.

“Klaus is known to be the oldest…” Stefan adds and that almost makes you giggle.

“So…” Elena begins, “You're saying the oldest vampire in the history of time is coming after me?”

Well, not the oldest.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Damon sighs, standing up, “No, what they’re saying is, I mean, if what she’s saying is true—“

“Which it is,” Rose cuts in.

“—And you’re not just saying this so we don’t kill you…”

“Which I’m not.”

Damon sighs, “Then… we’re looking at a solid maybe?”

“Look,” Stefan says, going to sit next to Elena, “Elijah’s dead so no one else even knows you exist.”

This makes you look up, unless these idiots found a white oak stake, Elijah was not dead, he was simply resting and he’d be pissed when he got back. You only hoped that he’d stay clear of you, you still held a soft spot for the man and you didn’t want to rat him out, but you would if you had to.

“Not that you know of,” Rose adds.

“That’s not helping…” Damon mutters.

“I’ve never even met anyone who has laid eyes on him, we’re talking centuries of truth mixed with fiction!” Stefan argues, “For all we know he could just be some sort of stupid bedtime story…” he looks at Elena, trying to reassure her that she’s safe.

Rose scoffs, “He’s real and he doesn’t give up. If he wants something, he gets it.” Well ain’t that the truth.

“If you’re not afraid of Klaus then you’re an idiot.” Rose adds. Also true.

“Well, what about you little sister?” Damon asks, gesturing to you, “You ever heard of Klaus?”

“No.” Yes. “I doubt he’s even real.” He’s very real.

“You mentioned you traveled a lot,” Stefan looks at you, “You’ve never heard of the original vampires?”

“Never.”

1870

New Orleans

You had showered off all of the blood, trying to rid yourself of the horrible memory. Why was it that vampires seemed to be everywhere you went? And now you were staying in a house with not one, but four vampires.

Sighing, you get out of the shower and change into the outfit Elijah had provided for you, it was a simple night gown, reaching past your knees. You find your way to the guest room that Elijah had shown you and curl into the bed, unable to sleep. You stay in that position all night, not getting even a wink of rest.

When morning comes, you make your way downstairs to the living room, “Elijah?” you call out softly, knowing that he’d be able to hear even the faintest of whispers.

There’s a whoosh behind you causing you to spin around on your heel, expecting to see Elijah but you don’t. A man stands by the couch, smirking.

”I see my brother has taken to copying me. Bringing home his very own charity case,” the man announces as he drops down on the couch to sit, urging you to sit down as well, you do in fear of upsetting him.

You fidget with your hands out of nervousness and he cracks a smile.

“No need to be scared, love. I’m Klaus…” he holds a hand out for you to take and you do, rather reluctantly.

When you don’t say anything, he continues, “Did my brother say something about me?”

You shake your head, “No, not you.”

“Oh? Not me? Did he say anything about my other siblings, do tell me. I’m just dying to know.”

You look around the room before turning back to him, “He said I should be careful around Kol…”

“Ah, my little brother, yes, he can be quite reckless… and rather… insatiable…”

“Are you talking badly about me to our new guest?” a voice that you assume belongs to Kol fills the room.

Klaus clicks his tongue, holding back a laugh, “No, no, little brother. Simply warning the girl of your tendencies…”

Kol scoffs, before leaning over the back of the couch, his chin practically touching your shoulder as he whispers to you, “Don’t listen to him, darling… or Elijah for that matter.”

You jump a bit and tilt your head away from him, inadvertently giving the vampire easy access to your neck. He chuckles and surprisingly, leans away.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Kol! Elijah already said you’re to leave her alone!” a blonde girl comes bouncing into the room, pulling Kol further away from you.

In a flash she’s in front of you, holding her hand out for you to take, “I’m Rebekah! It’ll be nice to have another girl around!”

She then looks you up and down, taking in your current outfit, “Now this just won’t do, come now,” she reaches her other hand out for you and when you take it she pulls you off of the couch.

She quickly begins to pull you towards the stairs just as Elijah comes back into the room, he sighs upon seeing you and his sister.

“Do not overwhelm the poor girl, Rebekah.”

“Relax Elijah, I’m only going to get her a change of clothes… and we must do something with this hair!” she twirls a piece of your hair.

And with that, Rebekah practically drags you up to her room.

“Sit.” she guides you to a vanity chair, “You’ve got gorgeous features but this hair… this dress… they are not doing you any favors…”

Your face flushes, “Oh, I haven’t had much money for clothing let alone food… It's been hard to find work and I never really learned how to do my own hair… my brother used to do it for me and he’d allow me to braid his… I just can’t seem to do so when it’s my own head.”

Rebekah smiles softly, “You needn’t worry, I have plenty of options for you!” she rushes to her closet, opening it to reveal a plethora of different dresses.

She holds up a gown with a bit of lace detailing that goes up to the neck, “This will do nicely. Much better than this night gown…” she says as she brushes the sleeve of the dress you currently wore.

She hands you the gown, “Go now,” she points to the bathrooom, “get dressed and I’ll do your hair!”

You do as she says and come back, having her help you tie the back.

“Now, let’s fix this hair.” she pushes you back down into the chair, “Would you like a braid?”

You nod, “That would be lovely…”

Rebekah hums, “You said your brother used to do your hair… Where is he now?”

Your eyes widen a bit before you look down, “Oh, uhm, he’s dead… That’s why I ran from home…”

“You’re a runaway?”

You crack a smile, trying to be as confident as possible, “Was my ratty appearance and lack of cash not enough to give that away?”

Rebekah chuckles, “I suppose… were you always poor?” she asks, nonchalantly.

“Oh Heavens no. My family was very wealthy… the wealthiest family in our town. My father was a landowner.”

“You didn’t think to take any money before running?” She raises a brow.

“I was only eleven at the time and had just witnessed… something awful…” you take a deep breath, you hadn’t ever spoken about this out loud, “I needed to get away.”

Rebekah frowns, dropping your hair, “Elijah said you’re seventeen, you’ve been on your own for six years?”

You nod and Rebekah’s frown deepens, “That’s a long time to be alone… that must have been awful.”

“I’ve managed,” you shrug, “I went back once, a week after I had left when I got second thoughts… I found out that my father had also passed. I came across a newspaper, they believed that someone had killed my father and taken me…”

“He was killed?”

You hum, and Rebekah picks up your hair again.

“Did they ever catch his killer?”

“No… but I have a suspicion it was a vampire.”

“Why would you think that?” she asks as she finishes your braid.

“His head was nearly ripped off.”

A few days later, Klaus found you. Elijah was dealing with other matters so he wasn’t there to monitor his brother's behavior.

You were alone when he found you, in the kitchen. Baking was something that you enjoyed doing at your old home and after running away you hadn’t been able to. Elijah welcomed you to use the kitchen and bake whatever you’d like, saying he wanted to make sure you felt comfortable during your stay.

“Not too broken up about your father being murdered?”

The sudden voice causes you to jump, spilling the cup of sugar you were holding.

“You startled me,” you sigh, beginning to clean up the sugar.

“You’re easy to frighten,” in a second, Klaus is directly next to you, making you yelp, he smirks, “Now answer the question.”

“What?”

“Your father…” he practically circles you, “You think a vampire killed him? You didn’t seem too sad about it.”

“I… it was six years ago… wait, you were listening when I was talking to Rebekah?”

Klaus hums, “Six years is not that long,” he ignores your question, besides, you already knew the answer. “Well, to a vampire at least. I suppose I could buy that if your heart wasn’t racing.”

You let out a breath, “Klaus—“

“Yes yes, I know Elijah has told you to stay clear of me even if you deny it…”

“That’s not—“

“You didn’t like your father!” he exclaims, making your eyes widen, “I’ve figured it out, huh? What was so awful about the man? Do tell.”

You scowl, you knew you shouldn’t mouth off to the vampires but Klaus was testing your patience, “Not that it’s any of your business but, he… he killed my brothers.”

“Brothers? Plural? Interesting, you only mentioned one to Rebekah. You’re lying to us now?”

“I- No! I only mentioned the one that did my hair! I didn’t lie!”

“Withholding the truth then,” he smirks.

You sigh, “Elijah knows everything already, I’ve told him everything. I haven’t lied, both my brothers fell for a vampire- my father got involved…” tears begin to prick the corners of your eyes, “…he ended up killing them both… I assume the vampire- that she got away, that she killed my father… that’s why I’ve been alone.” tears begin to stain your cheeks.

You sniffle, rubbing at your eyes when the door opens. Klaus has a sheepish expression when Elijah enters the room.

“Niklaus,” he practically hisses, “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I simply asked the girl a few questions!”

Elijah narrows his eyes, “I’m sure.”

You went upstairs and stayed there for the rest of the day, trying to avoid everyone. You were deep in thought when Kol’s voice startled you.

“My brother made you cry? He does tend to have that effect on women.”

Kol chuckles, and you turn to see him leaning against the doorframe of the room Elijah has you staying in. Your eyes widen and you turn your back to him, probably not your best move considering he’s a vampire but Elijah had told you to stay away. It was bad enough that you had spoken to him earlier but at least then his siblings were around, now you truly were alone.

“Like I said darling, you needn't be scared.”

“Elijah told me not to speak with you, he wouldn’t have told me that for no reason.”

Kol scoffs, “He’s always so dramatic.”

You don’t respond and Kol sighs, “I’ll go if you want, I simply wanted to make sure Nik didn’t upset you too badly… you’re too pretty to be upset over him.”

You blush, he sounds genuine but you couldn’t trust it. You also didn’t want to upset Elijah, he was the one who was giving you a home after all. He could easily kick you out and back onto the street to fend for yourself.

“I’d just like to be left alone… please.”

You hummed mindlessly in the kitchen, swaying while you baked. It had been three months since the Mikaelsons had allowed you into their home, Elijah promised he would find you your own home soon enough but he had been so busy with other duties.

You didn’t mind, you had grown used to living in their home. Ironically, living in the house of deadly original vampires had been the safest you had ever felt. The Mikaelsons had completely changed your opinion of vampires in just a few, short months. Rebekah had become a close friend of yours, Klaus had stopped his frequent questioning and began to see you as a friend (he never apologized but you knew he felt bad when he gifted you a necklace), and Kol… well… Kol was complicated.

After he had checked on you that day, you became curious about him. Elijah’s warnings only did so much to curb your curiosity. At first you had listened, avoided Kol at all costs but there was just something about him that kept pulling you in.

You would often find your mind wandering back to him. His face, his hair, his eyes, his cheshire-like grin…

Kol was determined to get you to break your walls down, he would find you all the time, whether you were painting like Nik had taught you, braiding your hair like Rebekah, or even just laying in your bed. He would find you and you’d just chat.

You brought up Kol to Elijah once, you wanted to know what was so horrible about him because when he was with you, he was sweet. Elijah wouldn’t give you a clear answer, just reminded you that he was dangerous. You wouldn’t mention how much time you had begun to spend with Kol to Elijah, in fear of making him upset.

But he found out, just like you knew he would.

“Miss Y/N, may I speak with you?” Elijah asks as he enters the kitchen.

You turn to look at him, just having finished the dough for the cookies you were making, “Of course, Elijah.”

“I notice you have become quite close with Kol as of late.”

You gulp, looking down, feeling guilty, Elijah had asked one thing of you and you weren’t even able to do that.

“I’m sorry, I know I—“

Elijah holds up his hand to silence you, “Please.”

You let out a shaky breath and Elijah lowers his hand, “I’ve never seen my little brother care for someone like he cares for you… especially after such a short amount of time. You… you’re good for him. He’s changed… so no more of this sneaking around like children,” he waves his hand to gesture around.

Your face flushes, “Oh we’re not… we’re just… we’re not together…”

Elijah smirks, giving you a knowing look, “I never said anything about a relationship.”

1871

New Orleans

“What are you reading?” Kol asks as he drops onto the couch, sitting next to you.

“Frankenstein,” you hum, not bothering to look up from the book, turning a page.

Kol nods, “I’ve heard of that one…”

You two sit in silence for a moment before Kol sighs dramatically. You close your eyes, composing yourself when Kol sighs again. You mark your page and close the book, finally turning to look at him.

“What Kol?”

He shrugs, “I’m bored.”

“Bored?”

“Very.”

You sigh, “Can I at least finish my chapter before we go off to cause whatever chaos you have planned?”

Kol rolls his eyes, “Fine,” he draws out the word.

Just as you’re about to pick up the book again, Kol drops his head into your lap, laying across the couch.

You tense up immediately, “Kol. What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to finish your chapter, darling,” he mumbles, “Your thighs are very comfortable.”

You sigh, forcing yourself to relax, it wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy his touch or him being this close, it was that it made you nervous. You were falling for Kol, you knew you were and every touch, no matter how small, made you nervous. Touching was common with Kol, you had a feeling it was how he showed affection.

It didn’t take long for you to finish your chapter, “Kol,” you say quietly but get no response.

Your brows furrow and you look closer at him in your lap, he was breathing evenly, his eyes closed. He was asleep. He looked peaceful, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he looked innocent and angelic.

You weighed your options, you could wake him up and put distance between the two of you… or you could let him sleep, curled in your lap, while you read another chapter.

You decided on the second option and it definitely had nothing to do with the fact you wanted to keep him so close.

It was calm, everything about the moment was so domestic. You wished you could stay here forever, reading a novel while an original vampire laid asleep on you as you brushed your fingers through his hair.

Unfortunately, no nice thing could last.

The door to the compound flung open, angry footsteps filling the silence.

“Niklaus, wait a moment. Let us think about this.”

“There is nothing to think about!”

Kol tenses in your lap at the loud voices, stirring in his sleep. He sits up, forcing the sleep from his eyes.

Klaus enters the living room, glaring daggers at you. You don’t seem to pick up on his angry gaze, “Did you get it?” you ask excitedly.

You had mentioned a few weeks ago that your mother had a cookbook that contained all of your family's recipes. After she died, the book remained in the study of the boarding house. You were sad, you wanted the book back because you couldn’t remember any of the recipes and Elijah had offered to go get it for you.

You told him not to be ridiculous and that he’d have to travel the whole way to Mystic Falls to get it, he seemed to tense a bit at the name but insisted nonetheless. So you told him about the boarding house and where he would find it, Klaus insisted on accompanying him.

“Yes.” Klaus answers coldly, dropping the book onto the coffee table.

You squeal and lean forward grabbing the book, “Thankyou!” you begin to flip through it, “You have no idea how much this means to me…” you look up, trailing off when you finally notice the look on Klaus’ face.

“We found something else too,” his tone is detached as he tosses a picture onto the coffee table.

You recognized the photo instantly, it had been taken shortly after Katherine arrived in Mystic Falls. It was of you, Stefan, and Katherine. The three of you had smiles on your faces, though, it was obvious Katherine’s was fake.

“Her,” he points to Katherine.

“What?”

“Don't play dumb with me,” Klaus practically growls, “This is the vampire you mentioned?”

You gulp, nodding, “I- yes, that’s Katherine…”

“Katherine?” Elijah muses, “Is that the name she’s using now?”

You didn’t miss the subtle way that Kol slid forward on the couch, or the way he placed his hand on your thigh, attempting to hide you behind his arm, to shield you from Klaus’ fury.

“Where is she?” Klaus keeps his gaze locked onto you.

“I don’t know… I haven’t seen her since I ran from home…”

Kol squeezes your thigh to try and calm you down, to reassure you that he wouldn’t let Klaus hurt you even if he tried. You were grateful for him and Elijah, Klaus was impulsive at times, especially if he thought he was being betrayed.

After a considerable amount of time, Klaus had calmed down. He and Elijah explained the story of Katerina to you, how she had escaped her death, and how Klaus wanted her to be scared before he killed her. How he wanted her to suffer.

Just like last time, Klaus didn’t apologize, the day after you found three books on your nightstand, Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and Les Miserables.

A few weeks had passed since the Mikaelsons found out about your history with Katherine. And you all went on with life like nothing had happened, Klaus would occasionally ask about Katherine and you would always answer his questions. Katherine was why your brothers were dead. Katherine was the reason you hated vampires. And the Mikaelsons were the reason you didn’t anymore.

“My mother used to make these when I was little… this is actually her recipe- well, my great grandmother's recipe,” you tell Kol as he watches you close the pizzelle iron.

He hums, reaching for one that’s cooling, “In all my life, I’ve never had one of these…”

Your eyes light up, “Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask you this! I know you eat my baked goods… but does human food actually taste good to you?”

Kol tilts his head, “I’ve told you numerous times, darling, you’re an excellent baker…”

“But that’s not what I asked, I wish to know if you enjoy them…”

“Your treats are delectable… as are you,” Kol flirts, leaning closer.

Your face heats up at his comment, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Kol Mikaelson.”

“No?” he raises a brow, his face just inches from yours.

“Well, maybe somewhere…” you whisper, your gaze flickers to his lips.

He smirks, “And where would that be?”

“You tell me…”

The tension between the two of you was thick, it had been for a few months now but nothing had come of it. The two of you danced around each other and your obvious feelings, Rebekah would tease you about it, often remarking on how you could do better than her brother.

Just as his lips were about to brush against yours he pulled back, “Darling…”

“Yes, Kol?”

“The iron.”

Your eyes widen and you quickly turn back to the pizzelle iron, standing up from your chair, opening it quickly, coughing a bit as the smoke hits you directly in the face. You use the tongs to toss the burnt cookies onto the cooling rack as Kol doubles over in laughter.

You glare at him, before letting out a small laugh, “You distracted me! This is your fault!”

He smirks, standing up to his full height, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you close, “I’m a distraction?”

“Yes… you are.”

He presses a kiss to your temple and hums, “Too bad you’re stuck with me…”

You pull away a bit to look up at him, “You think?”

Kol stares at you, debating internally about what to say, “I think… no, I know,” he takes a deep breath, “…that I have completely fallen in love with you, Y/N Salvatore…”

A smile appears on your face, “Well I know that I am utterly in love with you as well, Kol Mikaelson…”

He smiles before capturing your lips in a soft but passionate kiss. The arm around your waist tightens, he pulls you impossibly close and you loop your arms around his neck.

A low whistle followed by clapping causes the two of you to break apart, Kol didn’t let you get too far though, still keeping his hand on your waist.

“Took you long enough,” Klaus smirks.

You cover your face with your face with your hands, completely embarrassed but Kol just seems annoyed by the interruption.

“Is there something you need Nik?” Kol asks, rolling his eyes.

“I was just wondering what that burning smell was, wouldn’t want our lovely home to burn down. But I see now our little baker was just… preoccupied…”

“Rebekah!” Klaus shouts, causing your eyes to widen.

“Nik no!” you retort, peaking through your fingers, but you knew it was too late.

“What the bloody hell do you want now?” Rebekah asks as she walks into the room.

Klaus smirks and then gestures towards you and Kol by tilting his head. Rebekah immediately notices the hand around your waist and gasps.

“Finally! I thought you two would be dancing around each other forever!” she squeals.

“What is all this shouting about?” Elijah asks, entering the room while adjusting his cufflinks.

Kol pinches the bridge of his nose before leaning over to whisper to you, fully aware his siblings could still hear him, “It’s like they all come out of the woodwork at the most inopportune times…”

Elijah spots the cooling racks of pizzelles and makes his way over, immediately picking up one of the burnt cookies. He holds it up and raises a brow at you, waiting for an answer.

Klaus begins to cackle, speeding over to Elijah to take the charred cookie from him, “Brother, Y/N got distracted…” he points at Kol, “the distraction.”

Elijah lets out a little chuckle, clearly amused, “Yes, well, try not to get distracted in the kitchen… we eat in here.”

1872

New Orleans

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Kol holds your face in his hands.

“More than anything… I want to be with you.”

Kol chuckles, “My darling, you’re already with me, you already have me.”

He takes your hands and places them over his heart, “This dead heart belongs to you.”

You giggle a bit at his words and he smiles before frowning, “I just… I don’t want you to think you have to do this for me…”

You smile softly, “I know, but this is what I want, I promise…”

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve already had my witches make you a ring… a gorgeous ring for a gorgeous girl, my gorgeous girl…”

You giggle again and pull him in for a kiss which he quickly reciprocates. After a moment he forces himself to pull away. He scoots til his back is against the headboard then pulls you so you’re sitting with your back against his chest.

Kol brings his wrist to his mouth, fangs protruding and bites into his own flesh before holding his wrist near your mouth for you to take. Both your hands grab onto him, pulling his wrist as close to your mouth as physically possible and begin to drink from him.

He groans at the sensation and brushes some of the hair from your face, “Atta girl… that’s it… just a little more… good…”

When Kol decides you’ve had enough he pulls away, chuckling at the way you try to follow his now healing wrist, “My, my, already so bloodthirsty…”

You look up at him and pout, some of his blood dripping from your lips. He could get used to sight of you and blood, his two favorite things, together. He gives you another kiss, tasting his own blood from your mouth.

Pulling back, he sighs, “This is the part I don’t like.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek, “You’re the only one I’d trust to do this… it’s okay, my love, it’s what I want.”

Reluctantly, Kol brings his hand up to your neck, “I love you, my darling.”

“I love you… now please, kill me.”

He winces at the sound of your neck breaking, squeezing his eyes shut. He lays in your bed, holding your body, brushing the hair from your face while softly humming until you wake up.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

You stare at your daylight ring, spinning it on your finger.

“Y/N… Y/N… Y/N!” Damon snaps his fingers in front of your face to gain your attention.

You jump and look at him and then at Stefan, now noticing that Elena left.

“Are you alright?” Stefan asks, tilting his head.

“I’m fine… just… lost in thought.”

Damon’s gaze stays focused on your ring, “Is that your daylight ring?”

You hum, looking up at him and then at Stefan, before holding your hand up to show off the ring, “I know, it’s not nearly as gaudy as yours.”

Stefan chuckles but Damon narrows his eyes, “It’s not a wedding ring,” he notes.

“No…” you state but it sounds more like a question.

“So the guy can ask you to die and be forced to drink blood for the rest of eternity but he can’t get down on one knee and pop the question?”

“Damon…” Stefan sighs, they had just gotten you back and he was worried that all of Damon’s passive aggressive comments were going to drive you away again.

You scoff, “He didn’t ask me to do anything, it was my choice. I wanted this. We… we didn’t need to be married to be in love… it just wasn’t the right time for a wedding anyways…”

Stefan seems a little shocked, “You asked him to turn you?”

Before you can respond to Stefan, Damon interrupts, “This was your first boyfriend?”

“He was my first everything,” you state matter-of-factly.

Both Stefan and Damon groan in disgust at your words and the implication of them.

You roll your eyes, “Oh grow up.”

Stefan stands up, “And on that note, I’m going to school… make sure Elena’s okay…”

You fake pout, “You don’t wanna hang out with your sister after not seeing her for so long?”

“That’s not—“

You cut him off, “Relax Stef, I’m kidding. Go.”

He gives you a curt nod and heads out of the room, leaving you alone with Rose and Damon. You almost forgot Rose was here, she had been quiet ever since she had finished her speech about Klaus. Damon gives Rose a look and she nods, leaving the room.

“I thought you hated vampires,” Damon states, taking the spot on the couch where Stefan once was.

“I did… until I met him.” Them.

Damon stays quiet for a moment, his eyes soften a bit, “This guy must have been special.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “He was… I really loved him, Damon. I really do still love him…”

Your brother sighs, scooching closer to you on the couch. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to him.

“I am happy to have you back, you know… it’s just… you’re not the same kid I left behind, you’ve grown so much, to me you’re still the little girl whose hair I used to braid…”

“It’s okay, Day… I get it… I do,” you smile, using the nickname you used to call him as a child.

He ruffles your hair, “Why don’t we go out, I’ll show you around town… it’s practically the same, just modern.”

“I… uhm…” you sigh, “I’m tired to be honest, I traveled a long way to get here… and I think all the ‘excitement’ just made me even more tired…”

He nods, “Alright, I’m assuming you want your same room, you remember where it is?”

You stand up from the couch, “How could I forget?”

You leave Damon on the couch, making your way to the stairs. You take note of Rose who was standing near the kitchen doorway, she had clearly been listening to your conversation. There was no such thing as privacy with vampires.

Your room was exactly as you had left it, you could tell that no one had even entered the room in years. If you had to guess, you’d say that the last ones to enter were Klaus and Elijah— they had also retrieved your favorite teddy bear on their mission to get the cook book. There was dust floating around and cobwebs everywhere. You let out a sigh just as Damon makes his way up the stairs to you, he must have remembered the state of your room.

“No one’s been in there since…”

“I know,” you cut him off.

“We didn’t want to disturb it…”

You sigh, “Can I just… have another room for now?”

He nods and leads you down the hall to one of the guest rooms that had been maintained over the years, “I can get you extra blankets? Extra pillows?”

You shake your head, walking further into the room and sit on the bed, “This is fine.”

”Alright, well, I’ll let you sleep,” as he’s about to leave, his hand goes to the light switch to turn it off.

In a second, you’re off of the bed. You grab his hand causing him to groan in pain, you were sure you broke fingers but you didn’t care. You couldn’t let him turn off the light.

“Ow!”

You let go after a second, “I… I’m sorry…” you mumble.

“Jesus! If you didn’t want it off you could have said that!” he waves his hand around, wincing as his fingers snap themselves back into place.

You just blink at him, and he sighs, “Just get some rest.”

He reaches for the door this time, you grab it as it’s about to close and he stops, “Yeah?”

“Don’t close the door.”

Damon raises a brow, “You want the light on and the door open?”

You nod, “Please…”

“You can sleep like that?”

“It’s the only way I can sleep.”

Damon goes to open his mouth, but quickly shuts it, deciding that for once in his life he should just be quiet. He nods and leaves it at that, you let out of a sigh when goes, dropping down onto the guest bed.

You want to close your eyes but you can’t. It’s too dark.

Stefan eventually returns and finds Damon sipping on bourbon as usual.

“Our sister is strange,” Damon announces the second Stefan steps foot in the door.

Stefan sighs, “Alright, I’ll bite. What happened?”

Damon sets down his glass, “She’s upstairs, sleeping.”

“Okay?”

“With the door open, the curtains open, and the light on.”

“Damon, just leave it alone.”

The older Salvatore scoffs, “Come on Stefan, that’s weird.”

Stefan shrugs, “I didn’t say it wasn’t. I just said to leave it alone. We just got her back, literally today and if you keep pushing like you always do, you’re going to push her away. Again.”

“Don’t act like this is all on me. We both pushed her away… pushed her right into the arms of some scummy vampire and now she’s stuck like us. Well, at least it sounds like she actually got to make that choice.”

“I thought we were past that,” Stefan lets out a humourless chuckle.

“We’ll never be past that.”

“I was just joking before about you two constantly fighting…” you mumble as you walk down the stairs.

Damon smirks, “Stefan loves to bicker.”

You raise a brow, “So it’s only Stefan then?”

You swiftly make your way across the room to the bourbon and grab a glass, you turn to Damon, “May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Humming, you pour yourself a glass, looking at Damon over the rim of the cup, “You and Rose woke me up earlier, safe to say I’m disgusted…” This was a lie, you never fell asleep in the first place.

Damon rolls his eyes, “Now who needs to grow up?”

Stefan sighs and takes that as his que to cut in, “You sleep well? Besides that…”

You take a sip of the alcohol before responding, “Like a baby.”

Another lie, you hadn’t slept ‘like a baby’ since 1914.

1914

New Orleans

“He’ll never let us leave, he’ll never let us be happy.” Kol holds you tightly in his arms, “This is the only way…” he pulls back to hold your face in his hands, “I’ll find the diamond, my witches will do what we need, and then we will leave this place, my love. I want to show you the world, just as you wish but we can’t do that with him looming over us.”

You swallow, “I am tired of watching him hurt you… all of you.”

“And I do not want him to ever hurt you.“

Klaus had been a friend to you over the years but the one thing you disagreed on was how he handled his siblings. It broke your heart to watch any of them be daggered and put away in those wretched boxes for however long he deemed necessary. It drove a rift in between the two of you and you knew Kol was right, with how tightly of a leash Klaus kept on Kol, it was only a matter of time before Klaus saw Kol as a threat and daggered him again.

Besides, it wouldn’t be killing Nik. It would just be giving him a taste of his own medicine for once.

“Okay…”

“Okay?”

You nod and Kol lets out a small chuckle, half smiling at you, he presses his lips to yours.

Pulling back, he looks you up and down, “All you have to do is look pretty, which is an easy task for you considering you always look gorgeous.”

He takes your hand and has you do a twirl, admiring the way your dress moves as you spin, “Absolutely stunning.”

You roll your eyes, giggling as he spins you right into his arms, “Always such a charmer.”

“Only for you…” he presses a kiss to your head, “You head down to the party I’ll be right there.”

You hum, connecting your lips one last time before heading downstairs, blending into the crowd around you. Soon after, Kol would make his way downstairs, he snuck up behind you, placing his hands on your hips and whispering into your ear.

“Rebekah knows but do not fret… she’s going to help us.”

Only she wouldn’t, Rebekah ran straight to Klaus and told him everything.

All of you were currently on the stairs, posed for a family photograph. Kol had his arm wrapped securely around your waist when Klaus raised his glass, taping the side of it with a knife to attract the attention of everyone in the room. He starts by thanking those invited for attending but then makes a special toast to Rebekah.

He looks at you and Kol while speaking, “It is especially gratifying in times when treachery runs deep to know you have someone you can trust…” he turns back to face Rebekah, smiling at her, “A toast, to you, my sister.”

Kol tenses, the two of you share a look and quickly begin to make your way up the stairs. You make it to the top of the stairs before Kol does and just as he’s about to join you, Elijah speeds in front of him. Elijah grabs Kol’s arms, successfully detaining him as Klaus slowly walks up the stairs. You’re frozen in place, unsure what to do and Kol looks at you. He knows this will be the last time he sees you for a very long time so he decides to commit your features to memory. He regrets not asking you for a dance earlier.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I do apologize for the disturbance! But, what’s a Mikaelson party without a little squabble…?” He reveals a silver dagger.

“Y/N run!” Kol shouts and you listen.

You rush away making Klaus sigh, looking at Rebekah over his shoulder, “Catch her,” he commands.

Kol looks at his sister, a pleading look in his eyes as he struggles in Elijah’s hold— watching her run after you, knowing that it would be near impossible for you to outrun her.

You hear Kol’s pained scream as Klaus shoves the dagger into his heart, trying to fight your tears as you run. You were outside when Rebekah caught you, slamming you into the wall.

“Bekah please…”

Her eyes scan your face, your fear, your grief, and she loosens her hold, “I have never had a true friend until you, Y/N… please… forgive me for what I am about to do.”

Rebekah takes your face in her hands, staring into your eyes and you begin to panic, knowing what is about to happen.

“You promised you’d never do that! All of you did! That you’d never take my choice away!” you fight against her.

“Look at me,” her voice becomes hypnotic and you find yourself unable to look away from her eyes, “You’re going to forget Kol, you’re going to forget that you were ever in love with him. You’ve never even heard his name. You are going to forget all about Elijah and… me. All you will know regarding the Mikaelson family is that you have to keep running from Klaus. You don’t stop, you don’t stay in one place for long, you keep running.”

Your eyes have completely glazed over, pupils dilated, “I keep running from Klaus…”

Rebekah pulls back from you, staring at you as your eyes go back to normal, “Y/N?”

“I… I’m sorry, do I know you? I… nevermind that I need to get going, I’m sorry again,” you say, walking past her before using your speed to get farther away.

Rebekah lets out a shaky breath, knowing that Klaus will not believe that you were able to outrun her. She brings her own hands to her neck and snaps it, falling to the ground.

Maybe he’d believe that.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

A few days had passed since your arrival in Mystic Falls, while everything had seemingly calmed down a bit, there was still the looming presence of Klaus.

You had been briefly involved with their plan of getting the moonstone from Katherine, you knew it wouldn’t do them any good and it was clear they were grasping at straws to try and save the doppelgängers life. After contacting him, he told you to just continue on as is so you wouldn’t raise suspicion. You had witnessed Elena’s attempt at a self-sacrifice play, which she failed at terribly due to your brother's intervention… and Elijah’s.

Damon was incredibly annoyed when he found out Elijah was still alive. And after a lot of back and forth and changing of plans, you managed to convince Damon to let you accompany him to the bar to confront Jules. You refused to be on babysitting duty with Jeremy.

You made it your mission to avoid Elijah, knowing that if you saw him you’d end up telling Klaus in fear of him interfering with their plan. You already knew that Elena and her group of friends would try to interfere but you could handle them - you had plans. Caroline was meant to be the vampire… but you had plenty of options for a vampire, maybe even your own brothers. Tyler Lockwood was a werewolf, but you needed a backup, which is the whole reason you went to the bar with Damon. You wanted to get an idea about Jules so that it would be easier to get her.

Jules was smart, she wouldn’t drink the wolfsbane and she instantly knew what you and Damon were. That wouldn’t matter, you knew when it came down to it - you’d be able to capture her with ease. You backed down from the argument, not wanting to fight in the middle of the bar but Damon didn’t. He kept pushing just like he always did.

That brought you to where you were now, back at the boarding house with Damon and Rose. The two were clearly having a moment so you decided to take a step back into the living room. Just as you do, a large wolf jumps through the window, slamming you into the ground. You hold its jaw, pushing its mouth away from you in fear of being bit.

“Damon!” you shriek, “A little help would be nice!”

Damon goes to the fireplace mantel, picking up a sword, taking a swing at the wolf. It lets out a pained sound and releases you- now going to attack Damon. Before it’s able to turn your brother into a chew toy, Rose jumps in front of him, taking the brunt of the attack. The werewolf sinks its teeth into her shoulder, infecting her with its deadly bite.

Your brother slashes the wolf once more and it takes off into the night, knowing it wouldn’t survive another hit from the blade. You let out a sigh of relief, turning to look at Damon and Rose.

“How bad is it?” Damon asks Rose, helping her off the ground to examine the bite.

“It hurts…” Rose whimpers.

You frown, already knowing what is going to happen, you knew of the false hope that she would get.

Damon’s eyes widen, “It’s healing!”

Rose tilts her head to look at her shoulder better, “Oh my God… I thought a werewolf bite was fatal!”

‘It is’ you want to say, to warn her of what is going to happen about how she’ll lose her mind. But you stay silent.

“I thought…” tears fill Rose’s eyes and Damon pulls her into his arms.

“You’re going to be okay…” he reassures her, giving you a look.

You press your lips together, nodding, leaving the room to give them their moment once more. Allowing them to live in a fantasy where Rose would be okay.

You made the decision to disappear for a few days, leaving your brothers and Elena to deal with Rose. Both of them left numerous messages on your phone.

“This is what? Call two hundred and twenty four? You’re really not going to answer them?” Klaus muses.

You sigh, shaking your head, “No. I’m not. They just want help with Rose… I don’t… I don’t want to see her like that, losing her mind… I’ve seen that happen too many times before.”

Klaus hums, “Let me guess, you’re going to ask for my blood to heal her?”

“No,” you shake your head, “She needs to die, she knows too much about you and your family, she’s a threat… besides she’s probably dead now.”

“Our family,” Klaus corrects.

You continue, ignoring him, “I just thought she’d die with a stake in her heart not from going insane.”

“Still sensitive.”

You choose to ignore his comment once again, playing the latest voicemail left by Stefan.

“Y/N, I don’t know where you are or why you left… I’m worried though… about you, about Elena… I miss you… can you please come home? Listen, Rose is dead and Damon is doing what he does best— deflecting. He’s got this new girl… Andie Star I think? I- I don’t know what happened that night, maybe you got bit too? I really hope not… Maybe you got scared… you ran… just please at least call me if you’re not going to come home… I need to know you’re okay. I love you.”

“I presume you’re going back now?”

You nod and Klaus smirks, “Excellent… I’ll be making my appearance soon.”

By time you arrived back in Mystic Falls, Elijah had been ‘dealt with’ as Damon put it. That made you anxious, you doubted they had found a white oak stake but the only alternative was a dagger, and that thought made your stomach churn.

Leaving had fractured the trust you built between your brothers, you knew it would but that was fine with you. The less you knew regarding Elijah, the better. You told them the truth, that you knew Rose was going to die - painfully and out of her mind. Damon was angry that you didn’t tell them and Stefan understood.

There was also the little fact that Katherine had been released of her compulsion. You had to admit, you were a tad anxious she’d find a way to Klaus and find out about your deal. If she ratted you out to Stefan and Damon, every part of your perfectly calculated plan would be ruined. Hopefully, Klaus would be enough to distract your brothers from you so they wouldn’t get too suspicious.

It was no secret that Niklaus Mikaelson liked making an entrance and being as you were currently not getting all the intel since they still didn’t trust you fully— Klaus decided to use one of his favorite tricks which you suggested. Body possession.

On the night of the school dance, Klaus possessed Alaric's body, revealing himself to Bonnie and Elena with dramatic flair and then he killed the Benett witch— at least that’s what you two thought.

The truth of Bonnie’s fate would be revealed on the night of the ritual when she showed up to kill Klaus with the help of Elijah.

Elijah had dug his hand into Klaus’ chest and you had no idea what to do. You couldn’t fight Elijah, that was one fight you’d certainly lose, not to mention Bonnie and all of the others being there, they’d stop you before you could lay a hand on him.

Klaus looked at you, silencing your fears with one glance before looking back to Elijah and confessing the truth, “I didn’t bury them at sea.”

His gaze flickered to you and Elijah looked to where his brother was, he hadn’t seen you in so long but still, he trusted you, so when you nod your head ever so slightly… he believes Klaus.

Two days had passed since the ritual and Klaus was now a hybrid. You had spent those two days following Elijah through the woods, cleaning up Klaus’ mess.

In fact, that’s where you currently are. It had been practically silent between the two of you, neither of you wanting to start the conversation, after all it had been nearly a hundred years. That was until you decided to open your mouth after arriving at another camp that had been ripped apart.

You move a body and scoff, “He’s not even draining them. He’s killing for sport.”

Elijah hums, “You sound shocked, you should know by now this behavior is expected of Niklaus.”

“He’s wasting perfectly good snacks,” you grumble as you throw the body to Elijah who catches it with ease.

“You’re thirsty?”

“No, Elijah, I’m annoyed,” you throw your hands up, walking closer to him, “It’s been two days since the full moon, why is he still a wolf?”

“I don’t have the answer to that.”

“Okay, well, what if he’s stuck as a wolf? Hm? Then what? We’re going to put him on a leash and have him lead us to the coffins?”

Elijah lets out a chuckle, “While that image is amusing, I’m sure he’ll be turning back soon.”

You sigh and go back to cleaning up the bodies in silence, when you’re done you both continue to follow the trail that Klaus was leaving behind, you had no doubt you’d soon run into more bodies.

“What have you been up to for the past century?” Elijah asks, walking so close that your arms brush against each other.

You come to a stop, and it takes Elijah a moment to stop and turn back, looking at you slightly confused.

“Are you serious? I was trapped, Elijah, and when I wasn’t trapped I was running from him,” you jab your finger into his chest, “from you.”

Elijah looks down at you, a frown on his face, “I haven’t been doing Niklaus’ bidding since he said he dropped all of them into the ocean… he implied that he had found you as well… that you were gone… I never did want to hurt you, Y/N.”

“Well it didn’t seem that way to me. I didn’t know that. I’ve spent the last century looking over my shoulder, not staying anywhere for more than a moment because I knew that no matter where I went, you, or him, or some minion of his would be waiting. And when I wasn’t running I was trapped… there… all alone…”

“Y/N—“

“I know what we did was unforgivable,” you say, taking a step away from him to continue following the trail and he follows, “but what he had planned for me was just cruel…”

“If it’s any consolation, none of us agreed with Niklaus’ ‘gift’.”

You let out a humorless laugh, “Is that what he called it?”

“Yes, it was intended to be given to you for your engagement… obviously you were shown sooner than intended… it was his disturbed way of welcoming you into the family officially.”

Your brows furrow, “What engagement?”

Elijah stops, seemingly realizing his mistake, “I apologize, I thought you knew… Kol…”

You stop and turn to him, “He was going to propose?” your voice breaks a bit as you will away your tears.

Elijah sighs, stopping to face you, “He had rings, new daylight rings… I do not know much of how he planned to propose, just that he planned to do it after the new year… You two had been together for so long I assume he thought it was time to ask…”

You blink a few times, before clearing your throat, “Let’s just find Klaus.”

He nods, continuing to follow the path, he can practically feel the emotions rolling off of you. Grief, sadness, anger, and even jealousy. Then there was the look on your face, the look of heartbreak. Even after all these years, he still hated to see you like this. He would always feel guilty, after all, he was the first one you met, the one who introduced you to everyone. He would forever feel at least somewhat responsible for your pain.

1869

New Orleans

It had been five years, nearly six since you ran from home, since your brothers were killed, and you were still having a hard time settling down. You found yourself in New Orleans, you loved everything about it, but there was one problem. It was hard to find work as a woman and even harder as a seventeen year old so you adapted to stealing.

You would wait by stands or alleyways and wait for the perfect target, you’d typically go for men who held their heads high as if they owned the world. Men who were so well dressed that you knew they had money to spare. Sometimes you’d even hang out near bars to find men stumbling around, too drunk to notice you taking their entire wallet.

It was late now, you were leaning against a wall when you saw him. A rather attractive man dressed in a fancy suit, you had no doubt that it had been tailor fitted to him. He begins to walk down the street, walking right past you, seemingly not noticing you. There weren’t as many people out now, normally you’d use the strangers during the day as cover but this man clearly had too much money for his good, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

As quietly as possible, you push yourself off the wall and follow behind him. You smirk when you see his wallet in his back pocket but just as your fingers graze what you assume is real leather, his hand snatches your wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You curse yourself for being so reckless. You swallow your pride and decide to try and flirt your way out. Men with the kind of money you knew he had, always enjoyed being flirted with, it boosts their already over-inflated egos.

You giggle while leaning a bit closer, “You’re even more handsome up close…”

He chuckles, “Is that so?”

“And this suit… it fits you so well…” you brush your hand along his chest.

“That’s very flattering…” he smiles, bringing his hand up to cup yours.

Hook. Line. Sinker. You had him.

“But I know what you’re doing.”

You did not have him.

Your smile fades away and you pull back from him. This had never happened before, most of the men were too dumb to figure it out (at least until they got home and found their wallets missing), it was just your luck that you’d try and rob the only smart guy around.

“How old are you?” He looks you up and down.

You gulp, “Seventeen, sir.”

He pulls his wallet from his pocket and holds it out to you, “Take it.”

“What?”

“Take it, you want my wallet? Take it.”

With shaky hands, you reach for the wallet, it was embarrassing being caught like this but you needed the money.

“Thank you…” you trail off, realizing you hadn’t learned his name.

“Elijah Mikaelson.”

Your eyes widen at the name, you had heard of the Mikaelsons before. A rich, powerful family and there were whispers all around that they were the thing you hated most. Vampires.

He smirks at your reaction, “And you are?”

“Y/N.”

He nods and smiles but it quickly fades when he glances at his watch, “Well, Miss Y/N do try to stay safe… you never know who or what may be lurking in these streets, especially at this time of night.”

And just like that, he was gone. The next time you saw him was after the new year when he pulled a newly turned vampire off of you. You saw him a third time when this exact thing happened again, you didn’t know why but you it seemed you were practically vampire bait.

After these two incidents, Elijah decided it wasn't safe for you to be on the streets any longer and invited you to come stay with him for some time before he could find something more permanent. An idea you were not so eager about when he confirmed that he and his family were in fact, vampires. But you couldn’t pass up the offer when he was offering you an actual bed to sleep in and numerous necessities. Little did either of you know that the compound would become your permanent home.

Present Day

Mystic Falls

After your conversation you had fallen behind Elijah, walking slower to keep the distance. When he called out that he had found him, you hardly even picked up the pace.

“You’ve been busy…” Elijah remarks, leaning on a tree.

“That was… amazing.” You hear Klaus’ voice before you see him.

And when you do see him you groan, spinning around and closing your eyes, “You could have told me he was naked.”

“Did you think I was carrying around his clothes these past two days for fun?” Elijah raises a brow.

“It’s been two days?” Klaus asks, you can hear him shuffling around while getting dressed.

“Full moon came and went. You remained a wolf.” Elijah states but it’s more of a question.

“I can change at will then, that’s good to know.”

Klaus smiles and then chuckles, “I remember… every single kill.”

“Yes, we’ve been cleaning up your little mess along the way.” Elijah gestures between the two of you.

“Just like old times then.”

Elijah hums, and pushes off the tree, handing Klaus his boots, “Well, you’ve had your fun. I believe we have a bargain.”

“That’s right!” Klaus exclaims, leaning down to put on his boots, “Now what was it again? Oh yeah, wait, I remember, that’s it! You wish to be reunited with our family!”

“And you!” he shouts towards you, “You want your precious Kol back…”

You turn around, finally facing him, pleased to see that he has put his pants on. You want to say something but hold your tongue, there was a time where you weren’t afraid of him but now it felt that if you even stepped a toe out of line he’d hunt you down.

Elijah brushes off Klaus’ jacket, “You gave me your word, Niklaus.”

Klaus smiles, cheekily, “And what kind of brother would I be if I broke my bond… even if you did try and kill me.”

You sigh, and Elijah holds out Klaus’ jacket for him to put on, “I could have… but I didn’t.”

Klaus puts on his jacket and fixes the collar, “And now no one can,” he turns to face Elijah, “Relax, Elijah, all is forgiven.”

He smiles at you, “That applies to you as well, love. You have more than proved yourself loyal.”

“Where are they?” Elijah cuts in.

Klaus grins, patting his brother's arm, “You need to lighten up… I’ll bring you to them soon enough.”

He walks ahead of you and Elijah, the two of you sharing a look before you scoff and follow after the hybrid. He ends up taking you to Alaric's apartment, you feel a pit in your stomach knowing that Katherine is going to be there but you do your best to push it away.

“Look who decided to come for a visit.” Katherine gestures to Stefan as you, Klaus, and Elijah enter the apartment.

“I need your help.” Stefan states, his eyes flickering to you, wondering why the hell you’re with them, there was no way for you to know what had happened to Damon so that couldn’t be it.

Elijah shuts the door, and Stefan steps closer, “For my brother.” he then looks at you, “our brother.”

Klaus clicks his tongue, “Oh well, whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait a tick. You see, I have an obligation to my brother.” he points at Elijah. “And your sister…” he points at you.

“It requires my immediate attention.” Klaus brushes past Stefan.

You hug yourself, feeling anxious of the entire situation, it was bad enough that Katherine was here and now Stefan was too.

“You understand how important family is or you wouldn’t be here.” Elijah walks a bit closer to Stefan, “My brother gave me his word that he would reunite me with my family.”

“And so I shall.” Klaus speaks from behind Elijah, Elijah spins around to face his brother but it is too late, Klaus shoves a dagger through his heart.

You feel frozen when Elijah screams, tears begin to fill your eyes, you know what is about to come and there's no point in running because he’d just catch you. Rebekah wasn’t here this time to buy you time.

His body drops to the ground with a sickening thud, his skin completely grey and you knew you would not get the privilege of a quick death.

Klaus smiles at you and the tears begin to fall from your eyes.

“Please! I- I didn’t know about Elijah’s plan! I didn’t even know he was here! I only heard rumors! I swear! You said it yourself, Klaus- I’m loyal! I’ve proved it!”

Klaus shushes you and walks closer, your body doesn’t move, you’re rooted in your spot. He brings his hand up to hold your cheek and brushes a tear away, you shudder at the touch, letting out a sob.

“Loyal…?” Stefan questions, the floorboards creaking when he steps forward.

Klaus’ gaze immediately snaps to your brother, “Another step and I’ll rip her heart out.”

“She’s my sister-“

“All the more reason for you to stay put, Stefan.”

The two stare at each other for a moment before Stefan steps back. Klaus smirks, turning back to you. You tense up when he rests his hand on your neck, another sob wracks through your body.

“Don’t do this… I did what you asked! I found the doppelgänger! I found Elena! I called you as soon as I found her! Sure- Katherine found the werewolf but I made sure you had the backup one! And you needed the backup one! And- and using Alaric was my idea! I came up with that, it was perfect! You thought it was hilarious! I’ve helped you!”

Stefan’s brow furrows at your admission, his voice barely audible as he connects the dots, “You’re the reason he’s here… that’s… that’s why you came back to Mystic Falls to find us… not because you missed us, but because you’re helping him…” 

You don’t bother to look over to your brother, you felt bad for betraying his trust, for lying to him but he could never understand, you don’t say anything, it wouldn’t matter now.

You look up at Klaus with tears staining your cheeks, “I did everything right!” your voice falls to a whisper, “Don’t make me go back there, it’s dark, Nik, I hate the dark…”

“You know, I considered you family once, I treated you as such.”

“Please Nikkie… you gave me your word…I just want him back, you promised me!”

“Oh love…” Klaus brings his hand up to brush some of the hair from your face, “You have me confused with Elijah…”

In a split second his hand falls to your neck, the sound of it snapping fills the room and he drops your body on the ground, discarding you.

Klaus turns back to Stefan who looks devastated by the news, “Don’t look so glum Stefan, you wouldn’t be the first to be tricked by your sister. She’d do anything to survive, even if it meant betraying those closest to her,” he glances at Katherine, noting the similarities.

He shakes his head, looking back at Stefan, “But that’s a story for another day…”

Klaus speeds forward, slamming Stefan into the wall, “Now… what am I going to do with you?”

Present Day

Chicago

“My sister? She knew you? All of you?”

Klaus approaches the coffins, “If you can’t handle it, don’t ask.”

Stefan looks at all of the coffins but two of them catch his attention, they’re away from the rest, almost like they’ve been isolated. One of the coffins is made of some sort of metal and they both have engravings on them that compliment each other.

Klaus notices his gaze and smirks, “I see you’ve spotted the lovers.”

“the lovers?” Stefan raises a brow.

His smirk deepens, he steps away from Rebekah’s coffin and to the others, he opens one of them, revealing a boy in clothing from the the early 1900s.

Stefan looks over the boy, completely confused he turns to Klaus who grins.

“You wouldn’t recognize him… you never had the pleasure of meeting Kol…” he brushes his hand over the engraving on the other one, “You’d recognize whose in this one though…”

Klaus could see the gears turning in Stefan’s head, his eyes widening as he pieced the puzzle together.

“My sister?” his voice breaks a bit.

Klaus laughs, “You always were quick, Ripper.”

“This is what you meant by family? You got her a coffin and a dagger? That’s family to you?”

The hybrid clicks his tongue a few times, wagging his finger, “No Stefan, I got her a coffin… I never said anything about a dagger.”

Stefan’s heart sinks at the new information, it all hit him at once, why you hated the dark, why you had to have the door open, why couldn’t stand to be in silence.

You didn’t get a century long sleep like Klaus’ siblings would, you got to lay there and rot, slowly and painfully, all alone.

“I had a witch make it, it’s spelled… only I can open it.” Klaus boasts, clearly proud of his work.

“That’s cruel, even for you.”

“Maybe so, but I must punish those who betray me accordingly.”

Klaus takes a step closer to Stefan, “You met Rebekah and I in 1920… but we did not meet by chance. I sought you out, I was looking for your sister… The girl can really run when she wants to. I was hoping you’d be able to help me find her, but you were too busy draining civilians, Ripper.”

“I wouldn’t have been helpful either way. I thought she was dead.”

“I’m aware… I thought that she’d maybe be nearby, watching, that was something she often did— check up on you and Damon. Regardless, I found her on my own in 1924.”

1924

London

Today marks four years since Rebekah’s compulsion had worn off which meant one of two things, she was dead (unlikely) or she had been daggered (very likely).

It had been four years since you remembered Kol and ten years that you had been running. You were tired, tired of running, tired of having to look over your shoulder every five seconds, tired of not having your beloved around.

Klaus was hunting you and you had done a damn good job at keeping him off of your trail, always being careful when finding a snack and making sure you were never in one place for too long.

So you decided to do the opposite, you had been in London for two weeks now, ripping through crowds of people with no remorse. You wanted Klaus to find you, you wanted him to kill you.

You’re currently in a bar full of people, well, dead people. You slaughtered everyone and now had your teeth buried in some man’s neck.

“Perhaps you’re more like Stefan than I thought.” Klaus’ voice fills the bar.

Reluctantly, you pull yourself off of the now dead, drained man. You look at Klaus with blood coating your face and staining your dress.

After staring at each other for a moment, you stand to your full height, Klaus gives you a once over before raising a brow.

“You’ve gotten sloppy, left a trail of bodies a mile long leading me right to you.”

You simply stare at him and he smirks, “You wanted to be found.”

“I can’t do this anymore… not without him. I‘m tired, Nik. Please, just end it.”

Niklaus clicks his tongue, “End it?” He takes a step towards you.

“Kill me.”

Klaus laughs, “You think I want to kill you?”

Your brows furrow and you take a step back from the hybrid, Klaus snaps his fingers and two men enter the room carrying a coffin.

You take another step back, eyes widening and Klaus grins, “You can try to run but you won’t get far…”

“No… you… you can’t dagger me…”

“You’re right, daggers are such trivial things to make… you would know after all. But a lockbox that only I can open, now that’s much simpler.”

You decide to risk it, attempting to speed away but he catches you in a second, holding you up in the air by your throat.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be back with him soon enough… consider this me officially welcoming you into the family.”

Present Day

Chicago

“What was the point of letting her out just to lock her back up? To be cruel?”

Klaus shrugs, “I was bored and decided to make her a deal in 1984.”

“1984? You kept her in there for…”

“Sixty years, Stefan. She betrayed me and those were the consequences. When I woke her up we made an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?”

“She’d find me Katherine and bring her to me. She couldn’t ever find Katherine but she found me something even better…”

“Elena…”

“Yes, the doppelgänger.”

“So she knew the truth about your curse? That you’re a hybrid?”

“She was my family once, lived with us for nearly half a century. She knows a lot more than she led you all to believe. But don’t get any ideas, she’d never tell you anything that could hurt us… she wouldn’t risk Kol or Rebekah getting caught in the crossfire… or Elijah, though I suppose she’d be alright losing me considering she attempted to do so herself.”

“Moving on!” Klaus chirps, moving back to Rebekah, “It’s time for my little sister to wake up…”

“And I knew her?” Stefan asks, looking into the now open coffin, “I don’t recognize her.”

“Well don’t tell her that,” Klaus muses, “Rebekah’s temper is worse than mine.”

He pulls the dagger out, waiting for a moment before sighing, “Any Day now, Rebekah… she’s being dramatic.”

Present Day

Mystic Falls

It had been months since Klaus had locked you away. You were a bit surprised when he came to free you, your bones creaked, skin practically gray… still, you weren’t nearly as desiccated as the last time you had been in that coffin.

He fed you blood and brushed your hair for you as if you were a doll then provided you with a white colored dress that went to your knees, it reminded you of the one Elijah had given you when you first arrived in their home.

When Klaus revealed he was hosting a dinner with Elijah for Stefan and Damon you realized what he was doing. You were a bargaining chip.

You sat in the living room, humming to yourself, waiting for them to arrive. You still felt weak from not having blood for so long and the fact you were shaking was proof of that, the little blood that Klaus had provided was not enough.

Soon enough, your brothers arrived and were let inside by Elijah, “Niklaus, our guests have arrived…”

“Damon… Stefan…” Klaus greets, standing by the head of the dining room table, “Elijah tells me you seek an audience… very bold. Let’s discuss the terms of our agreement like civilized men, shall we?” he gestures to the large table that was set for five.

“It’s better to indulge him,” Elijah states, moving past your brothers.

“I didn’t come here to eat Klaus,” Stefan narrows his eyes, taking a step down the stairs, “I didn’t want to come here at all… but… I was told I had to, because you’d hear us out.”

Klaus hums, “Well we can sit and eat… or I can reach down your throats and pull out your insides…” he takes his seat at the head of the table, “choice is yours…”

Your brothers decide it would be best to sit and eat. Once the four brothers had sat down, Klaus sat forward in his chair, dramatically placing his hands in front of him, “I almost forgot! Sweetheart!” he calls out, “You can come out now!”

That was your que to enter, walking through the doorway and making a beeline for the table, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. Elijah stands when he sees you, pulling out your chair for you and when you sit he pushes you in.

“Y/N…” Damon says quietly, it isn’t until then that you realize he hasn’t seen you since the night of the ritual.

“Damon…” you mumble in a voice so quiet that anyone without supernatural hearing wouldn’t be able to hear you.

“How are you—“ he begins but is quickly cut off by Stefan.

“She’s practically part of their freaky family, Damon, and Klaus won’t kill his family… he’ll just torture them endlessly.”

“That’s not very nice Stefan,” Klaus clicks his tongue.

You grab the glass of wine, downing it as quickly as possible. Hoping that it will not only curb your blood cravings but also make this dinner party a little more bearable. When you finish your glass, you reach for Elijah’s.

He raises a brow, shooting you an unimpressed look, “By all means, help yourself.”

You take a sip of the wine, ignoring Elijah, “Can we please get on with this dinner… I’m starved.”

“Well at least one of you is hungry… Stefan seems to have lost his appetite,” Klaus notes, nodding his head in Stefan’s direction.

Damon glances at his brother, gesturing with his fork, “Eat. I thought we agreed we’d leave the grumpy Stefan at home.”

Reluctantly, Stefan picks up his fork making Klaus smile, “That’s the spirit. Isn’t it nice? Five of us dining together? Such a treat. Is that what you had in mind when you pulled the dagger from my brother?”

Damon smiles sarcastically, “Well, I know how he felt about you, so I figured the more the merrier,” he winks playfully at Elijah.

“Well, Elijah and I have had our share of quarrels over the centuries… but we always make it through,” Klaus takes a bite of his steak.

“Kind of like you and Rebekah, right? Where is she, by the way? Last I checked, she was still daggered because you were afraid to face her,” Stefan quips, smirking over the rim of his bourbon glass.

Damon shoots a warning look at Stefan but you can’t be bothered by their conversation, you’re too focused on your bloody steak in front of you. Savoring the small amount of blood you’d get from its juices.

“If you’re referring to the fact Rebekah knows I killed our mother, I’ve already come clean to Elijah,” Klaus smiles at Elijah who has remained silent, resting his head on top of his fist.

“Hey Stef,” Damon cuts in, grabbing everyone’s attention, “remember when you killed dad? Might want to dial down on the judgement until dessert.”

You had been fighting the urge to lick the dish clean, hoping for just another drop of that delicious, bloody flavor. But Damon’s words distract you, making you look up from the plate.

“You killed dad?” you ask, looking directly at Stefan, he doesn’t verbally answer, only narrowing his eyes at you making you hum, “I always thought it was Katherine…” you fidget with your fork, pushing it across the plate. 

“You want another plate, love?” Klaus asks, his tone was sickeningly sweet, he snaps his fingers and a compelled blonde girl comes running to get your plate.

She leans over you, hair falling past her neck and you could feel the veins beneath your eyes begin to ripple. The girl's eyes widened, Klaus may have compelled her to do his bidding but he never compelled away her fear.

“Y/N,” Klaus says your name in a sing-songy tone, a warning.

Your lips part at the sound of her heart pumping, the smell of the blood in her veins, and your fangs begin to descend.

“Y/N. No,” Klaus tries again, setting his fork down.

But it was too late, you were out of your chair in a split second. You wrapped your hand around the girl’s neck, slamming her into the nearby wall hard enough to crack it, your other hand holding one of her wrists. You nearly moan at the taste of fresh blood, like an animal you can’t get enough.

Removing your hand from her neck, you flatten your palm and push the tip of her chin up until it’s out of your way— effectively breaking her neck. You continue to drink, not caring as the blood stains your mouth and neck, dripping to your dress.

Klaus sighs, “One nice dinner, that’s all I ask, is that too much to ask for?”

He rises from his chair and speeds to stand behind you, “That’s enough.”

You don’t listen and Klaus decides there is only one solution to the problem he caused, snapping your neck. Your head is practically on backwards and he allows your body to fall to the ground next to the blonde, dead girl.

Damon stands up, his chair screeching but Stefan grabs his arm, dragging him back down, and Klaus clears his throat, walking back to the table as if he hadn’t just broke your neck.

Elijah sighs, excusing himself from the table, he picks up your body with ease and brings you back to the table, setting you in your seat. He twists your head so your head is facing the proper way, hoping that it’ll allow you to heal and wake sooner. The dinner would proceed as normal, other than Damon looking at your body every few seconds, it was as if nothing had happened.

When you woke, you were alone at the table and you could hear voices coming from the living room.

“Elijah… why haven’t you left?” Klaus sounds confused.

You stand up, finding your bearings.

You can hear the smugness in Elijah’s tone when he speaks, “You’ve lectured Y/N on her manners all night… but where are yours, brother? We forgot dessert.”

You take slow steps towards the living room.

“What have you done?” Klaus’ voice is panicked, he sounds betrayed.

“What have you done?” Elijah retorts, “You see, I’ve learned not to trust your vulgar promises, Klaus. We’re doing this on my terms now.”

You’ve nearly made it to the living room door way when you stop in your tracks after hearing Klaus utter a single word.

“Kol…”

“Long time brother.”

His voice, Kol’s voice. Your Kol, he was here, he was awake.

You rush to the doorway, freezing when you finally see him. Kol, he looked the same as he did on that fateful night in 1914, still wearing the same outfit. He still looked as beautiful as you remembered him to be, tears began to prick the corner of your eyes but not tears of sadness or fear, they were tears of joy.

You could see Stefan still by the fireplace where he had been burned, you could see Damon standing off to the side of Elijah, but it didn’t matter, you didn’t care about your brothers in that moment. It was as if everything around you faded away and it was just you and Kol.

“Kol…” you whisper, softly.

His gaze snaps up to find you, his eyes softening when he sees you.

“Y/N…”

Without giving it a second thought, Kol takes one of the hands restraining Klaus and uses it to snap the hybrids neck. He speeds towards you, something Damon takes note of but when he moves to get to you, to try and protect you from what he thinks is a threat; Elijah places his hand onto Damon’s chest, stopping him from moving.

You slowly bring your hands up to hold his face and he covers your hands with his, ”You’re real…” you breath out, you still couldn’t believe he was in front of you after all this time.

He smiles, chuckling a bit, “I’m real… and I’m not leaving you ever again.”

You smile, causing more tears to flow and you throw yourself into his arms, nuzzling your face into his neck, squeezing your eyes shut and welcoming the darkness that came with it because for the first time, in a century, you weren’t alone in the dark. You were with Kol, your Kol.

His arms wrap tightly around your waist, inhaling your scent that he remembers so fondly, “I missed you, my darling.”

It must have been those words that finally helped Damon connect the dots, that this was the boy, the one that changed your opinion on vampires, the one who turned you into a vampire. This was the boy you lost a century ago, the boy you’d do anything and everything to get back. Including betraying your own family.

“You’re free to go. This is family business.”

Elijah’s words made Damon realize something, you weren’t his family anymore, you hadn’t been for a long time. Maybe you never officially got married because you ran out of time but you were no longer Y/N Salvatore, you were Y/N Mikaelson. He can pinpoint the exact moment you stopped being his family and it was long before the Mikaelsons, it was when he and Stefan chose Katherine Pierce over you. That fateful night where he told you that you weren’t his family anymore.

The truth hurts and the truth was that there was no fixing your relationship with either of your brothers. The next few months would make that abundantly clear. Like when you snapped Damon’s neck after he snapped Kol’s. Or when you stood by while Kol beat Damon with an aluminum bat. And of course you stood by Rebekah when she had compelled and trapped everyone in the school. You even helped Kol slaughter all of the newly turned vampires meant for Jeremy… and you let Kol torture Damon.

So maybe you really weren’t their family anymore, maybe that’s why they wouldn’t feel as guilty about what was going to happen when Jeremy would kill Kol.

At least you wouldn’t be alone when the darkness came, you would die in the arms of your love in the middle of the Gilbert family kitchen. It didn’t matter to you that his body was still crackingly, still burning, you‘d endure the feeling of your flesh melting to his if it meant you got to hold him one last time. There would be no coming back for either of you, you knew this and accepted it. You closed your eyes and faded away into the darkness, welcoming it.

You only hoped that when you’d wake on the other side, you’d still be in Kol’s arms.

The Darkness.

The End.