Fan Fiction 18+

The wedding feast was suffocating. The air thick with roses, gold, and polite falsities. You sat beside Daemon Targaryen—your new husband—while the King raised a goblet and smiled through his teeth. Everyone knew what this was, another political match meant to tame Daemon’s reputation and bind your allied family tighter to the Crown.

Daemon hadn’t looked at you once. Not when you exchanged vows. Not when Viserys gave a speech about you two. Not even when you boldly reached for his cup, having already drained your own.

When he finally did, it was with that same infuriating sneer you were already learning to hate.

“So this is my reward for everything I’ve done,” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough for only you to hear. “A fragile Tyrell rose.”

You smiled without warmth, your tone as sharp as Darksister that was resting at Daemon’s hip. “And I’m to believe I should be grateful to be shackled to a dragon of my own?”

His eyes flicked toward you and narrowed, his tone as cold as yours despite the faint trace of amusement threading through his disdain. “I’m not your dragon, wife,” he drawled, voice soft but edged with warning for you not to get your expectations up. Not that you had any. You knew exactly where you stood with your new husband—unwanted. “You may find you’ve married something you cannot handle.”

You hummed, entirely unbothered. “Only time will tell,” you said evenly, meeting his violet gaze without flinching. “Which one of us can’t handle the other.”

Daemon made no effort to hide his dislike in the weeks that followed. He avoided dinners, ignored the courtiers who dared offer their congratulations, and left your marriage bed untouched and cold. He refused even to consummate the union—much to your quiet relief.

You, in turn, perfected the art of pretending not to care.

You did not rise to his baiting remarks or sharp-edged insults. You ignored the whispers that slithered through the halls, the rumours that spread like wildfire about the cold marriage between the Rogue Prince and his southern bride. 

Instead, you smiled sweetly, your wit sharp enough to charm but never offend the members of court around you. Where Daemon made enemies, you made allies. You had learned quickly how to survive the venom of court: with polite smiles, measured words, and alliances that grew quietly in the shadows. People underestimated you because you were young, southern, and soft-spoken. That suited you perfectly.

Daemon, however, did not take kindly to being ignored despite his own actions—especially by his wife.

He found you one afternoon in the gardens, sunlight filtering through the lemon trees, deep in conversation with a few of the court’s lords. His sharp stare cut across the courtyard like a blade, but you met it with nothing more than a polite nod before returning to your discussion, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Only that dismissal didn’t suit him and decided to interrupt and remind that fat lord just who you belonged too.

“Lord Redwyne,” he drawled as he approached, hands clasped loosely behind his back, tone deceptively casual. “I wasn’t aware my wife required your company quite so often.”

The poor lord paled instantly, words tumbling from his lips as he stammered a hurried apology before bowing and making a hasty retreat. You waited until the echo of his boots faded before finally turning to Daemon.

“Was that truly necessary?” you asked, annoyance lacing your voice as you regarded your husband with open disdain.

Daemon’s mouth curved into a smirk, his violet eyes glinting with something between mockery and challenge. “I find men at court need reminding of their boundaries.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear. “And yet here you are,” you said evenly, “forgetting yours.”

You turned to leave, skirts whispering against the stone, but his hand shot out—fingers curling tightly around your wrist. His grip was firm and possessive, eyes dark with anger at your audacity.

“I am your husband,” he hissed, his grip tightening around your wrist. “There are no boundaries placed upon me. I could choose to take you here and now, and no one would dare stop me. Do well to remember who exactly you belong to.”

You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing, lips curling into a sharp, cold sneer. “And you’d do well to remember,” you said, voice low and venomous as you wrenched your wrist free of his hold, “that dragons aren’t the only danger in this world. Poison can be equally as effective as fire.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. The echo of your steps trailed behind you as you stormed down the hall, leaving Daemon standing there,  the tension in his jaw slowly easing before a faint grin tugged at his mouth.

You were still his unwanted wife, but the longer he watched, the more Daemon realized your indifference fascinated him. There was something intoxicating about the way you carried yourself. He had thought you soft, too weak to stand by his side as his wife, yet beneath that deceptively innocent exterior laid an unyielding spine and a quiet, hidden fire he found himself wanting to provoke—to see how brightly it might burn.

You had adapted to court life far faster than he’d anticipated, and the fact that you offered him nothing—no submission, no craving for his approval—only deepened his fascination. He had expected you to run back to Highgarden, to crumble beneath the weight of court politics, or perhaps to come crawling to him for protection once the vipers began to circle. Instead, you had stood your ground. You may not have carried the blood of the dragon, but your thorns proved sharp enough to rival one’s bite.

And as the days passed, he watched you closer, beginning to notice a shift in court—the way certain lords now looked at you with measured respect, the way your words began to carry more weight when you spoke. You were earning favour, allies, influence—without his name, without his help.

Daemon would never say it aloud, but the truth lingered all the same: the woman he had dismissed was quickly becoming the only person in the Red Keep he could not ignore.

It was deep into the night when he found you.

He hadn’t meant to—restless and half-drunk, he’d been wandering the castle’s corridors in search of quiet when a sound stopped him. A scuffle. A muffled cry.

His hand went to the hilt of his sword before his mind even caught up with his body. He turned the corner—steel half-drawn—and what he saw turned his blood to fire.

A knight, one of the Reach’s lesser sons, had you pinned against the cold stone wall. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other tearing at the thin fabric of your nightgown. You shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble, but he caught you again, slamming your shoulder into the wall with a brutal thud. You fought like a cornered animal—kicking, clawing, the sound of your muffled scream cutting through the stillness of the Keep.

Daemon didn’t think. He moved.

In two long strides, he was on the knight, seizing him by the collar and hurling him against the wall so hard the man’s head cracked against the stone. The clang of metal filled the hall as the knight’s sword hit the floor, followed by a strangled gasp of pain.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Daemon snarled, every word vibrating with barely contained fury.

The knight barely had time to register who stood before him before Daemon’s fist collided with his face, the impact sending him sprawling across the stone floor. The sickening crack of bone echoed down the corridor, followed by a sharp cry of pain.

“Please—” the knight gasped, blood spilling from his mouth as he tried to crawl away.

Daemon said nothing. His expression was carved from ice, his fury so cold it burned. He drove his boot into the man’s ribs once—hard—then again, each strike landing with the force of restrained rage. But restraint only lasted so long.

“Tell me,” Daemon hissed, his voice low and venomous, “why I should stop—when you saw fit to ignore my lady wife as she begged you to let her go?”

He seized the knight by the collar, yanking him upright with a violent jerk. The man’s head lolled, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth as he blubbered incoherently—pleas for mercy, apologies, excuses.

Daemon’s lip curled. “Pathetic.”

The words were little more than a growl before his fist crashed into the man’s face again. The wet, sickening sound of impact echoed down the corridor, followed by another and another, until the knight’s desperate cries dissolved into gurgled whimpers. Bone crunched beneath Daemon’s knuckles; blood splattered his sleeve.

The knight’s feeble attempts to shield himself only stoked Daemon’s fury further. He struck until the man finally collapsed—crumpled and half-conscious, his face a ruined mess of blood, swelling, and shattered bone.

Daemon’s breathing came harsh and ragged. He straightened slowly, wiping a streak of the man’s blood from his knuckles with a calm that contrasted his earlier fury. He should have called for the guards—those useless bastards who had clearly been asleep at their posts—but he had no intention of delegating this.

No, this was personal.

He would make a spectacle of this wretch. He would ensure that every knight, lord, and servant in the Red Keep knew what became of any man foolish enough to lay a hand on what belonged to him.

Because as unwanted as you had been, you were still his wife. And compared to his late bronze bitch, you were far more tolerable—infuriatingly so.

He was already moving, intent on dragging the vermin to the dungeons, when a flicker of movement stopped him.

You stepped forward.

Your nightgown was torn, the fabric clutched tightly to your chest to preserve what little modesty you had left. Blood stained your lip, your hair hung loose and tangled, and your eyes—seven hells, your eyes—burned with a cold, unflinching fire.

Before Daemon could speak, your hand darted for the dagger at his belt. His fingers twitched in surprise, but you were faster—ripping it free in one fluid motion. He opened his mouth, perhaps to stop you, perhaps to warn you, but the words never left his tongue.

You dropped to your knees beside the fallen knight.

Daemon watched, frozen, as the trembling in your hand steadied with terrifying purpose. And in that heartbeat, he realized he had gravely underestimated you. The danger you carried wasn’t in your silver tongue or your deceptively soft appearance. It was in the fire he so often enjoyed provoking—the one that now burned, fierce and unrestrained, revealing a brutality that mirrored his own.

The blade came down. Once. Twice. The sound was wet and final.

The scream that followed ripped through the Keep, sharp and ragged, echoing off the stone. Blood spattered across your cheek, soaking into your torn nightgown as the severed hand hit the flagstones with a dull, wet thud.

You didn’t look away, your eyes burning with something perilously close to satisfaction. You only took a single deep breath, your grip on the slick dagger tightening for a brief moment before you finally straightened up.

“He won’t be touching anyone again,” you said, your voice calm—eerily so. Then, as if the act had been no more than pruning a hedge in the garden, you turned the dagger in your hand and offered it back to Daemon, blood still dripping from the blade. “You can do the rest.”

Daemon stared at you—really stared—as if seeing you for the first time. The sharp edge of his anger faltered, giving way to something dangerously close to admiration. Then, slowly, a low laugh rumbled in his chest. It wasn’t mocking or cruel, but low and genuine—born of disbelief more than mirth.

“Seven hells,” he murmured, a crooked grin curving his lips. “Perhaps the gods aren’t so cruel after all. You’re full of surprises, little flower.”

You met his gaze without flinching, the flickering torchlight catching on the blood still splattered across your cheek. 

“You married a Tyrell,” you said evenly, “not a delicate flower.”

His grin widened, sharp and feral. “No,” he said, almost admiringly. “It seems I married a thorn.”

He reached out, his thumb brushing a streak of blood from your cheek. The touch lingered—longer than it should have, longer than either of you cared to admit. His eyes, glinting in the dim torchlight, softened into something dark and dangerous. “Perhaps,” he murmured, voice low, “I should’ve agreed to this marriage sooner.”

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed by the sudden warmth in his tone. “Save your charm for someone who cares, husband,” you said coolly, stepping past him.

The hem of your ruined nightgown dragged across the stones, leaving thin streaks of crimson in your wake. You didn’t look back—not even when another low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Daemon watched you go, the sound of your fading footsteps echoing through the corridor. You didn’t rush away, nor offer him a single glance.

For a man like him, so accustomed to obedience, fear, or devotion, that quiet defiance was nothing short of intoxicating.

By the time you disappeared around the corner, Daemon’s grin had widened, but it was darker and less amused. He glanced down at the severed hand still lying in a growing pool of blood, then toward the path you’d taken.

“Definitely a thorn,” he muttered to himself, before raising his dagger to do as you ordered and finish what you started.

By the time the task was done and the wretch was dragged to the dungeons, you were long gone. When Daemon finally reached your shared martial chambers, he found the door barred from within. There was a faint flicker of candlelight beneath the door, telling him there was a high chance you were still awake.

He stood there for a moment, silent, debating whether to knock. His hand hovered near the handle, but he didn’t move. Instead, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth as he let his hand fall away.

“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured under his breath, turning on his heel.

As he walked down the dim corridor, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone, Daemon found something unfamiliar curling in his chest as he once again thought of you.

For the first time in years, he was smiling at the thought of someone daring to tell him no.

The story spread quickly—faster than wildfire and twice as hot.

By morning, the entire court knew that a knight had been maimed and stripped of his title, Daemon Targaryen had been involved, and the new Lady Targaryen was not to be trifled with. Servants whispered in corridors, eyes wide with both fear and fascination. Lords traded embellished versions over their morning wine, each claiming to know the true tale. And by the time the sun reached its peak, it had reached the ears of the Small Council.

Viserys wasted no time. Before the morning was out, the two of you were summoned before the Iron Throne.

Daemon stood tall at your side, hands clasped behind his back, his smirk unmistakably smug as though the entire affair amused him. You, however, remained composed, despite the split lip and the faint bruise still shadowing your jaw.

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. His patience, always thin when it came to his brother, was clearly stretched to its limits. “Seven hells, Daemon,” he muttered, his tone sharp with exasperation. “Can you not go a single month without bloodshed in the Keep?”

Daemon’s smirk only deepened. “It wasn’t entirely my doing this time,” he drawled lazily, almost playful. “My wife saw to most of it.”

The council chamber fell into utter silence. as a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward you. Their expressions ranged from disbelief to thinly veiled horror, as though they’d just realized the soft-spoken lady from the Reach was no lady at all.

You did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. When you spoke, your tone was calm yet cold. “The knight was drunk and violent, Your Grace,” you said evenly. “My husband stopped him before he could do worse. I merely… ensured it would never happen again.”

Otto Hightower regarded you as though you’d sprouted fangs. “You ensured it?” he repeated, his voice slow and dripping with disdain. “By cutting off his hands? The man was brutalized.”

“Hand,” you corrected smoothly. “I took only one. My husband saw to the other in his own form of retribution.” You tilted your head slightly, meeting Otto’s stare without wavering. “Would you prefer I’d waited for the court to deliberate while he still had the use of it? It is the law, is it not—to lose them for such crimes?”

For a moment, silence hung over the council chamber. Then Daemon broke it as he chuckled under his breath, low and amused.

Otto’s eyes narrowed, his irritation bleeding into every measured word. “The law, Lady Tyrell—”

“Targaryen,” Daemon interrupted, his tone deceptively mild. 

The single word landed like a slap. Otto blinked, surprise flickering across his features before his expression smoothed back into something resembling civility. He inclined his head slightly, though the muscle in his jaw twitched. “The law, Lady Targaryen,” he corrected, voice clipped and cold, “is not yours to carry out. You have overstepped your station. The King’s justice does not come from the hands of women—or from vigilantes acting on impulse.”

Your expression didn’t falter, though the tension in the room thickened. “Then perhaps,” you said evenly, “the King’s justice should arrive before a woman needs to defend herself.”

A few councillors shifted in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances. Otto’s expression darkened, his composure fraying at the edges. “You forget yourself, my lady,” he snapped. “Such defiance is unbecoming of—”

“Careful, Otto,” Daemon drawled, his voice cutting cleanly through the chamber. “You seem to be forgetting yourself.”

The Hand froze mid-sentence. The smirk that usually curved Daemon’s lips had vanished, replaced by something colder and dark. His words simmered with threat. He took a slow step forward, the click of his boots echoing against the stone floor.

“My wife,” Daemon declared, looking to the members of the council, “was attacked in her own hall. And the man who dared touch her breathes still. I’d say we’ve already shown the court more mercy than it deserves.”

Otto’s jaw tightened. “Mercy?” he repeated with a scoff. “You call mutilation mercy?”

Daemon’s gaze turned sharp as a blade. “That, Otto,” he said evenly, “is leniency. Were it my full measure of justice, you’d be discussing a corpse, not a cripple.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing at his temple as though warding off an oncoming headache. “Daemon—”

But Daemon wasn’t finished. He moved closer to Otto, enough that the old man’s hand twitched to grab the edge of the table. 

“You should choose your next words carefully, my lord Hand,” Daemon said softly, the quiet in his tone somehow more dangerous than a shout. “Because the only reason this matter reached your ears at all is that I allowed it to. Had I wished otherwise, that knight would’ve vanished before sunrise — and not a soul would be the wiser.”

Otto’s mouth tightened, his knuckles whitening around the edge of the table. “You threaten the Hand of the King in open council?”

Daemon’s grin returned — thin, wolfish, and entirely without warmth. “No,” he said. “I’m reminding you where your authority ends.” His gaze flicked toward you, lingering for a heartbeat before returning to Otto. “Whether you like it or not, she is a princess. Her word carries the same weight as mine — as any Targaryen’s. You’d do well to remember that the next time you choose to address her so brazenly. Next time,” his voice dropped, dangerous and deliberate, “I may not be so… lenient.”

“Enough,” Viserys interjected sharply, his patience at last fraying. He sank back against the Iron Throne with a weary exhale. “Gods save me, the two of you are well-matched. The knight’s punishment will stand as delivered. Now — let us not waste more of the realm’s time on this nonsense.”

Otto looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at Daemon’s expression silenced him. The prince’s violet eyes burned with quiet warning, and the faintest ghost of a smile played on his lips as he turned back toward you, brushing his fingers briefly against yours

You didn’t return the gesture, though your lips curved just slightly as you met his gaze.

For the first time since your marriage, Daemon’s smirk wasn’t cruel. It was proud. And worse still, it was genuine.

After the council incident, something between you and Daemon shifted. It wasn’t a sudden change, nor one you could easily define. It was noticeable enough that conversations faltered when you entered a room together. Even Otto Hightower, ever the picture of composure, could not disguise the way his mouth tightened and his expression soured the moment his gaze landed on either of you.

You had become something of a spectacle: the Rogue Prince and the Southern Rose, a union that should have burned under the weight of its own volatility—but hadn’t.

Daemon, of course, took delight in every ounce of scandal your union was inspiring.

At council meetings, he no longer sat opposite you but beside you, close enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against your sleeve when he leaned in. He had made it his personal amusement to whisper comments low enough for only you to hear — wicked little asides designed to test your composure.

“I think,” he murmured one morning, as Otto began another of his long, tedious speeches, “if the old vulture glares any harder, his eyes might fall out.”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips, forcing your expression into something neutral. “Try not to provoke him,” you whispered back. “He’s still the Hand.”

Daemon tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous humour. “He’s a hand I’d gladly cut off,” he murmured. “Care to help me, wife? You did quite well the last time.”

You sighed, though the faint curl of your lips betrayed you. In truth, you disliked Otto Hightower just as deeply as Daemon did. The man was a vulture — always circling the throne, always overreaching, always pretending his ambition was piety.

“You enjoy making enemies far too much,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Daemon’s smirk only deepened, that infuriating glint in his eyes suggesting he found your disapproval endlessly entertaining.

He began to appear everywhere.

At dinners, his chair was suddenly beside yours, his presence commanding attention no matter how much you tried to ignore it. In the gardens, you’d feel his gaze long before you turned to find him watching, his expression unreadable. Even during court sessions, he lingered near you, standing just close enough to make it impossible for anyone to forget whose wife you were.

He hovered close enough to unsettle you, close enough that the courtiers began to whisper behind gloved hands. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that Daemon Targaryen had made no secret of his disdain for this marriage, for you. Yet now, wherever you went, he followed — a shadow that refused to fade, a dragon circling what he had once dismissed as unworthy prey.

And in all his watching, Daemon came to a realization.

The lords who had once made their disdain for him plain were now markedly more tolerant—some even deferential. Conversations that used to die the moment he entered no longer did. The same mouths that had once whispered against him now spoke with murmurs of cautious respect.

It hadn’t been his doing. It had been yours.

For all your ice, for all the cruelty he’d shown you, you had never once turned against him. In your own quiet way, you had stood beside him. Those endless interactions he had dismissed as meaningless pleasantries, the soft smiles and chatters he’d mistaken for you wasting your time on simpering lords in what he had thought had been in indulgence, hadn’t been acts of vanity or spite.

You had been securing him power. Turning enemies into allies. Shifting the court’s favour not through fear, but through quiet influence — a kind of power he’d never learned to wield.

And you had done it all without asking for credit, without expecting his gratitude.

It unsettled him—how easily you’d done what he, with all his fire and fury, never could. For perhaps the first time in his life, Daemon Targaryen found himself forced to admit that he had gravely underestimated the woman the gods had chained him to.

“You’ve made quite the name for yourself,” Daemon drawled one evening as he joined you on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The setting sun bled across the sky, painting the water in molten gold and fire, while the wind carried the faint scent of salt and smoke through the air.

“Half the court is terrified of you now,” he continued, his tone lazy, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Are they now?” you mused, lifting your goblet and taking a slow sip of wine. “Perhaps it’s you they fear, husband.”

Daemon snorted, resting one shoulder against the carved stone rail. “Of course they fear me,” he said easily, almost amused. “But you, my lady wife—” his gaze swept over you, lingering in that way that felt like admiration, “— you’ve built a reputation entirely your own. And a powerful one at that.”

You arched a brow, setting your goblet down with a soft clink. “You almost sound impressed.”

A low hum rumbled in his throat, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, crooked smile that had begun to lose some of its cruelty. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted, leaning in as his tongue swept briefly across his lips.

You turned to face him fully, the sea breeze catching a loose strand of your hair and brushing it against your cheek. “Then you should be careful,” you said lightly, though the warning in your voice was unmistakable. “It seems I’ve earned a reputation for maiming men who touch without asking.”

His answering grin was wicked, his eyes glinting with that familiar mix of arrogance and amusement. “Don’t worry, wife,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and far too sure of itself. “When I touch you, it’ll be because you begged me to.”

You didn’t blush at his implication. You simply rolled your eyes, “Need I remind you that you hate me?”

“I’m reconsidering that fact,” he said without hesitation, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Don’t bother,” you replied coolly, your tone sharp enough to cut. “You’re not forgiven.”

“Forgiveness,” he said, leaning just close enough for your breath to catch, “was never what I wanted.”

You didn’t move away. The space between you felt taut, charged, alive. His nearness carried heat — the faint scent of smoke and steel that always clung to him — but you refused to yield an inch.

“Then what is it you do want, my prince?” you asked, your voice measured, daring him to answer truthfully.

“Husband,” he corrected softly, taking another slow step forward. “I’m your husband, and you are my wife.” His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before lifting back to meet your eyes. “And what I want…” He paused, the ghost of a smile curling his mouth. “…is you.”

You studied him for a long moment, the torchlight flickering across the sharp planes of his face — the proud line of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his violet eyes. He wasn’t jesting. There was something different in him now, something that unsettled you far more than his cruelty ever had.

Finally, you exhaled and shook your head, turning away. “Goodnight, Daemon.”

He didn’t try to stop you. He only watched as you passed him, his gaze following the graceful sweep of your figure as the faint scent of roses lingered in the air, as you made your way down the corridor.

“Sleep well, wife,” he called after you, his voice carrying that maddening blend of amusement and promise. “You’ll dream of me before long.”

You didn’t look back, though your lips curved faintly as you rounded the corner. “Not likely,” you murmured under your breath — but even as you said it, you knew it for a lie.

If the gods had cursed you with Daemon Targaryen, they had done so knowingly. For all his temper, his wickedness, and his arrogance, the man was beautiful. And worse still — he knew it.

Despite the growing ease between you and Daemon, there were still some in the court who looked upon the change with thinly veiled displeasure. Power unsettled men like Otto Hightower — especially when it didn’t belong to them.

Daemon had been gone for days, called to Dragonstone on some errand for Viserys, and though you would never admit it aloud, the castle felt quieter in his absence. You told yourself it was a welcome reprieve — fewer stares, fewer annoying grins, fewer games — but there were moments when you caught yourself missing the sound of his voice, the heat of his presence. You buried the thought quickly.

When the summons came, you were told it was a matter of court business — routine, nothing more. But the moment you stepped into the council chamber, you knew better.

Viserys sat slumped at the head of the table, his crown slightly askew, weariness written in every line of his face. Beside him stood Otto Hightower, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression smooth as polished marble. Around them sat a small cluster of lords and septons — enough to make the meeting official.

“My lady,” Otto said as you approached, inclining his head with mock civility. “We thank you for attending on such short notice. Please, be seated.”

You didn’t move. “What is this?”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering between you and his Hand. “There have been… concerns raised,” he began, his tone hesitant. “You understand how closely the court watches the stability of the royal line. It has been several months since your wedding to my brother and…” His words trailed off as he rubbed at his temple. “Questions have been asked.”

You stared at him, suspicion already twisting in your gut. “Questions,” you repeated slowly. “About what?”

“About heirs,” Otto said smoothly, seizing the opening. “Or rather—” he paused, letting the silence linger for a moment, “—the lack thereof.”

For a heartbeat, you could only stare at him, the meaning of his words sinking in like ice water down your spine. Then disbelief hardened into fury.

“You summon me before the council,” you began coldly, taking a step closer to the table, “to discuss my womb?”

Otto smiled faintly, the perfect picture of reason. “Not to discuss, my lady — merely to clarify,” he said smoothly. “You see, the matter has caused… some unrest. There are whispers that perhaps the marriage has not been—” he paused delicately, “—fruitful.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the table, nails biting into the polished wood. “Fruitful,” you repeated, the word falling from your tongue like venom. “Tell me, Lord Hand — are you in the habit of inquiring into the private matters of every marriage in the realm, or only those that inconvenience you?”

Otto’s expression didn’t flicker. His tone remained calm, reasonable — the voice of a man who hid malice behind measured words. “I inquire only when the stability of the realm may be affected,” he replied smoothly. “The King’s council must consider every possibility. You and Prince Daemon have been wed for—” he glanced down at a parchment, the motion purely performative, “—five months. No announcement has been made. No signs of an heir. Naturally, the court wonders if perhaps the gods have seen fit to close the womb of the Princess.”

The air in the chamber seemed to still at the thinly veiled implication.

Your jaw tightened, but your voice, when it came, was soft and cutting. “Careful, my lord. The gods are fickle creatures. They might decide to close your mouth next.”

A few of the lords shifted, uncertain whether to look at you or the Hand.  Otto, of course, merely smiled — that thin, patronizing curve of his lips that made you want to drive a goblet straight through his throat. “I assure you, Princess,” he said mildly, “no offence was meant. But when the succession of the realm may hang in the balance, His Grace is right to seek certainty.”

You stared at him, the realization sliding into place like a dagger between ribs. This wasn’t about heirs. It wasn’t about the stability of the realm. Otto Hightower, ever the vulture, had scented blood — your rising influence, your ability to temper Daemon’s fury—and meant to get rid of you down before you became unassailable.

Turning toward the King, you met Viserys’s weary gaze, disbelief and anger threading through your voice. “Surely, you don’t mean to entertain this insult.”

Viserys shifted again, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not an insult, child,” he said, his voice carrying that weary gentleness he used when trying to placate. “Merely… a concern. You know how these things spread. If the marriage is troubled, it would be better to resolve it quietly before others make assumptions.”

Resolve it quietly. The words settled like ice in your chest. He meant annulment.

Otto’s eyes gleamed — the satisfaction barely hidden behind his veneer of civility. “The Faith could be called to confirm the matter, of course,” he added smoothly, his tone almost sympathetic. “A physician or septa might—”

The doors slammed open.

The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder.

Daemon strode in. His cloak billowed behind him, dust from the road still clinging to his boots, and though his expression was deceptively calm, the fire in his eyes was unmistakable. Every man in the room went still. Even Otto Hightower’s composure faltered.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Daemon drawled lazily. “I’d hate to interrupt such an important meeting.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Viserys exhaled heavily, already bracing himself. “Daemon…” he began, but it was useless.

The prince was already in motion, his steps measured — a predator circling prey. His gaze swept over the gathered lords, past the nervous septons, before locking on Otto like a dragon sizing up a meal.

“I heard,” Daemon said, his voice low but carrying easily through the room, “that my wife was summoned before the council.” He tilted his head slightly, his mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Imagine my curiosity when I discovered the topic of discussion was of our martial bed.”

He reached your side in three long strides, his arm winding around your waist and pulling you close without hesitation. The sudden gesture was possessive, protective and it startled you more than you cared to admit. You had expected to stand alone in your defence; part of you had even braced for Daemon to use this as an opportunity to accept an annulment and cast you aside.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood beside you, unyielding, his hand firm against your hip as though daring anyone in the chamber to try and take you from him. Whatever else he was to you—your unwanted husband, your tormentor, your frustration—right now, he was your shield, and the weight of his presence filled the room like a drawn sword.

“So tell me, my lords,” Daemon drawled, his tone deceptively casual, “which of you volunteered to climb into my bed in my stead?”

An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the room, the councillors shifting uncomfortably at the implication. No one dared to meet his eye.

Otto’s composure faltered only for a breath before he recovered. “Your Grace, no one meant offence,” he said quickly, though his voice carried an edge. “Concerns were raised for the good of the realm—”

“Concerns,” Daemon echoed, turning his head toward the Hand with slow, deliberate menace. “About what, exactly? My performance? My wife’s virtue?” His smile thinned, the faintest hint of a snarl curling beneath the words. “Or is this your latest attempt to worm your way deeper into my brother’s ear?”

Otto straightened, his restraint beginning to fray. “I advise the King as duty requires,” he replied tightly. “The realm must have heirs.”

Daemon’s expression sharpened, all trace of humour gone. “And you presume to dictate when they come?” His tone dropped lower. “Or from whose womb?”

“Of course not,” Otto began smoothly, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his intent. “However, if your wife cannot fulfill her duties, it would be prudent to consider other options. My daughter, Alicent—”

“Alicent Hightower?” Daemon scoffed, his laughter low and mocking. “The only thing she could breed is boredom.”

The insult hit its mark. A few of the councillors coughed into their hands, poorly hiding their amusement. Otto’s jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of fury breaking through his polished restraint.

“I have no interest in your spawn,” Daemon continued sharply, each word laced with venom. He leaned forward, his head angling just over your shoulder, his voice dropping to a low growl that slithered through the chamber like smoke. “And the next time you dare to question my wife’s worth—or her body—you’ll be counting your teeth instead of heirs.”

You fought the urge to smirk, but gave in to the temptation of leaning into him, placing your hand to rest over his. It was a simple gesture, but it showed your solidarity. Daemon Targaryen had once claimed he was not your dragon, yet here he stood, defending you as fiercely as one. And though he infuriated you more than any man alive, you had no intention of letting him go either.

“This is unseemly,” Otto hissed, his composure splintering. “The Prince misinterprets the council’s intent.”

Viserys rose from his seat, attempting calm though his tone frayed with irritation. “Daemon, enough,” he said, voice heavy with exasperation. “The matter was only raised to ensure stability—”

“Then let me assure you, brother,” Daemon said, his tone dropping to something low and dangerous, “my marriage is quite stable. And as for heirs—”

He turned toward you, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile that made heat creep up your neck. “They will be provided when I decide the time is right. In the meantime, how my wife and I fuck in our marital bed should not be of concern to anyone in this hall.”

Ignoring the gasps rippled that through the chamber. He turned on his heel, using the hand on your waist to guide you to follow him out of the chamber. The doors slammed behind you, the echo reverberating through the marble corridor, leaving a stunned silence in your wake.

Only when the noise of the council faded did you finally exhale, tension bleeding from your shoulders. “You didn’t need to do that,” you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

Daemon’s tone was calm as he took you in. “If you think I’d let them humiliate you while I breathe, wife,” he said softly, “then you truly don’t know me yet.”

You turned to look at him—and for the first time since your marriage, there was no mockery in his eyes. No smirk. No cruel amusement.

“Why?” you asked, your voice low. “You made it quite clear you never wanted this marriage. That was your chance to be rid of me.”

Daemon stopped walking. The torchlight from the corridor flickered across his face, throwing sharp shadows over the hard lines of his jaw. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He only studied you, eyes dark and searching, as though weighing truths he’d rather keep buried.

Finally, he said quietly, “I didn’t want a marriage forced on me.” His voice had lost its usual bite—no swagger, no arrogance—just the faint rasp of honesty. “But I’ll be damned before I let Otto Hightower, or anyone else, decide what’s mine to keep or discard.”

You stared at him, uncertain whether to scoff or believe him. “So this is about pride, then?” you asked, your tone measured. “Possession?”

He gave a faint, humourless huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching but never quite forming a smile. “At first,” he admitted. “Perhaps. But pride doesn’t make a man ride through the night when he hears his wife’s being paraded before the council and being accused that she is some barren broodmare.”

Your breath caught — just a fraction. You searched his face, expecting him to be mocking you, but what you found instead was something dangerously close to sincerity.

He stepped closer, close enough that the heat of him seeped through the thin layers of your gown. 

“You’ve done what no one else at court has managed,” he said, voice low, roughened by truth. “You’ve made them listen. You’ve made them respect me—support me—without ever drawing a single blade. You stood before them with nothing but your tongue and your will, and you bent the court to heel. You’re a threat to Otto, and that’s why he went after you today.”

Your pulse quickened, steady composure slipping beneath the weight of his words. “And that’s why you defended me?”

“No,” he said simply. “I defended you because I wanted to.”

The air between you grew heavier. You could feel it — the shift that had been building for weeks now was impossible to ignore.

You tried to look away, but he reached out—gloved fingers brushing beneath your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his. “You are my wife, from now until my death, you are mine to protect.”

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe. The fierce promise in his eyes rooted you in place, stealing the air from your lungs. You searched his face for the lie—for that familiar smirk that always followed his provocations—but it never came. Daemon Targaryen—your infuriating, impossible husband—was entirely, terrifyingly sincere.

“So let them whisper about heirs all they like,” he murmured. “We’ll give them something worth whispering about soon enough.”

You swallowed hard, forcing composure back into your voice. “You think one grand gesture and a few flowery words erase months of your cruelty?”

His thumb grazed the line of your jaw. “No,” he said softly. “But it’s a start.”

You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I hope this doesn’t mean you expect me to let you into my bed.”

A faint smirk ghosted across his lips, a glimmer of the man you knew too well. “I’ve told you, wife,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “When I touch you, it will be because you begged me to—not because some fat lords on a council demand it.”

“I may not have wanted this marriage,” Daemon said. “But the thought of losing you… that, I find I want even less.” His gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “They thought forcing this marriage would tame me,” he murmured, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in his eyes. “But all they’ve done is tie me to the one person as untameable as myself. You and I—we were never meant to be gentle. A dragon needs fire to burn…” His thumb brushed once more against your skin, the gesture feeling less like flirtation and more like a vow. “And I’ve found mine.”

For once, you didn’t have a sharp retort. The words lingered between you, fragile and unguarded, like something that might shatter if either of you dared to break it. Your gaze danced between his, taking in the depth of his lilac eyes, and slowly—almost against your better judgment—you stepped forward, your hand resting lightly against his chest.

He stilled beneath your touch, watching you closely as you leaned up, your lips brushing his softly. Daemon’s breath hitched, and then he returned the kiss instantly—hungry, wanting, alive. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it burned like wildfire. You were the one to pull away first.

“Thank you, Daemon,” you murmured, your voice softer now, though not without its steel. “For coming to my defence—and for your honesty. Perhaps… there’s hope for us yet.”

He released your wrist, stepping back just enough to let you go. His gaze lingered on your face, unreadable. “Rest, wife,” he murmured, his tone softer than you had ever heard it. “The realm can damn itself for all I care. They’ll not touch you again.”

You hesitated only a moment before offering the faintest of smiles. “Goodnight, husband.”

Daemon’s lips curved, the ghost of a grin playing there. “Goodnight, wife.”

And as you walked away, your steps echoing down the quiet corridor, neither of you could quite ignore the truth that had finally taken root—whatever bound you together was no longer duty, nor politics, nor the will of others.

It was something far more dangerous.

it wasn’t your action of buying new clothes with your own money alone that had you currently trapped between robby and jack, jack in front as he thrusted hard into your mouth, and robby behind as he fucked into your pussy, all while they went for your fourth orgasm and counting. it was your bratty remarks when they’d both been equally annoyed at the news that’d done you in.

“i can pay for stuff, too,” “you’re both so annoying,” and the fucking cherry on top, the last before robby had all but dragged you to the bedroom— “i don’t need you doting on me all the time!”

so as you whined and pleaded for the two men with questionably high stamina for their age to give you a break, you were met with things like “you asked for this,” and “you can take it.”

“please, please, i said m’sorry,” you whined after pulling off jack’s cock, spit connecting your lips to his length. neither of them had cum just to prove a point, but had brought you over the edge multiple times to overstimulate you all over again. “i won’t talk like that again, i promise!”

“don’t know, sweetheart. finding it hard to believe,” jack hummed, running his thumb over your now swollen lips. “can’t be a brat and not expect any consequences.”

“please? i—agh!” you tried to continue your plea, though it proved difficult with robby ruthlessly pounding into your walls. ever the meaner of the two, he’d hardly said a word since this all began—only muttered little insults of how slutted out you were on his cock, how dumb he wanted you by the end of this.

“stop talking,” robby grunted from behind you, a harsh slap landing on your already raw cheek. the amount of spanks he’d delivered since he started to fuck you was criminal, and you knew you wouldn’t be walking straight after this.

“jesus, brother. you’re just plain cruel,” jack chuckled condescendingly, and yet like he was the angel in the scenario, he pulled you back onto his cock, letting you gag around it with nonchalance.

“deserves it, doesn’t she? talking to us like that,” robby tutted. “s’only right she’s punished in return.”

“looks prettier when she’s not talking, anyway. ain’t that right, sweetheart?” jack cooed with a small tap to your cheek. all you could do was whimper around his dick while he shoved it down your throat, tears stinging your eyes.

robby let out a breathy chuckle, smacking your ass again. “fuuuck, you’re clenching so hard, baby. this what gets you off, huh? being treated like a fucking whore?”

that little insult only put you embarrassingly closer to the edge, because as overstimulated as you were, you only need mutter your safe word and the two of them would stop. yet you hadn’t, had no obvious interest in doing so, and the worst part? they both knew it, too.

“yeah, that’s our girl. a slut through and through,” jack chided. he had his fist in your hair while the other laid little smacks against your cheek. “keep your eyes right here, babydoll.”

you did exactly as told, wanting to please despite being punished. you kept your eyes fixed on jack while he used your throat for his own pleasure, not letting up until you were drooling around his cock. 

“there you go, pretty girl. mhm, thaaat’s right, s’all you're good for, isn’t it?” jack hummed. robby let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle, likely nodding his agreement from behind you.

“she can brat all she wants,” robby said with another sharp smack to your ass. “all she need’s a little cock and she’s right back in her place.”

you couldn’t hold back anymore.

between robby’s cock driving into your pussy and jack’s filthy words, you were coming for a fifth time around the former’s large cock, the sound muffled by the latter’s. you kept your eyes on jack all the while just as told, and that had his own orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave. he didn’t pull out for even a second as he blew his load; in fact, he only shoved you further down his cock.

“there’s our perfect slut. take every drop, baby. don’t waste a thing,” jack grunted. you had no choice but to oblige, letting his salty cum soak your tongue and fill your throat.

robby slowly withdrew himself from inside you without overstimulating you this time, seemingly over your punishment.

“see, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” jack cooed with your cheek cupped in his palm. “now, how about a proper orgasm this time?”

“not so fast,” robby said. you gasped as he slotted his still hard cock between your cheeks, pushing just the tip past your weeping hole. “you want a nice orgasm, then beg for it.”

“robby,” you whimpered, turning back to face him. “please, please, i already learned my lesson. y- you can be gentle now, right?”

“huh. can i? dunno. . .” robby hummed like he was actually thinking about it. he continued to tease you with just the tip of his cock, reveling in how worked up it was making you. “i’m not convinced you’re really sorry.”

“i’m so sorry!” you squeaked pathetically. of the both of them, you weren’t surprised he was the one dragging your punishment on. “i’ll be good now. swear it.”

“huh,” he said again, sliding all the way inside you then pulling out just as quickly. “thoughts, brother?”

except jack was just as cruel under robby’s influence. “you know, mikey, you might be right.”

you whined in defeat as robby continued to tease you, now sliding his hands over your sore ass.

shit. this was going to be a long night.

you couldn’t even pay attention, you don’t remember how you two got to your bed but you don’t care because the way Smoke is rutting against you is all you can feel and think about.

you do remember him saying “work was too much today” or “i want work off my mind” you aren’t even sure what he really said. you know it was along those lines though and so that’s why you are currently getting rammed into like nobody’s business.

you haven’t seen Smoke get like this in a long time. He barely speaks when he’s like this. only grunting and moving fast as hell, and deeper than you ever felt him.

 He sinks slowly into you, “Cmon baby” he grits as his hands are near your head and your back on the bed. you are sweating and moaning.

“mmmm, Smoke” you moan, caressing his face and kissing him, moaning into his mouth

“need you, baby, need you so bad” he breaks the kiss, kissing your forehead his head dropping he watches himself go in and he freezes. completely still as he is in you, causing you to move your hips.

he holds your hips as his eyes are glued to your lower abdomen, seeing a bulge there, and he takes a deep breath, slowly, his eyes examining as he drags his hand onto your lower abdomen and he presses down a bit causing you to squirm away.

"baby what are you doin’?" you whine, bucking your hips to meet his, but his hands tighten around your hips, stopping you, giving you no release as he watches your face and his eyes lead back to the bulge he takes a shaky breath as if he is in a trance, and he pulls out all the way. you are a whining mess

"Stop being mean and gimme," you pout, and he just smiles at you.  he takes your face in his hand and kisses you

"baby, i need you to see what i see," he says in a gentle but raspy voice "watch me go in" and you lean on your elbows, listening to him and you watch as he pulls out of you, his eyes meet yours once more to make sure you are looking.

he rams into you causing you to moan, eyes still straining to stay open

"you see it, baby?" he asks "you see me?"

his eyes aren't even on you they are on his bulge and your eyes follow his and your eyes widen "is that?" you begin to say and his hips move faster

"all me baby, all me" he says and unbeknownst to you, you are now gripping him like a vice, back now fully on the bed and moaning to your hearts content.

mhhmm cmon baby, know I'm deep baby i know it" he says, he's not talking to you, he is talking to her now. your pussy. his hand presses his bulge again causing him let out a moan, he is fascinated about how he feels through your skin. he rubs his hand along the bulge as you are whining and he ruts faster.

he watches your face scrunch up, knowing your close he grabs your hand that clings to the sheets and places it on your lower belly, placing his hand over yours and pressing with a bit of force so you can feel the bulge, feeling him entering and leaving

"i'm so deep baby aren't i?, even through your cute belly, you still feel me hm?

"don't cum not yet baby, not until i know I'm deep inside, deep enough," he huffs out

he kisses you pulling out, causing you to hiss and reach for him but he stops you, shaking his head “nuh uh baby, turn around fa me baby, wanna see you in the mirror”

you face the mirror on all fours and hold’s himself there for a minute, teasing your entrance, he holds his dick in his hand getting ready to enter you but his other hand isn’t on your neck yet, no, its on your lower abdomen and you see why he wants you in this position, he wanted to feel himself go deep into you.

“face down baby, only for now,” he tells you, his voice having a softness to it, a softness you haven’t heard a minute, and your face is in the pillows.

Face down and ass up, that’s the way he wanted you now

His hands on his dick pushing in as his other hand on his lower abdomen, he feels the bulge immediately, your supple skin just protruding with his dick has him a million times harder and closer then he’s ever been.

His hand stays on the bulge and he groans “baby, lean back to me and kiss me cmon”

You are throwing your pussy back on him and your hand goes to the bulge to rub your hands on his and the bulge

“so big daddy, gonna—fill-- me up so good.” you choke, your eyes water.

“cmon baby I want my kiss, arch that back fa me and kiss me” he demands, pressing harder on your bulge that has your hand on it.

you use your hands and push back, but that’s not what he asked you to do, he continues pressing your hand on the bulge and his other hand slithers to the middle of your back and wraps around to the front of your neck, pulling you back as his hips continue to rut into you.

you shake a little as he pulls you back and turns your head to the side to kiss you. His lips locking into your moaning

“good girl” he groans, still hand wrapped around your neck whispering into your ear leaning kissing your neck. “look in the mirror you can see the bulge baby cmon, imma make you a mommy cmon baby” he groans as he looks at you in the mirror and you two make eye contact, both of your hands on his bulge, feeling him deep inside you.

your breath hitches as your eyes meet his and you feel his bulge you close your eyes, moaning shaking and crying out his name “Ssmokee, fuck daddy!”. He kisses the side of your head, laying your head down on the pillows and facing you back down, his hips never stop and his hand never leaves your lower abdomen. his bulge. his pussy.

“that’s it, baby, there you go take it, take my nut, so pretty cumming for me”

He came a couple of times, but he stays inside you, loving the feeling of the bulge, and kissing your back, letting you come all the way down, and not wanting you to waste a drop of cum.

your thighs are done, he releases you and lays on his back, kissing your lips softly

“you ok baby?, you did so good fa’ me, princess, so so good,” he whispers softly.

Smoke shifts next to you, peppering your face with kisses. He rolls your hips preparing you to staddle him. “mmmphh, fuck baby, I thought we were done,” you hiss as he eases right back into you,

You hiss as the feeling and you begin to move your hips grinding, but he smacks your ass hard, stopping your motions.

He shakes his head, kissing your forehead, “we are, don’t worry I ain't movin’ just wanna feel you, feel how deep I am, lay on me you can sleep,” he reassures you as his hand finds that bulge in your lower stomach again, and he smiles.

He loves this new feeling, and so do you.

a/n & taglist

a/n: soooo idk how to feel about this, i like it, but i still have the original draft, and maybe i'll make something out of the og one, but who knows :/

@thebumblebeesworld @blue4everrsworld @migosis @thatbitchatesblog @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @lilbitt @lizbehave @liliacsdelight @beas-mind @kkbeauty86 @moundbayou @jellywrites1218 @nayys-world @theegyal @daddysmoke @d1gitalb4rbie @viabiabia @lb-xci @tnychellee @vibrantlymellowknight @solunaseira @soleilsfilm @kittyken006 @yourstru1y444 @karma-reader @secretisme4

Nesting had become one of your favorite pastimes. Ever since you’d found out that you were carrying his little boy, the both of you were delighted. His room was already painted. The walls a warm cream with powder blue trim, his name in big bold slate letters above his crib. It had become your favorite place in the house as you impatiently awaited his arrival. At the moment, you sat on the edge of the chair folding up another batch of brand new clothes that had been washed and dried, a handful of which had been previously hung in his closet. You ran your fingers over the soft cotton of each article of clothing, straightening tiny onesies, unintentionally counting little socks as you paired them up and put them in his dresser. A soft sigh escaped your lips as you ran a hand over your belly.

 “Baby?” The sound of his father’s voice caught you off guard but sent baby boy into a sudden burst of energy, unleashing an array of kicks to you. “Oh god,” you groaned as you carefully stood to your feet. “Come get your son, he seems to think my ribs are the best place to be,” you huffed softly as you tottered out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind you as you followed Smoke's loud laugh until you found him in the living room. “I told you he wasn’t gon’ play no game wit’ you, but you ain’t wanna listen. What was it you said to me again?” Your brows furrowed deep, confusion settling on your bare profile as you waited for him to answer his own question because you genuinely had no clue. “Nut in this pussy, papa…” He mocked, but his words sent a shiver down your spine, your legs quivered. Yet, your jaw dropped, as if you were appalled that he would ever suggest you’d say such a thing. It was the honest truth though. Talking each other through your orgasms was exactly what got you here; you never knew when to shut up. You teetered on the balls of your feet before wobbling to him.

He laughed lightly as he watched you, shaking his head in all amusement. “You like my baby and my lil’ circus act all in one.” You swatted at him playfully. Even without looking up at him, you could feel his eyes on you. Drinking in the sight of your curves, the sway of your hips, and swollen breasts as you walked to him in your mumu. He caught your wrist before you could swat at him again and pulled you the rest of the way until your were between his legs then he pulled you down into his lap, a soft huff leaving his pair as he settled down under your weight comfortably. “You know you can’t be sittin’ on me like this, I be wantin’ to touch on you.” He said jokingly, though you knew he was telling you the absolute truth. There wasn’t a day that had passed that you didn’t end up panting his name.

Your brows furrowed deeply. “Who’s stopping you?” Your bottom lip wedged between your teeth. “She’s been waiting on you all day. I almost took care of her myself.” You taunted. Elijah’s hand collided with your ass. “Now you know you woulda been upset ‘cause you needed me to finish you, for you. Stop allat playin’.” He laughed. It was true. You couldn’t seem to cum without him and that was even before pregnancy. It was like your pussy only responded to him, fuck what you thought and how it was supposed to go. “You can have it anyway you want it, as long as you come find me.” You smirked, raising up from his lap and wandering off in another direction of the house. Since moving into the house, there was one place you hadn’t touched so you took your time waddling there and patiently waited until you heard his steps. You turned to face him with a mischievous smile. Outside, bent over the balcony while you overlooked the city and came? Sounded like heaven. The crisp evening air kissed your skin. “You just a horny freaky fuck,” Smoke laughed while he unbuttoned his pants. You grabbed at the bottom of your dress, lifting it up and bunching it at your waist as you leaned over the balcony, legs spread and ass poked out toward him. You glanced over your shoulder and locked eyes with him, seduction laced in your tone and lust in your eyes. “Mhm, and you love it. So come handle it.”

He didn’t play when it came to being back inside you, the shit was a drug for him. Something so sweet, so addicting. “She ready for me?” The question was rhetorical, your pussy watered like a mouth would at the sight of him. You were currently standing in a pool of cream. He sank into you with a low, deep breath. A shiver ran down your spine just as he kissed the back of your neck. His hand found its place right around it, just as it always did and he began fucking you slow. There was nowhere to be other than right here, right now. Your toes curled against the pavement, breathy moans left your lips, your fingers gripping the railing as you laid your head back against his shoulder and he rested the side of his face against your head. “It feels so good to have you back home,” you cooed. Your eyes rolling shut as you inhaled a deep breath and reached one hand back to grip his thigh. “It feels good to be right… back… home…” A deeper stroke for each of the last three words. The last causing a downpour of your honey to come rushing out as you gushed, a muffled whimper spilling past your lips like you needed to be quiet.

“Wave to the neighbors, pretty girl.” Your eyes shot open after a few seconds delay, a smile on his profile as he raised a hand to point in the direction of your neighbors who weren’t too far off watching you get fucked on your balcony, fully immersed and enjoying the scenery. “Wave, don’t be rude.” He dropped one hand and smacked your ass roughly. “Augh, fuck!” You raised your hand, waving it in their direction but also not, cause you didn’t give a fuck who was watching, just as long as he didn’t move, they could see everything they wanted to. “Stay right there, dada. You feel soso good.” He listened, always did. Elijah was the quietly slick at the mouth type, but it was in a such direct way that if you didn’t know him, you didn’t catch the underlying intent. He was that attentive. “Mm..mhm. That’s that spot ain’t it? Stay right ‘chea?” He beckoned, pulling his hips back slowly before puncturing through your walls so that the head of his fat dick kissed it, over and over and over again until you let out a high-pitched squeal. You stood on the tips of your toes, legs spreading more as you opened up further for him to dig in you. “Let that shit out, let them white folks see yo’ pretty ass cum on this dick.” His fingers went to your clit, rubbing it in skilled circles which made you tense up. He knew your body like it was the back of his own hand so you did, your body obeying his command without pause, all while he strummed your clit like the strings of his guitar that often lulled you to sleep.

But he wasn’t done with you yet, not by a long shot. Grabbing the back of your mumu, he pulled out, grumbling as the cool air hit his wood and made it twitch. He guided you to one of the chairs, pushed it up against the concrete wall and directed you to put your hands on it, so that you could use it to stay balanced and not tip over⸻as if he would’ve actually let that happen. “Hold up that dress so I can see this pretty ass pussy I’m diggin’ out.” Beautifully submissive. Shit like this is exactly why you ended up pregnant. You pulled it up over your stomach, and took a deep breath because you knew when he slid in you wouldn’t be able to breathe properly.

Smoke slapped his dick against your slippery folds, making you jump slightly, you shook your round ass from side to side, making it clap while you teased him and patiently awaited his reentry. You could see and feel the eyes of your neighbors on you still, even with the soft hustle and bustle of the night, you swore you could hear their whispers and gasps and it made a devious smile spread across your face. Smoke’s hand pressed against your lower back then trailed up your spine, you arched as much as you could and as he filled you up again, you unintentionally moved forward, the pleasure and pressure of him too much to take all at once. You heard him grunt as he repositioned himself and planted his feet firmly on the ground. “Pull’at knee up. I don’t know what you runnin’ fa’, but you know better.” He pulled you back to him, ass flush against his pelvis as you began throwing your ass back at him. You clasped around him, walls clamoring as you began dancing on his dick and he just stood there, taking it all in while you fucked him like you owned him, because you did. You rolled, gyrated, and popped, his hands slamming against your ass as a silent praise to the fact that he loved the way you were doing him. “Mm… my sweet, sweet boy. It feels like you’re about to burst.” You purred, you slowed hips rolling as you listened to the sound of your pussy talking back while she got played in. He gritted his teeth and sent another smack to your ass that was so hard it echoed off the concrete wall. “I’m finna, keep throwing that shit back just like that.” He loved watching your walls suction around him, loved seeing him come out covered in all white as you painted your masterpiece. Your belly bounced against your thighs, sweat beading on your back making the fabric that clung to your body heavier as he bent over you, chest pressed against you while he swung his hips back to pick up speed again.

“Look at you,” Smoke rasped against your ear, one hand back around your throat as he held your head steady so you could look out at the lowering sun as it set. “Big belly, fat ass, greedy pussy. I’d put another baby in this good shit right now if I could. You know I love this shit?” Your mouth gaped, walls clenching around him as an answer because you couldn’t. The chair scraped the ground with every thrust, threatening to slide but his weight kept you steady. His free hand slid over your stomach, resting just at the bottom so he could press against it and feel himself pushing from the inside. You gasped, eyes rolling.

“Eli—,” you whined, your voice high and cracking. “I can’t,”

“Yes you can,” he cut you off, his bucking harder, not letting up as he pressed into you. The last thrust was the one that broke the dam, you flooded his pole and you heard him shudder in your ear. “Milk this dick, baby. That’s right, Big Mama. Gon’ take all this nut, lemme hear you leaking when you walk back in the house.” One last, deep stroke and he was letting out his heavy load with a low moan. “Fuuuuck, this pussy so good to me.” He pulled out, watching his nut spill out of you before taking his fingers, and scooping it up before he shoved it right back inside, making you jolt. His dick followed immediately after, stroking his seed back. “Keep that, that’s all mine.”

You whimpered weakly as he leaned forward and kissed the side of your neck. He took your hand into his, carefully helping you up and resting his hand on the small of your back so he could walk you back in the house. “Good girl,” He didn’t bother fixing himself, just looked up and waved to the peeping neighbors once again with a satisfied smirk as you walked ahead of him. The sound of your love smacked between your thighs as soon as you crossed the threshold and he let out a chuckle. “Mhm. That’s what I like to hear. You need some more?”

Now he thrusts into you with frantic rhythm, fucking you so deep your stomach flutters with every sharp push of his hips. His hand presses down on your lower belly to feel himself inside you, thick and swollen, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him, a rough, broken sound that vibrates into your shoulder.

His teeth scrape along your throat as he licks sweat from your skin, drool dripping onto your collarbone as he ruts harder, losing whatever thin restraint he arrived with.

Your pussy is soaked, cream smearing across his length and dripping down your ass, slicking the floor beneath your bodies. He moans louder every time the mess gets wetter, hips snapping faster, balls slapping against you with low, rhythmic thuds that mix with the slap of skin and the wet sounds of your bodies grinding together.

He growls your name against your throat, voice raspy from disuse, and tells you you’re warm, soft, open for him. His fingers bruise your hips as he drags you back onto him, cock battering deep enough that your legs tremble uncontrollably.

You feel the stretch, the ache, the desperate need in his body as he fucks like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he slows down. He pants into your ear, breath shaking, hips grinding deep as your walls clench around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.

When he comes, he shoves you down against the floor and holds you there with his whole weight, cock buried to the hilt as thick heat floods you in heavy, pulsing waves.

He growls through every throb of release, hips jerking helplessly, cum spilling so much it leaks around the base of him and slides down your ass onto the hardwood. He stays inside you long after the pulses fade, chest heaving, lips pressed to your neck as he breathes you in like scent alone keeps him alive.

He fed on your scraps. He guarded your land. And now he fucks you like claiming your body is a right he earned in blood and hunger.

he gets you on the couch before you can even process how fast he moved. one second he’s in front of you with that heat rolling off his body, the next your back sinks into the cushions, your thighs parting instinctively as his weight settles between them.

remmick tears at whatever clothing still blocks his access. his breath hits your jaw in ragged bursts, soaked in heat, shaken by growls slipping past his teeth because he’s already too far gone to swallow them back.

his dick is swollen and heavy, flushed so dark you can see the veins pulsing along the length, the head leaking thick precum that warms your skin as he grinds it against your slit.

he doesn’t line up gently—he ruts, sloppy and frantic, sliding through your slick with wet, obscene noises that echo between your bodies. every drag of his tip along your pussylips makes him grunt, makes his hips stutter, makes the muscles in his back stand out like cords pulled too tight.

there’s no words—just breaths in these rough, ragged bursts like each inhale scrapes through his ribs. his mouth falls open as the head of his cock nudges your entrance, leaking onto your skin, throbbing so hard you can feel the pulse through it. his grip tightens on your thighs and his eyes lower. then he pushes in with no warning.

his hips snap forward and your cunt stretches around him with a filthy, wet choke of a sound that vibrates up your spine. the swollen length forces you to take him inch after inch until your back arches into the cushions, your breath catching in your throat.

your walls clamp around him and he lets out a broken snarl against your throat, his whole body trembling at the way you squeeze him.

his forearms stay hooked under your legs, keeping you bent open as starts thrusting almost immediately—hard, deep, unsteady movements that shove your body up the cushion with every stroke.

the room fills with noises that don’t sound human at all: deep, guttural groans dragging through his chest, sharp panting breaths.

his rhythm is fast and messy, hips slamming into yours, the couch jolting beneath you, wet slaps echoing through the room as your slick splashes against his thighs.

the sound of your cunt squelching around his dick gets louder each time he pulls back and pushes in again, movements driven by instinct rather than thought or restraint.

his cock feels wrong in the best way—too thick, throbbing harder the longer he fucks you, the base swelling slowly, pushing insistently at your entrance every time his hips drive forward.

you feel the pressure building there, that firm mass pulsing against your stretched lips, growing with every frantic thrust he gives you.

he tries to pull back once, maybe out of instinct or struggle or confusion, but your cunt clings so tight around him that he shudders violently.

remmick snarls when the knot strains against your rim, a sharp, desperate sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

he grips the couch with one hand for leverage, the other locked around your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. his hips slam forward with a brutal, shoving thrust, and the knot forces its way inside you.

it’s a deep, overwhelming stretch that makes your back arch hard, a raw cry ripping out of you while he shoves himself all the way in and stays there, shaking through it.

your body tightens around the sudden stretch as he buries himself to the hilt, his knot wedged deep, sealing him inside.

he moans—loud, trembling, a broken animal sound—forehead dropping to your chest as his body shakes violently. he holds your legs up with one arm, body caged over yours, and pumps thick, hot spurts into your cunt with each deep pulse.

his whole body tightens as he cums, dick throbbing violently, pumping thick heat deep into your pussy.

he whimpers—actually whimpers—as each pulse forces more of it inside you, his forehead pressed to your cheek, his breath hot and broken.

the knot swells even more during it, sealing everything in, stretching you so full your vision flickers. his hips keep twitching, small, involuntary thrusts that drag more sticky noises out of your body.

even after the first wave passes, he doesn’t stop.

his hips give slow, grinding movements—trapped by the knot, unable to thrust fully, but desperate to move inside you anyway.

every grind pushes his cock deeper against your swollen walls, making wet, sloppy noises. he groans into your neck, fangs scrapping lightly, chest rumbling against yours like he’s coming apart all over again.

his hands roam blindly—squeezing your thighs, pressing your back deeper into the couch as if he needs every part of you to stay close and warm and locked around his cock while the rut drags him deeper into instinct.

and when remmick finally lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and glossy, sweat beading at his temples, knot still throbbing inside you… he forces out a single, wrecked sentence, clipped and raw and barely human:

“don’t—move.”

the words are short, bitten off, almost a growl, like he’s using the last of his control to get them out before instinct takes over again.

his hips twitch hard, the knot pulses deeper, and another ragged sound climbs out of his throat as he drags you tighter against him, clearly nowhere near finished.

﹫𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑖𝑒𝑒𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟

i’m open to requests !

The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

“From 1912 to 1917, I made a mountain of money, enough to retire and be

buried like a pharaoh. But in the essential duties of the executor in charge,

I had been the most delinquent.” 

The room settled into one of its familiar silences.

The tape recorder continued its patient whir.

Daniel glanced over the rim of his reading glasses. Louis hadn't moved in nearly a minute, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the room.

"...Louis?"

Louis blinked.

"My apologies. I have gotten ahead of myself."

His voice was softer than before.

"There are memories one rehearses for decades before speaking them aloud." A faint smile, absent of humor. "And there are others that refuse rehearsal altogether."

Daniel leaned back in his chair.

"So this is one of those."

Louis gave a small nod.

Rashid appeared soundlessly beside them, placing a fresh cup of coffee in front of Daniel. Their eyes met for only a fraction of a second.

"Thanks," Daniel muttered.

Rashid inclined his head and disappeared once more into the apartment's shadows.

Louis watched him leave before returning his attention to Daniel.

"There is someone I've neglected to mention."

Daniel flipped to a blank page.

"Someone important?"

"...More than important."

Louis inhaled unnecessarily. 

"Her name was..." His lips barely formed it. "(Y/n)."

Daniel’s face twisted in a moment, as he reviewed his notes. He flipped through the pages and his own faded memories, searching for the name. Both absent.

“You won’t find her.” Louis explained, Daniel couldn’t decide at that moment if he seemed ashamed or saddened. Looking back, it was both. “During our first interview in 1973, it seemed irrelevant to discuss her. It was only years later that I recognized my error.”

“Why now?”

Louis was quiet for a long while.

"Because omission has its own cruelty."

His gaze drifted toward the city beyond the glass, where Dubai shimmered beneath the evening haze.

"I have spoken at great length of Lestat... of Claudia... of Armand. I have dissected my own failures until they became almost academic." A faint, bitter smile touched his mouth. "Yet the person whose absence shaped all that followed remained... absent."

Daniel lowered his pen but did not interrupt.

"I told myself I was protecting her memory." Louis let out a soft breath. "That some things deserved to remain untouched by confession."

He shook his head.

"It was not protection. It was cowardice."

Another silence settled between them.

Daniel studied him.

"You think telling me about her changes anything?"

Louis considered the question with characteristic care.

"No."

The answer came without hesitation.

"Nothing I say can alter what became of her. Nothing can return what was lost. This is not an act of atonement, Daniel. I have lived long enough to know that some debts cannot be paid."

His expression softened into something fragile.

"But wounds do not close because we refuse to look at them. They merely learn to ache in silence."

He looked at Daniel then, truly looked at him.

"For over a century I have carried her as one carries a phantom… always present, never acknowledged. Every story I have told has bent itself around the shape she left behind."

His voice dropped almost to a whisper.

"If I am to tell you the truth of my life... then I must finally tell you hers."

New Orleans 1913, Louis POV

During winter, when the rain had left the streets glistening beneath the gas lamps. Storyville was beginning to wake. Music spilled from brothels, laughter from open windows, horses pulling carriages through puddles that reflected amber light. 

The women talked.

They always had.

They traded gossip as readily as cigarettes and perfume, each story growing grander with every retelling. Usually it was politicians, gamblers, businessmen, or men with appetites too expensive to confess in daylight.

But that winter, they spoke of someone else.

A woman.

No one seemed to know where she'd come from.

“You hear about the Spanish girl?" 

"The pretty one?"

"Nah..."

"The rich one."

I stopped, focusing my gaze a block away to a group of four women just outside one of the saloons speaking in hushed whispers as they played blackjack under a leaking roof. Some of the water, dipping down on the center deck. 

"There ain't no rich Spanish girl." The oldest of them said as she played her card down, taking a drag of her cigarette and passing it across to the youngest with wide eyes.

"It’s true, Clara! They say she's been paying girls' debts." Stopping to take a small puff “Just walks in, asks what they owe, pays it and leaves.”

“Wait, just paying and leaving? I don’t believe that for a second.” The girl to her left said as her face pinched looking at her cards before folding. “Has to be a catch.”

"No catch, Ethel," came the quiet reply from the youngest.

"It happened to Pearl, you know, the one from the Golden Parlor. She said this woman came in one night, asked the owner who owed the most. He told her it was Pearl. She asked how much, counted it out right there, and walked away."

The girl smiled to herself.

"The owner nearly fell over when she laid the money on the table."

She shook her head, almost laughing.

"I ain't seen Pearl smile like that in years."

Storyville was built upon transactions. Everything had its price.

Affection. Company. Protection. Forgiveness.

Even kindness was usually a bargain struck in advance. 

Yet, for the better part of two weeks, I continued hearing the same story from different mouths.

The names of the women changed. The houses changed. The sums grew larger or smaller depending upon the teller.

But one detail never did.

She never stayed.

I began to notice a pattern. Every Thursday, just after sunset. She always arrived alone.

A cream-colored dress, modestly cut. A dark shawl framing her face. She walked with neither haste nor hesitation, acknowledging no one, as though the city parted for her of its own accord.

She spoke softly. Never haggled. Never lingered. She'd quietly settle a woman's account, smile, and disappear into the night. It was during one of these nights of me watching her I would realize she was looking back. 

She visited three establishments before turning into a narrow alley between a tailor's shop and an apothecary. The sounds of Storyville dulled behind the brick walls, leaving only the steady drip of rainwater from rusted gutters.

I remained in the shadows.

She came to a stop.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

“You’re late. You usually arrive before I settle my accounts” She said softly, her back to me. 

I said nothing.

For the first time in many months, I found myself at a loss for words.

She turned then. Slowly. 

There was no fear in her face. No startled gasp or hurried retreat. She regarded me with the same quiet composure she had shown every Thursday evening, as though she'd expected this meeting all along.

She was younger than I'd imagined.

"You've been following me," she observed.

It wasn't an accusation. Merely a fact.

"I have."

"And?"

"And I wanted to know why."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Most men wish to know my name first."

"I already know what they call you."

"The Spanish girl?"

She laughed quietly. "I've been French, Cuban, Italian..." She tilted her head. "Spanish is a new one."

"You let them believe it."

"I let people believe many things."

The answer lingered between us. Finally, she looked past me toward the street we'd left behind.

"You needn't worry."

"I wasn't worried."

"No?"

"No." She said with certainty. Her eyes returned to mine.

"I have."

"Why?"

"Because debt is its own prison."

I blinked. "That's your reason?"

She looked back at me, almost confused by the question.

"It seemed worthy enough."

Most people, when questioned about their kindness, rushed to explain it. They offered reasons that made them appear noble. They wanted their generosity witnessed, catalogued, remembered.

She did none of those things. She simply stood there, as though the answer required no further defense.

"You know they'll only fall into debt again."

"I know." Certainty again in her tone. 

"So what have you accomplished?" feeling the confusion morph into my features. 

For the first time, her expression changed. Not offended. Not defensive.

Only thoughtful.

Her gaze drifted beyond, toward the boarding house across the street. Through one of the open windows, the sound of laughter carried into the alley. A young woman sat among friends, smiling freely, untouched for the moment by the weight that usually followed her.

"To have one less impossible evening."

 Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

The tape recorder continued to hum.

Daniel stared at the page in front of him, pen hovering but unmoving.

"One less impossible evening."

Louis looked at him.

"What?"

Daniel glanced up.

"That's what she said?"

"Yes."

Daniel leaned back slightly. Looking at his notes, tapping his pen against his notebook. 

"So a woman walks into Storyville, pays off debts she knows will return, refuses thanks, refuses repayment, and when you question the purpose of it, her answer is that she gave someone one good night."

"Yes."

"And that changed something for you?"

Louis was quiet.

For several seconds, Daniel thought he might not answer.

"It confused me."

Daniel raised an eyebrow.

"You?"

A faint smile crossed Louis's face.

"I was a vampire, Daniel. I had spent over 2 years being taught that compassion was a weakness. That attachment was a liability. That humanity was something to be outgrown."

His gaze lowered.

"And then I encountered someone who seemed to possess more humanity than anyone I had known."

Daniel looked back at his notes.

"You were suspicious of her."

"Of course."

"Because you thought there had to be a catch."

Louis's silence was answer enough.

Daniel nodded slowly.

"You couldn't understand someone doing something without wanting something back."

"No."

"Because everyone before her had wanted something from you."

Louis looked away. The silence stretched.

"Yes."

Daniel softened slightly.

"And she didn't?"

Louis's expression changed…not sadness exactly. Something older.

"No."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

Daniel looked at the recorder. The question that bore repeating in his mind, hanging at the tip of his tongue. 

"So why didn't you tell me about her in 1973?"

Louis's eyes moved toward the center of the dining table.

"Because I had spent years trying to convince myself that what happened between us was insignificant."

Daniel frowned.

"And now?"

Louis looked down.

"Just another lie."

New Orleans 1913, Louis POV

Thursdays began to become sacred to me.

I spent the better part of that wet winter seeking her. What began as nights watching from afar slowly transformed into quiet companionship, first through questions, then through conversation.

I told myself I was studying her. Understanding her. Trying to uncover the reason behind a kindness that seemed, to me then, impossible. It wouldn't take more than 10 years to know it was real.

But curiosity does not explain why I began arriving earlier. Why I found myself listening for the sound of her footsteps among the streets of Storyville. Why I noticed when she was absent.

I had spent my existence as a vampire learning how to take.

Blood. Secrets. Lives.

Yet she moved through the same city and did nothing but give.

“Why?” 

She laughed as we alongside the river bank, the city and its occupants muffled and away. Only the soft sounds of the river bank followed us in the night.

“You ask that too often.”

"Because I have yet to receive an answer that satisfies me."

A small smile touched her lips.

"Perhaps your mistake is believing there is one."

"There must be."

"Why?" she teased as turned walking backwards to face me, the smile still imprinted on her cheeks. 

"Because people do not act without reason."

She tilted her head.

The certainty in her answer bothered me more than disagreement would have.

"People are selfish," I continued. "They survive on what they can gain. Sex. Money. Power. Influence. Even affection is often nothing more than another form of possession. They give because they expect something in return. They protect because they fear losing something. They love because they want to be loved."

My voice grew sharper.

"Even kindness has a price. Perhaps not one spoken aloud, but a price nonetheless."

She did not interrupt, just silently studying me. That almost irritated me more than being unable to read her.

"Men donate to be remembered. They rescue to be praised. They forgive because they wish to appear merciful. Every good deed carries the shadow of a desire behind it."

I looked toward the street ahead, where the lights of Storyville flickered against the rain.

"I have spent enough time among people to know this…Enough time to know that no one gives without wanting."

Her gaze never broke me, just studying me. At that moment, it was hard to read her. Perhaps she would judge me. Perhaps she would pity me. Perhaps she would simply decide I was too far gone and allow the conversation to fade before sunrise.

I expected many things.

Understanding was not one of them. It would be years before I recognized that expression for what it truly was. Recognition.

She understood.

Not because she shared my belief, but because she knew the world that had created it. A world where generosity was often conditional. Where kindness was frequently offered only to those considered worthy of receiving it. Where people like us were taught, in countless quiet ways, that everything had to be earned.

A black man walking through a city that had never been designed to offer him grace. An immigrant woman navigating a country that had never promised her acceptance.

We occupied different corners of the world, but we understood the same lesson. That people were often willing to see what they wanted from you before they saw you.

She never said any of this aloud. She did not need to.That was perhaps what surprised me most. She did not look at me and see a man who needed correcting. Simply looked at me and understood why I had become this way.

“Do you think it's meaningless because it ends?” She said softly 

A voice interrupted.

"There she is."

Three men stumbled over the bridge into the area we occupied at the shore, their movements unsteady from drink. Their laughter came too loudly, too carelessly, carrying the confidence of men who had never been taught to fear the consequences of their actions.

The scent of alcohol reached me before they did.

"There you are," the tallest repeated, his eyes fixed on her. "Been looking all over for you, Miss (L/n)"

She did not move. She did not retreat. That was the first thing I noticed.

Not fear. Not surprise. Only patience. As though she had encountered this exact kind of man a thousand times before.

"Have you?" she asked

“Aye, I have.” Now within arms reach from her. “Imagine my luck.” 

The man I would later know as Harrison Ryder, the owner of the Golden Parlor, had for a lack of a better word was enamoured with her. Though it is too gentle a word.

Plainly, it was hunger. The kind possessed by men who see something beautiful and immediately wonder how it might belong to them. What length, as animalistic as you can imagine, they would travel to seek possession. 

“Imagine mine.” She said

The man laughed. "You think you're funny?"

"No." Her answer seemed to confuse him. "I think you're drunk."

His companions laughed. Stepping closer, circling us. 

“Thought I told you not to be buying up our girls. Not good for business as you can imagine."

She remained perfectly still, tracking the other two using the corners of her eyes. "I remember."

“I imagine you also remember” now within inches of her face “there are other forms of payment that I am willing to accept. You know, to further the cause.” Looking at the other two men before returning his gaze to her again. “A benefit to the community so to speak.”

"You're confusing generosity with permission, Mr. Ryder."

The smile on his face faltered. Only slightly.

But I noticed. Men like him were accustomed to fear. Anger. Pleading. They knew what to do with those things.

Calm was different.

"You know," he said, tilting his head, "for someone who spends so much time helping women, you seem awfully comfortable making enemies."

"I have never considered you an enemy."

That seemed to amuse him.

"No?"

"No."

"What would you consider me?"

She regarded him for a moment. "A man who mistakes obedience for respect."

The silence that followed was immediate and dark as Ryder's expression changed.

"Is that so?"

Then his hand moved. Fast.

His fingers closed around her jaw, forcing her face upward.

The action was not violent in appearance. Not to someone who did not understand men like him.

But I did. It was a reminder. A message: Remember your place. A demonstration that he believed he could place his hands on her whenever he wished.

And for the first time that evening, something inside me broke. Not slowly. Not gradually. Instantly. The world narrowed.

I caught the man's arm. As though stopping a falling object. The difference was meaningless to him. The moment my fingers closed around his wrist, his expression changed. Confusion first. Then fear. A small, satisfying flicker of realization.

He finally understood that he was not the most dangerous thing standing among us that night.

I twisted. The sound was immediate. A sickening crack beneath my hand. His scream tore through and echoed against the river bank.

The bones beneath his skin gave way far too easily. Human bodies were fragile things. I had known that since my first night I turned, yet I still found myself surprised by how little strength was required to break one.

The other two men reacted instinctively. One reached for me. I struck him, the force of it sent him backward, his body colliding with the tree behind him hard enough to shake loose, splinter and then bow. He crumpled to the ground, gasping, the confidence gone from his face.

The last man froze. For a brief moment, he stared at me. Instinct taking him, hand moving beneath his coat. The revolver appeared.

I crossed the distance before he could raise it.

One moment he stood several feet away. The next, my hand was around his throat. His back struck the wall of the bridge. The weapon fell from his fingers and into the mud below.

I could hear everything. The frantic beating of his heart. The shallow breaths he struggled to draw. The blood moving beneath his skin. Every part of me knew exactly how easy it would be.

One more second.

One more movement.

And his life would end.

My fangs descended. I hated how natural it felt. How effortless. How familiar. The same hunger that had terrified me in myself now whispered that this was justified.

That this was different.

That he deserved it.

And perhaps that was the most dangerous lie of all.

Because monsters rarely believe they are monsters while they are doing what they do.

"Louis." A quiet voice. Barely louder than the rain.

My grip tightened.

Not because I had not heard of her. Because I had.

And for one terrible moment… I did not want to stop.

“Louis.” She repeated, gently touching my forearm.  "Please."

"He deserves it." My grip remaining

"Perhaps."

"He put his hands on you. Threaten you."

"I know."

"I'm ending this."

The words came with certainty. With the same certainty Ryder had carried when he believed he was entitled to her. The realization would come later. Not then.

"No."

I paused, finally moving my gaze to her. "No?"

She slowly shook her head. Not angrily. Not fearfully. Just firmly. For a moment, almost tired. 

"I would rather leave."

"He'll do it again."

"He may."

"Then why stop me?"

She moved her gaze from me, to the man. Meeting his furious eyes, taking fast and heavy short breaths that allowed in that moment. 

The rain fell between us.

And for the first time that night, I saw something in her expression I had not expected.

Sadness.

"Because tonight...I am trying to save two people."

I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That there would be no salvation that night. That mercy would not be granted this night or any other night. And although my mind screamed there would be consequences, that I would be scaled to set balance again, his executioner.

I wanted the finality of it. The silence after. The certainty. 

However, Violence did not always arrive as rage. Sometimes it arrived disguised as righteousness. And standing there in the rain, with my hand still around his throat, the line was thin. 

Justice and vengeance.

Protection and possession.

Man and Monster. 

The man collapsed onto the ground, choking and gasping as life returned to him in painful breaths. He scrambled backward, dragging himself through the mud before reaching for his companions.

None of them looked back. They fled into the rain. Leaving only silence behind.

"You should've let me." Feeling the sensation of the rain soaking my clothes. 

"I know." She said watching their figures in the distance blend and finally fade into the city.

"You don't sound convinced."

She did not respond immediately. Her hair had become dark with water, strands sticking against her face and shoulders. The careful composure she carried every Thursday night had softened. 

"I'm grateful you intervened."

"Doesn't seem like it."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "It does not?"

"You stopped me."

A pause.

"I stopped murder."

The words landed with more weight than I expected.

"He deserved it."

She tilted her head. Not dismissing me. Considering me.

"I have known many people who deserved death." The certainty in her voice surprised me. "And I have regretted giving it to several."

I noticed. Not the woman who walked into brothels with money in her hands. Not the woman who spoke gently to those everyone else ignored. Not the mystery that had captured my curiosity for weeks.

I noticed the exhaustion beneath her kindness. The practiced restraint. The weight of someone who had already made impossible choices and carried the consequences afterward.

No heartbeat. No breath. No scent of life.

"...You're one of us."

A brief, shameful expression crossed her face before disappearing just as quickly. Regret. Almost as though the words themselves carried a weight she had spent years trying not to feel.

"So I've been told."

 Dubai 2022, 3rd POV

"Wait."

Louis looked at Daniel.

"She stopped you from killing a man who assaulted her?"

"She did."

Daniel frowned. "And she just... let him go?"

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"So Lestat said."

Daniel leaned back. "No offense, Louis, but I am inclined to believe you. That she was putting on an act."

Louis chuckled quietly.

Daniel gestured vaguely. "I mean, come on. A vampire walking around Storyville, paying off debts, refusing anything in return, then stopping another vampire from killing a man who attacked her?" He shook his head. "It sounds almost too perfect."

Louis listened quietly.

Daniel studied him.

"How long did it take you to believe? If ever"

Louis looked toward the windows.

The city stretched endlessly beneath them, bright and alive in a way that New Orleans had not been that night.

"I wavered after ten years."

Daniel blinked. "Ten years?"

"I questioned it."

"Perhaps I misunderstood her. Perhaps I had romanticized what I saw. Perhaps I had mistaken her restraint for something greater than it was." A faint smile touched his face. "Humans are not the only ones capable of creating illusions, Daniel."

"And after?"

"I believed it after a century."

"That's a long time to wait before deciding someone is genuine."

Louis looked back at him. "Not when you have eternity to consider the evidence."

Daniel smiled slightly. "And she never changed?"

Louis shook his head. "That was the most remarkable part." His expression softened. "She never wavered."

Daniel was quiet for a moment.  "You said she remembered everyone she'd ever killed."

Louis nodded. "Every anniversary, she spoke their names."

Daniel's brows lifted. "Out loud?"

"Yes."

"How many names?"

Louis closed his eyes. The memory seemed to pull him somewhere far away. "I stopped counting after six thousand."

Daniel stared at him.

"Jesus."

Louis opened his eyes.

"No."

Daniel looked confused.

Louis's expression held a quiet sadness.

"Not Jesus."

A pause.

"Just a woman who refused to forget."

The room became quiet.

Daniel glanced down at his notes.

"How you describe vampires, Lestat, for example, It's about the thrill, the power, at times theatrics."

Louis nodded. "They remember what it gave them."

"The excitement. Freedom. The feeling of being above everything."

"Yes."

"And she remembered what it took."

Louis looked at the recorder. "Exactly."

Daniel tapped his pen against the page. "Did she tell you why?"

Louis was silent for a moment.

"She said forgetting was the first step toward believing it never mattered."

Daniel frowned slightly. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that time has a way of making terrible things feel distant."

He looked down at his hands. "At first, you remember every detail. The face. The voice. The moment." A pause. "Then years pass, Then decades." eyes growing distance in memory. 

"And eventually?"

"Eventually, the details begin to fade. She believed there was a difference between healing and erasing."

Daniel stopped writing. Unknowingly leaning in, listening to Louis. 

Louis continued. "She did not believe we were meant to spend eternity drowning in what we had done. Only that we should never become comfortable enough to forget the weight of it."

Daniel studied him. "That's a difficult way to live."

Louis gave a faint smile. "Yes, yes it is."

"Did she?"

"Did she what?"

"Live that way?"

Louis looked away. "Every day."

Daniel glanced at the recorder.

"Even after centuries?"

"Especially after centuries."

The answer came immediately. Daniel sat back. "Why especially?"

Louis was quiet. "Because immortality makes everything easier to justify."

The statement sat between them.

"You have endless time to convince yourself that something no longer matters."

His gaze lowered.

"Endless time to rewrite yourself as the victim."

Daniel's expression softened.

"And she wouldn't let herself do that."

"No."

Louis's voice was almost a whisper. "She was kinder to herself than I was."

A pause. "But she was never dishonest with herself."

Daniel looked at the notes.

"That sounds exhausting."

Louis smiled faintly, distant again as he turned away. "It was."

A beat.

"But perhaps that was the point."

Daniel looked up. "What do you mean?"

Louis glanced toward the recorder. "She once told me that the moment we stop being disturbed by what we have done..."

He paused.

"...is the moment we should be most afraid.”

Author's Note:

School has been absolutely insane, and was in need of a much needed break. Blame the fact that I decided to pursue STEM and am currently experiencing my own enemies to lovers arc with my major.

Emphasis on the enemies part for now.

That being said, I couldn’t let this moment pass without celebrating the incredible work that went into The Vampire Lestat from the phenomenal actors, the production team, the writers, and everyone else who brought this story to life.

It has been amazing watching this world continue to expand, and it has reignited my love for these characters, their stories, and the beautiful complexity that makes them so unforgettable.

So, after a long absence, I’m finally returning with something I’ve been quietly working on, along with my love for writing.

(And listen… if anyone at AMC happens to read my work and is looking for someone for the writers’ room… I’m just saying, I’m available. I know y’all are lurking.)

Jokes aside, thank you for your patience, and thank you for sticking around.

Tyler's voice sounded so far away as the pressure in your lower stomach wound tighter and tighter, walls quivering pathetically, growing even wetter with each well-timed thrust, hips pushing back against him, dutifully fucking yourself on his member, making him groan.

- Fuck, that's it, taking it so well f'me.

The sounds from your union could only be described as obscene, the gush of your slick, squelching, ruining his sheets and the slap of skin on skin getting even harder to control as both of you grew high on mind-numbing pleasure.

- Gonna cum soon, fuck... where do you want it, hon?

The moan that tore from your throat had his palm pressing against your mouth, effectively silencing you, the movement of his hips slowing then coming to a stop. You could've cried as your high ebbed away, trying to fuck yourself on him only to feel his iron grip still your futile attempts.

- Need you to be really quiet, hon. Can't let my uncle hear how needy my girl is, these pretty sounds belong to me only.

You nodded slowly, trying to blink the tears away just for your vision to come back. The mention of what lay on the other side of his bedroom wall making your head spin. Is he awake? Can he hear what a good girl you are for his nephew? Would he imagine what it would be like if it was him instead of Tyler working himself deep into you?

- That's my good girl, now, tell me, where do you need my cum?

The hushed words had hope creeping in, cunt tightening around his pulsing length as he started to move again maddeningly, withdrawing almost fully then sinking back in deep. He let his grip fall to catch your throat in his palm again, a silent warning should you be too loud for his liking.

- O-oh, Ty-Tyler..

You squirmed as his fingers found your clit again, dragging against the slick skin.

- Need it in me, pl-please.

Your voice sounding so raw and broken against his eardrums and the breathy truth made him groan again. Forehead pressed to yours awkwardly from this angle, you could watch the flutter of his eyes, how his nostrils flared, giving into the urge to claim you completely. You were already coming undone, arms and legs shaking with the effort of keeping yourself up, letting him abuse your oversensitive cunt.

With a broken sob, you acknowledged the fact that he denied your request again as he yanked himself free and painted your lower back with his spend, one shot missed by the urgent strokes of his hand, landing against your puffy folds, making you whine yet again at the feeling of his sticky, hot cum drooling down all the way to your clit.

After finally catching your breath again, you leaned back to claim his lips. He caressed your sides lovingly, tongue rolling against your own, nearly, just nearly making your head spin again, you let him draw you in, carefully avoiding the mess he created on your back. When you broke away, you pushed yourself to your feet, Tyler gently balancing you on shaky legs. You let him put his shirt around your shoulders.

- Want me to help you clean up? - his grin made your stomach flutter, you bit your lip and shook your head.

- You'll be up still when I come back? I want my before bedtime cuddles.

- Haven't you gotten them already?

You shoved a pillow in his face, before he held up his hands in mock defense, then shuffled out of his room, trying your best to be quiet.

The bathroom door clicked shut, removing Tyler's shirt from around you, you stepped in the shower, letting the hot water warm your skin, making you relax instantly. The familiar ache between your thighs softly dying down, heartbeat finally even as something new sat heavily in your stomach. Shame and guilt, you presumed..

Tyler was the best thing that could've happened to you, of that, you were certain. He was really everything that you seeked in a man. So then why did the way his uncle smiled at you warmly in the morning after sleeping over made your cheeks flush and gaze avert his? Why did the tendonds flexing in his arms as he exercised his ability made your breath halt and mind go blank? Why did you secretely wish that your soft whines and moans for him would wake him up so that he could hear all the noises you'd so enthusiastically make for him and him only had he been the one so deep inside of you?

You had no idea when this secret infatuation of yours had begun, all you knew was that one day, when you were left alone with him as Tyler needed to work on his day off due to one of his employees calling in sick, you'd found yourself fascinated by the way his mind worked, how enraptured and resolute he was in his work, his true passion, it seemed. It also wasn't a factor that helped your case that Isaac was indeed, very easy on the eye, with undeniable similarities between himself and his nephew. He was several years older than you, but still appeared youthful, even though he was more of a man than your boyfriend. The thought made you cringe as you sighed and willed your imagination to a halt.

You stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself, not bothering to dry yourself with it properly. You scooped up Tyler's shirt from the floor and tossed it into the laundry bin.

Getting on your tiptoes to make your way back to Tyler's room, - a habit now, really - you closed the bathroom door silently. A small shriek left your lips as you collided with a solid chest, a large hand pressing to your mouth to silence you. Your eyes widened, heartbeat significantly increasing. You could half make out the shimmer of deep brown eyes staring back at you, expression unreadable save for the slow tug upwards of his lips.

He’d of course noticed the changes in you as you both grew up, the way your body filled out, the way your face sharpened yet adopted a new kind of softness. The fact that you were beautiful came as no surprise to him. Everything about you was beautiful to him. 

It was the way people around you changed that was new. Boys, including his brother looked at you differently, paid more attention, laughed at the things you said when even he didn’t find them funny. Every time it happened he would be there glaring next to you but nobody thought anything of it. 

Because Pope was weird. Pope was protective of you. Everybody knew that. 

It was one particular party. You were wearing denim shorts over your bikini and your hair was down, you’d had it cut differently. He’d only been gone a couple of minutes and one of Baz’s friends had approached you. He was about to walk over, stand at your shoulder like a warning when his brother stepped in front of him. 

“Hey man. She’s a big girl now. Maybe she wants to talk to him.” Baz said with a smirk. 

Andrew frowned. It was you, of course you didn’t want to speak to some random guy. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re cock blocking her, dude.” Baz laughs and Pope is torn between shock and wanting to punch his brother in the throat for talking about you that way. 

Baz just laughs walking away as Pope stands there, watching you. He knew you weren’t the little girl with plaits following him around like a shadow anymore, known it for a while. Felt an ache in his chest at the thought of you doing the same thing as Julia and slowly drifting away. 

Then he notices something. The way you smile politely but all the while your eyes search the crowd for something. 

Him. 

The moment your eyes meet his you relax. Like you’re relieved to see him, like you needed that reassurance. From him. 

Something shifted in him. 

Because there were boys everywhere now who looked at you, like you were something to be noticed, wanted, chosen.

And still, without thinking, without hesitation… you chose him.

Even though the world was starting to see you the way he always had, you still look for him. Nobody ever chose him and it lit something in him that hadn’t gone out ever since. 

He meets you half way as you start to walk in his direction. You smile up at him squinting and so he shifts to the side slightly to block the sun from your eyes with his body. 

“Where did you go?” You ask.

“Smurf needed me to help with some more beer.” You just nod, smiling and he feels it in his chest. Can’t take his eyes off of you. 

Your smile, your voice, the way you said his name all began to linger with him in a way he couldn’t name. 

Because you looked for him. 

You chose him. 

You 

Pick me up at 12:30?

I’ll send you the address. 

Andrew 

I’ll be right outside. 

Call if you need me. 

Life had been strangely calm for a while. You and Andrew had gotten into a strange domestic routine where you had Lena at your house if he had a job. Otherwise the three of you would stay at Lena’s house. 

You’d taken over most of the school drop offs after he creeped out the attendant by trying to sit outside the school all day. Something you found adorable. And completely unsurprising.

Dinner would be on the table at the same time every night and you and Andrew spent every spare moment with Lena. To everyone else she was a normal little girl but sometimes you’d notice things. How she would stare off into the distance, how quiet she could get and of course the nightmares. 

You did everything you could for her and so when she went to stay with her Aunt for a couple of days and your friend invited you out to a bar for the night you agreed. 

Andrew drove you, a worried gaze on the hem of your dress that rode a little too high for his liking. It was still the same between you both but every small step… like the beach… like the fact he would kiss you all the time now made it clear this was more. More than it had ever been.

You’d had a good night, kept him up to date every now and again but mostly had fun with your friend. Eventually your friend had introduced you to their friends, people you’d never met and one particular guy had taken a liking to you. 

You’d laugh politely declining any advances but you weren’t sure what reason to give. Not that you needed one. You didn’t have a boyfriend technically.

You had an Andrew Pope Cody. 

Most people around Oceanside knew that and stayed well clear. Not this guy.

You had a few more drinks than you’d planned to and time started running away with you as you caught up with your friend. It made you feel normal. Like you weren’t practically raising a seven year old girl whose Mom had been murdered by the man you loved because her Grandma was a psychopath. 

The guy who had kept trying to talk to you had intercepted you on the way to the bar again. You were politely telling him that you were going to get another drink when his face dropped slightly, his demeanour changing instantly. You turn to follow his gaze over your shoulder. 

Andrew stood there at your left shoulder like he had done so many times before with his signature death glare directed solely on the man in front of you.

Without saying a word, his gaze never dropping he walks into the space between you and the guy, turning his back on him. Was it rude? Yes. Were you glad the guy finally got the picture and walked away, tail between his legs? Absolutely. 

He threw one last glare over his shoulder to make sure the guy was gone before turning back to you. Still annoyed but softer. You were luckily never on the receiving end of one of those glares.

The alcohol buzz had you giddy and you have to force yourself to keep a straight face. He’s stood in the front of you looking mad as hell and all you can think about is how good he looks in his dark jeans and black hoodie zipped all the way up. 

“It’s 1am.” He says raising his voice only slightly, close enough for you to hear him over the music.

“Oh shit.” You gasp as you dig through your bag for your phone. 

Andrew

12 missed calls

Andrew

8 messages

“Oops?” You say with a grimace. 

He’s not impressed. “You ready?” 

“Yeah.” You nod and after you’ve said a quick goodbye to your friend you let him lead you out, arm around you and body a barrier between you and the people pushing through the crowd. He’s still glaring when he opens the passenger door and helps you into his truck since you’re in heels. 

He doesn’t say anything until he’s been driving a couple of minutes. The silence stretches heavily and you reach to turn on the radio but he grabs your hand placing it back on your lap. His own gripping your bare thigh. “You didn’t answer your phone.” 

“I lost track of time. I’m sorry.” His hand grips your thigh and you see his eyes flick to your legs, your dress riding up and you let it. 

“Who was that guy?” He asks stiffly. 

“I dunno he was with my friend. He was trying to talk to me. I told him I wasn’t interested.” You tell him and notice his grip tightening on the steering wheel. But not you.

“So why was he still bothering you?” He asked gruffly. 

“Cos most guys are creepy.” You tell him.

“Did anything like that happen while I was in jail?” He asks looking over at you.

“No.” You lie. Of course there were creepy guys in the three years he was gone but nothing you couldn’t handle and you were not about to make him angrier. 

He just grunts, clearly not believing you. His hand stays steady on your thigh, his thumb stroking circles on the inside in a way that felt like he was calming himself. 

Driving you insane. 

But calming himself. 

“We’re going to talk about this.” He says as he pulls up to your apartment and the tone is vaguely familiar to the one he uses to talk to Lena. He slams his door when he gets out. 

“Shit…” You whisper to yourself as you open your door, he’s there helping you out but his mouth is set in a grim line as he leads you into your apartment. He shuts and locks the door behind you and you walk into the living room staying stood in the middle as he prowls over to you, eyes dark.

You look him up and down appreciatively. He didn’t often wear hoodies, you assumed he must have come to your straight from a job or something. You wonder how it had gone, knowing how much pressure he was under with it all and starting to feel bad that you’d added to his stress. 

The room is dim, only the lamp you left on in the corner casting shadows over his face as he watches you, taking in every micro expression on your face. 

His head tilts and eyes narrow slightly as he recognises the heated look in your eyes. 

“Take off your clothes.” He rasps, a voice that sends a shiver through you. “Leave the heels on.” The same confidence you’ve noticed in him recently takes over him and you instinctively press your thighs together. 

You keep eye contact with him as you slide off the dress, reaching behind yourself to unhook your bra before slowly letting it fall off you. He doesn’t break eye contact even as you slide your panties down you legs and step out of them. You’re not sure he even blinks.

Finally when you’re stood in just your heels he lets his gaze drop down, taking in every inch of you like you were something that needed to be appreciated. His fists clench at his side and you know he’s fighting not to touch you. 

You’re not sure how long he simply admires you for but when he finally looks back up at you its with a desire that spans the years. You’re sure of it. He’s still staring into your eyes as he undoes his belt and jeans, taking his time to undress the bottom half of himself. 

You’re not sure why he leaves on the hoodie but you’re glad he does, watching him walk away from where he’s neatly left his jeans, boxers, boots and socks.

He sits down on your couch, legs spread giving you a perfect view of his hard cock as he grips it in his hand. Soft pants leave him as he moves his hand up and down his impressive cock slowly, he continues to stare at you stood in the middle of the room with that intense look of his.

“Come here.” He says breathlessly and you instantly walk over to him, heels clicking on the floor. “Fuck…” He gasps under his breath as he looks you up and down, head to heels. 

You straddle him, your already soaked pussy sliding along his cock. 

“Uh uh.” He growls, grasping your hips to keep you still. You feel him reach between you both, grabbing his cock and lining it up with you before guiding you to sink down on him. You both moan as he bottoms out, fully inside you but as you go to move his strong arms wrap around your waist like a vice stopping you. “No, sweetheart.” 

You whimper confused but he only grabs your hair in his fist, not enough to hurt, just pull slightly as he kisses you forcefully. He pulls your head back gently by your hair.

“You made me wait.” He whispers darkly. “Now you wait.” 

Once you realise what he’s doing you can’t help but let out sharp sigh. You realise now the reason he left the hoodie on was for it to feel like an uneven playing ground. He was in charge. 

“Don’t move. Okay?” You nod. He leans fully back on the couch watching you try not to squirm.

“Look at you.” He says as he possessively squeezes your hips. One of his hands lifts up to play with your hair as he watches your face carefully, like he’s looking for any sign you’re not okay with this. You nod again, letting him know that this is okay. 

“You sit there and wait like I did.” He rasped as his hands start to move over you, ghosting up your spine and around to the front where he cups your breasts in his hands. His thumbs flick your nipples and you whimper unable to stop yourself clenching around him, hips tilting desperate for any kind of friction. 

A low groan escapes him and he looks at you warningly. You don’t move an inch. He continues to play with your breasts, squeezing and stroking, rolling your nipples between his fingers. Well and truly taking his damn time.

When he leans forward taking one into his mouth, suckling on it he moans and you feel his cock throb inside of you. You gasp loudly, eyes squeezing shut with the exertion of not moving despite the way your walls flutter around him. 

“Good girl.” He praises softly when he realeases your nipple with a wet sound. You let out a cry your hands moving to grip at the shoulders of his hoodie, stopping yourself falling completely against him. 

“Not helping…” You groan. 

“Never said I was going to help.” He murmurs with that lilt of humour that you usually love but right now you curse. He’s enjoying this far too much while you feel like you’re going to combust at any moment. 

You whimper his name and he brushes his lips against yours whilst shushing you. His mouth leaves a wet trail from your mouth, down your jaw and neck to your breasts again. 

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” His breath against your wet nipple makes you shiver and moan as he suckles on it, indulging himself entirely. For you it’s torture and as he hums contentedly you can’t stop your hips rocking into his. 

His head snaps up looking at you with that intense gaze. 

“I said… don’t. Move.” As he holds you completely still, his voice is strained feeling you pulse around him. 

“Please…” You beg. “I’m so…” You moan breathlessly feeling his hard cock twitch inside you. He liked you begging. The same way you liked him begging. You couldn’t wait to get pay back for this. “Im sorry I made you wait.”

“I know you’re sorry sweetheart.” He says softly against your mouth as one hand moves to grab your hair gently again pulling your head back. “But now you have to wait like I did.” You feel his mouth sucking on the sensitive skin of your neck, then his teeth scraping and you let out a whimper as your pussy clenches even tighter around him. You wondered if you could come just like this. 

You prayed that you could. 

He can’t help himself touching you everywhere and while watching your face contort with need he feels like maybe he has been forgiven. How else would he be allowed to feel what heaven was like?

His head falls against the back of the couch, groaning loudly as he feels you rhythmically pulse around him, he plays with your tits his eyes snapping to where you’re connected. “Fuck… you want me to fuck you?” His voice is so rough it sends pleasant shocks straight to your pussy. “Huh?” He spreads his legs wider, pulling you even closer while bending to lap at your nipple again. You grind against him. 

You have no control over it and when he gently bites your nipple you cry out his name. He also seems to lose control for a second, his hips bucking up into you before he freezes. Holding you still as you let out an actual sob. 

“Use your words, beautiful.” His husky voice had you gripping his hair this time, your mouth hanging open and he couldn’t resit tugging and sucking on your bottom lip gently. 

“Please… please fuck me.” The desperate voice that rips out of you isn’t one you recognise but Andrew does. 

Without warning he lifts and flips you onto your back, grabbing your legs to keep them up in the air so your heeled feet rest on his shoulders as he braces himself on either side of your head. From above you he uses his leverage thrusting his cock in and out of you at a brutal pace, fucking you into the couch. 

Finally he is giving you what you need. You almost cry with relief.

“I’m…” But you don’t get the chance to finish the sentence as you fall off the edge he’d been keeping you on, it comes in waves and he continues to pound into you. 

“That’s it.” His voice comes out broken and you feel him kissing one of your ankles possessively. You don’t really come down from your orgasm, too overstimulated and full of need as you moan.

“Thank you…” You tell him breathlessly and he just smiles, almost shyly which is absurd whilst he has you in pieces beneath him. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. You did so good.” He moves back slightly to grab hold of your legs as he continues to bury himself in you at a slightly slower pace. He watches your face crumble in pleasure, part of him loving how broken you looked under him. Only for him. Completely safe and cared for but wrecked from sheer pleasure. 

He holds the backs of your thighs firmly, pulling you open for him without breaking rhythm, pushing them back so he can press in deeper until there was no distance left between you. 

“Mine?” He grits out the question as he picks up his pace again. 

“Oh…” You gasp at the feeling of him so deep inside you hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. It feel so incredibly intimate to be practically bent in half and spread open for him this way. You feel completely owned by him and you love it. “Yours… always.” 

He leans down kissing you deeply with a look of pride in his eyes and something else, something more vulnerable. 

He’s frenzied now, starting to mutter words as he thrusts into you as deep as he can possibly get. “Mine. Mine…” 

You just nod your scream muffled as you bury your face in his hoodie.

“You chose me…” He growls. He fucks you with the intensity he’s feeling at the revelation you have always and will always choose him. 

You were his. 

His to take care of. 

His to love. 

His to make shake beneath him as you come around his cock a second time. He moans your name not letting up, every time he bottoms out his pelvis brushes against your clit as you meet and you’re a trembling mess. 

He holds you in his arms now, grounding you as you fall apart again. “You feel so fucking good…” He whispers hoarsely as he bends his head to look down, watching his cock slide in and out of you, glistening with wetness. His breath hitches at the sight and he follows you over the edge as your pussy visibly quivers around him, gripping him like a vice. 

The sound he lets out is almost animalistic and you feel his cum spurt inside you deeper than ever before, his cock throbbing. Shallow thrusts keeping him deep inside you as you moan words of encouragement. 

When he finally calms he all but collapses against you, neither of you can speak, clinging onto each other.

When he can he turns his head to kiss your cheek and ask, “are you alright?” 

The laugh that escapes you is one full of love and joy, your heart is lighter than it has been in weeks and you turn your head to kiss him softly. His own eyes aren’t haunted for once, a genuine smile on his lips and you could cry.

“Handsome…” You start and you feel him melt into you. “I’m more than alright.” 

He just nods, a glint in his eye making him look younger than he had in years. 

He grunts as he pulls himself out of you. Standing he grabs your feet as you stay laid on the couch in the funny position you had ended up in. He rests them on his chest as he pulls off your heels, his thumbs pressing gently into the arch of each foot. Bending slightly to kiss them before lowering them onto the floor gently. 

“I like that hoodie.” You smile as you sit up. 

“You do?” He replied innocently as he unzips it, taking it off and throwing it to you. “Yours.” The way he says it makes you shiver, a recall to the intense moment you’d just had declaring you were his. You hoped this was his way of reciprocating. 

You pull it on and it’s warm and smells like him as you zip it up over your naked body. 

“It’s late, you need sleep. We can shower in then morning before we go pick Lena up” You suddenly remember how late it is. 

You take the hand he’s offering. You both get ready quickly, and you fall into bed wrapped around each other. Smelling of one another and you can’t help but wonder if that was deliberate on his part. 

“I’m sorry…” He says just as your drifting off. “If that was too much.” The fragile side of him coming out again. “We did a job today. It went good. But there’s always something with them. Nothing is ever simple anymore.” He shakes his head in annoyance. To Andrew it was always simple, do what needed to be done, no bullshit.

He liked to be in control of the situation and his brothers were all dealing with their own shit, it was a minefield. As capable as Andrew was, you’d seen him lead them more times than you can count, they are all adults who couldn’t be controlled.

He had clearly needed to control something tonight and you were happy to volunteer. 

“It wasn’t, handsome.” You smile up at him. “I liked it.” A shy laugh escapes you. “A lot.” 

“Sleep now.” He kisses your temple, playing with your hair. The mixture of alcohol and world altering sex had you falling asleep in record time but not before you heard Andrew whisper something. 

Something he’d never called you before.

You convinced yourself that it must have been a dream creeping into reality but you still smile when you hear it. 

“My angel.” 

Part Seven

You know, for what it's worth, your first day had started normal.

Chaotic, maybe— but normal.

You had no reason to think it wouldn't go by like any other.

Your attending, Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, was scheduled at a new hospital today. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center on the Fourth of July of all days. And at seven in the morning, you'd barely gotten down your iced coffee before you were being ushered into Trauma One for a left thoracotomy on a patient with a knife wound.

You followed them into the trauma bay, everyone getting prepared with surgical gowns, blue gloves snapping, masks pulled up over noses, the metal tray beside the bed already crowded with clamps and packs of gauze. In the middle of the room, the patient was being bagged through an airway, a nurse continuing chest compressions as his skin was slicked with sterile prep procedure, people moving around him like a choreographed dance. You watched from the edge, waiting for Dr. Al-Hashimi's command to join them.

You were grateful to see a few familiar faces. Dr. Samira Mohan, for one, who was calling for a chest tube while one of the nurses cut through the rest of the patient’s shirt. Dr. Mel King was there too, though she hadn't joined for the case. Both of them great doctors who had trained at the VA with you a few years ago. Different in their approaches, but just as good under pressure.

You'd known Baran for a long time now too. Before you'd even met Samira and Mel. You'd worked with her as a medical student doing your year abroad with Médecins Sans Frontières, knew her medical background with seizures—something that you kept secret through the years—even helped her for a few days at home after her laser ablation surgery.

You and Baran were tied at the hip. You knew her, and she knew you.

Which was partially why you were able to get the PD approval and would be spending the next three months following her around a very surly male attending's emergency department.

"Is the VA even a trauma center?"

You didn't like his tone.

You glanced over through your plastic surgical glasses. He was tall, older and bearded, his arms crossed over his chest, standing at the edge of the hospital bed trying not to take as much space as he did. Robby, you remembered. Dr. Robinavitch. One of the residents—a blond-haired doctor named Whitaker—had told you he would grow on you, that he really was a great attending.

You didn't doubt it. You'd known enough great doctors to also know they could still be complete assholes too. Even on their good days.

"We took walk-ins." you said curtly.

Baran tried to hide her smile. Robby’s eyes moved to you, held there for a second, then he nodded.

"We had falls, major MVCs, GSWs." she added with a much more polite tone than you had managed.

You listened to Dr. Whitaker on your left, asking the medical students questions about the procedure, differentials. Things you knew the answers to, the words sitting right there on the tip of your tongue, but you bit them back.

Teaching hospital, you reminded yourself. More specifically, someone else's teaching hospital.

"Javadi, Whitaker, glove up." Robby said to your left.

"You too." Baran said beside you. "Start on internal compressions."

Robby looked over. "I'd rather my—"

"—she is capable." Baran cut in gently. "And a good listener."

She nodded at you, jerking her chin up. "Go on."

You obeyed, grabbing your gloves from the boxes on the wall, the latex snapping at your wrists. A nurse slid the white surgical covering over your shoulders and tied it behind your back, the paper stiff against your neck. Everything smelled like betadine, blood, and plastic tubing.

The other residents began moving around, making room for the other two that crowded the table. You stepped in close, your toe brushing someone else's as you found a place near the open chest.

"Well hello to you too." one of them said, a woman to your left, her eyes narrowed, but even with the surgical goggles and mask, you could've sworn you saw a smile.

You only looked at her, squeezing yourself past, your shoulder sliding against her chest accidentally.

"Take me to dinner first, would ya?" she teased.

"Yolanda Garcia has trouble expressing her feelings," you heard Dr. Robby say to Baran across the room.

"I sure will miss you, rabbit-bitch," she called a little too loudly in your ear to him.

You saw him and Baran step closer, the two of them side by side at the foot of the bed. Not together, exactly. More like two people standing on the same square of floor and refusing to give any of it up, leaning in and almost hitting heads as they tried to look at what was going on.

There was a lot of talking around you. Samira's phone kept going off, Garcia was opening the chest cavity, her gloved fingers moving quickly through blood and tissue, clearly an OR fellow with many, many hours on the table. Whitaker was trying to explain to the medical students what was going on, his voice steady enough, though you could hear him working to keep it that way.

"No tamponade, pretty dry in here—" Garcia said quickly, looking in. "Heart's empty. Somebody start cardiac massage."

"On it, excuse me." you said, a little more forcefully as you stepped into the space between Garcia and a nurse. There was a half-second where the room narrowed to the patient’s open chest and your own hands. You placed them carefully, exactly where they needed to be, fingers closing around the heart. It was smaller than people thought. Slick, warm, a living muscle that didn't care how many times you had practiced this in simulation. A life.

You began compressions.

One squeeze. Release. One squeeze. Release.

"Okay team, I think—" Baran began, but Robby cut her off.

"Samira?" he called, "Next steps?"

Keep transfusing. Open the right chest. Find the source. Move before he runs out of time.

There would be a lot of blood.

The blood started pouring out, pouring and pouring. Thick and red under the lights, running off the drape, splashing down into the basin below and onto the floor. Your fingers kept moving around the heart. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Your forearms began to burn beneath the gown.

"There's too much blood to suction—" Javadi said, panic rising in her voice.

Where was all of this blood coming from?

"Can't locate the source—" Garcia murmured, looking into the chest cavity.

"We need to convert to a clamshell." you said, looking up at Baran, then to Robby.

He nodded, "Exactly."

"Trauma sheers." you called at the same time as Garcia.

"Jinx, now you owe me a drink with dinner." she teased.

Someone handed them over before you could even think of a retort, not that you had one. Your brain had narrowed to the heart in your hands. The life you held there, retaining it, forcing it to continue. The metal flashed in the light before Garcia took them, cutting through the chest, opening it wider. The room shifted around the decision, everyone making space for the next problem.

More talking around you, more hands moving, more suction. Someone called for more units of blood, a second MTP. You kept your hands where they were, the heart softening and filling by turns beneath your palms, never enough to make you comfortable.

"Still bleeding like a stuck pig!" Garcia called after clamping.

You did have one idea—one thing you could do to stop this. Something that could buy the patient enough time to get upstairs. But you knew Baran wasn't exactly keen on risky procedures done because the room had gotten desperate. Better to rush to the OR in her mind. Better to control what could be controlled, to keep the steps precise, to not make a bad situation worse with a move that could tear the lung off its root if done wrong.

But Robby seemed to have the same thing in mind.

"Hilum flip. Rotate the lung one-eighty degrees."

"Like putting a kink in the garden hose." you whispered to yourself.

Everyone looked at him like he was insane, but you knew there was no time to waste.

"Gently. Very, very slow." he said, his eyes on you and nodding. "Whitaker, take over compressions."

Letting go of the heart when Whitaker's hand found yours, you reached for the lung, then looked up at Dr. Robby again.

You glanced at Baran too. Her eyes were wide behind her shield. "He could die if you rip his lung off the hilum." she said.

"I won't."

You sucked in a shaky breath, nodding, and then looked back at Robby.

You looked down and—

—slowly, slowly, you turned the lung.

There were so many bloody gloved hands tucking and moving around you, Whitaker's breath heavy beside you where he'd taken the heart from your hand a moment ago. Your fingers adjusted by tiny degrees, careful around the slick weight of the organ, your wrists stiff with restraint. The room felt close behind your mask. You held your breath for a moment, feeling Dr. Robby's eyes on you. Dr. Al-Hashimi's too.

Then Javadi called, "Blood loss slowing down!"

The words moved through the room like someone had opened a door. You let out a long breath of relief.

"Okay, we fixed the leak. Now we need to refill." Robby said, standing straighter, relief dropping his shoulders too.

You pulled away from the patient, letting Garcia take your place again, Whitaker standing tall and glancing at you with an impressed gaze. You didn't look at him for long, eyes back to the patient, to the monitor, to the line of numbers that suddenly mattered more than what anyone in the room thought of you.

Once normal sinus rhythm came back, you moved to stand back beside Baran. You hadn't realized how hard you'd been clenching your jaw until it loosened.

"Hell of a way to start the day." Robby said, disrobing the white sterile surgical covering. Baran followed suit, and you did the same, peeling the gown from your sleeves and dropping it into the bin. Your gloves were dark with blood, forearms aching.

"Unconventional. But a decent outcome." Baran agreed, every consonance perfectly crisp on her tongue.

All three of you left the bay, the noise of the monitor and raised voices disappearing with a swish of the doors closing behind you.

"Why don't we split up?" Robby said. "For efficiency."

"We can certainly discuss that." Baran answered with a smile. "I'll find you in a minute. I need to speak to my resident."

Robby made a face, but nodded. "Good job back there." he said shortly to you.

You gave him a polite smile, then threw your surgical glasses down into a bin.

Baran came in front of you, watching the attending walk away.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The bay was still noisy behind you, people cleaning, counting, calling upstairs, stripping the room down so it could become useful again now that the patient was stable enough for surgery.

"I'm sorry… for… undermining your authority in the room." you said with a sigh. "I'd thought of it before he even said anything about the flip, I felt confident enough to—but I should've asked—"

"I have always said I admire your confidence, doctor." she said gently when she turned back to you. "Just remember, you have nothing to prove to them. Or to me. I know your work."

"But they don't."

"No," she said, and smiled, chin tipping up in pride. "But they will."

You looked down for a second, trying to breathe around the adrenaline still crawling under your skin.

"Go check your other patients," she said. "And I expect to hear some updates. And…excellent work. You saved the patient's life."

You nodded, sucking in a big breath before turning and going back to your charts.

A couple hours passed in much easier quiet—though you'd never say the Q word out loud. You hadn't worked in many emergency departments, but you knew better than that in any hospital setting.

Quiet wasn't really quiet anyway. There were still labs to chase, discharge papers to fix, scans to check, patients waiting to go upstairs and heart rate monitors beeping.

Your own patients were doing fine. A few waiting on labs, one getting ready for discharge, one still up at CT. Baran had sent you through triage for a while too, helping clear out the lower acuity cases before they stacked up. It was steady, easy work. It kept you out of the way, too.

You were just making your way across the emergency department when you saw the most peculiar thing. An entire SWAT team was rushing in beside a bed, one of their members holding a breathing bag up, cursing and calling out the trauma.

"intubated neck wound—stats not great. Is there a trauma room open?!"

You ran towards the voice, listening to the story.

Dr. Robby blocked your view as he ran toward the incoming trauma as well, already cutting toward the bay, calling out orders to his residents and students.

You heard something about a high-velocity gunshot wound, the bagging not working on him. Warehouse robbery gone sideways. That piqued your interest, a flicker of memory tugging at your brain, making you smile a little as you pushed the trauma doors open.

They were putting him on the table as you pulled on a surgical gown again, blue gloves and glasses going on quickly. Your heart rate was climbing, eyes wide as you took in the victim. His shirt had already been cut open, blood running out of his mouth, over his neck, soaking into the collar bunched beneath his shoulders. Someone was calling for suction, another trying to get a pressure. The other SWAT team members filed out of the room, making space. But still one of them stayed.

"Thought you left us for the open road—" the remaining team member said from the bed as the nurses got the patient hooked up to the heart rate machine.

You couldn't quite place why his voice sounded so familiar.

"And miss seeing you in uniform?" Robby shot back as he rushed beside the bed.

"Should've seen me as a flight attendant." the other man whispered.

You had half a mind to laugh as you pushed forward toward the patient, not looking up. You moved to the side of the bed instead, checking the tube, the blood around his mouth, the barely there rise of his chest beneath the bagging. Not enough movement on the left. The wound at his neck was still pooling blood and soaking the gauze someone had pressed there, bright blood slipping between gloved fingers and down into the sheet.

"You do this intubation?" Robby asked the man.

Why was this SWAT member still here?

You needed room to work, to get closer to the patient. You stood across from the uniformed man, not bothering to look up as you reached for the suction tubing and cleared blood from the corner of the patient’s mouth. You wished he'd leave so you could see clearer around all the nurses and students, wished his vest and elbows and radio weren't taking up so much of the narrow space by the head of the bed.

"Under active fire, yeah."

Your eyes flitted up to him.

Only for a second, or what you meant to only be a second, to see if he was serious.

But for that second, your brain did something very strange.

For the first time in 7 years, you were looking at Andrew Cody.

But… not Andrew.

Andrew wasn't here. Andrew was… he was…

He was dead.

As the man turned to glance over his shoulder, it was Andrew's hair you were looking at. Graying now, still curly. The freckles on the nape of his neck you used to trace like constellations.

Your hand stayed on the suction tubing, but the room had slipped somewhere far away from you. Voices kept moving around the bed, Santos, Robby, Garcia— all of them thinned out beneath the monitor and the hard thump of your pulse in your ears.

The SWAT member was still turned slightly, glancing back at the bullet graze across his left shoulder. The fabric there was torn, dark with a splotch of blood. He looked at it like it was nothing.

He was saying something, but it joined with the rest of the voices around you—muffled in your buzzing ears. You heard something about the SATs going down, about causes of respiratory failure in intubated patients. Things you'd have answers to if you weren't looking at your dead ex boyfriend.

And he looked back at you.

It felt like someone had taken you by the shoulders and plunged you underwater.

But this man was Andrew. Older, for sure. Older than time would've allowed in those 7 years anyway. There were marks of it around his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the heavier shape of his shoulders beneath the tactical vest. But those were Andrew's eyes. Those were his lips—lips you knew, lips you'd kissed, lips that whispered secrets in the dark, lips that had curled back and bared at you the last time you spoke.

You heard the talking around you, but you were frozen. Completely frozen as he smiled at you—this SWAT member, this stranger who wasn't a stranger. Your brain was trying to catch up to the uncanny likeness.

You wanted to cry. You felt like you might faint.

You opened your mouth, lips dry, voice tight, and said:

"Pope?"

seven and a half years earlier

"I'm nervous."

It was dark—sometime around two or three, you thought. The only time Andrew could sneak in through your window without your parents hearing the latch of the gate, the scuff of his boots on the siding, the soft creak of your floorboards when he walked across the room to sit beside you on the bed. You hadn't turned on the light, maybe some part of you thought if you did it would all be too good to be true.

"Me too."

"What do you have to be nervous for?" you breathed a little laugh that felt stale in the darkness, your hands a little shaky around the envelope.

You felt the thick sleeve of his jacket rise and fall as he shrugged, "Dunno."

He was sitting very close, his right shoulder tucked behind your left, his palm flat on the bed behind you as he leaned into you until his chest pressed against your shoulder. His jacket was rough against your skin, still cold from outside, but underneath it he was warm, the heat of him coming through by degrees.

You sucked in a shaky breath, "Big envelope usually means good news, right? Right?"

"I have no idea."

"You're so helpful."

"M'here, aren't I?"

You nodded, and then realized he might not be able to see it. "Yeah."

Shifting the envelope in your lap, you turned it over, then back again. The seal caught a thin line of moonlight from the window, your name looking so neat on the front, printed by someone who had never met you. Someone who didn’t know about the hours spent at Smurf’s kitchen table filling out applications beside J, or Andrew grabbing cash from a rubber-banded stack in his glove compartment to pay for the application. You hadn’t asked where it came from, though you'd already had a good idea.

"Are you gonna open it?" he asked.

"I'm scared."

"Do you want me to open it for you?"

You shook your head, "No, no. It's okay."

"So…"

"It's just that… my whole world is in this envelope right now." you said quickly. Admitting it felt surreal, it gave weight to the paper in your hands. You let your fingers trace over the parchment, the white address sticker peeling up a little as you picked at it. It felt as if maybe it would come up, and someone else's name would be under it. Like it wasn't meant for you after all.

He stayed quiet, waiting for you to go on.

"If this letter says I didn't get in… I don't know what my life looks like. I mean, what would I do?"

"You can stay with me." he said softly, just breath against your jaw as he leaned into you. "We would figure something out."

You nodded. "I know. But… if it says I did get in…"

"It will."

You looked over at him. You could see the outline of his face, the barely there moonlight catching the pretty light in his eyes. You leaned in further, pressing your forehead to his temple, letting out a long sigh.

His skin was warm there. A little damp near his hairline from the hood of his jacket, from the climb, from the summer night still caught on him. Your grip shifted around the envelope, paper dragging against your cotton shorts. When you spoke again, it was hardly a whisper.

"How can you be so sure?"

He rolled his head against yours, gently, sucking in a breath with you before letting it out. The smell of pine soap and minty toothpaste moved over your face with it.

"Because this is what you're meant to do. I know it. I just do."

You licked your lips, smooth with your bedtime lotion and chapstick already applied, leaning into him a little more, pausing there. You felt close enough to feel his breath touch your mouth before either of you moved.

He closed the distance, gently pressing his mouth against yours, breathing you in through the kiss.

His hand found your face—rough palm, calloused fingers, the careful cup of his touch beneath your jaw. It always did something strange to you, how gentle he could be with hands that had evidence of so many split knuckles past. His thumb moved over your cheekbone, soothing.

When he pulled away, you almost followed.

His eyes moved over your face in the dark. Searching, maybe, or checking. He said he never had the right words for this sort of thing, not really, but you didn't need them. Because he looked at you like he was trying to make sure you were still there with him. And that was more than anyone else had ever offered.

His other hand came up, fingertips light as they cupped your skull, turning your face just enough for the moonlight to catch it. To one side, then the other. It should have made you laugh, the seriousness of it, the way he studied you so intensely.

Then he leaned in one more time, pressing a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose.

"Open it." he whispered.

You pulled in one last breath before sitting up straight, crinkling the corners of the manila envelope before flipping it over. You took your time, carefully unfolding the wire clasp, gently slipping your finger between the closure before the sound of tear of paper filled the room.

Pope's hand lifted from the bed behind you to wrap around your body, squeezing you close.

Slowly, you pulled a stack of papers out.

Your eyes immediately dropped to the first line below the greeting of the first page:

On behalf of the Committee on Admissions, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.

Even in the dark, there was no second guessing it. The words were there, black and perfect on the page, and your whole body seemed to understand them before your mind could.

Your vision narrowed, your world opened up, a future you had no idea how to take part in but knew you'd be there anyway. Something changing in your own chemical makeup, the feeling of Andrew's arm around you, squeezing you tighter, whispering something.

When you turned towards him, he was already looking at you—so close in the dark, eyes bright and mouth pulling wide like he couldn’t help it.

You smiled back, big and toothy and disbelieving, your throat burning as tears began to gather. The papers slipped from your hands and scattered to the floor as you threw your arms around him, pushing him back into the bedspread with a burst of hushed laughter.

now

"Pope?"

The man who looked like Andrew's lips pulled into a little smile, his head tilting at you, inquisitive.

"You know," he said, voice touched with amusement, "I never pay attention to that stuff. Can't even remember the guy’s name. He's from Chicago, right? I grew up Catholic, so really I should know."

You blinked.

"Dr. Abbot is an attending here," Robby said as he came up beside you, peeling back the soiled gauze around the patient’s throat and revealing the displaced trachea beneath.

You looked down at the patient again, and the transected trachea snapped you almost back to the present. Almost. Your hands were still shaking, your brain still scrambling to separate the man across from you from the dead one in your memory, but you had to get yourself together. The patient could die if you didn't focus.

"Baby—I need a baby—"

The SWAT member—Dr. Abbot, if you remembered right, looked at you a little funny. You shook your head sharply as if to dislodge your running thoughts and organize them with a quick jostle just as another resident moved in beside him with an air bag. The breathing tube was out now, the open wound exposed, blood spluttering from it.

"I mean, a neonatal mask. I need a neonatal mask! He's not getting any air."

You looked around, everyone was still looking at you a little weird, but Robby only nodded his head, agreeing. "Santos—go!"

"Neonatal?" she asked.

"YES!" you barked, and you were surprised to hear Robby's voice overlapping yours.

She was only gone for a moment, but it felt longer than it should have. Too many seconds with the monitor complaining, too many hands hovering over a body that had no usable airway.

The moment the mask hit your palm, you pressed it over the open wound, sealing it against his neck while someone squeezed the bag.

The monitor began to settle down to a steadier beat.

"Neo-natal mask is working," Dr. Abbot said, his voice lighter than before, almost impressed. Dr. Santos continued the EFAST while the patient was stable enough, and Abbot injected lidocaine with epi to help with the bleeders. Things felt almost normal again, or at least close enough to pause and figure out the rest.

You kept looking up at him though.

Not on purpose, and not for very long. Your eyes would lift, catch on the curve of his mouth or the set of his brow, and then you’d force them back to the patient, to the wound, to the monitor, to anything with a number attached to it. Your brain kept trying and failing to separate memory from present.

He and Robby were talking, discussing next steps around you.

"I could do a Shiley?" you offered.

"I don't like the curve of a Shiley." Dr. Abbot teased.

"Didn't know you were so picky," Robby answered. You almost had the nerve to smile.

This was turning into a very weird day.

When you looked back over to Dr. Abbot, he was looking at you. Your skin lifted in goosebumps.

"You must be Gloria's new hire," he murmured.

"One of them." you answered.

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes skating over your features. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Your presence didn’t seem to have the same effect. He was calm, collected, nothing like you felt.

Robby answered before he could say anything, "We were lucky enough to get two." he introduced you by name, then explained, "R3. "

He didn't sound like he felt very lucky, but you ignored that.

"Pleasure to meet you." Dr. Abbot said. You could swear there was a certain tone to his voice. Cheeky, almost. Your skin felt tingly.

Just then, you heard Baran's voice enter the room, "What is going on here? You have a field medic assisting?"

"Dr. Abbot is an attending and also a SWAT physician." Robby explained again to her.

"Transected trachea, we're working on an airway." you explained.

Dr. Abbot was moving in with his tube, explaining it to Dr. Santos, but Baran had shouldered her way between you and the resident.

"We can do this." she said stiffly.

"No, no," he said easily. "I got it. You must be Gloria's second hire. I'd shake your hand, but my tube is ready."

You felt your lips twitch in what could've been a smile if you didn't feel like you'd lost your breath entirely.

"Keep an eye on the SATs," she told you over her shoulder.

You backed away, holding your hands up to keep them from touching anything or anyone.

"What, you're gonna take away the only helpful person in the room?" Abbot asked as he inserted the tube into the retracted trachea while Robby pulled it up with forceps, Santos taking over on the air mask.

"Hey," Robby protested. "I'm the one holding this open for you."

Dr. Abbot smiled, focusing back on the patient, "I'm gonna sew this in, 2-0 silk, please?"

"End tidal, good wave form." you called out, eyes flitting from the attending to the screen.

Robby let out an impressed whistle from in front of you. "Not bad, Abbot."

You moved away, feeling a little hazy, like you were walking through water as you began stripping off your sterile surgical gear. You took in a few deep breaths, focusing on the movement. Glove off. Gown untied. Mask flicked off. Glasses lifted from your face. One thing, then the next.

But you couldn't help the way you kept wanting to look back at him.

It felt almost like you'd been transported. You weren't sure if it was back in time or forward, or to some strange parallel universe that had split open in the middle of Trauma One. Andrew Cody was standing in the room. Graying hair, stubble grown out, blood on the back of his SWAT uniform, his hands busy at a patient's throat.

Not Andrew—Dr. Abbot.

Your brain offered the correction, but it didn’t settle right.

He looked up as if you'd called his name. Those eyes followed you across the room, curious, wondering. It was the same steadiness that would study you from across the kitchen counter, the one that would sneak glances at you from the driver's seat of a car, beside you in your bed. Your stomach dipped as you remembered the last time you'd seen them.

You turned away, unconsciously reaching up to grasp the necklace that adorned your throat between your fingers as you pushed the doors open.

The ED had gotten busier than before, and you inhaled the hospital air steadily into your lungs as you looked around. Your hands still felt like they were trembling, all that adrenaline and unease working its way through your bloodstream. Epinephrine, norepinephrine, cortisol. You recited it just to have something you knew. Something that was real. Adrenal medulla. Sympathetic nervous system. Hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis.

Your body was doing exactly what it was built to do, flooding you with chemicals and tightening your muscles, preparing you for danger.

But instead of danger this time, it was a ghost.

Time passed strangely after that, in pieces easily measured. A CBC resulted. A urine sample collected. X-ray called to say they were ready for the wrist in triage. You'd gone back out there to let your thoughts collect, and maybe to avoid the main trauma center too.

Usually work helped. Even when you'd had bad days before, or days where you felt helpless and tired and worn out, the hours of helping other people could usually quiet whatever was wrong with you. There were orders to put in, pulses to check, nurses asking for discharge plans. There was always something that needed your hands more than your feelings did.

But now… this was different.

In every patient checked, every lab sent, you thought of Andrew Cody.

A broken wrist came in at some point, swollen at the joint and held tightly against the patient's chest, her fingers moving but stuff. Her skin was puffy where it began to swell by her apple watch she hadn't taken off. You touched two fingers to her radial pulse, asking her to wiggle her fingers, then pressed along the snuffbox until she hissed.

"Sorry," you'd murmured. You'd ordered the films and ordered a splint until ortho took a look at her, simple and easy enough.

Except as you were doing it, you felt twenty years old again in a sunken living room in Oceanside, Craig Cody's wrist tucked against his own lanky chest while Deran paced behind you, agitated and barefoot as he tried to call their doctor in Mexico.

Andrew had been standing stiffly behind your chair, one hand gripping the back of it so that when you sat up, his knuckles brushed the top of your spine.

You'd been googling how to make a splint for a broken bone while walking to the fridge for ice. You remembered Craig looking at you funny when you'd returned with one of Smurf's magazines from the bathroom and a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer, wrapping his arm with more confidence than you actually felt.

It had healed fine in the end.

Mostly.

There was a man with split knuckles from a bar fight. Typical day drinking incident for a city like this. But while you cleaned his wounds and bandaged his hand, you thought of Andrew's blood rinsing from his hands in your bathroom sink, quiet while you sat on the closed toilet seat with a towel in your lap. How he would never admit how badly it hurt. Or how badly he hadn't wanted to do it.

There was even a pair of twins, both with fevers. A boy and a girl, maybe four years old, sitting side by side while their mother tried to keep them from touching every surface in the room. They had the same flushed cheeks, the same damp hair at their temples, the same tired little lean toward each other whenever one of them started to cry.

You hadn't known Andrew that young. You hadn't even been alive. But seeing them staring up at you with those big fever-bright eyes made you think of him anyway. Andrew and Julia. Inseparable, but both destined for a tragic end.

You checked their ears, listened to their lungs, pressed gently under their jaws while they blinked up at you. Viral, probably. Nothing too bad. Tylenol, fluids, return precautions. A normal childhood illness on a normal terrible day.

On your way back into the trauma center, you sent a little prayer up that the story of Andrew and Julia would never happen to them.

By the time you made it back to your workstation that had you seated around the edges of the charge nurse area, you felt a little refreshed from your earlier encounter. You hadn't seen the SWAT member—or attending, or whatever his title really was—anywhere yet. That helped too.

You took your seat and pulled the keyboard closer, the plastic keys worn smooth under your fingertips as you brought up the charts that needed finishing. A coffee you'd grabbed on the way over sat beside the mouse, lid half off, the surface already cooling. You began finishing your charts, trying to keep your eyes on the screen and your thoughts inside the room you were in.

"You've been gone for a while."

You looked over your shoulder to see exactly who you'd expected: Baran, standing straight, looking over your shoulder, her perfume faint against the hospital smell.

"Just making myself useful in triage, I guess." you said, looking back at the screen, but you felt her eyes on you anyway.

She let the silence sit there for a moment, the way she always did when she thought you might fill it if she waited long enough. You didn't. You clicked into the next chart and pretended the cursor needed all your attention.

Finally, she sighed.

"Are you ever going to give my generative AI a chance? You could be seeing other patients right now. You could be enjoying a small break in the lounge."

You huffed a little laugh. "When I'm ready to wipe out all the wildlife for data centers, I'll let you know."

She shook her head, a little pressed smile catching at the corner of her mouth. And then, after a moment, she said: "You've been avoiding me."

You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Damn her for being so observant. It made her a great doctor. It also made her an annoyingly keen boss. And a wonderful friend.

You turned on the rolling stool.

"I"m sorry. It's…"

"Did you know him from somewhere?"

Your eyes widened, heart dropping. Feigning ignorance, you asked: "Who?"

"The patient," she said, watching your face. "The one with the transected trachea. He's in surgery right now. I can call for an update if you'd like."

You let out your breath quickly, almost too quickly. "Oh. No, no. I didn't."

Her eyes narrowed a little, that brown gaze searching your face with a steadiness you had watched study patients, consultants, nervous interns, men who thought they could talk over her.

"Okay." she said.

You could hear the tone of disbelief under it, the things she wanted to say but wouldn't.

Clicking your tongue softly against your teeth, you looked down at your lap, at your hands folded there, at the faint red mark across the back of one finger from where one of the twins had held onto you tightly as you took their blood.

"Well…" she continued. "I trust if it's something that needs discussing, you would—"

"—Yes, yes, I promise." You looked back up at her. "I just… I needed to clear my head. I'm good. I'm back."

Baran held your gaze.

It wasn't like a typical attending, not harsh or deciding whether you were fit for work. More like Baran the friend, the one who had once shared a bowl of popcorn and Raisinets on her couch with you as you watched Love Island after her surgery. She knew what you looked like when you were lying. She knew what you looked like when you were telling only half a truth too.

"Okay." she said at last, a smile twitching back to her lips. "You can help me with a middle-aged woman with sudden-onset blindness. Mel is heading up for her deposition soon, and I need someone in there to observe."

"Sure, yeah." You nodded, turning back toward your chart before she could keep looking at you. "Give me a few minutes to finish this, and I'll be over."

She tapped two fingers against the counter beside you, then walked away. "Room 15."

You watched her reflection move across the dark edge of your computer screen before you started typing again.

The words came slower than they should have, and eventually you gave into the notion that you'd probably be spending an hour after your shift catching up, just like the rest of the residents anyway.

You closed out of the charts, and headed over.

Only, halfway across the department, you realized Baran hadn't said where the patient was. Room 15, yeah. But there were 3 different fifteens in this god damn maze. North, South, Central…

You slowed near the charge board, coffee still in your hand, eyes scanning the names too quickly to make sense of them. Looking for anything resembling blindness or vision loss, neuro, consult pending. You found none of it fast enough. You felt the department going on around you, noisy and distracting.

You gave up and walked a few steps away, looking around the different doors, and just decided you'd try all three.

Central Fifteen was closest, and the curtain was pulled all the way across, so you approached, trying to plaster on your best bedside smile.

You pulled it open.

The sight inside hit you so fast you gasped, nearly dropping your coffee as your other hand tightened around the curtain, wrenching it closed again.

Your heart felt like it had catapulted into your throat, your stomach falling the opposite way onto the floor.

Not Andrew, not Andrew, not Andrew, you kept chanting it as you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your breath in and out of your lungs.

"You… can come in." the voice said from the bed. It was low and careful and quiet, startled too. His hazel eyes had been wide, flickering up when you'd scared him too. Those broad shoulders bare, thick muscled chest plain as day with his shirt in his hands.

You sucked in another breath and opened it slowly this time to see Dr. Jack Abott sat on the exam bed before you.

seven and a half years earlier

You weren't sure what had gotten into Andrew that day.

It had been a sunny Friday afternoon, the place already loud with music and vices carrying throughout the house. Andrew had asked you to come, and he'd sounded so serious over the phone you hadn't even hesitated.

But now he'd locked you out of his room.

At first you weren't sure if it was just because he needed a minute, or he was messing with you. But Andrew didn't mess with you like Craig or Deran did. He didn't tease just to tease or make you chase him around for the fun of it. If Andrew was making something difficult, there was usually a reason.

You knocked on the door softly at first, a gentle little C'mon, Andy, open up, before you'd started really knocking, practically shouting for him to answer you. The house went on behind you, the day drinkers enjoying summer out by the pool, drinks being poured in the kitchen, a game of kings in the living room. Music carried all through the house. It was why you'd thought maybe he'd just been overwhelmed. Usually an hour or so into a party, the both of you would retreat to the company of only each other in a quiet room.

You leaned your head against the wooden door, and listened.

He was pacing. You could hear him mumbling to himself too, what it was he was saying, you had no clue.

What was his problem?

You were lifting your head from the door, about to go join the party outside when suddenly the bedroom opened up.

"What the hell, Andr—ah!"

You squealed as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you inside roughly. Then, just as abruptly, he stood away from you, breathing hard, eyes moving over the bed, the nightstand, the floor by his shoes, anywhere but directly at your face.

"Sit." he said simply, pointing to the bed.

"What the hell is going on with you?" you snapped, folding your arms over your chest.

He was doing that thing—the puppy dog eyes, rubbing of his palms together, the eye contact flitting around to anywhere but you. It would have been irritating if it didn't make your stomach twist. You knew him angry, you knew him quiet. And you knew this version too—nervous, child-like.

Andrew could scare other people with all his silences and hard staring, but you knew the difference. This wasn’t anger. This was him getting stuck somewhere in his head, turning a thought over and over until it wore a groove.

"Hey…" you said, and then again, softer: "Hey."

He looked up at you. His big hazel eyes were wide in the afternoon light that came through the bedroom window, softened and yellow by the drapes.

"What's going on?" you murmured, stepping closer and reaching out to take the sides of his hoodie in your hands, fisting the fabric so you could pull him closer.

The fabric was warm under your fingers, the pocket stretched out where he always hooked his thumb. You could feel his breath move through him, uneven under the cotton. He stared at your hands.

"Andy…" you said, quieter.

His eyes flicked to the bed.

"Sit."

You sighed, let go of him, and obliged.

You bounced a little as you landed on the mattress, his unease making you fidget. You could smell the detergent from the perfectly made bedspread, the old wood of the house, the smell of your sunscreen wafting around you.

"You're making me nervous." you murmured.

His eyes finally landed on you and stayed there, "M'sorry. I'm sorry."

He sounded so genuine as he sat beside you finally, the mattress dipping under his weight. His knee brushed yours before he pulled it back, and his hand flattened over the seam of his jeans. You watched his thumb press into the denim, rubbing at the same spot, the skin around his nail going pale.

"Just…tell me what's goin' on." you said, laying your hand gently over his.

He was fidgeting too, pursing his lips, his eyes down turned again. Then he leaned toward his bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a leather pouch. There was a gold cord wrapped tightly around it, leather softened and expensive. He held it out while not even looking at you, taking in a long shaky breath.

You took it carefully, setting it in your lap with two hands. "What's this?"

He didn't answer.

"Andy—"

"It's nothin'." His eyes stayed on the floor. "Just—well, not nothing."

"If this is what I think, I can't accept."

"Yes, you can."

You rolled your eyes.

He leveled his gaze very seriously on you, his brow set, his hands suddenly still. "Will you just open it?"

You looked at him for a long moment, and then sighed. Fighting him was futile when he had something on his mind.

You looked back down at the leather pouch and untied the gold cord. The knot had been pulled tight, and it took you a second to work it loose with your nail before you unfolded the worn pieces of leather.

Something glittered beneath.

"Oh—" you gasped.

Inside was a diamond necklace.

A white-gold chain connecting to a bejeweled bail that held two small circles stacked above an oval stone, the whole pendant ringed in more diamonds, so bright that it threw little cuts of light across the inside of the pouch.

You were almost certain it was worth more than anything you had ever owned.

You looked up at him. "Andy…"

His jaw shifted, but he was looking at you differently now—those big hazel eyes stayed on you, waiting, nervous, still, but changed with a softness that often was reserved for only you.

"I wanted to get you something," he said, voice low, "for getting into the program. Do you like it?"

"Andy, I can't accept this—"

"Yes you can." he corrected. His tone was soft, hoarse like he was telling you a secret instead of trying to hand you what had to be a five-figure diamond necklace. You wondered if his brothers knew what you were given. If Smurf had any say.

"Wh—why are you even giving me this? Aren't the cops gonna be looking for it?"

He tilted his head at you and whispered, "Don't worry about that stuff. I'll handle it."

You shook your head in disbelief, fingers toying with the white gold chain in your lap. For a moment, you didn't know what to do about him. About his kindness, his generosity, the over-the-top gestures he often made without understanding they were over-the-top at all. To him, it was direct. You loved someone, so you gave. You celebrated.

You loved him for it, for him wanting to give so much. The way he made sure you understood how much you meant to him, never questioning or second guessing.

Still, you wondered if he'd taken it from under his family's noses when they weren't looking. You were almost certain you knew the job it came from, too. The mansion you'd visited under the guise of a decorating crew with a little black dress on, hair pinned and proper, clipboard to your chest while you smiled at a woman who had no idea you were memorizing the hallway behind her.

"We could've gone out for a drink to celebrate!" you said under your breath, though it wasn't mean.

He shook his head. "You worked hard to get in. You deserve more than a round of shots at Deran's shitty bar."

You stared at the necklace. He whispered your name, and you looked up.

He leaned in closer, making sure you heard every word as he said, "You deserve to be celebrated."

You pressed your lips together, your eyes moving over his face—the freckles across his nose, the little scars near his brow, the old nick at his cheek you still remembered touching the first week you knew him. You'd never seen someone flinch like that before. You thought of how he hasn't flinched from your touch in years now. It makes your chest warm as you look at his cheekbones. They were sharper than they had been a month ago, his eyes darker underneath, like he hadn’t been sleeping well.

"Do you like it?" he asked again, quieter this time, his voice losing some of its edge.

You let out a breath, smiling despite yourself. "Yes."

His shoulders eased, a small shift under his hoodie, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. Then, he smiled. Small, almost hidden at first, just the corner of his mouth lifting. And then his whole face split, his cute toothy grin, dispelling all the tension in his muscles. Your own smile grew before you could stop it.

"You do?" he asked.

"Of course I do."

He leaned in slowly, as if unsure if you'd pull away (you never, ever did) and kissed you gently. His mouth was warm against yours, chapped where he'd been most likely biting at it all day before you got to the house. You held the kiss, lips slotting together, and his hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, keeping you close.

Your tongue dipped out to trace the underside of his top lip, and he opened for you, eager enough that your breath caught. His tongue slid against yours, and the kiss deepened, both of you breathing heavier as your hand moved up his chest and around his neck, fingers curling into the brown hair at his nape.

Before you could get as carried away as you wanted, he pulled back. Neither of you let go. His forehead nearly touched yours, his hand still at your face, your fingers still in his hair, both of you panting into the small space between your mouths.

"Let me put it on you." he said.

You smiled a little, leaning forward to push your forehead into his before giving in, "Fine, okay, yeah."

He straightened with the necklace in his hands, the chain flashing between his fingers before he stood and crossed to the dresser. You followed him, still breathless from the kiss, the leather pouch left open on the rumpled bed behind you.

The mirror leaned against the wall by the window, catching the softened sunlight through the curtains and spilling it warm across your face, your neck, the front of your shirt. Andrew came in behind you in the reflection, shoulders broad around yours, head bent as he lifted the necklace.

His fingers brushed your skin as he worked the clasp, so careful that you barely felt them. The chain settled cool against your neck, and the pendant rested heavy at the base of your throat, glittering in the mirror each time you breathed.

Andrew leaned into you from behind, his chin hooking over your shoulder. "There." he murmured.

It was beautiful, you had to admit. Glittering in the golden warm light.

"It's perfect, Andy." you murmured.

"You're perfect." he whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

Heat rushed to your face, and you lifted a hand over your shoulder, pushing your fingers back through his hair as his arms wrapped around your middle. His mouth stayed at your neck, kisses soft at first, then heavier, his teeth catching lightly at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

"Want you to wear it," he said between little nips. "Nothing else."

"Oh, yeah?" you giggled.

"Mhm," he hummed.

He turned you around in his arms and kissed you harder, one hand going to your hair, the other low at your waist as he walked you backward toward the bed.

now

He even had the same freckles.

There was a mole on his right pec, and your eyes dropped to it before you could stop them. Andrew had one there too. You used to kiss it when he'd lead you to bed, when he'd let you kiss all his marks—scars, moles, freckles, the places violence had touched him and the places he’d simply been born with.

You blinked hard and made yourself look away.

This wasn't Pope. It wasn't Andrew.

It was strange, seeing a body you knew so well shaped by time and some other life. There was a time Andrew had started boxing because he thought it would help get out his worst thoughts, and for a while, it had. He’d built himself for muscle and strength, for something to do with his hands besides hurt people, or himself, or anyone who got too close on the wrong day. Even after he quit, he kept the shape of it, strong through the shoulders, leaner when he forgot to eat, his body always carrying whatever his mouth couldn't say.

Jack Abbot seemed similar, though broader now, thicker through the chest and middle, less carved by violence and more by age, work, routine. The same kind of body built to carry too much. The same kind of shoulders that looked like they were holding a door shut from the inside.

You wondered if he was trying to outrun scary thoughts too.

"I'm… sorry." you said, breath uneven as your eyes went back up to his face.

There, some of the freckles were different. Less sun maybe, no California sunshine out here in Pennsylvania, no Oceanside glare to leave burns on the skin year round. But still. There were too many similarities, the kind your brain kept trying to make sense of and failing. Your blood thrummed in your ears again, warm and rushing.

"I was just… looking for a patient."

Jack looked at you funny again, his eyes scanning you, trying to read the messy thoughts behind your eyes, you figured. You probably looked insane.

"It's okay."

"Are you okay?" you asked, jutting your chin up toward his shoulder. Focusing on something you could see, understand.

He glanced back at it as he opened the kit on the medical tray in front of him. "Yeah, bullet just grazed me."

"Jesus."

"S'nothin'." He picked through the supplies with one hand, tearing open a packet with his teeth before thinking better of it and using his fingers. "Geniuses thought it was a good day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how much time it would take to load everything up."

You nodded, your throat beginning to burn. You wondered who the kids were, if they were another crew like the Codys had been, sitting around a kitchen table with beer bottles and a map, thinking through cameras, doors, exits, timing. Or if they were idiots with guns and no plan, chasing the rush before they’d learned how much a bad one could cost.

"Did… you catch them?"

"Yep."

You huffed a little laugh despite yourself. "Well… I should probably—"

But when you looked up, he was trying in vain to reach the wound, his shoulder rolling forward, arm lifted awkwardly behind his head. The graze sat high along the back of his right shoulder, too far around for him to clean well. He tried anyway, jaw set, antiseptic swab pinched between two fingers, his back arching a little to reach.

Your mouth was opening before your brain could stop you, "Give me that."

"I'm fine."

"I'll start your chart, then."

"No, no. Don't need the paperwork."

You held out your hand, "Our little secret then?"

He looked up at you, stalling, those hazel eyes searching your face again. So familiar, so steady. Your hand stayed out between you.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Goosebumps rose along your skin. You gave him your name.

"No, I mean…" his eyes narrowed, but he shook his head, sighing.

He handed over the Qtip with the antiseptic.

"Promise I won't tell." you said gently, stepping around him.

"Better not." he huffed with a half smirk.

You moved behind him and set the supplies in order on the exam bed: saline flushes, gauze, chlorhexidine swabs, a small packet of bacitracin, nonadherent dressing, tape. This would help. It had to. Simple stuff, cleaning a wound, knowing the steps. Just doing the work. The exam light above him hummed softly, casting a flat white square over his shoulder and the metal tray.

Both of you were quiet, but you saw his eyes slide around to you every once in a while.

You started with saline, flushing the graze from the cleanest edge outward, watching diluted blood run over his shoulder blade and into the gauze you had tucked beneath it. The wound was shallow, ugly more than dangerous, a raw red track through skin with darker bruising already starting around it. No embedded fragments that you could see. No active bleeding beyond the surface ooze. You wiped the skin around it with gauze, then cleaned wider with chlorhexidine, careful to keep most of it around the wound instead of scrubbing straight into the open line.

You hadn't realized you'd begun to cry until Jack turned his head over his shoulder, his brows drawing together.

"Hey," he said, quieter now. "What happened?"

You shook your head, trying to swallow the burn in your throat as the sting in your eyes flooded down your face with tears. "Sorry—I'm sorry."

You took the nonadherent pad from the tray, too quick, grateful for something to do. Your fingers pressed the dressing into place over the graze, then layered folded gauze over it for a little pressure. All you could think about was a familiar freckled shoulder. A familiarly thick neck with the same curls at the name. The man you loved turning his head in your bathroom to tell you a job had gone bad like he was telling you dinner ran late. Blood on the sink. Blood under your nails. His face pale, and you had felt scared enough for both of you.

"Who…" Jack Abbot began, but bit his lip, and you saw the infinitesimal shake of his head, before he was looking up at you, and trying again. "You lost someone."

Your eyes found his, and held your breath.

He nodded, "I know that look."

You wiped your cheek with the heel of your palm, then reached for the adhesive. Jack tore off two strips for you and handed them back without looking away.

"I'm fine." you said. "It's nothing."

He sighed, hands coming together in his lap, and you saw him twist the gunmetal wedding ring on his left hand.

"I lost my wife," he said after a moment. "A few years ago."

You stared at the side of his face. "I'm sorry." it's all you knew to say in that moment.

He nodded, eyes on his own hands. "Not a day goes by I don't think of her. But today…" He looked back at you, and you stood very still with the tape half-smoothed over his dressing. His eyes moved across your face, knowing and far away. "Today I saw you and it was like she was there. In the room."

You sucked in a little breath.

"I don't know why." His mouth pressed to one side. "I guess you—"

"— look like her?" you whispered.

He nodded.

You let out the breath you'd been holding in. You finished taping the dressing, smoothing the adhesive edges against clean skin because your hands still needed something to finish. The pad sat flat over the graze, the gauze beneath it catching what little blood was left.

"You… you look like my…" you weren't sure what to call him. An ex? Dead boyfriend? "Well. He… died, a long time ago." you went on anyway. "And when I saw you, it felt like…"

"… like you'd seen a ghost."

You looked back up at him with wet eyes, voice cracking, "Yeah."

For a second, neither of you moved, neither of you spole. The exam room felt small around the two of you, the curtain drawn tight, the overhead light buzzing, the metal tray with torn packets and pink-stained gauze piled on it. His shoulder was warm under your fingertips where you hadn't yet pulled away.

How could this be happening? You kept asking yourself over and over, but you couldn't understand the cosmic irony—the idea that somehow…somehow, Andrew had lived on. Maybe not in this timeline, but another. So that you would be here. Now. With Jack.

Out of all the lives you could have lived. Out of all the turns you could have missed and the ones you chose. Your parents and your childhood home. Andrew and all the ways he had been the sweetest soul you'd ever known and the most volatile man in any room. The acceptance letter. The way you'd wanted nothing more than to go but couldn't bear to leave and…the last time you saw him. And then, after years of hard work, of trying to forget, you met Baran overseas, half a world from Oceanside, pulling you into her orbit. Then to the city, to Pennsylvania. The VA. The PTMC on the Fourth of fucking July in the middle of humid Pittsburgh.

All of it. Every terrible, ordinary, impossible thing.

"You were so calm." you said quietly. "How were you so calm earlier? If you felt—"

He shrugged, and the dressing tugged a little at the movement. "I thrive under pressure, I guess."

"That explains the SWAT thing," you murmured.

"My therapist said I needed a hobby." he said dryly.

You stared at him for half a second before a smile caught your lips, as if a string was tied to the corner, pulling it up into your cheek.

"You were great today." he said softly, turning his face toward you so that even with his chin dipped, he could still look up at where you stood beside him.

"Thanks." you murmured.

"I can tell this is…" he paused, nodding a little, like he was feeling for the right words before they left him. "This is something you were meant to do."

You squeezed your eyes shut, your lungs hitching over what little breath you'd pulled in.

It was not only the words. It was the way he said them, low and careful with his eyes moving off yours right after, his top teeth catching his bottom lip, his hands rubbing together with the black shirt bunched between them. He looked so much like Andrew then that your chest went tight and your throat thickened.

You pressed your lips together, shutting your eyes against the threat of more tears, and nodded. You wanted to say something back, like thanks or you're not bad yourself!—but the words wouldn't come. They were stuck behind the lump in your throat, and you had to swallow them down before you choked on the grief.

You moved away from him to begin cleaning up the room, taking the trash from the metal tray, feeling his eyes follow you around in silence.

When all was done and cleaned up, he was standing back up with his shirt back on, his hands shoved in the tan camo cargos, shoulders straight.

"I should… go check on my patients." you said, reaching for the curtain. "Baran is probably waiting for me."

He nodded, fidgeting a little where he stood.

You pulled the curtain, but then heard him call your name.

His head was ducked again, eyes down at his boots, one thumb moving against the seam of his pocket. Then he stood straighter and looked at you.

"We should grab a drink sometime."

Your eyebrows shot up before threading together. "Like… swap war stories, or?"

"Or." he shrugged.

You licked your bottom lip haphazardly. You weren't sure what to say. It felt like a terrible idea. Giving in to whatever weird prank God was pulling on the two of you. A man who looked like Andrew asking you out in a curtained exam room with a bullet graze under his shirt. A man who had seen his dead wife in your face and still somehow looked at you like there might be something to do with that besides run.

"I don't know…"

"If it's too much, I understand." he said softly.

"It's just—" you paused, searching for the right words as you fisted the curtain beside you tighter, looking around like the answer was in the room, "s'kinda weird, right?"

"Very weird." he agreed. "But I see no reason why we shouldn't give in. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work."

You stared at him a long moment, before he was stepping forward, his voice low. You had to hold your breath.

"One drink." he murmured. "What're you doing after your shift?"

The three B's came to mind. Bath, Book, Bed, truthfully. Maybe crying in said bath if the day kept going the way it had been and falling asleep with wet hair and waking up with sore eyes tomorrow to whatever PTMC had waiting next.

"Nothing." you said instead.

His eyes moved between yours, then down to your mouth, to the necklace at your throat, then back up again. The diamonds sat heavy beneath your scrub collar, hidden from most people, except the chain had shifted at some point while you were dressing his wound. A little flash of white gold against hospital black scrubs.

"Aren't you just… a little curious?" he asked, barely above a whisper, "About what the fuck this all is?"

You couldn't help the little huff of laughter that escaped you. He smiled back, just a twitching of his lips.

"Okay." you said. "A little."

"Then meet me at Redbeard's." he said, tipping his head. Then, after a second, quieter, "Please."

You gnawed on your bottom lip, looking past the curtain into the ED. Dana was picking up the red landline again, her other hand already reaching for a pen. A tech pushed an empty stretcher toward the elevators, the wheels clicking over the seam in the floor. Across the hallway, Robby stood in front of Santos with a chart in his hand, listening with his head tipped down while she talked.

The whole department kept moving, loud and bright, as if nothing was amiss. As if your world wasn't folding over itself, different timelines coexisting together in this strange space where time and grief took no pity.

You let out a long sigh.

"Yeah," you said, bringing your hand up to clench around the diamonds of your necklace, "Yeah, okay. Fine."

He smiled a little wider, and looked out into the same sea of chaos as you. "Okay. Go. I'll see you tonight. Redbeard's."

You looked back at him and smiled a little. "See you."

Because when you looked at him, all you could see was Andrew’s face, open in that rare way he never let last long.

seven years earlier

The house already felt out of control when you arrived. The bass rattled through the open slider and the large floor to ceiling windows as you made your way through the sea of bodies in the kitchen, the floor wet under your bare feet where someone had spilled. Beer, maybe. Something sticky that pulled faintly at your skin with each step. You made your way to the fridge anyway, pulling out a beer, the cold neck of it relieving to the touch in your hand.

When you turned around, about to open it, you saw Andrew.

He was sitting on the couch in the living room, sitting up from his laid back position, his arm coming off the back of the couch to stand up. His attention had snapped to you too quickly, and you saw his face change. Confusion first, then relief, but then something much, much harder. Something that shut everything else down.

He was up and beside you in less than ten seconds. "Why are you here?"

You blinked, but turned to walk away. “Hi to you too.”

He reached out quickly, pulling you by the arm to turn towards him. You squeaked out a little hey!

“Why are you here?” The second time was lower, meaner, his head ducking as he said the words.

Your smile faltered a little, but you tried to pull it back. “It’s Craig’s birthday, isn’t it?”

“You’re supposed to be gone.”

You swallowed hard. Your bags were packed. Sitting in the trunk of your car. You'd meant to take the exit going east but… but you couldn't. So, you shrugged as averted your eyes from his, beer pressing coldly into your palm, condensation slicking against your fingers. “Yeah, well. I’m not.”

You could feel his piercing stare on you.

The party kept moving around you, but it felt farther away now, muffled under the rush of blood in your ears. People were shouting by the pool as usual, music blaring and scores being called as idiots jumped from the pool house roof into the water. You watched Deran do a backflip, the crashing of the water making you jump.

When you looked up at Andrew finally, you were surprised to see how uncertain he looked. You could see the thoughts moving through his brain, the cogs trying to make sense of why you were here, if he'd gotten something wrong. But you knew, and you knew he knew, that you should be crossing state lines by now. As if you'd said it out loud, face went hard and strange.

Blank, almost.

“So no med school.” he said darkly. It wasn't even a question.

You rolled your shoulders, trying to make it look easy. Trying to make any part of it feel easy. "No med school."

Andrew's eyes only narrowed more, his jaw tightening.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” you said. “I’ll tell them something came up. Or I’ll defer, maybe. People do that, right? They defer.”

His hands tightened into fists at his side, fingers curling in slow, controlled increments.

“It’s fine,” you said, talking faster now because he wasn’t saying anything, and the silence was getting worse the longer he held you under his stare, no matter how loud the house was around you. “I can work. I can help more. I already know half the shit you guys need before you even ask me. Have you talked to Deran about the mattress warehouse off the 23? Because I was thinking if you hit it before—”

And then he was reaching for you, a hand closed around your wrist, and he was moving.

You stumbled one step after him, your shoulders bumping into strangers. You didn't have time to apologize because he was pulling you so quickly, his broad back making a path ahead. You set your beer down to not add to the drinks already spilled on the floor, tugging at his strong hold.

"Andrew—"

He didn't answer, nor did he stop.

"Andrew, please—wait—" and then you saw he was bee lining for the back gate, and you dug your heels into the concrete of the pool deck, the rough edge of it catching under your flip flops as you tried to hold yourself in place.

He whirled around to glare at you, his grip tightening just enough to sear your skin. You had half a mind to be a little scared, but you just looked at him back with the same iciness, refusing to give him that.

"Stop, let's stay." you said, and then, a little softer, "Let's have a drink and go hide in your room."

His lip curled, and he was reaching out to grab you again, but you slipped free.

You ran back to slip into the house, to maybe weave through the crowd and lock yourself away, but he was on you when you met a road block of bodies, his arms going around your waist, locking in before you could twist away.

To anyone else, this probably looked normal. Playful roughhousing with one of the Cody boys and their girl. And besides, no one stopped Pope Cody when he was in the middle of something. No one even really questioned it.

He manhandled you into his arms, even as you squirmed, his hold already set, already decided.

"Andrew—get off!" you yelled, trying in vain to push him. "Get off!!"

But it was no use, he was breathing heavily, his eyes a mix of muddled color and pain, something too tight behind them, like he was making himself do this, no matter how badly he didn't want to be rough with you. His hands were so big, his muscles bigger, and in no time your gravity was being lurched off its axis, and you were being flung over his shoulder.

You slammed your fist into his lower back, his hand coming over the back of your thighs to stop your kicking.

“Put me down!” you shouted, hair falling into your face, blood rushing to your head. “Andrew Cody, put me down right now!”

“No.”

You shrieked in humiliation, in frustration, and he was walking out the back gate. He carried you across the driveway while you hit at him, furious, mortified, trying to twist enough to get a knee into his chest, his side, anything. Pavement blurred beneath you. The hood of your car flashed in the moonlight. He shifted you higher when you nearly slipped, palm pressing hard into the back of your thigh, his breathing heavy but controlled, like he had shut every other part of himself off except the part that knew how to move, how to get this done.

He came around to the front of the car, and opened the driver's side door.

Gravity whirled once again and the world tilted as he brought you back upright, only to push you off balance again and into the front seat.

"No!" you exclaimed, hands hooking at the door edge.

He didn't say anything, only was shoving your limbs into the seat, hands at your shoulders when you tried pushing back, firm, unyielding, not giving you an inch to work with.

"Andrew—stop!"

"No."

"Fuck—" you tried to push him away, "—off!"

You shoved at his chest and tried to duck under his arm, but he caught you again and again, both hands closing around the caps of your shoulders, pushing you down into the seat.

“You’re going.” he finally muttered.

“I’m not!” you spat back.

“You’re going.”

You wouldn't give in, twisting in the seat so your legs were half out the car door. Trying to stand again, he stepped between your knees, his body blocking the open space, boots planted in the ground, one hand catching both of your wrists when you swung at him.

“Andrew!”

“You’re going.”

The words came out of him like he had to force them through his teeth. Like it was all he could say.

“I want to be here!” you shouted. “Why is that so fucking hard for you to understand?”

His eyes burned into yours.

He didn't say anything else, the two of you a tangle of limbs until his hands snapped over the joints of your wrists, holding them tightly between you. You were heaving in breath, your muscles aching, the hair at your cheeks sticking to your face with what you realized then were tears.

“I love you.” you croaked.

He paused for a moment, looking down at you.

“I love you,” you said again, louder, like maybe if you said it hard enough he would stop looking at you like that. “I want to be with you. I want to live with you. I want to work with you. I want this.”

Your tears began to pour hot and fast, slipping down before you could do anything about them.

“Say it back,” you begged, trying in vain to push at his chest with the hands he held firmly in his grip.

He didn’t answer. But he'd had the worst frown on his face you'd ever seen. His eyes hard, brows drawn, as you begged—

“Say it, Andy.”

His mouth pressed into a line.

Your wrists twisted under his hand, but there was no real fight in it anymore. Your whole body had gone loose in pieces, anger draining out and leaving behind a panic so raw and ugly you felt almost humiliated.

“Tell me you love me,” you begged.

His face changed.

“Say it back.” you cried.

He looked down at his feet, his mouth twisting, his brows threading.

“No.” Your pleaded, hands trying to grip at him, but he held you too tightly. "No, look at me. Tell me you love me.”

He was breathing hard through his nose. His eyes were wet and mean with the effort of keeping it in, and that hurt worse than if he had screamed at you. You wished he'd just say something.

“Please,” you said again.

His hands dropped from your wrists as fast as if they'd been burned, and came to your face instead, both palms catching your cheeks, rough and too fast, his fingers curving harshly into your hair. He pulled your face up to look directly at him, his thumbs slipping through your tear tracks.

“Of course I love you,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Of course I do. What do you think this is?”

“Andy—”

“You have to go.” His voice split again, and he looked furious, whether it was at you or himself, you couldn't tell. But it was terrifying. The tears were beginning to blur your eyes. “You have to. You’re meant to do this. You’re meant to be a doctor. You’re not meant to be here with me and this—this shit.”

"I don't care—"

"You deserve a chance at a normal life." he said tightly, more a whisper than words. "I didn't. You have to go. You have to."

He stood there, shoulders rigid, mouth flat. It was his turn to beg.

“Please, sweetheart. You have to."

You threw him off of you, shoving him away, and he let go this time. You reached for the keys where he had thrown them into the cupholder at some point. You didn’t remember him doing it. You didn’t remember anything except his face, his hands, the sound of his voice telling you no.

You slammed the door and put the car in reverse with your whole body shaking, not looking at him. The tires screeched as he stayed where he was, his chest heaving as he watched you, his face crumbling entirely.

At the end of the driveway, you took one final look back in your rearview mirror.

You could just make out the tears falling down his face, his hands in his hair, elbows flared. Panic there, in his eyes. But relief too.

Relief in watching you leave.

now

Redbeard's was a dingy thing in downtown, thankfully close to your apartment, though you didn't even stop home. As badly as you wanted—hell, needed— to wash off the day, you knew once you made it through the door the fear would keep you from walking out again. And you hadn't gotten Jack's number. Picturing him waiting alone at the bar… on his only night off… you couldn't do it. To him, to you…to Andrew.

You found him outside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone close to his face as he read something on the screen. It was like he sensed you coming, whatever strange sixth sense the two of you had for one another prickling up his spine to make him look.

You still had to stifle the gasp that threatened when his eyes found yours.

Jack Abbot, you told yourself again and again. Jack Abbot, not Andrew Cody.

For one brief, insane moment, you wondered if Andrew was with you there. If he was standing somewhere beside Jack on that gum spotted sidewalk, looking him over with that severe set to his mouth, suspicious of the warm little smile pulling at the man's face. Or maybe he would have been looking at you instead. Maybe he would have been smiling too, pleased in that way he got when you were brave.

You didn't even believe in ghosts, or spirits, or heaven or hell. Of any afterlife in which Andrew Cody's spirit would be there that night. You believed wholly in science. In blood and oxygen and a heart and a brain to keep a person alive… And you believed that when those things stopped, when there was no blood flowing to the brain, when the cells began to starve, there was no secret door opening somewhere else.

But that night, standing outside a bar in humid Pennsylvania while fireworks whistled and cracked and died somewhere distant over the water, you felt something too strange to dismiss.

Because… what if… what if there was something? What if there was some universe in which Andrew Cody and Jack Abbot's wife could see the two of you exactly as you were. Lonely, sad people who still carried their ghosts around. Maybe they knew. Maybe they had found each other out there, wherever it was, and maybe Jack’s wife had told Andrew about the man she left behind. How good he was, how he needed you and you needed him.

What other explanation was there?

When you approached Jack, there was an awfully familiar twinkle in his eye that had your lips pulling up into a real smile.

"Hey." you sighed.

“Hi,” he said, then cleared his throat a little. “Thank you for… coming out.”

You shrugged, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans to mirror him. “Guess I was curious about 'what the fuck this all is',”

Jack’s smile widened. His head tipped back for half a second before it ducked, his eyes dropping toward the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” he said finally with a nod. “Me too.”

You tilted your head at him. “Shall we?”

His eyes moved over you then, from the top of your head to the toes of your shoes, then back up to your face. It wasn’t the kind of look that undressed you. It was stranger than that. Softer. As if he was trying to make sense of the person standing in front of him, alive and still somehow carrying the woman he had lost.

How two lives could run so far apart and still end up here, on the same humid night, grief and curiosity braiding curiously through the two of you like some invisible red thread.

He nodded, then turned and opened the door.

“After you.”

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.