𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖞𝖉𝖔𝖙𝖈𝖔𝖒™

𐙚 Multi/headcannons for multiple characters

⭒ Accidentally calling you his “Wife” | @therobbycuepitt

⭒ seeing reader wearing their scrubs | @lovebugism

⭒ 𝐎𝐡 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 | @croigealai

𐙚 Dr. John Shen

Hospital Barbie | @wackapedia

When you were assigned to “oBsErVe OpErAtiOns” as part of a vaguely defined Strategic Initiatives role (read: nepotism), no one expects much, least of all, The Pitt’s freshest attending, Dr. John Shen, who’s too busy keeping patients alive and admins at bay.

Midnight Oil | @duskbornraven

You get hurt trying to check out the local hot doctor who visits your coffee shop. He winds up checking you out as well.

Work Crush, Pt. 2, Pt. 3 | @dontcurbyourenthusiasm

Let Her Know | @yougotthat-write

Does John Shen know how to deal with heartbreak?

Change Of Pace | @marvelous-slut

Meet The Father | @/marvelous-slut

Rest My Chemistry | @silens-oro

John really needs to keep his mouth shut on quiet nights

Foot In Mouth Disease | @popcornpoppypop

You come home after pulling a double on your period, excited for your day off. John unintentionally ruins it.

Sugar, Yes, Please | @imaginesofwonder

Jealous Shen | @starlord-s

Imagine | @/starlord-s

Flirting | @skymouth

Answering his phone | @justalittlepitt

𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 | @martyrmurdock

revelations are made when john shen walks into the pitt without his usual iced coffee

The Magical Glass Tumbler | @boiohboii

Imagine | @youvebeenlivingfictional

in retrospect | @/youvebeenlivingfictional

over the counter | @theunsanctionedgoth

The Shens | @eden031

Javadi and Whitaker meet a hot headed neuro resident only to find out that she is not just that.

Wife surprise | @/eden031

Shen is assaulted during his shift and the night shift meets his emergency contact.

Understanding misunderstandings | @/eden031

Shen watches his favourite resident talk to Robby before shift change, later he hears the nurses gossiping about her crush on an attending. He comes to the only logical conclusion: she has a crush on Robby.

helping hand | @shawnsarmfreckles

So Easy (To Fall In Love) | @peterpparkrr

The new Night Shift Attending and the Night Shift’s Nurse Practitioner are both idiots.

space, and the absence of it | @whimsywho

or the one where a bit of distance makes the heart grow fonder

𐙚 Trinity Santos

Loathing | @/inlovewithquestionablecharacters

Your fellow intern Santos hates you….or does she?

BLOODY MESS - PART 1, part 2 | @/dreamingofagoodfic

a bar fight leads to trinity to treat jack abbott’s bloody-faced daughter (and maybe falls for her too…)

i care a lot | @gorgeys

it only took getting assaulted for you to find out trinity’s love language is violent acts of service

fix you up | @criminalyapping

mistaken identity | @/criminalyapping

accidents happen | @auroracalisto

making a fruit tray for your girlfriend goes really well, up until the moment you slip up and hurt yourself. under the impression it wasn’t really that bad, you get to the emergency room and, well, it’s the pitt. you’re lucky they had a bed open.

Blurb | @/auroracalisto

Bad Idea Right, Part 2, Part 3 | @thedilfydoctorshow

How was Trinity supposed to know that the cute vet student that saved her cat's life was her bosses daughter??? Robby's daughter!reader x Trinity Santos

Broken hand | @marvelslut16

Reader breaks her hand and meets the prettiest knight in shining armor doctor she has ever seen.

Complementary | @chrys-lism

Trinity adores Jack Abbot’s daughter.

SOFT-EDGED DOMESTICITY | @vamplvs

⭒ Masterlist | @thepencilnerd

⭒ Masterlist | @kilojulietsierra

⭒ The Pitt Masterlist | @ofstarsandvibranium

⭒ The Pitt Masterlist | @/miley1442111

⭒ the Pitt Masterlist | @brxtnxy

⭒ the pitt directory! | @rereadlibrary

⭒ THE PITT Masterlist | lovebugism

You went to find Dr Shaan, anesthesiologist and pet mom to 10 animals of 6 different species. Meeting her in the right direction to the patient's room, you went through the surgery details together. 

"How's Mustang doing?" You asked.

"Back on the wheel in no time, thank god," She sighed, "thanks for asking, though."

"Of course!" you nudged her shoulder with a wink, "Hamster parents stick together."

"That's not a saying," she laughed.

"It should be."

You verified Hamdon Gerard's patient details, surgical sight on his right knee, and medical history together, then Dr Shaan headed to her office as you split to the elevators to head to Scrubs.

Scubs was the nickname of an older scrub nurse who's long experience in nursing made him a treasure trove of dad jokes and disproportionate wisdom. He was also an extra on the show Scrubs, but only few know that.

"Care Bear!" He welcomed you into OR 3, having almost wrapped up with his instrument inspection.

"Inspector Gadget!" you giggled, bumping your elbow with his. 

The unnaturally bright-lit room was set up for an ACL in record time, with Dr Shaan prepping monitors, and surgery residents on stand-by outside the sterile field for the big bad ortho shark.

Since it is yours and Scrubs' role to call time out and confirm every single name and purpose before a surgery, you knew Brendon couldn't yet recognize you by your voice. Since he usually, regally, walks in after everyone involved is already kitted and masked up, you also knew he couldn't recognize you by your figure, or eyes. 

You've worked with Dr Park for a while, long before you met Brendon. You understood how intimidating he was to residents and fellow doctors, how humiliating it is to have prompted a glare from the shark. However, you could also acknowledge that his ire is almost always triggered by incompetence. He cared about the patient outcome as a priority, which makes any mistake register as an insult to himself and his work. 

That also means, that he has never actually been mean to nurses, was not allowed to say shit about their work, especially under the burning eyes of one Mariette Hale. Nursing students, of course, can make mistakes, but it is exclusively Mari's role to reprimand them. As a result, you felt exempt, Ortho Shark cannot hurt you, because you're a nurse, and you're good at it. You absolutely took advantage of that in the gym by teasing him annoyingly, though he wouldn't know that by seeing you in the OR.

You bounced on your heels, eye squinting with your smile under the blue mask.

Dr Park walked into the OR like he does everything, intentional in every step, studious with his eyes, and impossibly large in both legend and figure. All kitted out in that signature blue that was so clean it smelled like antiseptic, Park stood at the right side of the sedated patient and scanned the raised knee thoroughly. 

For an ACL, the joint intended for surgery must have full range of motion, which you and Scubs applied by securing the leg up off the bed, and rubbing the area with chlorhexidine before draping. This was a common type of surgery, almost memorized by the entire staff present.

"What's that?" 

But the residents, as they usually are, were new. 

One of them, a lanky young man stood at the back of the main circle, outside the sterile field, and eyed the black bands that circled the patient's thigh. You blinked for a moment, but you were used to excellent students going blank during first experiences. Sometimes you know the textbooks cover to cover, but your eyes were not yet used to the same information visually.

Someone huffed a suppressed snort behind you. 

Dr Shan hid her face behind the vitals monitor.

Brendon's face did not move, he stood still as stone while a fellow nurse tied his gown behind his back. His eyes flickered to her as she scurried away, then slowly to the resident. Park gave the stare a few seconds for it to achieve the intended effect, then turned back to fixing his gloves, "Why do we place padding on pressure points?" He droned.

The residents, all three of them, held their breath.

He did this sometimes, if the mood fit, place the answer in another, harder question, and wait for them to stammer. 

Because the residents were right beside you, as your role is also to be outside the sterile field, and because you couldn't deny the urge, you tapped your finger soundlessly on the young man's forearm, "to avoid nerve injuries," you whispered with a smirk.

Dr Park's sharp eyes snapped to you, once and then twice. You were smiling under your mask, but it took extreme effort not to giggle audibly. Small beeps off the vitals monitors were the only sound in the cold blue room for what felt like minutes.

"Timeout!" Scrubs tapped his pen on the keyboard beside time, the metallic clink echoed, and immediately started declaring names.

The OR nurse at the back of the room caught his eyes twice in the past, but Brendon hadn't heard her voice before. More than that, there was a rare nudge at the back of his mind about how she looked right at him. You do that too. 

For someone who was an entire head shorter than him, Brendon found your eyes right on his face every time he looked during that first session. He explained it away though, you were teaching so you had to be looking, he was learning form so he had to look too. Couldn't explain why he kept thinking about it days after. 

Park kept remembering your eyes during shift, during surgery, and it frustrated the perfectionist ortho surgeon in him. That line at the top of your cheeks that creased right under your eyes when you smiled, and that slight quirk of your brow that jumped when you thought you're funny. It was flashing through his head in moments when he was, famously, intensely concentrating. 

Of course, nothing drastic happened, Brendon was just that good a surgeon. But internally, his thoughts were occupied and scattered between the hospital and the gym.

"Greetings! Big B-"

"Nope," Brendon abruptly interrupted before that stupid nickname came out.

You laughed breathily through the speaker, the sound echoing over his kitchen tiles, "Ok, sour spot, I'm calling about tomorrows booking."

"Something came up?" He asked.

"For the big man, yes," you said, rambling about how both of you match the description so maybe BigMag, you know like a BigMac?-

"Ok," he interrupts again, lips pursing against a smile, "you need me to reschedule?"

"I'm been tasked to check, good sir," you enunciated slowly, audibly grinning, "If you'd like to go over the basics with me on the same booking, fully approved by Coach, or reschedule to fit his next opening?"

Brendon hummed, thinking over his options.

"I know it's repetitive, but it's good for your form," You softly added, prompting him pull his phone closer to his ear, "But if you feel like the daily homework is enough and you don't want to waste your time on an extra session, keep practicing and Coach will happily-"

"No," he said, suddenly feeling like he kept interrupting you, "Sorry, I mean, I'll keep my booking for tomorrow." 

Your voice sounded smiley, "Great! I'll see you then! have a good night, Brendon."

"You too."

Three week ago it would have been a waste of time, and he never liked wasting his time. Brendon had always found aimless meandering and pointless small talk to be like time stolen, preferring to achieve something, be on the way to something worthwhile. During residency, this belief got so strong that he'd spent some nights in the on-call room so he doesn't waste time commuting to work.

As he got older, steadier in his position, it mellowed out, because he learned that some tasks require time and patience. He still had some conflicts about driving out more than 20 minute distance on workdays, because most of the time the "get-together-for-a-drink" was not worth the trip. 

For some reason, this extra class as you called it, seemed to fall under "worthwhile". It's possible for it be just a repeat of the first session, form, movement, and muscle memory training. It's possible that he would be learning nothing new by the end of it. Still, Brendon wanted to go. He didn't even fight himself on it for a moment.

an: thank you sooo much for being here! let me know what you think! <3<3

Exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover the way you feel after a long shift. Bleary eyes, blinking heavy and slow as you try to focus on the screen to finish up your charting before you finally get to go home.

The sun set hours ago; not like you get the pleasure of seeing, or even enjoying, many sunsets these days with how busy it’s been in the ED. With breaks being such a rare occurrence, you’re even more grateful for another day coming to an end.

You inhale a deep breath, rubbing a hand over your eyes and down your face as you exhale, trying to will them, and your brain, to work despite their stubborn uncooperativeness.

“You did good today.”

That voice, low and all too familiar, reaches your ears and it’s restorative, perking you up just enough that you turn your head towards it, unable to resist the draw of the resonance. His hand settles steady on your shoulder, warm and reassuring with a soft squeeze and a smile to match.

Robby’s ready to leave himself, with that backpack slung over his shoulder and his nearly empty travel mug in hand, wearing that brown jacket you’ve grown entirely too attached to. It’s the one he’s set atop your shoulders when you were cold while he walked you home, and the one you buried your face in when he gave you a hug after your first difficult shift. The smell of that same cologne he’s worn for decades still clings to the inner lining.

He looks worn out too but he carries it better than you do, in your eyes at least. The greys in his beard are more prominent in this light along with the crinkles by his eyes, and his gaze is a bit softer. From feeling just as weary as you, maybe. But maybe it’s just because he’s looking at you.

You shake your head, a slight movement of disagreement as you gaze back towards the monitor, clicking the mouse with your chin in your palm.

“Doesn’t feel like enough,” you murmur, a bit of dejection hanging on each word.

“Never does.”

He gives one last squeeze to your shoulder, letting his thumb rub a soothing but fleeting pattern, before he inevitably takes his hand away and you’re left with the lingering warmth that fades all too quickly. Of course even tired and during shift change he’s aware of all the eyes, not wanting to risk anyone picking up on his softened demeanor with you.

And you understand. It still makes something ache in your chest just that little bit, but enough to ignore and hide away from him, anyway.

There’s a few moments of silence between you, though it’s filled with the hum of nurses and doctors, machines beeping and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, that they’ve all blended together after hours of hearing it in the back of your mind. Until he leans in just that little bit closer, feeling his eyes still observing you as they often do, with his hip against the desk. His hand adjusts the strap on his shoulder so it doesn’t slip when he bends over just low and indiscernibly enough to be discreet about his next words.

“You wanna come over tonight?” He asks it quietly so that nobody not paying attention would hear it, a secret just for the two of you like things have always been.

It’s not actually a question though, and you know it isn’t. Sure, he frames it as such, but you know better. You two have been doing this for too long and you recognize that tone in his voice, making it seem like he’s giving you the choice when, really, he’s telling you: ‘Come home with me. You need it. Don’t fight me on it.’

It’s like your entire body breathes out a solaced and resounding ‘yes’, your belly doing that annoying little fluttery thing it does when you think about getting to sleep beside him.

You wish you had the backbone to at least try and resist, to put up some sort of front as if you’re contemplating long and hard about it just to make him feel an ounce of what he makes you feel.

But you don’t have the energy for that. Not tonight. Not ever, really.

“Two minutes?” You ask in a murmur, tilting back your head to gaze up at him, your heart feeling like it’s being pulled towards him when your eyes meet his.

He glances down at his watch, the worn band of it slightly frayed at the end as he hums.

“Thirty seconds and coffee’s on me tomorrow.”

You exhale a breath through your nose, fighting back a grin before you turn your attention right back to the screen.

By the time you’re done and signed off, you’re sure you have time to spare. But Robby gives you a little half smile and a tut, his hand dropping back to his side.

As if he would actually let you buy your own coffee, though.

You walk side by side towards the exit, his arm brushing against yours not-so-subtly, although you’d be the last person to complain about such an indulgent comfort. And the silence between you isn’t unpleasant, it rarely ever is. It’s a mutual understanding, having gone through the same twelve hours and knowing neither one of you can stand the small talk even on a good day.

By the time you get to his parked motorcycle you’ve already grown tired of being on your feet again, having gotten a small respite while sat at the computer but, walking the short distance lets the soreness really settle in. It’s bone deep, eliciting a slight pout of discomfort with every formidable step you take.

You want so badly to just lean into him and close your eyes, put your weight on him to feel lighter somehow. And, fortunately, it’s within reach when he swings his leg over the seat and hands you his helmet without even thinking twice, like it’s second-nature.

The first time you got on his bike you’d side-eyed him about his lack of protection, but he insisted he’d get another one and in the meantime it’d be on your head instead of his. “Precious cargo,” he’d said, with a smile that was both charming and vexing.

He has yet to actually get another one, though.

But you’re too tired to lecture him about it tonight, knowing he’d just brush it off like he usually does with a shrug and a not-so-convincing assurance. So you just get on the seat behind him with a drawn out exhale, scooting closer to him while sliding the helmet onto your head.

Instant relief fills your body when you finally get off your feet and press your chest against the broad expanse of his back, the consoling warmth of him permeating through your clothes.

Finally.

The engine roars to life, rumbling under you as your hands find their home against his abdomen, your fingers clutching onto his jacket securely before he starts driving you both to his place.

The wind this time of year bites at the peeks of your exposed skin as it whips around you, causing you to shiver just enough for him to take notice when you cling to him.

It’s starting to get colder, with leaves of yellow and orange hues fluttering through the night air from the trees they’ve fallen, littering the pavement and sidewalks he drives past. They fly up and around from the speed you’re moving, a dance that puts even more ease into your body as you admire the scenery.

Pittsburgh is beautiful this time of year, you’ve always thought so, even at night. And despite the chill in the air you can’t help but smile to yourself, just a little, at getting to see the leaves change even if you only get glimpses when the street lights shine just right.

When he gets to a red light Robby sits up a little straighter and pulls off his coat, shrugging it off of his shoulders and handing it to you without even so much as sparing a glance towards you. You’ve got a sweater of your own, and a soft protest at the tip of your tongue. But he already knows it’s coming.

“Don’t need your teeth chattering against my back,” he teases, but there’s also a tenderness there that nearly does all the work of warming you up that his jacket would. But you pull it on anyway, not bothering to hold back a smile this time as it brings relief almost instantly.

“Thank you,” you say, soft and as sweet as can be, letting you get a glimpse of Robby’s own little grin as he keeps his eyes forward.

He then gives your thigh a soothing rub, both a silent praise and consoling gesture that you’re not immune to no matter how hard you’ve tried to be otherwise. You’ve given up feigning it by now, your faint trembling quelled and now waining. And you can’t help but lean into it, nudging your leg just a fraction forward against his palm for the few seconds it lasts before the light turns green again.

The heat from his body is what keeps you grounded, able to endure it for the remainder of the ride, snuggling up that much closer to him as if you’re trying to become one with him somehow.

The autumn air is crisp and clean, and incredibly restorative after having the aroma of hand sanitizer and blood in your nostrils for hours on end. You breathe in deeply, letting yourself revel in it with the sounds of the city fading away.

That is, until you feel a single droplet of cold water land upon your knee, and then a few more on your shoulders and arms, until it quickly devolves into a downpour that falls in sheets around you. It has the potential to soak through your clothes entirely if not for how quickly he pulls up to his condo, parking the bike and cutting the engine as quickly as he can for your sake.

It’s icy and you’re shivering, but you can’t help the giggles of newfound adrenaline that come up from your chest when he takes your hand in his and you both rush to get inside, pulling off the helmet while hastily ascending the steps, the rain dampening your hair.

Your laughter dies down as you get the front door shut, dripping lightly onto his doormat as you use your hands to wipe the moisture from your skin. The entry way illuminates in a warm incandescent glow when Robby turns on the lamp and drops his keys onto the side table, both of you catching your breath.

“Ah, m’sorry honey,” he sighs as his hands find your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks and forehead, unable to stifle a soft chuckle himself at the state of you. There’s so much affection in it that it nearly makes your knees weak. As if he had to apologize for something so incidental, and call you ‘honey’ while doing it. Hearing the ease in which it leaves his mouth never fails to make your whole body come alive.

There’s a caring regard in his gaze as he catches the tremble in your limbs before you can assure him you’re alright.

“C’mon, let’s get you in somethin’ warm.”

You’re no stranger to borrowing Robby’s clothes, but that doesn’t mean you’ve gotten used to it just yet. Every time you get to put on one of his shirts or hoodies it fills you with a depth of repose, feeling connected to him in some way when you get to smell the faint scent of his laundry detergent and that lingering cologne that’s laced through every single thread of each garment, stubbornly still there through every wash.

You don’t even have to say it for him to know your feelings. He sees it on your face when your fingertips fiddle with the bottom hem of the pullover sweatshirt he’s lent you, the insignia of his alma mater across your chest. A little bashful, gently biting at the inside of your lip while you stand there before him in his bedroom.

It’s cozy and clean, an air of sophistication about the simple but refined decor that’s just so him. When you first stayed the night it was hard to not feel a little out of place, much nicer than your own apartment, but also you were uncertain of just how far this would actually go with him, and what work would be like after. But now it’s like a second home. Even if some of that nervous energy that was coursing through your veins then is still present, even now.

The rain continues falling outside, the white noise of it filling the quiet as he takes in the sight of you for a moment. He exhales a breath through his nose as his shoulders relax in that way they always do when it’s just the two of you like this. It’s like he can finally bask in the stillness, not concerned about the two of you getting caught and he’s able to just breathe.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as he finally averts his gaze, like it’s taking him effort to do so, while he takes off his watch and sets it on the right side night stand - the side he sleeps on when you’re spending the night.

“Don’t have much,” he never does, “but can whip somethin’ up… or order something.”

The offer is thoughtful. He’s thoughtful. But in all honesty, the only thing you crave is being near him while the distant rumble of thunder echoes across the city and through the window panes, and the rain cascades down onto the streets below, and you’re wrapped up in his clothes, his sheets- in him, completely.

When he looks at you again he can tell what your answer is without you even verbalizing it. It’s in how you hold yourself: slightly swaying in your stance, how you breathe slower with every inhale and exhale in your chest, how your half-lidded gaze holds both fatigue and contentment. He’s never had to question if you want to be here with him or not, and you don’t know just how thankful he is for that.

“Alright, well, ‘still got your toothbrush in the bathroom,” he says with a faint smirk as he turns down the bed, pulling the fluffy duvet aside.

He doesn’t try to admonish you for not taking him up on his offer, or try to get you to open up about your day. You love that about him- that he knows when to push it, and when to just be there. You two are the same in that way.

And maybe somewhere deep down in this moment you realize you love so much more about him than that—a list so long it would sound ridiculous to lay it all out without even giving him some sort of warning. You decide to push it all aside for the time being, giving him a small but grateful smile before heading to brush your teeth.

You swear to yourself that the conversation will happen eventually.

If you ever get the nerve, that is.

By the time you’re done he’s got most of the lights shut off, the front door locked, and the bed ready for you. It almost feels like it’s calling to you, the softness beckoning you, promising you safety and relief from the frigid air hitting your bare legs. Just a few more minutes and the heater will fully warm up the room but you don’t waste time waiting for that as you climb into the bed right beside him like you’re meant to be there.

At first he’s gazing down at his phone, probably checking his email or your schedule for the next week, knowing him, with the light illuminating his face and the faint reflection showing in the lenses of his reading glasses. You only get a moment to admire the sight before he locks it and sets it off to the bedside when the mattress dips under your weight, because why would he pay attention to anything else but you right now?

He takes off his glasses too with a satisfied exhale, seeing you look so comfy in his sweatshirt, in his bed. It’s a muscle relaxant like no other.

“You okay?” It’s not meant to be a question that delves deeper than the surface- just him checking in on you, making sure you’re comfortable and ready to put this arduous day behind you. With him. He asks it with his arm slightly outstretched to make room for you, inviting you to cuddle up to him.

It’s nice, what you both have; to be able to fall into each other, lean on one another when the rest of the world feels too loud and too much.

What started as fooling around just to take the edge off has turned into something else entirely. Domestic, and calm. Serious, maybe. But neither of you are ready to actually put a label on this, wanting to just exist in it for a little longer as what it is.

A few flashes of lightning illuminate the walls for only a few brief seconds as you hum quietly and nod. You normally would find your place at his side to snuggle up to him and close your eyes, eventually falling asleep in his embrace. But tonight, as fatigued as you are, you also need his attention that you’ve grown pretty reliant on.

You never blamed him for the busy days. When he can’t make time to check in on you, or steal a few moments with his lips against your neck pressed against the bathroom wall before you inevitably have to go right back to work so you don’t raise suspicion. Sometimes he’s all over the ED, and the only time you even get to talk to him is over a patient.

So when you straddle his lap, moving your hands slowly up his bare skin, exhaling a soft little breath at the feel of his chest hair under your palms? Robby just falls into it with familiar ease and lets his large hands rub listlessly along your thighs, those knowing eyes peering into yours.

“Hate to see you take that off,” he croons, his voice low and gravelly with a faint upturn of his lips. Despite his illusory reluctance he has no issue with you needing him, something more. His hands move up under the sweatshirt concealing your body from his gaze to caress your sides, pulling you as close as he can get you to finally press a kiss to your mouth.

You both sigh into it, your muscles going lax at the immediate alleviation you feel. It’s the one thing that you’d needed all day, gone without and nearly gone through withdrawals over after only getting a few glimpses of him throughout the day, only a few spoken words. But Robby’s the same way. Ever since you started this thing he’s slowly become dependent on your time together, needing it just as badly, if not more.

In the beginning when he started to think too much about it he considered ending it. He’d be lost in his thoughts, rubbing a hand over the back of his head and neck, telling himself you deserve someone better, someone your own age. But then it was like you were conscious of his state of mind somehow, and you appeared in his line of sight… and all that rationale completely melted away.

There’s no way he can let you go now. And maybe he’s selfish for it, but he can’t bring himself to actually care when he’s got his hands on you.

His hands span up your back, laying flat and mindlessly caressing any bit of you he can just to be able to feel you while your hands move up the nape of his neck. You part your lips with no hesitance to let him slip his tongue inside, eliciting a muffled little moan from your throat when the muscle glides against yours.

The way he kisses you isn’t like anybody else has kissed you. He’s got decades of experience, sure, but he’s spent so much time with you like this and he’s adept, having caught on and observed what gets you all pliant and eager that by now its as easy as breathing.

It should frustrate you how effortlessly he can read you sometimes, and it does in other contexts, but when it’s just the two of you like this it’s cathartic to know you can put that kind of trust in him. To let every bit of stress or worry go to the back of your mind until you lose sight of it all, and let the only thing that matters come into focus: Robby.

His lips only part from yours when he’s pushing up the soft fabric and pulling it off your body, letting it fall to the side to really feel you in the way he wants. His large hands move up your chest, only skimming over your breasts briefly before taking your face in them to guide you back into more languid kisses. It’s almost lazy, no rush, just wanting to taste you and get you completely out of your head and in the moment with him.

And it doesn’t take any time at all. It never does.

“S’this what you need?” he rasps against your mouth, messily trailing his lips down your jaw, towards your neck, his beard grazing deliciously against your skin and making your fingers tighten their grip. His moan in response against your neck goes right through you, down between your legs, the ever growing ache made even more elevated with such little effort.

“Robby…” You gasp his name melodically, your head falling back and your eyes closing, arching into him as he kisses the newly exposed skin of your throat. Your hips grind down against his, not bothering to be coy even though you couldn’t really control it if you tried.

“M’right here, honey,” he assures you, but he’s also teasing you a little, feeling the faint upturn of his lips against you when he gives your skin another kiss with a light sweep of his tongue. The tone of his voice makes you squirm, breathing out a ragged exhale as you tilt your head right back down upon his. You need to lean on him when his hands guide your hips in a more coordinated way, aiding you into firmer grinds.

“Don’t gotta think at all… I’ll do it for you.”

You breathe out a stunted whimper, the sound from your mouth morphing into a dulcet moan when he spreads your legs a little more so you can really feel his bulge through your panties. Slowly growing in firmness, and warm, sending a shiver down to your clit that’s only gotten more sensitive from the escalating stimulation.

Another resonant boom of thunder bellows, reverberating through the windows and the walls, letting you feel it faintly through your bones when it travels through the bed frame.

“Oh, my girl deserves to be taken care of, isn’t that right?” he continues, murmuring the words low in between kisses. His breaths are more controlled than yours as he keeps up the slow assistance, rocking you against his clothed dick with precision you just wouldn’t be capable of without his help right now. You’re too needy for it, unable to be patient on your own. He knows that.

Your heart nearly soars when he calls you his girl, too. It’s one of the closest things you’ve gotten to some semblance of confirmation that this isn’t something entirely casual. Although you hardly even need it when he calls you such sweet names.

The only time he ever actually uses your full name is at work. But in the walls of his condo? You’re always his girl.

“Did so good today… Doin’ so good for me now…” his tongue swipes over your skin again, “Always so good.”

The praise elicits a gasping whimper from your parted lips to the edge of his ear, clinging to him all the more. Your clit throbs against him, blood thrumming and rushing through your veins and filling your cheeks. Your abdomen grazes his, so soft and yielding against yours with every rut of your hips that it’s nearly your undoing. The friction is both relieving and torturous—just enough to keep you on edge, but nowhere near enough to get you over it.

But that’s because Robby isn’t trying to get you to come, not yet at least. He wants to draw it out a little longer, make you feel that pleasure for as long as he can, really and truly believing you deserve it after the day you’ve had. His goal is to relax you, get you to release all that lingering tension that still clings stubbornly to your muscles. And going slow means it’ll give him plenty of time to get hard for you, to get you nice and ready for him by the time he’s ready for you.

He lets his teeth graze against your neck before trailing his mouth lower, his lips lovingly pressing to your collarbone, your shoulder. His breath fanning over your skin gets you to arch just that little bit more with your fingers gliding through the short tresses of his hair.

It feels too good to think straight, so lost in every single sensation as you writhe helplessly in his lap. Your soft moans fill the air between you, gasping for the oxygen your lungs just can’t seem to get enough of as his hands get a firmer hold on your waist. Back and forth, over and over, letting him feel the growing dampness in your panties seep through the cotton of his sweatpants.

“Easy… s’okay, you got it, honey.” The encouraging lilt to his voice only further aids you, fully enraptured as you start to move your hips in the rhythm he’s set for you.

Even at work you’re a great student, one of his favorites and one of the brightest. You’ve always taken direction well, and of course it made its way into your relationship with him, along with in the bedroom. All it takes is some light coaxing and you listen.

Your hips move with your newfound clarity, undulating with his hands still guiding you, keeping you present and fully in this moment with him. His head dips lower until his mouth finds your chest, his tongue laving over your nipple before taking it between his lips. The gentle suction makes your eyes flutter closed and your head falls to rest against his, with your brows furrowed and your own lips parted in a silent whine.

The position makes it all feel even more intimate. The closeness of being in his lap and in each other’s arms as he steers you closer and closer to that pinnacle verges on overwhelming.

Your feelings for him have only grown and intensified in the months you’ve spent with him. He was once just your mentor, your attending. Now he’s the man you let yourself lean on when the days are hard to bear alone, letting yourself find stability in his hands, and comfort in his voice.

There’s no one single word that really encapsulates what he is to you- what you are to each other. All you know is it’s fervent, and impassioned, and you wouldn’t know what to do if you ever lost this.

The rainfall and wind grow more turbulent just outside, inundating the panes of glass, pelting down on the city. It very nearly mirrors the ever mounting pleasure inside you.

Your movements grow more needy, chasing that euphoria that builds inside you with every single grind. He picks up on it, so attentive, and cradles your body to switch the position and lay you back on the bed to do the rest of the work himself.

You let out a quiet whimper but you’re grateful for it as soon as he grinds his hips down against yours more thoroughly, the firm friction getting your thighs to part to give him more access. Your head gently lolls back against the pillows, but you still keep your eyes on him now above you.

“That’s it… Keep lookin’ at me, just like that.” The sigh he lets out is one of satisfied pride, getting to watch how you open up for him from this angle and have full control over the pace.

He gets even more determined, his eyes taking in every inch of you with palms splayed over your hips, going down your thighs, using his fingers to pull your panties taut to get a better view of just how soaked through they are. It’s obscene. Saliva pools under his tongue, his adam’s apple bobbing from swallowing down his own moans from coming up from his throat.

“Oh, I know you’re close now,” he rasps with the faintest scrunch of his brows, his jaw clenched for a brief moment with the effort it’s taking him to not just rip that measly piece of fabric from your body right here and now.

“C’mon… C’mon, honey, let it all go for me. You deserve it.” His pace quickens just that little bit more, growing more insistent and emphatic, urging you with every roll of his hips and unyielding squeeze of your waist.

With Robby leaning his forehead gently against yours, breathing with you with words of slightly strained praise, the band snaps inside you and it hits you in a wave that washes right through you, down to your toes. Your hips rut just so, helplessly from faint aftershocks. He curses under his breath at the wet heat he feels through his sweatpants, every nerve alight.

Your whole body warms at the elation that tingles down your spine, blissed out with soft moans as he kisses up your chest and your throat with such affectionate praise falling from his lips.

You’re laid back with limbs that feel weightless, your insides thrumming from the intensity of something so intimate and carnal as you just let your eyes stay unfocused for a few seconds without any attempt to help them. All while Robby breathes heavily against your skin, so turned on and hard just from getting to witness such a sight right before his very eyes.

He tugs down his sweatpants and boxer briefs restlessly, his gaze never leaving your pliable body as he gets right back between your spread thighs like he’s sliding home. He manages to still be careful with you while sliding your damp panties off too, despite his own prevalent desire.

He uses his fingers to gingerly prod at your puffy folds, gliding delicately, mindful of your sensitivity. But he still elicits a broken whine from you that he soothes with soft assurances, “shh, shh, it’s alright, so pretty f’me,” while he pumps his cock with the lubricant of you, groaning a pathetic sound that you feel in your entire body.

He takes a second to get his bearings, his eyes squeezed shut with a rough exhale, acclimating before his attention’s right back on you.

“You still with me?” He doesn’t bother attempting to suppress his affinity with you when he ducks his head to try and meet your dazed eyes, his eyebrows slightly raised in fondness. Not that he ever really could hide it very well, even around others.

God, his forehead creases and crows feet in this light nearly do you in, a reminder of his maturity over your own. You exhale a breath that doesn’t bring very much relief when your eyes focus and meet his gaze, a small smile of your own that he shares.

“Always.” The single word comes out quiet, just for him, giving him an uninhibited nod while your hands find their way back to him. You reach for the nape of his neck to pull him closer, feeling the way his forehead falls against yours, yielding to you- to control.

He closes his eyes once more, just for a moment, like he’s trying to take it all in. Then his hips move forward in one slow movement, the thick tip of his cock sliding through your slick arousal. You inhale a quick, sudden breath at the sensation but he’s receptive to you, and his nose brushes against yours to soothe you before he finally presses inside.

He kisses you to muffle the moan that comes right up from your throat, so wanton and overwrought with sensitivity. But you melt right into it as your fingers grip his hair, tugging just a modicum as if it’s somehow going to aid in a reprieve. The action earns you a low sound of approval from Robby though, before his tongue glides past your lips and into your obliging mouth.

The first time you two had sex it was all hands and mouths; months of pent up desire with no outlet satisfying enough for either of you that when you finally got your hands on each other… you left marks.

It was hot and torrid, having given him scratches down his back while he gave you hickeys and soreness. The next morning he’d felt apologetic about it, massaging and kissing your thighs with eyes that held a humility despite you finding it gratifying after the fact.

Eventually he grew more comfortable with letting out his stress on you, not needing to be so gentle when he found that you actually rather enjoyed it. Needing an outlet after a double shift, dealing with the fucked up healthcare system and patients he couldn’t save- it all piled on his shoulders more and more. Relieving even just a fraction of the weight he always carries, while also being railed through the mattress, was something you’d do happily.

But, tonight’s not that.

Tonight isn’t him fucking you with stress and frustration that needs to be quelled. He’s fucking you with unhurried intention, with deep strokes that reach depths in you no one else has come close to, eliciting noises out of you that you weren’t even aware you could make before him. It’s way beyond having sex, but the name feels premature to let yourself even think.

When he finally pulls his mouth back you complain with a whimper, lifting your head in an adorable yet feeble attempt to follow him for more. He hums at that, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. His hand presses your hip to the mattress to keep you where he wants you, and try as you might to rut up and meet his thrusts, he keeps you pinned with a gentle insistence.

“That feel good? Hmm?” He murmurs against your cheek, leaving messy kisses as he trails his mouth back down toward your neck, withholding what you yearn for.

“Fuck, it— y-yes…” You gasp it, teetering off into another debauched moan when your hands move down to his shoulders, his back. You feel the muscles contract, gripping tight with your jaw slack, long past the point of keeping your sounds of pleasure subdued.

“Always so good,” you whine, breathy and soft, your fingertips pressing into his skin just that little bit more.

“Yeah, I know… God I know, honey.” He rasps out the words before he licks at your neck, feeling that faint beat of your pulse under your flesh.

“Lose my mind every time I’m inside you… Feel so perfect takin’ me.” His groan is guttural and low, barely finishing the words before he hooks your thigh up and around his hip to reach an even deeper angle.

You swear you see stars.

“Missed you so fuckin’ much today,” he grunts between kisses, breathing ragged when your walls flutter around him so sweetly, another resounding rumble of thunder joining in the sounds of you.

“Barely even saw you- your pretty face… Hated it.” His pace stays constant despite himself, still taking his time and making you feel every inch of his cock dragging against your walls. He pulls out just until his thick tip is barely inside, just to hear the needy complaint from your lips and bear witness to the sight of your entrance pulsing around him, before thrusting in completely once more. Over and over. Committed and unwavering.

“Bet she missed me too, huh?”

The rush that moves through you nearly takes your breath away. Referring to your pussy as ‘she’ twists something tight inside you. Your walls clench down on his cock with a sound so high strung that his hand grips your hip stiffly, on the verge of bruising for only a moment until his hand loosens with his own groan of ecstasy.

All you can do is give a little nod, and more pitiful whimpers, before burying your face in his shoulder while heat permeates your cheeks, progressing down your chest. You wrap your other leg around him, one hand in his hair while the other holds onto his back like your life depends on it.

You think about begging. It’s too much, yet not enough, and all you want is more. Not even just for him to go faster, or deeper, or harder, or to put you through the mattress until you’re crying. It’s so much more than that. So much more intense.

You want all of him. Every single part.

Every heedless, headstrong word he’s said out of frustration that he’s taken right back when he’s had time to regain his composure. Every gentle caress of your face when it’s just the two of you in the break room, risking it for just one single moment to console and comfort you. Every look of pride when you help a patient, getting them stable with his hand squeezing your shoulder in silent veneration. Every slow morning with his sleepy grumbles and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in closer. Every scoff when you make a joke that he pretends isn’t funny, only to poorly hide his smile over the rim of his coffee mug. Every lecture he’s given you when he knows you’re better than your hard days, seeing so much potential in you that you didn’t quite yet see in yourself.

Every second of every day of every month you’ve spent in that hospital; learning from him, growing into your own… falling for him.

“Please…” The word slips out of your mouth like you’re saying it both to him and to yourself, your thoughts. It all washes over you at once, overwhelming and all consuming, barely able to handle the emotions of the realization hitting you so completely.

That’s the thing with keeping it all pushed down, is that it all comes rushing to the surface eventually.

“What d’you need, honey? Talk t’me.” The gentleness in his voice makes it all worse, or better. He brings his thumb down between you and gives your puffy clit the attention it so desperately needs and you mewl, nearly wailing in desperation at having to spell it out when he should just feel it and know.

And maybe he does. Maybe he has, for a lot longer than you’ve even realized.

Your lips drag against his collarbone, messy and uncoordinated, letting him fuck you like you’re his and he’s yours. Because you are, and he is.

“More… Oh, f-fuck— more, just…” Your voice comes out desperate and wanting against his skin, the pleasure coiling inside you with a heat you can’t possibly bear for much longer. It’s coming on so rapidly, so sudden.

But it isn’t sudden, not when you really let yourself think about it. The feeling’s always been there; at the back of your mind, suppressed for the sake of your job, uncertain of how Robby feels in return and too scared of losing this to ever question it.

But deep down… you’ve always known how you felt about him. It just took you a bit of time to catch up to it, to have it break down that wall you spent so much effort in putting up. And it’s enough to bring annoying tears to your eyes that you can’t seem to just will away anymore.

“Harder… please, harder…”

“Oh, I’ve got you, baby,” he promises, exhaling like he was just waiting for you to utter the words, before kissing your neck like it’s a sacred act in and of itself.

“I’ve always got you.”

You don’t last much longer, not when all the sensations and your emotions are heightened with want, need, desire, lust, love.

It hits you so hard you feel it all through you. Your body’s humming a song of his name, warm and euphoric as your walls tighten around him in drawn out pulses. Your gasping whines and cries fall upon his shoulder, eyes clenched tightly, nails digging into his skin like part of you is afraid this might all just be some dream.

It coaxes him to come just as hard, spilling inside you with deeper thrusts, breathing harshly against your throat. His own low whimpers get hastily stifled against your mouth, kissing you so firm and messy it makes a few tears finally fall.

Your hearing’s slightly muffled, ears ringing for only a few moments until his head finally drops to your chest in a huff. Both of you are so worn out you just lay there with each other, silent save for your panting and the white noise of the downpour that’s still ever present.

Your fingers run mindlessly through his hair, needing the repetition of the movement to bring you back to yourself, self soothing as you sniffle and keep your eyes on the ceiling. Focused on the softness while he breathes against your skin, nuzzling his face into your chest before pressing his lips to each of your breasts, then your sternum, slowly migrating up to your neck, then your jaw.

His thumbs brush away the trails of tears that fell down your temples, so delicate under your eyes as he looks at you with such tender regard.

“Ah, honey… You alright?” There’s a quiet reverence in how he asks it, not necessarily overly concerned but aware that it obviously affected you this time. You don’t normally get emotional like this.

Your heart feels constricted by the question, in turn giving him a small nod before leaning into his touch and letting your lips graze his palm, his wrist. You exhale, breathing through your nose and closing your eyes as you attempt to wade through the thoughts in your mind. There’s so many it’s like they’re all up to your knees like water, making it difficult to really answer.

But is it time to have that conversation? To broach the subject of what you’re both doing, prying into his psyche to see what Robby himself is thinking and feeling, attempting to put a label on this? When, in reality, things are good between you two. Stable. Comfortable. You’re basically dating without calling it that, anyway. Do you have to ask?

He’s sweet to you, and patient. You know deep down he wouldn’t have an adverse reaction, but the fear of it all imploding still sits right at the forefront of your mind regardless.

Before you, Robby wasn’t a relationship guy, not really. A few here and there but when you met him he didn’t really do commitment, six to eight weeks was usually the cutoff. But you’ve been sleeping with him for much longer than that.

And in that time it took only one month to get him to keep your toothbrush in his bathroom, and two to keep the coffee you like stocked in his kitchen, and three to have a drawer in his dresser just for you so you don’t have to go back to your place to change before a shift.

He’s thoughtful and caring, silently doing all these things for you, to make it all easier. If he really only saw this as temporary, would he go through all that effort?

You can’t bring yourself to say any of it aloud, not just yet. You will, though. Eventually.

When the moment feels right, when you’re both fully clothed and haven’t shared a hard day, when you’re both rested and the morning light streams in through his kitchen window, when he’s sitting across from you drinking his coffee on the rare occurrence you two share a day off, when he looks at you with that domesticity that fills your heart as you take a bite of your breakfast—that’s when you’ll tell him.

You’ll lay it all out for him, not feeling even an ounce of uncertainty, wearing that pullover sweatshirt of his and a tranquil smile. And the tops of his ears will flush a faint pink, the corners of his lips will upturn only slightly before he tells you to move in with him like it’s the most casual thing in the world- the natural next step he’s wanted to ask of you for weeks, having already obtained a key for you.

It’ll all work out, and you’ll look back on these moments of reservation with a fond roll of your eyes, wondering how long you’d been clueless to his considerable affection for you.

But until then…

Your voice is quiet against his skin, with your tired eyes looking up into his once more, a contentment in your soul as you smile, blissful and sweet.

“Yeah... more than alright.”

You bit your tongue, because whatever words that could’ve possibly tumbled out of your mouth in response would have been wildly impulsive, and probably inappropriate.

You were one of five skaters your coach, Jack Abbot managed, but you were his best. His golden girl. Or so he said. The way he spoke to you at times made you feel like the term’s polar opposite.

You’d been working with Jack for the last three years. In that time, he’d made an absolute star out of you. You’d assisted in a few shows on ice and competed in sporadic competitions before becoming so adored by the public that people wanted to see you perform at your own shows. That upcoming tour was the very thing that had your coach’s panties in a twist.

Jack had always been a little gruff, but he’d been different lately. You couldn’t really blame him. The stress of the tour had you behaving a little out of character, and your die hard figure skating coach was likely interpreting it as indifference. In reality, you were just nervous, and you wanted to exceed the expectations of everyone who was coming to opening night.

While you understood his perspective, would it kill him to sugarcoat anything? You honestly think you’d prefer he lie to you than be so blatantly rude. At least you had somewhere good to put the reassurance, even if it was fabricated. The petty comments only made you feel worse.

“I do want this,” you grumbled, pulling your skates on. “I’m here now, right? So, come on, let’s go.”

Jack looked like he wanted to protest, but he gave in and sighed. “Fine. Let’s.”

He held the door to the chilly ice rink open for you. You stepped out onto the ice and breathed the frosty air in, hoping it’d ease your nerves. With your luck, however, it instantly had the opposite effect.

“Two laps around the rink. I’ll wait here.”

“Okay,” you said. You’d failed to mention the part where you hadn’t stretched before this like usual, and hoped he wasn’t soon to figure that out.

You felt Jack’s eyes boring into you as you made your first lap around the rink. It felt like he’d been scrutinizing your every move lately, even when you were off the ice, and it was futile for your confidence.

“Pointers?” you shed through clenched teeth after your first lap. Jack only grumbled in return.

“No. One more. Backwards.”

You sighed and did as told, turning around to perform the backwards lap. Aside from a slight trip, you remained on your feet until you circled all the way back to him.

“Two foot slalows. Around the rink.”

You nodded and got right to work, moving your body from side to side as you made your way around again. You were starting to feel a little warm despite having not stretched, so you at least had that going for you.

Jack had you do a few more familiar warm ups before you were off the hook. He eyed you with that same look of scrutiny when you returned, putting his hands together. “Good. Let’s see you practice some jumps.”

You nodded and got to work. Tried to, anyway. The first three jumps went by like a breeze, but the fourth had you taking a slight stumble on the ice. Jack was skating near you now and helped you up, less because he wanted to and more because he felt obligated.

“Up. Try again,” Jack said.

He skated with you while you prepared for a fifth jump, this one landing with ease. You breathed a sigh of relief at the small victory, but this practice was still far from over.

“Better,” said Jack plainly. Why were his insults always more decorated than his compliments?

“Thanks,” you returned just as flatly. “S’that enough?”

“For now. You feeling warm?” he asked. You nodded.

“Good. Let’s see your choreo.”

“Just like that? But we haven’t—“

Jack held up a hand. “I want to see what you remember. Surely you should know the routine you’ll have to execute in less than a week before, I don’t know, thousands of people? Right, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. The nickname was typically sugary, but coming from Jack’s lips, it was more bitter than ever. In the time that you’d known him, he hardly uttered it with affection.

“Right, Coach,” you bit annoyedly. “I should.”

“Then, show me.”

“Can I play the music for it?”

“If that’ll improve your performance, sure.”

With an eye roll you hoped Jack didn’t catch, you made your way off the rink and to the soundbooth outside it, using your phone to queue up the music that’d play as you skated on opening night. The choreography required you start off the ice to make an entrance, so the second you started the playlist, you flew out on your skates.

The routine started well. You did two dramatic laps around the rink, swaying your arms and settling back into the rhythm you’d been trying to return to for weeks. You did a few twists here and there to show off, letting the music sweep you into an elegant dance on the ice.

It was elegant, at least, until your first complicated move, a double axel jump into a smooth landing, followed by a traveling camel spin—seriously, what the fuck was Jack thinking?—snuck up on you at the height of the song’s chorus. You braced yourself for the move and took a deep breath before attempting it, silently praying to whatever god there was that you did this right.

Unfortunately for you, if there was one, they were not on your side as you flew into the air and promptly landed on your ass.

“Fuck,” you muttered as Jack skated over to you. He helped you to your feet, but he didn’t look happy to do so.

“Again.”

You went back to the soundbooth to restart the playlist, emerging onto the ice with your same dramatic flare from earlier. Whatever they said about faking it until you made it really needed to prove true for you right now.

You conquered the same move you’d just failed like the universe was purposely playing tricks on you. At least the small win eased your nerves the slightest bit.

It was mostly short lived, however, as you prepared for the following one.

You steeled yourself to go into a toe-loop jump, one of the many moves that’d had people enamored with you from day one. Two large glides and some mental motivation had you pulling the move off with flawlessness.

You could see Jack’s slight nod from the corner of your eye. While it wasn’t much, it was more than he’d given you all morning, and you had to hold onto that.

Subsequently, after another dramatic lap, you had another complicated jump in the finality of the song. The Salchow jump was no easy feat for any skater, but if you wanted eyes on you, it was definitely the way to go.

As the bridge of the song began to play, you readied yourself for the final complicated move of this part of the show. You felt Jack’s eyes burning into you from somewhere in the room, ready to witness your coordination. You sure hoped you could muster that in time for the final move.

You glided once, twice, willing your feet to act like they were attached to a halfway decent skater, and leaped into the air to make your final move. You executed it with confidence, completing it with a decent landing, but you lost your footing towards the end of it, ultimately throwing the elegance of the move off.

“Christ,” Jack said to you when you skated back over to him, the first song having now ended. “I’ve seen far better from you. And I expect it in the next song.”

“Yes, Coach,” you said with a sigh. You were starting to think that the reason Jack’s exasperation irritated you to pieces was because it was mostly justified.

You skated off the rink once again and queued up your second song, this one a little more upbeat than the last. You took your place on the ice to start the routine, but this time, Jack skated over, positioning himself behind you.

You turned to cock an eyebrow at him, your eyes twisted into what was practically a glare.

Jack waved his hand. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

“Easier said than done,” you muttered under your breath.

You started skating again, keeping a quickened pace that matched the faster tempo of the song. The beginning had a few simpler moves than the first, which gave you enough time to hopefully. . . .hopefully. . .find your groove again.

Except you were utterly grooveless as you lost your footing for the umpteenth time, far before your first complicated move. Hell, before the song had really started.

You didn’t even notice that Jack had skated off the rink until the song stopped abruptly, making you pause in your tracks. You skated over to the soundbooth, stepping inside the bleachers area.

“Alright, I can’t watch this anymore,” Jack huffed. “Skates off.”

“What? But, Coach, I—“

“Off. I don’t want to hear it.”

You furrowed your eyebrows but obliged—you owed him that after what was arguably your worst performance of all time—and sat down on the bleachers to take your skates off. You slipped your regular shoes back on and spent far longer than necessary lacing them to avoid Jack’s piercing glare.

“You trying to make a fool of yourself or me?” Jack barked.

“What?” you said.

“If your heart’s not in it, sweetheart, and clearly, it’s elsewhere right now, now’s the time to tell me. My career doesn’t need to go down with yours.”

You scoffed, standing up. “You didn’t even help me out there. Your criticism only made it worse,” you snapped.

“At least it was constructive. Why should I have to hold your hand through this? You know far better than to put on a show like that.”

“I wouldn’t be putting on a show like that if my coach acted like he gave a shit!”

Jack crossed his arms. “I do give a shit. Too many, apparently. You want the big leagues, honey? Those coaches would have ended your contract like that for even half the performance I just saw.”

You crossed your own arms to mirror him, huffing.

Jack took a step closer to you. His face went the slightest bit softer despite his earlier fury. “Look. I’m not saying this to be a hardass. And I’m sorry if it’s coming off that way. Skating’s your passion, and I know you want this,” he said. “But if you can’t act like you want to be here, then I can’t help you. Nod if you understand me.”

Your head seemed to nod of its own accord.

“Great. Now, you going to tell me what’s the matter?”

You looked up at the taller man, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. “I don’t know, Coach. I’m stressed, I guess. Stressed I’m going to royally destroy the opening show this weekend. And I suppose I. . .I’m also scared to disappoint you.”

“You might do both things if you can’t get your head in the game,” Jack deadpanned.

“Coach,” you whined.

“It’s true,” he said. His tone went quieter then as he looked you in the eye. “But you probably won’t do either if you put your heart in it, too.”

You held eye contact for a minute without speaking or moving. As much as you hated to admit it, Jack did have a point. As a matter of fact, you’d hardly known him to ever be wrong since the day you’d fucking met him.

Jack broke the silence. “So, what do you need? More practice? Pointers? Need to stretch again?”

“Well. . .” you said. “About that.”

“What?”

“I didn’t actually stretch before this? Was already late, and—“

“Hold on. You got on the rink without stretching?”

“Yes? No? Which answer will take the look you’ve got on your face right now away?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You want to get hurt now, too? Fuck, what am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sorry! Again,” you said. “Let’s stretch.”

“You need more than dynamics. Let’s take a walk.”

You cocked an eyebrow as Jack started to split down the hallway that led outside the arena. “More than dynamics?”

“Yeah. I need you back on your A-game, and we need to release any tension in your muscles before you start again,” Jack said. “You coming or what?”

“Yes, Coach,” you said, ever the dutiful skater, following behind him.

You trailed beside him until you reached a room you’d never been in outside the rink. It was mostly empty save for one of those doctoral beds in the corner, as well as a counter with a few random items atop it.

“Never been back here before,” you said. “What is this?”

“There used to be masseuses here for the figure skaters and hockey players that come through. Few other rooms just like this one down the way,” Jack said.

“So you get to play masseuse now. Exciting.”

“Hilarious. Come on, honey. Vest off.”

You took off the puffy vest you’d had on and set it on a chair in the room. You also took your shoes off at Jack’s command.

“Did you want, um. . .should I keep my shirt on? I have a tank top under. And shorts,” you said awkwardly.

“It’d make it easier,” Jack said plainly.

You then made quick work of your longsleeve, revealing a thin tank top underneath, followed by your thermal leggings. The exposure made your cheeks heat up slightly, but Jack thankfully didn’t seem phased. 

“Lay down. You can start on your back.”

You got onto the bed with Jack’s help—and tried not to think too hard about his hand lingering on your waist—and laid down flat. Jack’s warm hands met the flesh of your leg, and you turned away timidly as he started to lift it.

“Let’s loosen those hamstrings, yeah?” Jack said. He lightly thumbed your skin while your leg was positioned above you, working into the knots you hadn’t even known accumulated there. The feeling might have been foreign, but that didn’t mean it felt bad.

“No wonder you can’t skate. You’re tense.”

“Would it kill you to say anything nicely?”

Jack chuckled. “Maybe it would.”

He put your left leg down and moved onto your right, repeating the same routine.

“Just breathe. Relax. You’ll feel better.”

You tried your best to internalize that, but you couldn’t relax with the feel of Jack’s hands on you if you tried.

He lowered your leg and pushed your knees into your chest, holding them there. You completely averted eye contact with him, letting the silence speak for you. Jack hummed like he was amused.

“What?” you said.

“All that fire on the rink but you can’t even look me in the eye in here. It’s funny.”

“Shut up. It’s just awkward.”

“Still funny,” Jack said. “Both legs up. Hold it.”

You lifted both your legs. The stretch did at least feel good in your glutes, and the ones prior had you feeling good in general, so you had to give him credit for that.

“Legs down. Put your foot over your other leg, then switch.”

“You’d make a good doctor,” you teased as you used both arms to hold your leg over the other.

Jack rolled his eyes. “All this shit is Google-able. So as I said earlier, it’s like you want to get hurt.”

“Jesus. Old man can’t take a joke now?”

“Sure I can. Switch legs.”

You followed his instruction, but you weren’t done pushing him yet. “I’m just saying. Doctor Jack Abbot. . .mhm, could totally see it.”

“You’d probably give me a hard time as a patient, too,” Jack said.

“I don’t give you a hard time now,” you hummed. “You just take everything so personally.”

“You trying to piss me off?”

“See? My point is proven.”

“Turn over. On your stomach.”

You did as told and laid on your front now, feeling even more vulnerable like this. Jack rubbed your inner thighs with the pads of his fingertips. You let out a shaky sigh in return.

“Feel good?”

“Mhm. It’s. . .nice.”

“Good,” he said. He lifted your leg again, pushing it towards you until you felt a stretch in your quad. “Hold it.”

After doing the same to your other leg, putting you in child’s pose, and lastly, into a cobra position, Jack finally let up. You sat up and faced him, your legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

“How was that?” Jack asked.

“Way better than dynamics. I feel great.”

“Of course you do. The longer you neglect your muscles, the better it feels when you finally release the tension in them.”

You rolled your eyes. “And here I was, about to tell you how good of a masseuse you are.”

“You’re full of jokes today, aren’t you?” Jack said with a small chuckle. But he tried, no surprise to you, to hide his amusement beneath his usual stoicism. “I’m still not too happy with you.”

You let out an exaggerated groan. “Come on, Coach. I already said I was sorry! What else do you want from me?”

“What do I want?” Jack said, taking a step closer to you. You parted your legs without thinking so he could stand between them, all before you could really process what you were doing. What he was doing. 

“I want my golden girl back.”

You swallowed nervously as you looked up at him. Apart from celebratory hugs and pats on the back, you didn’t think you’d ever stood so close to him; close enough to make out every gorgeous feature on the older man’s face, every gray in his stubble. Every rise and fall of breath, the freckles that started at his neck and slowly descended beneath his shirt. . .

Your breath hitched at the proximity, leaving you stupidly tongue tied, until you managed a small, “I can be her. I promise.”

Jack rested a hand beside you on the bed. “Yeah, honey? You promise?”

“Yes, Coach.”

Like two magnets with an impenetrable force, you both found yourselves leaning into what was more than a kiss, but a whole new side of your relationship you hadn’t known existed until now. You weren’t exactly sure who sealed the deal, only that Jack cupped your cheek with a tenderness contrasted deeply by his previous gruffness, and started to work his lips against yours similarly.

The kiss was soft and sweet, tentative, like Jack was trying to figure out what you liked. Luckily for him, you had no problem disclosing just that. You pushed your tongue past his lips and wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

Jack grunted against your mouth, possibly the hottest sound you’d ever heard, and slipped his fingers into your hair. His hold wasn’t to control you but more to possess, and the thought had you soaked.

You weren’t the only one worked up, however, because there was a bulge in Jack’s pants that was already hard and insistent against you.

The kiss became frantic as the sounds of both your noises filled the room. You desperately guided his hand down to your shorts, right above your clothed core. Jack chuckled against your mouth.

“My God, honey. You’re so fucking needy,” he said, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He laid his palm flat over your center, and though fabric prevented him from fully doing so, you still rutted your hips against his hand.

“You expected me to stay sane after I had your hands all over me, Coach?” you rasped.

Jack shook his head. He looked you in the eyes while he kept his palm against your core, letting you take your pleasure. “Skip the formalities, sweetheart. You can call me Jack.”

“Okay,” you said with a swallow.

“Say it to me.”

“Jack.”

“Again.”

“Jack.”

“That’s it. Get used to it. S’exactly what you’re gonna say when I fuck you stupid on my cock,” Jack said with so much nonchalance, you could barely register the implication. “Hips up. I want your shorts off.”

“So bossy,” you teased, but you did as told. You lifted your hips so Jack could slide your shorts off your body, revealing your pitifully soaked underwear. 

“Should have expected that from you of all people,” you said.

Jack helped you take them off, discarding them on the chair you’d put your vest on. “Girls like you need it. Always acting up until someone puts you in your place,” he tutted.

Jack audibly groaned at the prominent wet spot on your panties. He rubbed his thumb over your clit through the cloth, finding the spot easily, a breathy chuckle leaving his lips.

“Fuck, look at you. S’this why you were fucking up out there, honey? Too wet to think straight?” he cooed.

Unable to argue with that, you bit your lip. “Can you b- blame me? You can be really hot when you’re mad.”

“Which, according to you, I’m always mad.”

“Then you’re always hot.”

“Have you always thought that, honey?” Jack said, his pace against your clit quickening.

“It’s kind of hard not to notice,” you admitted unabashedly. “Especially when you—fuck—talk to me like that. Makes me think all kinds of dirty things about you.”

“Oh, yeah? And just what kind of things d’you want this dirty old man doing to you, doll?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you teased. You pulled him in by his curls, twisting them in your fingers and pulling him in for a heated kiss. “Let’s start with your fingers inside me.”

“Demanding girl, aren’t you?” Jack scoffed, but he still obliged. He instructed you to lift your hips and slipped your panties off your legs, shamelessly putting them in his pocket.

“Perv.”

“You like it,” Jack said. He wasn’t wrong.

Jack slipped two fingers between your folds to find you wet and pliant for him, your hole practically crying to be filled. He used his free hand to drag you to the edge of the bed, keeping his arm around your waist and his eyes on yours while he teased your slit. Your breath picked up speed at the teasing gesture while your body begged for more.

“Come on, Jack,” you breathed, tasting his name on your lips. You found its flavor as sultry as the scene before you. “Don’t make me beg.”

“I don’t know, honey. After your little tantrum today? I think you deserve it.”

“Jack.”

“What?” Jack said nonchalantly, still teasing you between your folds. You thought you might implode if he didn’t fuck you already. “I told you what I want. So come on, doll. Ask me nicely.”

“Please, Jack. Please, fuck me.”

“Good girl,” Jack said, and with that, he slipped two fingers inside you, thrusting them in deep. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Fuck, n- no,” you squeaked as he began to thrust in and out of your tight walls, your own wetness the only thing allowing him to breach it at all. “Jesus, Jack,” you whined, scratching your nails into his bicep.

“Fuck, love when you say my name, baby,” Jack grunted. He pulled you impossibly closer, gripping your waist with a possessiveness that was making you feel dizzy. “Can you take a third?”

“Already? Shit, you’re insatiable.”

“Guilty,” Jack smirked.

“For you, I can.”

“Aren’t you a sweetheart,” Jack cooed to make it sound sugary, but you knew it was anything but. He slipped a third finger inside you, groaning as you clenched around the digits. He began to pump them in and out of you with vigor, eyes never leaving yours.

“Mmm, so good,” you whimpered. Fuck, if you were this stupid on his fingers, you had no idea how you’d handle his cock.

“You’re cute when you can’t think,” Jack said. He flicked his thumb against your clit, implementing the same circular motion he had previously. “No bratting, no back-talk. S’like my version of heaven.”

“You’re so. . .mean. . .”

“Oh, but you like it, huh? Look how hard you’re clenching around me,” Jack tutted. “Now I know the trick. Give this pussy a bit of attention and you’re a stupid little slut for me.”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you whined as he spoke. “Don’t stop, Jack, please, m’gonna cum.”

“Don’t stop what? This?” Jack said with a particularly sharp thrust into your cunt. “Or did you mean treating you like a whore, honey? Yeah, that’s it. You need a filthy old man putting you in your place.”

“God, y- yes,” you nodded your agreement. “Need you to fuck me so dumb, Jack.” 

“Gonna give you everything you want, sugar. Just need to be good f’me. . .you are capable of that, aren’t you?” Jack cooed, taking your face in his free hand. He pinched your cheeks between his fingers, making you look at him.

“Yes, sir. So, so good.”

“There’s my precious slut. Cum for me, baby. Cum all over your old man’s hand.”

That did you in. A wave of pleasure crashed over you as you came with a shudder, holding onto Jack’s arm while he fucked you through your release. His fingers didn’t leave until you were basking in the aftershocks, and only then did he pull them out, sucking his fingers clean.

You pulled Jack in for another kiss, moaning when your tongue met his. He kept a hand on your waist, the other on your neck, gently squeezing down. You moaned into the rough touch in approval.

Jack pulled away to help you get your shirt off, then unclasped your bra with scary ease. He groaned at the sight of your hardened peaks, taking both breasts into his hands.

“Shit. Your tits are perfect,” Jack said as he squeezed them both, circling your nipples with his thumbs.

“Fuck,” you whined. You watched him trail kisses from your neck to your collarbone until his tongue swiped over your chest. He sucked one of your breasts into his mouth, swirling the length of it over your nipple, while one of his hands continued to knead your other tit.

“Beautiful girl,” Jack hummed more to himself than to you, all while his mouth continued working. His filthy words and flick of his tongue against your chest, paired with the incessant hard-on pressing against you from below, was about to make you fucking explode.

“This is some. .  .stress relief,” you whined, still trying to joke despite your vulnerable position. “You really would be a good doctor.”

“Back to that, are we?” Jack hummed against your nipple. “What are you trying to say?

You laced your fingers through Jack’s hair again, playing with it as you spoke. “Just. . .saying. This feels like a check-up, that’s all.”

“What’s that make you, then?” Jack hummed. “My pretty little patient?”

Caught off guard by his words, you let out an involuntary whimper. “I suppose it does.”

“Well, don’t worry, doll,” Jack said. He squeezed your nipple even harder, pinching it between his fingers. “Doctor Abbot’s gonna get you all fixed up.”

With that, he latched his mouth onto your nipple again, swirling the bud with his tongue. It was evident what kind of man he was as he took a liking to your pretty tits, hardly coming up for air and grunting like he was the one being pleasured.

“That feel good, baby?” Jack hummed after switching to your other nipple, giving it as much attention as the other.

“So good. Doctor,” you teased without thinking. “But I want more.”

“Oh, s’that right? You’re gonna have to use your words, sugar.”

“I want your cock, doctor. Think that’d really fix me.”

Jack chuckled and stood upright. You didn’t have to tell him twice. “Lay back.”

You did as told and laid down on the bed he’d been stretching you on previously. Well, you supposed this still counted as. . .stretching. . .right?

As Jack started to remove his pants, you realized you’d been completely naked while he was fully clothed. He almost stopped at his bottoms and climbed atop you, until you shook your head.

“Shirt, too, Doctor.”

“Bossy,” Jack said, but he didn’t deprive you. He removed his shirt and discarded it on the growing pile of clothes across the room. The sight of his bare chest had you impossibly wetter, even more so as he settled between your legs on the bed.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” you said as he hovered over you.

“Look at that. You do know how to be nice,” he returned.

“You should be the last person talking.”

“I’m as nice as they come,” Jack hummed like he actually believed it. He started to free his cock from his boxers, and the girth of him surprised you. You sat up on your elbows to get a better look, swallowing at the size.

Jack’s face went a little softer. “You okay, baby? Sure you can take it?”

You nodded quickly. In fact, you might have been a little too excited to take him, not so much the converse. “S’this gonna help me, Doctor? Relieve my stress?”

Jack smirked at you. “Sure is, doll.”

“Then, yeah, I can take it.”

“That’s a good girl. See? You can be smart,” he said.

“Oh, fuck you,” you retorted.

“Gladly,” Jack said. He slotted his already leaking tip between your folds, putting a hand beside your head to keep himself steady. “Ready?”

You nodded.

“Words, sugar.”

“Yes, Coach.”

Caught off guard by your words, Jack sunk into you shakily, the name in a moment like this working him right up. “Fuck. You’re trouble.”

You gasped at the utter stretch of him inside you, and felt even more shocked when you looked down and realized that was only half of him. Jesus. You were already sweating and he hadn’t even fully breached your hole yet.

“Oh, s’that too much, love?” Jack cooed at your little whimpers. He pressed a kiss to your lips to silence you, humming as his mouth swallowed your noises. “Shhh, shhh, you can take it. Big stretch, sweetheart.”

With that, he pushed even further into you, watching your face for your reaction. His equally cocky and attentive demeanor was making your head spin with complete and utter lust.

When he was all the way inside, he started to thrust into your pussy, picking up speed the faster your moans got. Your body was gradually accommodating his size, but the longer he fucked you, the better it felt.

“Jack, f- fuck, you’re so big,” you moaned as he rocked his hips against you. Jack was so deep that his heavy balls were slapping against you with every thrust, adding to the erotic nature of the moment.

“You like that, sugar? How much I fill you?”

“So, so much. Please, don’t stop,” you whined.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Jack grunted into your ear, his thrusts already getting sloppier. For how uptight he was on the ice, it was jarring in all the right ways to see him lose a bit of control.

“My good girl. My golden girl. Taking her coach’s cock so well,” Jack cooed.

“Wanna be your good girl, Coach. Only yours.”

“That’s what I like to hear, sugar,” Jack grunted.

He picked up the pace and fucked you into the bed quicker now. Your back arched off the surface, the man so deep it was like you could feel him in your throat, as you took every punishing thrust of his hips into your gummy walls.

Jack withdrew momentarily, the loss pulling a whimper from your lips. “Lift your legs, doll.”

You didn’t question him and raised your legs the same way you’d been earlier when you were stretching. Jack took them over his shoulders and lined his head up with your hole again, before thrusting back into you.

“You’re so pretty when you listen to me,” Jack hummed as he started rutting into you again.

You let out a breathy laugh, though it proved hard with the feeling of being so full. “I’m not all brat, as you’d put it.”

“I like when you behave. Should try it more often.”

“I’ll think about it,” you said, thought you both knew full well you wouldn’t.

Not if it ended in sex like this.

Jack pulled out of you, and for a second, you thought he was going to make you beg for his cock again. That is, until he was slamming back into you, getting lost in the feel of your pussy wrapped around his dick.

“Fuck, baby. You’re squeezing me so tight.”

“Jack,” you whimpered in return, your body ready to give into another orgasm. “I’m close again.”

“Yeah? Want me to—“

“No,”  you said instantly. Paired with him subtly shifting his hips back, you knew where this was going. And, quite frankly, the thought of him pulling out wasn’t a good one. “Cum inside me. Please? I want you to.”

Jack chuckled, thrusting back into you. “Jesus, sugar. Who knew you were such a dirty girl?” he said. He pushed in impossibly deeper, the tip of his dick hitting that sweet spot inside you. “You want this old man filling your pretty little pussy, huh? Fuck the consequences?”

“Fuck the consequences,” you repeated. “I want it.”

Jack didn’t deny you. He fucked into you like an animal, gripping your legs tightly as he slammed into your cunt. A familiar pleasure started to build in your lower belly, and you knew it wouldn’t be long now.

“Jack, fuck, faster!” you moaned. “Gonna cum for you, gonna cum, holyshit.”

“I’m right there with you, baby. I gotcha,” Jack groaned. You clenched around him hard at the reassurance, and before you knew it, you couldn’t hold back.

You came with a loud cry after a particularly harsh thrust into your pussy, soaking Jack’s dick with your juices. He wasn’t far behind you, cumming deep inside you only seconds later with what could only be described as a feral grunt.

“There’s my girl,” he cooed as he fucked you through it. “Take it like a good little slut.”

When you finally caught your breath—or enough to get a few words out, anyway—you looked up at Jack with a fucked-out expression. Sweat was sticking his gray curls to his forehead, and he looked just as dizzy as you.

“That was—“ you started, but you didn’t get to finish before Jack was suddenly flipping you over, pulling a surprised “Oh!” from your mouth. Without further warning, he bent you over with your ass up, running his hands over the flesh of your bottom.

“Jesus, Coach,” you said at the sudden action. “This another one of your stretches?”

“Always a fucking minx, aren’t you?” Jack tutted. He pushed your face down into the bed and pressed up behind you, his cock prodding and insistent between your cheeks.

“I’m not a—holyshit,” you moaned. You didn’t finish that sentence either, not before Jack was thrusting back into your oversensitive hole, setting a lethal pace.

Jack chuckled. “Yeah, not loud-mouthing now, are you, sugar?”

“T- Too s- soon!” you managed through a whimper, the overstimulation making you dizzy. You had said you liked him meaner, but you hadn’t expected this.

“Poor baby. Just a little more now, love, almost done,” Jack cooed like his fingers weren’t now gripping your hair, and the room wasn’t filled with the wet squelch made from him pounding into your poor pussy.

“Jack,” you whined, the sound muffled by the pillow he had your face in. “Feels. . .feels like. . .”

“Use your words, doll,” Jack commanded. “Feels like what?”

“L- Like I’m gonna pee,” you admitted embarrassingly.

Jack chuckled and didn’t let up, already knowing where this one was going. “Ain’t anything to be embarrassed about, sweetheart. S’gonna feel so good, promise.”

“What’s. . .what’s gonna. . .mmph!” you said with a final moan before you felt exactly what Jack was being so smug about.

The second Jack withdrew from your pussy, a stream of fluid involuntarily escaped you, promptly soaking the already ruined bed below you as well as Jack himself. He patted your bottom condescendingly as he watched you do it, muttering a satisfied, “There it is, doll. Let it out.”

“You’re so evil,” you muttered when all was said and done. You turned around to find a smiling Jack, who pulled you to rest flush against his front, his arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

You tried to ignore the feeling of his still-hard cock behind you as he returned, “Still got my golden girl back, didn’t I?”

You giggled and conceded, nodding in agreement. “Told you I could be her. Or whatever you want me to be,” you said. You laced your fingers through his curls, pulling him in for a sensual kiss.

Jack returned it eagerly, the gesture a sweet contrast to his rough treatment from before. “Yeah? ‘Cause after this sugar, you might have to be mine.”

You smiled at him. “I think I could live with that.”

"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"

Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.

"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"

"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.

"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.

The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.

"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."

You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.

I'm fine. Just tired.

The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.

"I don't know," you whispered.

The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.

You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.

You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.

"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."

The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.

A pregnancy?

The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...

"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."

The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.

"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."

"O-okay," you stuttered.

"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."

You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.

"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."

Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."

The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.

At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.

You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.

The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?

You typed, your movements stiff.

Jack. It's me.

You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.

You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.

I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.

Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend of a phantom pregnancy that had already ended?

You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago.

Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.

You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.

"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."

An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.

That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). His deep, purposeful strokes seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.

He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.

You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.

"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.

 I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.

So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.

After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.

The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you.”

He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.

"Okay," he said, his voice flat.

You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.

He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought.

You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?

Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?

You decided not to contact him. 

Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.

It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.

What were you going to say?

You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.

The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"Are you drunk?"

A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."

It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.

He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.

"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."

"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.

"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."

You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.

"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."

He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.

"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.

"Yes."

"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."

You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.

"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.

It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.

Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you. That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.

The voice was so loud, so convincing.

It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.

"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."

You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.

"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."

"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."

You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.

"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. Not for tonight. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."

"Why?"

"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.

He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.

“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."

"What?" he asked.

A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.

"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."

You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.

"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."

"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry, claiming thing, a 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.

But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.

"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.

"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.

"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"

"Jack, I—"

"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."

The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.

"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."

"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking.”

"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"

He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.

"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"

"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused, locked onto him with a fierce, bleary intensity.

"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.

Maybe not ever.

Maybe not ever.

Maybe not ever.

The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.

"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."

"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."

"Hey—"

You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.

"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.

"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.

He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.

Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.

You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.

For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. That night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.

I love you.

The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?

He was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.

"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion." Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."

"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.

"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges. "Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."

"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."

As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.

"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."

Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line. "Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.

"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.

"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath. "Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.

A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.

"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores.  It's a better deal. Trust me."

"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.

"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"

She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.

"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."

"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.

"Yeah."

"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."

Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.

"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.

"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctor is with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"

Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.

And there you were.

Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.

"Jack?"

Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"

Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.

"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.

After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."

"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"

"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.

"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.

"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.

"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.

You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.

"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"

Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."

"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."

Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.

Keep it the fuck professional

He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.

"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.

You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.

"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. The plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"

"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"

"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.

"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."

Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor, Jack's lips twitched slightly at the corners.

"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"

Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.

"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.

"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.

"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.

The silence that followed was thick.

"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"

Her lower lip trembled.

"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."

"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."

You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.

"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that your Dad and I didn't do our share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. We did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But we never, ever got into a car with someone if we even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from our parents. That was a rule we made for ourselves."

She nodded.

"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.

She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.

"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.

"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."

Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"

"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"

She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."

A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.

Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.

But… that never happened.

"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"

"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.

"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"

Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.

You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.

"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"

You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.

"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.

"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"

You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Um…"

You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.

"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.

"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.

You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.

"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."

"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.

"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."

"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.

"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."

"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"

"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.

"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted, your voice dropping to a whisper. You wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."

Jack studied your face for a long moment.

"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.

"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"

"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."

Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."

He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.

And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.

"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."

"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."

You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.

The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.

You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."

His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.

You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."

"What reason?" His brow furrowed.

"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.

"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."

"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."

His expression shattered." I wish you hadn't done that,” he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"

"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.

"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."

"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”

"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."

"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."

"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.

"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into another comforting hug.

Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.

"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."

Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.

With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.

"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.

"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.

"You got it, Doc."

Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.

Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.

"Dr. Abbot," she stated.

He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.

"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."

Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."

"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.

They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.

She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.

"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."

Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.

Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.

"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."

She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.

"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."

Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.

"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."

She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.

"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.

Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "Are you on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"

You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.

"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."

He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.

"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."

"Good to know," you answered.

"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."

"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.

Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.

"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."

The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."

You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.

"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.

Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.

So she knew.

The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.

When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.

"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"

You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:

"Yes."

The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.

"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."

As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.

"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."

"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.

"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."

"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."

"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"

"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."

She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."

You rolled your eyes.

"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.

"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.

Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.

He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.

"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he noticed that you had put on after your shower, then back up to your eyes.

You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”

"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."

Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with a warmth that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had quite the age difference, and that you'd been in high school yourself when she was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.

"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."

"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."

You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.

Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."

The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.

"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.

His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.

"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"

"Nope."

He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.

"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.

You nodded deliriously and felt so lucky he was giving you a second chance.

"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.

A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.

"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.

"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.

And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.

"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.

"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."

A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.

"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.

"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.

"What should I wear on our date?"

His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.

"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.

You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."

"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."

You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."

His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.

A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth. "Oh, you do?"

"I do," you answered.

Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."

"What kind of ideas?"

Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."

You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"

"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."

The casket arrived in Pittsburgh without Task Force 141.

Brendon noticed that before anything else.

Before the black government vehicle rolled through the secured hangar doors on the military side of Pittsburgh International Airport. Before the uniformed officers stepped onto the concrete beneath the cold November sky. Before the British flag stretched tightly across polished wood came into view, every fold immaculate beneath the floodlights lining the military ramp.

None of them were there.

No Price. No Ghost. No Soap, Gaz, or Roach.

Instead, a British officer Brendon had never met walked beside you.

Major Elias Ward had accompanied your remains from RAF Brize Norton to Dover Air Force Base, where the official dignified transfer and mortuary processing had taken place. When you were cleared for the final journey home, he boarded the dedicated aircraft with you and remained beside you until it touched down on the military ramp at Pittsburgh International Airport, near the 911th Airlift Wing’s Air Reserve Station.

His uniform was spotless, but exhaustion had settled into the lines around his eyes. He carried a narrow black presentation case against his chest as though it contained something fragile.

Brendon stood with one hand resting on his son’s shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around his daughter’s fingers.

Mason was eleven and old enough to understand what the casket meant, although he had not cried since the casualty officers came to the house. He had stood beside Brendon while two uniformed strangers explained that his mother had died overseas, his hands buried in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and his face frighteningly blank.

Seven-year-old Sophie kept staring toward the aircraft as though she expected you to step down after everyone else.

Brendon was still wearing his hospital clothes beneath his coat. He had left PTMC as soon as another attending could take over the procedure, stripping off his gloves while Garcia explained that your flight had landed earlier than expected.

He remembered telling her to close for him.

He remembered Garcia taking his shoulders in both hands and telling him she had it.

After that, there was nothing.

He could not remember changing out of his surgical gown. He could not remember calling the children’s school or driving across the city. He could not remember parking outside the hangar.

He only remembered the casket coming through the doors without the people who had promised to bring you home.

Major Ward stopped in front of him.

“Doctor Park?”

Brendon did not look at the officer. His eyes remained fixed on the flag covering you.

“Where are they?”

Ward’s expression tightened.

“Captain Price and his unit were placed under operational restriction following the incident.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Mason’s shoulder went rigid beneath Brendon’s palm.

Ward glanced toward the children before lowering his voice.

“They were not cleared to leave immediately. By the time they were, none of them believed they had the right to stand beside her casket and face you.”

Brendon finally looked at him.

“They didn’t believe they had the right?”

“No, sir.”

“They could survive chemical attacks, gunfire and torture, but they couldn’t face my children?”

Ward’s jaw shifted.

“There is a difference between recovering one of your own and delivering her to the people who were waiting for her.”

Brendon wanted to hit him.

He wanted to grab the front of the man’s uniform and demand that he open the casket, wake you up and explain how five men trained to walk through hell had been too afraid to stand in a hangar with your husband and children.

Instead, Sophie tugged on his sleeve.

“Daddy?”

Every person in the hangar went still. She looked past him toward the casket.

“Is Mommy inside there?”

Brendon crouched in front of her. His knees struck the concrete harder than he intended, but he barely felt it.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Sophie stared at him, her small face serious.

“Can we see her?”

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Ward turned his face away.

“Later,” Brendon finally managed. His voice scraped against his throat. “After they make her ready.”

“Why does she have to get ready?”

Brendon swallowed.

“Because she had a very long trip.”

Sophie considered that before nodding. She trusted him. She believed that he still understood how the world worked and that, if he promised she could see her mother later, he could make it happen.

That was the worst part.

She pressed herself against his chest, and Brendon held her while the honour guard approached the casket.

Mason did not move.

His face stayed blank as the officers lifted you. Only his breathing changed, growing shallow and uneven beneath Brendon’s hand.

They carried you past them with slow, measured steps.

Brendon watched until the casket disappeared beyond the hangar doors.

Major Ward remained behind.

“The Regiment asked me to give you this.”

Brendon slowly rose.

Ward lowered the narrow case and opened it.

A folded Union Flag rested inside, along with your beret, dog tags and the battered watch Brendon had given you on your first wedding anniversary.

He had bought it because you were always late.

You had laughed when you opened the box and told him that a watch could not fix a personality defect. Then you had worn it every day for thirteen years.

Brendon stared at the scratches across its face.

“The flag covered her during the transfer out of theatre,” Ward said. “She served beside British soldiers. She saved British lives. The Regiment wanted her family to know she was considered one of ours.”

Brendon looked at the Union Flag.

“She was ours here, too.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ward accepted the words without argument.

Brendon reached for the watch.

The metal was cold against his palm.

“Was she alone?”

“No, sir.”

Ward answered immediately, and something in Brendon’s chest twisted.

“She was never alone.”

“Who was with her?”

Ward’s gaze dropped briefly to the presentation case.

“Sergeant MacTavish.”

Soap.

Brendon closed his fingers around the watch.

“Did she suffer?”

Ward took a careful breath.

“I was not present when she died.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“No.” Ward’s voice softened. “It isn’t.”

Brendon waited.

“She was given pain relief as soon as the team reached cover. Captain Price remained with her until evacuation personnel arrived. Sergeant Riley did not leave her during the flight out of theatre.”

Ghost.

Brendon looked toward the doors through which they had carried you.

“Then why isn’t he here?”

Ward did not answer.

He did not need to.

Brendon closed the case himself.

Price came to the house three nights later.

All five of them did.

Brendon had been sitting at the kitchen table with your calendar in front of him, staring at an appointment you had written down for Mason’s dentist six months from now.

Mason — dentist, 3:30. Do not let Brendon claim he forgot.

Your handwriting slanted upward at the end, as though even the letters were amused with him.

The doorbell rang shortly after nine.

Sophie was asleep upstairs with one of your old sweatshirts tucked beneath her chin. Mason had gone to bed but had not closed his bedroom door, something he had not done since the casualty officers came.

Brendon opened the front door and found Task Force 141 standing beneath the porch light in civilian clothes.

They looked wrong without their gear.

Smaller somehow.

Human in a way Brendon had never wanted them to be.

Price stood at the front in a dark coat, his shoulders squared as though he were reporting for punishment. Ghost remained behind him, his face covered even here. Gaz kept his hands buried in his pockets. Roach stared at the wooden boards beneath his feet.

Soap had one arm strapped against his chest.

Brendon saw the bandages near his throat. Healing burns climbed along one side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar.

He understood before anyone spoke.

“Which one?”

No one answered.

Brendon stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him so the children would not hear.

“Which one did she die saving?”

Soap’s eyes filled immediately.

“Me.”

Brendon crossed the space between them.

Price moved first, putting himself between Brendon and Soap.

Brendon’s fist struck Price across the mouth.

The blow snapped his head sideways. Price stumbled into the railing, one hand catching the wooden post as blood appeared along his lower lip.

Ghost did not reach for Brendon.

None of them did.

Brendon hit Price again, catching him near the jaw.

“You promised me.”

Price remained upright this time.

“You stood in my kitchen.” Brendon grabbed the front of Price’s coat. His hands shook violently against the fabric. “You ate at my table. You looked my children in the face and promised you would bring her home.”

“I did.”

“In a box!”

The words carried through the quiet street.

Price closed his eyes.

Brendon shoved him away.

The captain struck the railing again but made no attempt to defend himself.

Brendon turned toward Soap.

Soap looked ill. His injured arm remained secured tightly against his chest, and stitches disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

“She came back for me,” he said.

His Scottish accent had gone thin with grief.

“The first blast trapped my leg. She could’ve made the extraction point, but she came back.”

Brendon pressed both hands over his face.

“She got me loose,” Soap continued. “There was another device.”

“Stop.”

“She covered me before it went.”

“I said stop.”

Soap’s mouth closed.

For several seconds, the only sound came from Brendon’s breathing.

Then Soap spoke again.

“She was conscious afterward.”

Brendon’s hands dropped.

Price looked sharply at Soap, but Soap continued.

“She knew she wasn’t coming home,” he whispered. “She made me take her tags. Told me Mason would pretend he was fine and Sophie would start sleeping with the hallway light on.”

Brendon stared at him.

“She said you’d forget to eat unless someone put food directly in front of you.”

A sob tore out of Brendon before he could swallow it.

He bent forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other pressed to his mouth.

Soap looked down at the porch boards.

“She told me to tell you that she wasn’t scared until she thought about you having to tell the kids.”

Brendon squeezed his eyes shut. He could see you saying it.

Not because you had not been afraid to die, but because even at the end, you would have been thinking about everyone except yourself.

“She kept asking if we’d contacted you,” Price said quietly. Blood remained on his lower lip. “We told her we had.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Brendon looked up.

Price did not look away.

“Communications were compromised. We couldn’t reach command until after she was gone.”

“You lied to her.”

“Yes.”

Brendon straightened, his vision blurring. His mind was no longer on the porch. It was with you in those final minutes, wondering whether you had been scared, whether it had hurt, whether you had known how badly he would have wanted to be there.

God, if he had been, he would have begged you to stay. He would have kept asking you to hold on until the words became selfish, because he would not have known how to let you go.

So he said the only thing that made sense now.

“Good.”

Price’s brow tightened.

“Good,” Brendon repeated, his voice breaking. “She didn’t need to know I wasn’t there.”

The front door opened behind him. Mason stood in the doorway wearing his pyjamas. His hair was rumpled from bed, but his eyes were wide awake.

Brendon’s stomach dropped.

“Mason—”

His son’s gaze moved across the five men before settling on Soap’s injured arm.

“You're the one?”

Soap’s face crumpled.

“Aye.”

Mason walked onto the porch.

Brendon reached for him, but his son moved past his hand and stopped in front of Soap.

“My mom saved you?”

“She did.”

“Why?”

Soap lowered himself carefully onto one knee despite his injuries. His face tightened with the movement, but he did not stop until he was level with Mason.

“Because she was my friend,” he said. “Because she knew I had people waiting for me too.”

Mason’s chin trembled.

“Then you better do something good.”

Soap stared at him.

“With your life,” Mason said. “You better make it worth what she gave you.”

Soap bowed his head.

“I’ll try.”

“That isn’t good enough.”

“No,” Soap whispered. “It isn’t.”

Mason stood there for another second, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Then he turned and buried his face against Brendon’s chest. Brendon wrapped both arms around him.

Mason’s entire body shook as the first sob came out of him. It sounded small and frightened, nothing like the silence he had carried around for the past three days.

Brendon held the back of his head and pressed his face into his son’s hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, although he no longer knew whether he was speaking to Mason or trying to convince himself. “I’ve got you.”

Behind them, the front door opened wider.

Sophie appeared in the doorway, clutching one of your old sweatshirts.

The grey fabric hung nearly to her knees. She had pushed one sleeve clumsily above her wrist while the other covered most of her hand.

She looked at the men who had returned without you.

“Are you Mommy’s friends?”

Price wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes, love.”

Sophie held the sweatshirt tighter.

“She would want you to come inside, then.”

That broke whatever composure they had left.

Gaz pressed a hand over his mouth. Roach sank onto the porch step, elbows braced against his knees as his head dropped. Price turned away, his jaw tightening while he stared into the darkness beyond the railing.

Ghost said nothing. He only looked towards the empty street, as though there were something in the dark he could drag you back from, if only for your children.

Ghost understood the first punch. Price had promised to bring you home, and the rest of them had made that promise in their own ways. Brendon had every right to break something when they arrived on his porch without you.

Then your daughter appeared wearing the grey sweatshirt you had stolen from your husband years ago.

Ghost recognised it immediately. He remembered you curled into the corner of a safe-house sofa, arguing with Brendon through a cracked phone screen while Ghost cleaned blood from his gloves just outside the camera’s view.

“My name is on the tag,” Brendon had said.

You had twisted around to check before laughing and wearing it anyway.

Something tightened beneath Ghost’s ribs, but he pushed the feeling aside.

Years before Brendon, that laugh had belonged to moments shared only with him. Whatever had existed between the two of you had never been given much of a chance to become a life. Ghost had wanted you, but wanting you had been easy. Staying would have meant letting you close enough to see everything he kept buried, and he had been too damaged and too frightened of what loving him might eventually cost you to ask for that.

He had let you go before you could build a future around a man who did not know how to believe in one.

It had hurt you. For a while, the two of you spoke only when the job required it, but eventually you found your way back to each other. You became friends again, not the way you had been before, but close enough to trust each other through long missions, bad orders and everything that followed.

Ghost never tried to interfere when you met Brendon, although he remembered the first time you mentioned him.

You had returned from a favour for Laswell after helping an American unit with something outside Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, of all bloody places. Ghost had barely thought about the city before you came back saying you had met someone there.

Once the assignment was over, the soldiers from the base had taken you to a nearby bar. Some drunken patron had mistaken your patience for permission and put his hands where they did not belong.

You had not needed rescuing. Ghost knew you could have put the man through the nearest table before anyone finished ordering another round, but Brendon had stepped in anyway.

You told the story with an amused smile, describing the American doctor who had caught the man’s wrist and calmly advised him to move before you broke it yourself. Brendon had understood that you were perfectly capable of defending yourself. He had simply made it clear that the stranger would not be touching you again.

Things had taken off from there.

Ghost remembered the jealousy that settled beneath his skin when you returned. You seemed lighter and distracted, carrying a private happiness you tried and failed to hide. When Soap made some filthy joke about how thoroughly the American doctor must have seen you off before the flight home, you told him to shut his mouth without meeting anyone’s eyes.

That had been answer enough.

Ghost kept his thoughts to himself. He assumed Brendon would become a story you occasionally told, one unexpected night with an American you had met in a city neither of you had expected to matter.

He never imagined it would lead to a wedding ring beneath your gloves, photographs tucked into your vest and two children waiting for you in Pittsburgh. He never imagined he would one day stand on your porch and see that same grey sweatshirt hanging from your daughter’s shoulders while your husband tried to survive the fact that you were gone.

Pittsburgh should have been a passing detail. Instead, it became the place where you built the rest of your life.

Even after you married Brendon, there were moments when the past still found its way between you and Ghost.

One night in a safe house, you sat cross-legged on the floor beside him with the pieces of your rifles spread across an old towel. You cleaned his weapon while he worked on yours, continuing a habit left over from the years when trusting each other had come more easily than admitting what you felt.

Ghost inspected the bolt you handed back to him.

“You missed a spot.”

You glanced over without lifting your head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Carbon on the edge.”

“That was already there.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You keeping photographs of it now?”

Ghost looked at you across the scattered gun parts. “Could start.”

Your mouth curved. “You always were fussy about my weapons.”

“Someone had to keep you alive.”

“That what you called it?”

The teasing came back easily—too easily—and for a moment, the years between you seemed to disappear. Ghost remembered the way you looked at him then, amused and fond, with just enough understanding in your eyes to make the room feel smaller.

Then your phone vibrated against the floor, and Brendon’s name lit the screen.

The old familiarity between you settled back into the past where it belonged.

You picked up the phone with a softness already touching your face.

“Hey, you.”

The warmth in your voice struck Ghost harder than he expected. He lowered his head and returned to your rifle, dragging the cloth carefully through the chamber while Brendon spoke through the phone.

“No, we’re fine,” you said, glancing towards Ghost. “Just cleaning up before we move again.”

Brendon said something that made you smile, and Ghost kept his attention fixed on the weapon in his hands.

“I know,” you murmured. “I miss you too.”

There was no hesitation in your voice. Whatever flame had once existed between you and Ghost belonged to another time, while Brendon had become the life you were returning to.

When the call ended, you placed the phone beside your knee and reached for the rifle.

“Where were we?”

Ghost checked the chamber one last time before handing it back to you.

“We’re finished.”

You studied him for a moment, as though you knew something had shifted and respected him enough to leave it alone.

“All right, then.”

Ghost missed the years when your smiles had turned towards him first. He still remembered the softness of your lips against his and the way you had once looked at him as though there might still be a man beneath everything the world had made of him.

Missing it did not make it his.

Brendon had built the life with you that Ghost had once been too afraid to imagine. He had seen how freely you smiled around your husband and heard the warmth that entered your voice whenever you spoke about the home waiting for you in Pittsburgh. Your love for Brendon lived in every part of you: the ring beneath your gloves, the photographs tucked into your vest and the children waiting for their mother to come home.

Ghost respected you both too much to turn his regret into something you had to carry.

Perhaps another version of him, in another life, might have been brave enough to stay. In this one, he had always stood outside the frame.

When Sophie invited them inside, Ghost lowered his head and waited for Brendon to open the door.

Brendon looked down at his children and understood that you were still taking care of them through every habit you had left behind.

There was Mason’s stubbornness, Sophie’s open heart, the extra meals labelled in the freezer, the emergency contacts taped inside the kitchen cupboard, and your handwriting on the calendar reminding him about dentist appointments months after your death.

He opened the door wider. The five men entered quietly.

Gaz helped Roach to his feet. Price paused beside Brendon, his lower lip already swelling, but neither man apologised.

There was nothing either of them could say that would make an apology useful.

Soap stopped at the threshold.

Mason had not released Brendon’s coat, but he turned his head enough to look at him.

Soap waited.

After a moment, Mason gave a small nod.

Only then did Soap step inside.

Sophie led them toward the living room, dragging the sleeve of your sweatshirt along the floor.

“You have to be quiet,” she told them. “Mommy’s things are sleeping.”

Price made a sound that might have been a breath or the beginning of another breakdown.

Brendon remained on the porch.

The cold air moved against his face, carrying the faint smell of rain and chimney smoke from somewhere farther down the street.

The road was empty.

For one irrational moment, he imagined headlights turning the corner. Your car pulling into the driveway. You leaning across the centre console to grab your bag before stepping out, tired and irritated because nobody had warned you that Pittsburgh had already become this cold.

He imagined you climbing the steps and asking why everyone was standing around looking miserable.

Nothing happened.

The street remained empty.

Inside the house, the Union Flag rested beside the folded American one.

Two countries had claimed the honour of mourning you.

Neither could give you back.

Brendon opened his hand.

Your watch lay in his palm, its scratched face reflecting the porch light. The second hand had stopped sometime during the journey home.

He pressed it into his skin until the metal hurt.

Then he went inside to raise the children you had died trying to come home to.

"You literally have your own," Beau sighed, though he made no move to pull the bowl away.

"Yeah, but yours tastes better." Dean smiled in response, that easy grin of his that showed his dimples, the smile that he knew was hard to argue with.

Beau rolled his eyes, but tipped the bowl towards him anyway. Dean took a handful so large that some kernels dropped on your bare lap.

"Sorry," he grinned, without sounding the least bit sorry.

Beau picked up the stray popcorn and popped them into his mouth before settling back against the cushions. He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. Every so often, his thumb traced a slow circle against your collarbone.

Somewhere between one scene and the next, you found yourself sinking into his touch, finding it almost impossible to keep your eyes open. It wasn't until you felt a tickle on the underside of your jaw, and glanced down, did you realise that Dean had shifted again. He was curled sideways, his head resting on your lap and looking perfectly content with himself.

Without thinking, your fingers slipped into his hair, scratching lightly on his scalp. Dean's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, leaning into the touch.

"When did you get there?" You mumbled.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "A while ago. You would have noticed if you weren't falling asleep."

"I wasn’t," you lied, lacking any real conviction.

Beau chucked quietly, his chest rumbling beneath your cheek. "Liar."

"I don't blame you," Dean said. "This movie sucks."

Beau tipped his head just enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "You're the one that picked it."

"I picked it so we'd have an excuse to get distracted," Dean replied.

Before you could respond, he turned his head into your stomach, his breath warmed the fabric of your shirt as he pressed a slow kiss right through it, just over your belly button.

Your fingers stilled in his hair. "Dean."

Beside you, Beau stopped tracing lazy circles, and dragged his hand downward, dipping just under the neckline of your tank top to settle on your chest. His warm hand squeezed the soft flesh of your breast before he rolled a nipple between two fingers. You gasped as he pinched harder, sending heat straight to your core.

The weight disappeared from your lap as Dean shifted again. By the time you looked down, he had already resettled himself on his knees between your legs.

As Beau's hand continued to work your breasts, Dean's hands came to grip the tops of your thighs, nudging them wider as he pulled you to the edge of the sofa cushions.

"What about the movie?" You whined, not sounding as convincing as you would have liked to. But how could you when Beau was flicking your nipple like that.

"I think the view is better from down here," Dean replied. His eyes dropped hungrily to between your spread legs, as if he could see how damp your panties were already becoming.

Without taking his eyes off of you, he reached blinding behind him for the remote on the coffee table, cutting off the movie mid-scene.  

You're barely able to protest before Beau's hand came to your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. His eyes were darker now, pupils nearly fully black.

A low moan escaped your lips as his hand moved to your neck, his thumb moving to your pulse point, not pressing too hard, but resting there, feeling the erratic thud of your pulse beneath your skin.

With baited breath, your eyes searched his for any hints of his next move. But his eyes told you nothing except how aroused he was. He just stared back at you, drinking in every ragged breath you took as Dean's hands trailed your inner thighs.

For whatever reason, they both were making you wait, all touches teasing and frustrating and leaving you with more heat in your body than you knew what to do with.

"Still sleepy?" Beau murmured, his voice low and gravelly as his thumb gave your pulse point a gentle, but possessive, press.

You want to say obviously not, as if the way you're squirming in their grip isn't answer enough. But a smart mouth isn't going to speed them up, a lesson you've learnt many a time before. So, you settle on a gently whined, "no."

The answer has the desired effect, the boys springing into action almost immediately.

Beau finally finally pressed his lips to yours. He didn't tease now, the kiss turning deeper almost immediately. He tasted of popcorn and something entirely so Beau as his tongue slid into your mouth, tongue moving over yours.

His kisses demanded a devotion and attention that consumed your mind, barely even able to register when Beau took your hand and guided it to where his erection was pressing against his pants.

You swallowed his groan as your hand closed tightly around him. Thumb sweeping over the head, you spread the precum there, using it as you stroked him. He was thick and warm in your hand, cock twitching.

Beau eased back, his thumb brushing over your swollen bottom lip, wiping away the sheen left behind by the kiss. He looked as wrecked as you felt, and the sight only made you squeeze him tighter. You could feel the vein that ran one the underside of his shaft throb.

His head fell back against the sofa cushions as you continued to work him, hips subconsciously thrusting into your hand.

Between your legs, Dean tugged at your shorts. They caught on your thighs as he impatiently pulled them down. He grabbed your ankle, lifting your legs one by one to get your shorts off.

"These are pretty," he murmured, finger running down the front of your lace panties.

Beau lifted his head slightly, his attention shifting to what Dean was referring to.

"They are," he agreed, voice too breathy to pretend like he was keeping it together. "Lift your hips for Dean, my love."

You obliged easily, shifting just enough for Dean to slide the lace down over your thighs and toss them onto the rug. "I wore them for you both."

The truth was, you didn't have to dress up for them. You knew that with absolute certainty. You could have been in faded sweatpants and old, tattered, panties, the same ones you'd worn before, and they'd still be pulling them off of you with that hungry look in their eyes. But you wanted this.

The feeling of the lace against your skin. The way their fingers caught in it as they reached for you with impatient hands. It was an intoxicating feeling to watch as Dean's smirk faltered into something much darker, and much needier.

Heat tingled over your skin as you saw the quiet pride in Beau's face every time his eyes swept over you, like he couldn't believe you were there, needy for them.

The way they looked at you sent a rush straight through your chest and down low to your belly.

"Naughty, naughty," Dean teased.

At the same time as Beau said, "you came prepared."

Your heart hammered in your ears. "I know who my boyfriends are."

The corner of Beau's mouth twitched as his eyes fluttered shut. The sounds he made as your thumb flicked over his tip were sinful, all laboured breaths and loud moans.

Dean leant in, his hot breath fanning across your core, making you shiver and clench before his lips even touched you.

"Well, since you went through the trouble of picking them out for us, sweetheart..." Dean purred. He kissed the delicate skin of your inner thigh, so close to where you ached for him. "... it'd be rude not to show our appreciation."

The first slide of Dean's tongue on you pulled a whine from you that was downright embarrassing. So much so that Beau chuckled lowly beside you. "My needy girl," he growled.

"I am," you agreed easily, tugging Dean's hair with your other hand as he dragged his tongue through your folds a little too gently. Dean responded with a hard suck on your clit. You gasped, fingers twisting in his hair as your other hand squeezed Beau too hard.

"Oh," Beau stuttered.

"Is that what you wanted, baby?" Dean teased, looking up at you. His chin was already slick and glistening.

"Fuck you."

"Play nice," Beau said, flicking Dean's forehead, "she's got precious goods in her hand."

"Sorry." Dean grinned up at Beau, but the apology sounded a little more genuine than the one he'd given you earlier. "I'll be gentle. Promise."

If the glint in his eye before he dived back between your legs wasn't sign enough, the way he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked was.

"Fuck~. Dean~!" You cried.

Strong, calloused, hands, kept you spread wide, stopping any attempt to close your legs around him. It took all of your, well-practised, attention to keep your mind focused on pleasuring Beau while Dean lapped at your core, your hands moving to cup Beau's balls.

"Want... your... mouth," Beau grunted out.

The three of you moved in a synchronisation that can only have come from months of shared understandings. While Beau shimmied out of his pants, his erection flopping against his stomach, Dean grabbed your hips, helping to flip you over on the sofa onto all fours.

The cushions were soft beneath your knees and you arched your back, lifting your hips high into the air as you buried your face into Beau's lap.

He bucked into your mouth with a strangled moan as you took the tip in. Hollowing your cheeks, you took more of him in, saliva dripping down your mouth as you bobbed your head, taking him slightly deeper each time.

The sofa cushion dipped as Dean settled behind you. With one knee on the sofa beside your leg, his other foot was planted on the floor to stabilise himself. One hand came to rest on your waist, thumb pressing into the small of your back.

"Ready?" He asked, as he dragged the tip of his dick along your slick folds, letting himself catch on your entrance.

"Mhm," you hummed around Beau's dick.

Dean eased himself into you, taking his time to let you feel and adjust to every inch of him. Your nails dug into Beau's thigh as you stretched around Dean fully.

"Fuck." Dean shivered, pleasure running down his spine. You were so wet and warm, fitting around him like a custom glove. "Gripping me like you never want me to leave."

The thing is, you don't, but you don't need to tell him that.

"Can I...?" His jaw ticked, eyes squeezed shut.

You pulled your lips off of Beau with a lewd pop. "Fuck me please, Dean."

Tongue finding Beau's leaking slit, you lick up the salty precum that's gathered there before sucking with renewed vigour on the head. Behind you, Dean pulled back, leaving just the tip in before driving back into you.

When you hummed in approval, he did it again, and again, and again. Every thrust pushed Beau's dick further down your throat. Your tits swung beneath you as Dean's hips snapped into yours with desperation.

Dean's head dropped forward and sweaty blonde hair flopped into his face. His warm breath fanned the small of your back as he whispered praise into the air, you're so good, you're so beautiful, feels so good, fucking love this, fucking love you.

The words tumbled out of him in broken speech, stripped of his usual polish. From the front, Beau was there to catch every breathless gasp that Dean dragged out of you.

Two pairs of hands roamed your body, Beau's fingers rolling your nipples again while Dean reached beneath you, three fingers finding your clit and circling with enough pressure that your toes curled.

Your fingers flexed again, your nails digging so deep into Beau's thigh that you were sure you'd draw blood if you pressed any harder. Between the warmth of your mouth on him, and the sharp, delicious, pain of your nails biting into his thigh, Beau came undone.

The sudden, hot, rush of his release down your throat caught you off guard, filling your mouth faster than you could swallow, the corners of your mouth messy with spit and cum.

"Good girl," Beau praised, lifting your head so he could slide his softening erection out of your mouth. "You did so well."

The praise swelled in your chest, sending sparks of heat through you that matched the heat caused by Dean fucking into you. He changed the angle, dick curving within you in a way that pressed against your sweet spot with every thrust.

The orgasm built easily, each snap of his hips and each circle of his fingers bringing you closer and closer. Beau moved off of the sofa, coming to his knees next to you so he could press sloppy kisses to your mouth, your cheek, your eyelids.

You came with such a force your vision blacked out for a moment, pleasure exploding across your body. You clenched down around Dean, the final straw that had white-hot streaks of cum spilling into you. He groaned loudly, letting you know just how much he enjoyed you.

Without the sound of Dean's hips snapping into yours, the room fell still, quieted down to nothing but the ragged pants of all three of you waiting for your pulses to settle.

Dean stayed buried inside of you through the aftershocks, dick twitching within you long after his body stopped twitching. It wasn't until his heart rate returned to normal, that he slid out of you with a soft hiss.

Without his hand to hold you up, you collapsed against the cushions, ignoring the way the mess dripped out of you and onto the sofa. Dean got up, unbothered by his nudity, and padded off to find something to clean you up with.

Beau's thumb gently rubbed over the faint read marks your nails had left on his thigh, a possessive smile gracing his face as he looked over at you. Your swollen lips and blissful expression made something within him shift.

"I love you," you mouthed, delirious and spent, but content with where life had taken you.

Beau's smile softened into something incredibly tender. He leant forward, stealing one final kiss from your lips. "I love you more, my love."

The loud exhale from Dean was dramatic in a way that only Dean could pull off and still be called attractive.

"Hey," he protested, a tired grin tugging at his lips as he walked back into the room. "Don't leave me out."

"I love you too, Dean," you said on a giggle, just as Beau muttered, "we love you too, idiot."

Dean chuckled, running a hand over his face before glancing down at the mess beneath you. "Fuck, Beau... your sofa cushions are ruined again."

"Well, don't look at me," Beau muttered, resting his chin on the top of the cushion next to your head as your eyes fluttered shut. "I'm not taking them to the dry cleaners this time."

The family gathering 

You arrive at your family’s estate for the annual family gathering and pull up just as Jack is getting out of his car.

“You’re early” he says teasingly, “you’re never early for family gatherings.”

“You’re the only one who knows I don’t like my family… please let’s keep this as our secret…”

“You feeling okay about this?”

“Me? Of course I am!” Tonight would be the night Jack and Megan would announce their engagement. “I can’t wait to celebrate the two of you.”

“Thank you, for being so supportive.” he gives you one of his soft smiles, the ones you adore but trying to hate, so you can move on.

You hum as you nod. He gestures for you to walk in first, and you miss the days where he would swing one arm over your shoulder without thinking. You miss Jack, your friend, who was always there for you. 

“Ah, the love birds!” A loud exclaim from your grandpa gets everyone’s attention. 

“Nope, wrong twin grandpa. It’s not Meg”

“You two look so alike.” 

“Yeah… we’ve been told.” Looks like grandpa might need a memory check. “I’m gonna say hi to everyone.”

The sound of chatter and laughter fills the manor, and it gets even louder when the engagement is announced. Champagne starts flowing quicker than a waterfall, and before you know it everyone is drunk and dancing. Including you. Regardless of your sad and broken feelings, you are still happy because they are happy. 

Hours of talking, eating and celebrating, you slip away quietly from everyone and walk out of the manor, down a path leading to the gardens. Your grandpa had built you a tree house when you were younger and it was your favourite spot. Still is. You and your bottle of wine climb up carefully, sitting just on the edge dangling your legs down. It was you and the crickets, and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. You lose track of time, and you find yourself crying when you hear the sound of laughing and music spreading all across the gardens.

“HEY!” Someone below you was waving at you. You turn the light on in the treehouse and Jack was at the bottom of the treehouse.

“What are you doing here??” You quickly wipe your tears away, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“It got… a bit too much. Can I come up?”

“Yeah, just be careful of your leg, please.” 

You watch as he climbs up carefully, and you help him steady himself as he steps onto the treehouse, holding onto his biceps. “This is beautiful” he says as he looks around.

“Grandpa made it. Again, what are you doing here? You should be celebrating.” You don’t want him here; that would be the correct and logical feeling, but you’re happy he is here with you.

“It got a bit much. Asking about the wedding and the talk of having babies and…”

“Sorry…” you murmur quietly, “what did Megan say?”

“She said kids will naturally come when they do… she can’t exactly say Jack is infertile now can she?”

“I mean that would end the conversation..” You were always brutal wth your words, and you told Jack his response about having kids should always be rude and awkward, so they learn their lesson and never ask again. “Does Meg know you’re here?”

“Told her I needed fresh air.”

You sit on the edge of the tree house in silence, looking at the dark grounds in front of you. You turn over to him, “are you happy, Jack?”

Jack is content and had convinced himself he is happy. Because Jack never thought he will find anyone that will love him, given all his darkness and demons, and hell, even marry him, knowing full well he can never promise them a child. 

“I am yes.” You know he is lying but there is nothing you can do about it. You’ve seen Jack happy. You miss that sparkle in his eye. It had nothing to do with Meg, you hoped, but he didn’t seem ecstatic. He seemed content, but not happy. 

“So what are you doing here?” he nudges you teasingly.

“Oh I keep getting asked when I’m getting married or I keep getting congratulated by mistake. So I escaped.”

“I’m glad I found you here.” Jack says softly, “I miss us”

“I’m still here, Jack. Still me.” You changed the moment they got together. You took a step back, from being around him out of respect to Megan. It felt like cheating — being in love with him when she also is.

“It’s just different now…”

“It’s only gonna get better! You’re officially gonna be family and if anything, we will be closer than ever.” A huge, terrible lie. You are gonna be even more distant now, so you can focus on moving on from this. From him.

He turns to face you, and that sparkle in his eye is back, “I hope so, bug, I hope so.”

“Maybe drop the nickname… after you get married.. you don’t want anyone saying anything inappropriate.”

“What I can’t use your nickname now? Seriously?”

You giggle at him, “just kidding. You keep calling me bug and I’ll keep calling you bunny.”

“Promise?”

“Of course”

“You’re lying to me”

“I’ll make you a promise on the wishing tree.”

“The wishing tree?” 

You point at the tree trunk, that sat in the middle of the tree house, and Jack sees all sorts of drawings carved on it. There are names, initials, many hearts and much more. He gets up slowly and carefully, walks over to it. He runs his fingers alone all the drawings then picks out a card from his wallet and carves b&b on the tree. “We’re on the wishing tree, so no breaking us now.”

You let out a sad laugh, holding onto that promise like a lifeline, “Never, bunny, never.”

The rehearsal dinner 

“If I get congratulated one more time I am going to scream.” You murmur to yourself, no thinking that anyone was next to you.

“And if I get asked one more time if we’re rushing this wedding because Meg is pregnant then I will also scream.” Jack stands by your side, looking at the crowd ahead. “Congratulations by the way.”

“Shut up Jack.” You nudge him playfully, “Congratulations to you too on the pregnancy, apparently. Where’s Meg?”

“Talking to her friends.” He points at the group of friends all sat around the table. ”I have a feeling they don’t like me.”

“Why the hell not?” You don’t know anyone that doesn’t like Jack.

“They keep joking about Meg and Charlie getting together and it’s.. not funny.”

“It’s childish. But that’s uh.. Meg’s friends for you.”

“Are they always that bad?”

“They’re rich kids who didn’t need to work a day in their life, and they’re not even grateful for it. Yeah it’s that bad.”

Jack chuckles, “what about you?”

“I moved in with grandma when I was sixteen so I have worked a day in my life actually. And I also don’t say inappropriate jokes so you can say…I am better than them.”

Jack tips his head back and laughs out loud and you join him too. You loved his laugh more than anything in this world, and you missed hearing it.

The wedding planner walks over to the two of you, with a big smile on her face, “it’s time to practice speeches, you love birds ready?”

“Oh I-“

Jack cuts in for you and saves you the trouble for having to explain yourself once again. “Wrong twin.”

She apologises and embarrassingly runs away to find the correct twin after Jack points at Meg who was sat awfully close to Charlie.

“I should dye my hair or something…” you murmur. 

“Please don’t. I love your hair.”

You think to yourself, the more reason to dye or cut it. 

It was another late night of drinking champagne for everyone else, except for you, because you were eager to get back to your apartment away from everyone once dinner ends. Just as everyone was wrapping up, you quickly said bye to your family and rushed out of the restaurant but Meg followed. “Hey wait up!”

“You okay?”

“It’s Jack” She says bluntly.

“W-What about him? Is he okay?”

“He isn’t feeling too great, do you think you can take him home?”

“Why.. why can’t you take him home?”

“My friends are all still here… and Charlie wants to go out after this so we’re all gonna head to a bar.”

You try not to look too angry but say bitterly, “Where’s Jack?”

You rush over to the toilet, push through the doors and start yelling his name. You feel a mix of panic and anger, expecting the worse.

“In here” a weak voice. “Door’s open.”

You slowly open the cubicle, not entirely certain of what state you were going to find him in. He's sat on the seat, his prosthetic is off, and his stump was red and raw. His eyes are half shut, with damp sitting on the edge of his hairline.

You slap one hand over your mouth and feel yourself get nauseous over how hurt he looks.

“Jack, I’m here; it’s gonna be okay.” You crouch down to his level and examine his stump. “How bad is it?”

“I’ve not taken it off uhh once… today. I had too much to drink and I can’t take my pain meds and uh..” he was slurring his words and not because he was drunk. You have seen him reach this stage, and he was in agonising pain more than anything.

“Let’s get you home. Okay? Do you think you can walk with the prosthetic just until we get to the car? I’ll hold you, I promise.”

He nods slowly. You help him put it back on, then slowly lift him up, slipping both of your hands under his armpits to steady him.

“Thank you bug” he whispers, “I’m sorry”

“Nothing to be sorry about, c’mon I’ll get you home.” With every step, he winces more and more in pain and your heart breaks for him. You feel that familiar nauseous feeling bubbling up in your stomach at how broken he looks.

Once you’re back at their house, you grab him the spare wheelchair and help him sit in it carefully. You carefully take the prosthetic off, watching his face as it relaxes a bit, “Let’s get you pain meds, then change and go to sleep. Hmm? I'll grab you some water."

You don't make it too far away before you start violently gagging, and you have to steady yourself on the counter so you don't collapse.

Jack mumbles, "you okay?"

"Yep" you give him a thumbs up, and freeze in position. One wrong move and you'd be throwing up all over the marble floors.

"Bug what's wrong?"

"Jack, give me a minute. I ate something bad at dinner." You let out a shaky exhale and focus on taking a deep breath in, hoping it'd calm the heat in your chest.

“I’m sorry” Jack murmurs, “I’m sorry you have to do this.”

“What are you talking about! That’s what friends are for!” That’s what wives are fore, actually. In sickness and in health, isn’t it? “I’ll always be there for you, Jack.”

“I’m sorry for everything”

“Jack what even are you talking about!”

“I just…”

“Let’s get you to bed." You walk back to him, forcing a smile, holding down nausea, "And more importantly, pain meds. You need to stay in bed all day tomorrow because when Sunday comes, you need to be able to stand for a long time, walk and dance, got it?”

You push the wheelchair to the bedroom, then slide two hands under his armpits and help him onto the bed. “Can you take your clothes off please, I’ll come back with pain meds and pyjamas.”

“I don’t deserve your help” Jack whispers, not looking at you, but instead he's staring down at his hands.

“Jack what even are you talking about!”

“You! What I did to you!”

“You didn’t do anything what are you even saying?”

“I know"

“You’re drunk and you need sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“It all clicked in. Right this second. Fuck!"

“About what Jack.” You bite back.

“I know that you love me”

Silence follows for what felt like hours, but it was only a second or two. You feel stabbing pain in your heart — an awful feeling you don’t wish upon anyone. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t realise it earlier.”

“Jack stop!” You don’t mean to raise your voice but this conversation was ripping your heart to shreds. “Just go to sleep! Please!” Just- fuck!” You storm out of the bedroom, fighting for a breath that doesn’t come. Your hands on your mouth don’t silence the loud sobs that escape your lips. He knows. He fucking knows.

Jack stares at the carpets as he start taking of his shirt, then his trousers. By the time you return with a bottle of water and his pain meds, he’s still in the same exact spot.

“Meds. Drink.”

He doesn’t look at you once as he does what you ask of him. You grab him a fresh pair of pyjamas, and gently place it on the bed next to him. “Can you manage?”

“Uh yeah.. I should be fine.”

“I’ll be in the spare bedroom. Call me if you need me and your phone is next to you. Crutches are nearby too.” He notices how shaky and broken your voice is. Jack is well aware he has fucked up, terribly.

“I’m sorry again”

“I don’t need an apology Jack” you hate how vulnerable you look in front of him, “I need to know how you know.”

Jack eventually meets your eyes, and his are also tearing up. “You once told me that if you love someone so much, the thought of them getting hurt makes you physically sick. Like when you lost your grandma, you kept throwing up.”

“Shit.” You know exactly where he is going with this.

“And then when the bullet grazed my vest that day with SWAT and you helped clean up the wound… you-“

“I vomited yeah” the moment you saw him injured you vomited into an emesis bag and told him you had a stomach bug.

“For two days straight, all you did was vomit repeatedly.” He came over with meds and to check on you. And he didn’t leave your side. “And for two days straight I believed you. And you didn't eat anything bad at dinner. That's a lie.”

Fuck.

“I couldn’t tell you Jack. I’d be destroying your life and Meg’s.”

“I messed up” Jack whispers as he looks at you and cries quietly, “I really really messed up.”

“We- we can’t okay? We can’t talk about this. Not like this and not now.”

“Bug wait please-“

You ignore him as you run out of the bedroom, calling Meg to tell her she needs to get home and take care of her husband to be. You had your own crisis to deal with, which was getting through the wedding day so you can come up with an escape plan, that doesn’t involve being here, near him.

The wedding day 

Jack woke up in the manor, in a bedroom he was assigned so him and Meg separate the night before the wedding. He was nervous, excited, happy but also sad for you having to go through this. You’ve ignored his calls and texts, and eventually he respected your wishes by leaving you alone. He blocked out any thoughts of what ifs and focused on him and Meg. Because that’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?

You, Meg and her best friend who was also the maid of honour were up from early hours getting ready in your own suite. “Champagne?” One of the butlers ask. You politely decline and to your surprise Meg declines it too. 

“You feeling alright, Meg?” She doesn’t seem like herself; for someone who is getting married, you’d think she would at least smile. But instead, she looks like she was about to run away.

“Just tired, and nervous.” One thing about her was she was not a nervous person. You have seen her in difficult situations, and she was always so confident.

“Why don’t you give Jack a call? Maybe that’ll help ease your nerves?”

“God no” she chuckles nervously and you frown at how bitter she sounds. 

A while later, Jack pops over to his and Meg’s suite to grab the wedding scent Meg had picked out for him. He already texted you to make sure that she’s nowhere to be seen so he doesn’t see her before the ceremony. He walks into the bathroom, opens the drawers trying to find this so called perfume but it’s nowhere to be seen. But he does see something. 

Something he never thought he’d ever see.

He thought his eyes were betraying him at first. Maybe it was the tiredness or the nerves.

He grabs a clean tissue and leans into the bin, picking up a pregnancy test that’s been wrapped in plenty of tissues. 

He holds the positive pregnant stick in his hand.

No one else had stayed in this room but Meg. No one.

“What the fuck is this!” Jack storms into the suite where Meg was getting ready. 

“Jack” you run toward him, trying to push him out of the room. “Get out you can’t see her!”

He yells loud enough for the entire manor to hear, “answer me!”

“What’s going on?” You say cluelessly, looking back at her. 

Jack waves the stick in the air, his face is red and his lips are trembling. He wants to be wrong, wants to be told that it’s someone else’s. But his gut feeling is never wrong, and guilt is all over her face, “congratulations, you’re gonna be an aunt.”

“Meg…?” You say quietly as you look at her, “please say something.”

But her silence told you everything you both needed to know.

The aftermath 

“Jack can you get up please” you’re standing by the spare bedroom door at your apartment, “we’re going out for the day.”

“No we’re not” He mumbles sleepily. 

“Yes, we are.” You say firmly, “and you’re gonna get your ass out of bed, right this second.”

“Just leave, please”

“GET UP!” You yell, “right now! I’m sick of whatever this phase is!”

“It’s called being sad” he bites back, “have some sympathy”

“Fuck you, Jack” you spit out, you’ve been nothing but supportive. “It’s been weeks of you just moping around and staying in bed all day and night. I’ve done nothing but give you sympathy!” You yell loudly, “so this next phase is being called tough love, get the fuck up! Now!”

He doesn’t respond, instead he pulls the duvet over himself and sinks deeper into the bed. “Fine then. You have 48 hours until you move out. Go live with someone else.”

You close the door behind you loud enough for the bed to shake, and storm into the kitchen. In an attempt to make a calming hot drink, in a rush and angry, you break the mug and it shatters all over the kitchen sink. “Great. Just wonderful” you say sarcastically as you look at the glass. In another attempt pick the glass up, you cut your finger open.

“What happened!” Jack opens the door quickly, with cutches supporting him on either side, “did you hurt yourself?”

“Why the hell do you even care?” You’re now crying, and not because you’ve cut yourself. You’re crying because you need your friend back.

He says a bit more firmly now, “did you hurt yourself?”

“Fuck off Abbot.”

“I’m sorry” he doesn’t sound sympathetic enough. 

“Not good enough! I’m trying to help you but you’re being an asshole! And now I broke a mug and it’s all your fault!” 

“I don't know how to move on from this”

“And I am trying to help you but instead you’re biting back like a snake! And not even a cute one!”

He moves over to your side, looking at the cut on your finger. “I forgot you think snakes are cute. Here, let me take a look.”

“Are you seriously trying to lighten up the mood right now?” You groan, “get your ass dressed we’re going out for the day!”

“Where to?”

“To look at apartments for you. It’s time for you to move out.”

“Okay but first can I look at the cut?”

“Fine” you huff and he reaches for your hand, looking at the very superficial cut.

“I’ll get you a plaster, then we’re going out for the day.” He smiles softly, “it’s time for me to make it up to you.”

You feel a tiny flutter in your chest and you hope that this might be the beginning of rebuilding your friendship. With your Jack, the happy Jack.

Families and feelings

To say things were awkward between the family members, Meg and you were an understatement. Everyone sat around the large table, awkwardly tapping, waiting for someone to say something. There was no need for you to be here, but your mom insisted you’d come along.

Your dad begins calmly speaking, “we need to talk about want happened. We can’t all pretended that everything is okay. You threw your life away for who — someone like Charlie?”

“Don’t talk about him that way!” Megan bites back, “he loves me!”

“Are you stupid!” Your mom is now yelling, “are you seriously trying to defend him? You got knocked up - what are you 15?!!”

“I got rid of it” she whispers.

Your jaw drops wide open as does everyone else’s.

“You did what?” Your dad is now nowhere near calm. “You got rid of it!”

“Yes I did!” She cries out, “let me do what I want!”

“I think we should all calm down…” you say quietly, “it’s her decision at the end of the day.”

“Who are you to say anything!” Your mom snaps and your dad ushers for her to calm down. “You’re still friends with Jack!”

“He did nothing wrong” you hiss back, “and he was my friend before any of you ruined it!”

“The question is why are you still friends with him?” She says rudely.

“He’s my friend and my colleague. And may I remind you again that he did nothing wrong. It was your daughter that cheated on him!”

“Stop being a bitch” Meg cries out, “you should be on my side”

“The fuck would I do that for?” You push off the chair, and decide that this meeting along with everyone else can simply go to hell. Not even a few minutes in, and they’ve dragged you into it. You’ve done nothing wrong — if anything you’ve been nothing but supportive to everyone including Megan. You hear them yell your name but you want nothing to do with them, for a long, long, time. 

You drive back to your apartment, feeling more heartbroken than anything at how messed up this situation is. Meg ruined everything for you, and not in a way anyone would expect. Jack on the other hand was being way too nice to you, because he’s still crashing in your spare bedroom. Spirit wise, he was doing somewhat okay. 

But it doesn’t help that you’re still madly in love with him, and your love doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. You decide that today will be the day you finalise your escape plan.

You walk into the apartment, your angry mood was too obvious to ignore.

“How bad was it?”

You don’t say a word as you sit next to him the sofa.

“Bug?”

“I got called a bitch”

“What the hell for!”

“For being your friend.” You whisper.

He doesn’t reply; instead, he pulls you toward him, wrapping himself around you as you sob against his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice warm against your hair. “Breathe with me, Bug. In… and out. That’s it.” He doesn’t let go, even when your tears soak through his shirt. Instead, he moves slightly so you’re tucked more comfortably against him.

Minutes pass, and eventually your cries turn into tiny hiccups, and Jack moves back, just enough to look at you. "You didn’t deserve any of that." His thumb brushes against your cheek, wiping your tears away. "You're the only one who's had my back these past few weeks..."

"You’re the one whose life got turned upside down. I’m just… here."

"You're not just here," he replies firmly, "I don't know what I would have done without you."

"I'm sorry you're having to take care of me now. I should be the one-"

He cuts you off gently, hugging you closer. “We take care of each other. That’s what we do.”

You close your eyes and breathe him in, pretending that the line between your friendship and something more isn't a dangerous line to cross.

He presses a soft, completely innocent kiss to the top of your head, “Get some rest if you need to. I’ve got you.”

And you do. You let yourself melt into him and fall into deep sleep.

The accident 

“Ready to go home bug?” Jack stepped on the roof and found you in his spot. Hit spot has now become your spot, just like everything else in your life. He’s become the only person you talk to, and care about. Meg on the other hand was constantly on your case, wanting to speak with you. You can’t forgive her, not yet. Not for what she did to your friend. 

'“Uhh yeah I think so” you say quietly, looking at the sunrise in the horizon. “Im meeting Meg later today, Jack. She’s the last person I ever want to see.”

“If I forgave her then you can too.” 

“I’m not ready for that…” you whisper, “I’m not ready for anything.”

Jack puts one hand on your back, and you hate how loved you feel just by a simple touch. “I think I want a break, for all of this.”

“Like a sabbatical leave?” He asks, hoping you don’t say what he thinks you’re about to say. 

“No, as in leave somewhere far away.”

“Away from me?”

You chuckle bitterly at how broken he sounds. You can’t keep trying to fix him, and breaking yourself in the process. “I need to heal”

“To get over me, you mean.”

You weren’t sure if you would be able to get over him, even if you cross continents and oceans. 

“What if I leave instead?”

“What? Are you mad Abbot?”

“I might be the problem to all your issues. So I’ll simply go if you want me to.” 

You shake your head quickly and wipe the tears away, “let’s talk about this later. I’ve gotta go home change and meet her.” 

“Bug please-“ Jack says softly, “I’m sorry for everything. For what I did and for dragging you into this. I’ve been so selfish — not grateful in the slightest.”

”It’s okay Jack” you mutter. Your love for him has clouded every decision you needed to make these last few months.

“But it’s not okay. I’ve been a terrible friend. An awful one actually. But from today onward, I will make it up to you. I promise.”

You give him a small smile and a nod. He has been making it up to you, but showing you just how much he truly cares about you. But it didn’t help that the more he did, the more love you felt for him. He swings one arm around you as he leads the way home.

Meg picks you up 45 minutes later than planned, without a single caring though about him, especially since she knows you’ve just worked a 14-hour shift. 

She was angry from the start, ranting about the family arguments and Charlie of course. You truly couldn’t care less of what she had to say, but one thing you cared about was her frantic driving.

“Stop the car, we’re swapping”

“No!” She yells like the spoilt brat she is. 

“Stop the fucking car!” You yell louder, feeling yourself panic at how crazy she was driving. You let out a scream just as she swerves the car aggressively, and eventually she stops abruptly in the road. “You’re driving like a manic, Meg!” You step out of the car and walk over to her side. “Get out!”

She huffs in anger and eventually agrees to swap with you. She then tells you that she had started antidepressants and they were making her drowsy, and was advised not to drive. She talks more about Charlie, who is now wanting to break up with her. Your patience was running low, and you had no more fucks to give.

“You’re an idiot.” You mumble, “what the fuck were you thinking getting behind the wheel!”

“Don’t be a bitch.” She bites back, “I wasn't thinking. I never think, apparently!”

“Yes that’s right Meg. You only think of yourself.” You shake your head in disappointment and focus on the road ahead. “You need to start therapy, focus on yourself and moving forward from this. Got it?”

You don’t react quick enough when she reaches over to you and pushes your head to the side. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

You yell at her to stop. “Meg stop! You’re gonna get us killed!”

“Let me out!” She yells as she tries to open the locked door.

You try and hold onto her hands, trying to calm her erratic behaviour down and your immediate thought is she’s got to be going through a psychotic episode. She fights you back and you truly try your best not to crash but there was no stopping the car from heading onto oncoming traffic as she grabs onto the wheel.

Jack receives a call that he never once thought that he will ever receive. A phone call from Dana, telling him to get over to PTMC as quickly and safely as possible. “There’s been a crash” she says, trying to steady her voice but Jack is familiar with this exact tone of voice.

“Who! Which one!” 

“They were both in the car, Abbot.” 

He doesn’t ask for any more details as he rushes over to PTMC, forcing himself not to feel a singular emotion until he sees you, safe and sound. You have to be safe, right? Because it was a simple car ride with your sister. What could go wrong?

Not even fifteen minutes later, he charges through the ambulance bay doors, looking somewhat composed. He pushes down the nauseating feeling that’s bubbling up in his chest. “Where is she?” He rushes over to Robby, “Robby where the hell is she!”

“Meg’s in trauma one”

“Not her! I couldn’t care less about her!” 

“She-“ Robby chokes on his words, “Jack it was a bad accident”

“No” he shakes his head frantically, looking at all the sad faces staring back at him, “no, it can’t be. Right? She went out for a coffee with Meg! Where is she!”

“Jack, she didn’t make it.”

Jack’s POV

The family gathering

Jack looks around the crowded room, looking for you. He saw your uncle do something incredibly funny and was desperate to tell you about it. He told Meg what happened, but she frowned and told him to stop being silly. He wished she had the same sense of humour as him.

The buffet food was your worst nightmare; Jack knew that you’d be too anxious to eat finger foods in a crowded room. So he filled his plate up, and another one, picking multiple of the same dish, then sat next to you at the table. Meg was nowhere to be seen, of course.

“Wow you’re hungry.”

Jack chuckled at the way you pulled both plates toward you, “Meg told me to watch my figure.”

“Fuck off seriously?”

Jack shrugged; Meg was a bit bossy. “They're both for you, a bit of everything. I know how anxious you get.”

“Why do rich people always insist on the smallest portions? I don’t need a burger the size of a cherry tomato. Then people judge you when you pick two of everything.”

“That’s why I grabbed five tiny ones.”

“What would I do without you bunny?”

“Go hungry by the looks of it.”

Jack's catch-up with you didn't last very long before he got pulled away for more champagne toasting. When he looked back at you, you were already gone.

He cut many of the conversations short so he can get out of the room. It was getting too claustrophobic, and the talk of having children was too inappropriate and heartbreaking. So he eventually escaped and walked down a path in the gardens until he saw a familiar figure sitting in a tree house.

He didn’t realise how much he was smiling when he realised it was you. For the first time that evening, he felt like he could breathe and be himself. Jack knew that you had been crying, but he didn't question it, instead he sat with you on the treehouse until he heard you laugh and felt you relax.

And when he made that wish on the wishing tree, about not separating the two of you, he also wished that you’d find your happy ending and never have to be upset ever again.

The rehearsal dinner

Jack sat in a toilet cubicle, fighting off the dizziness that has now literally knocked him off his feet. He’d taken the prosthetic off, which gave him no relief.

He was reminded once again how lonely his pain and this part of him were.

That no one is coming here to help him, and despite the alarm bells ringing in his head on why his future wife isn’t bothering to help, he ignored it.

He called Robby for help but he didn’t pick up. He wanted to call you, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t your responsibility. Only Meg’s.

And when he heard your voice in the bathroom, he felt a tiny flicker of hope in his heart that someone out there cared about him.

He found comfort in your touch when you helped him to the car, helped him sit in, drove home with no complaints and took his prosthetic off. Because all Jack wanted was to be reminded that someone out there cares about him, and all of him, including his disability.

He then saw something. He noticed how you held down a wave of nausea, and something inside of him flickered.

He had seen you like this before, once. He remembered what you told him, about losing someone you love very much. He knew that you loved him as a friend, but he didn’t think you were in love with him until he saw the look of fear in your eyes. The same one when you attended to his gunshot wound.

Jack then knew that he deserved the pain because of the pain he had been causing you. Being here, taking care of him, marrying your twin sister.

It was too late, because even Jack knew that there was no backing out of this marriage now. Jack convinced himself he was happy.

But when Meg returned home later that night after you called her, and helped Jack settle in bed, Jack found himself missing you and your touch and no one else in the world.

Jack hated himself for how he felt.

The wedding day

After Jack confronted Meg about the pregnancy test, she yelled and cried like the brat she was and told him it was Charlie's.

He wasn't sure how to feel -- was he sad? angry? anxious? Dare he say, relieved?

But Jack was all the above. He threw the test on the floor right in front of her feet, and stormed out. Less than half an hour later, he packed his car and hoped he never have to see this manor again.

“Come back to my apartment.” He turned around and saw you run out to him.

“No” Jack wanted to be far away from you, because you had your own issues to deal with. “I need- I need to leave.”

“Jack please don’t leave. Me. Don’t leave me!”

It broke his heart how you pleaded and cried as he got in the car about to drive off.

"Please don't. You're my friend. Where are you even going!"

He took your house keys and drove there as quick as he could. He was only doing this for you, and only you.

You follow an hour later, with two pizzas in hand and a pack of beer.

Jack’s world may have fallen apart, but you sitting next to him, force-feeding him pizza, watching yet another action movie that you didn't understand the plot of, made everything a tiny bit easier.

Jack went to bed that night, knowing that he had you to wake up to the next morning.

He didn’t care that you looked just like her.

Because you were you.

You were his friend.

And you were here with him, safe. And that was all he wanted.

The aftermath

Jack woke up every morning after the wedding-day-that-didn't-go-ahead and reminded himself that he was an idiot. He should have never believed that someone like him would deserve love and happiness from someone like Meg, or anyone for that matter.

He fell into a sinkhole that he couldn't climb out of, despite your help, pleas, and begs. He spent most of his days and nights in his bedroom, tossing and turning, trying to understand the complexity of everything he was feeling. He was sad that he wasn't a married man, confused why he was sad because he realised how little Meg loved him, understandably angry for what she did but also somewhat relieved. He was relieved that Jack could finally go back to his old, simple, lonely life.

It was only when you threatened him to move out that he got out of bed. Because losing you meant losing the last part of himself that lived, and he would never do that to you. So he promised himself that he was going to swallow his sad feelings and do better for you.

Families and feelings

Jack wanted to set the world on fire, along with the people who hurt you. Because having you in his arms like this, crying when you did nothing wrong, was excruciating. He wished he could take revenge on them, right this moment, but that meant more trouble for you.

So he kept you in his arms that night and every night. Whatever you asked of him, he did it. He never felt like he was good enough for you, so he tried to do better every day.

He promised himself that until the day he died, he was going to worship the ground you walked on because only you mattered. The person that loved him from the start, who supported him through thick and thin, and the person who always showed up.

Jack decided that he did not want to label how he felt for you except this: you were his person, and his whole heart.

The accident

“Fuck off” Jack shakes his head again and a nervous smile breaks across his face, “you can’t be serious right now?”

“The car caught fire almost instantly and-“

“Where is she!” He pushes Robby out of his way and runs over to the trauma rooms, still hoping you’d be in one of them, alive and safe.

“Trauma two” Robby follows. “Jack, they both have extensive facial injuries, including burns, just be prepared-“

He stops listening to Robby the moment he walks into the room. The body on the bed was unrecognisable. 

“No” he repeats to himself as he walks over to the body, “you can’t be- no she can’t be! Robby she can’t be dead!”

“Jack it was pronounced on the scene”

“Maybe it’s Meg. Maybe this one is Meg. They look the same and dress the same and you can’t tell who it is!” He looks at the body, hands shaking as he takes the hand in his.

“Jack we ran some tests, we did everything we could-“

“No!” Jack cries out, “she can’t be dead Robby! She was with me this morning! She was with me, at home she was safe and she was okay!”

“I’m so sorry”

He takes the hand in his, and starts whispering to himself, in complete shock and denial, “I’m here bug, I’m right here. Okay? I’m never leaving you. Ever”

“Jack…”

“You can’t leave me, not yet, I was supposed to go first not you” Jack says softly, leaning over the body, “this is just a nightmare and it’s all gonna be over soon, okay?”

“Abbot please-“ Robby cries as he puts one hand on his shoulder to move him away, “let’s get some air”

“This can’t be happening” Jack shakes his head, convinced that this was just another nightmare, and that his best friend was not dead.

“I’m really sorry Jack I know how close you two were and-“

“I want to see Meg” he spits out, gently placing the hand back on the bed. “I want to see her now”

"They're still working on here and-"

He changes out of the room, opening the doors into trauma one. “You fucking bitch!”

Santos, Langdon and Perla are all looking at him with shocked expressions on their faces — they have never see Abbot behave like this. “it should be you that’s dead! You don’t get to live!”

Robby attempts to pull him out of the room but no amount of power was going to stop Jack and his broken heart from leaving this room calmly, “it’s not fucking fair! None of this is fair!”

“Calm down!” Robby yells back, “she’s not doing too good either!”

“I hope the bitch dies” he spits out, looking at the unrecognisable body on the bed, “She deserves hell for everything she did to us. Hell!”

The panic attack comes on strong for Jack, the worst one he’s ever had. Once reality hits him that he will never be able to speak to you, that the body in trauma two will never wake up, that he will never hold you or love you, he crashes. Everyone’s faces in the room suddenly go blurry, and he feels incredibly small compared for them. He tries to fight for a breath but it doesn’t come. Robby says something to him but he brushes him off. He doesn’t remember the minutes that follow, but he finds himself sitting on the ground outside the hospital staring at traffic. Robby finds him eventually, but he doesn’t say anything; instead, he sits next to him on the ground and puts one arm around him. His loud sobs echo all across Pittsburgh. He had his heart broken too many times, but this one… this one he will not survive.

The unsaid

Jack sits by the ICU bed, staring at the body on the bed that’s covered up in bandages from head to toe. He hates that he’s in this room. Hates that he’s feeling sorry for Meg. Hates that he should be grieving you, instead he’s here with her. The person who took you away from him, made him fall in love with her then broke his heart. 

Jack hates his life and there was no coming back from this feeling. 

“I have so many things I want to tell you” Jack says quietly, “and they’re not very nice things I can assure you that. You broke my heart once, and I didn’t think you’d do it again.”

“You took her away from me. My best friend and the only person who ever truly cared about me. You took her away from me, and that’s something you will live with for the rest of your life!”

He closes his eyes and tries to calm himself down, reminding himself this is still a hospital and he should act caring, otherwise he’d get kicked out. “There’s a very fine line, almost invisible to the eye, between love and hate. I thought I loved you, but I am so wrong. You pushed me over that line so easily, and I will hate you for the rest of my life.”

A few minutes of silence, then he continues,

“Bug loved me for who I am, and I am so stupid for not seeing it earlier. I’ve been so stupid this whole time, falling for someone like you. When it should have been her. It was always her.”

He leaves the room, back to your apartment and doesn’t return for another days.

He had nowhere else to live, so he stayed here and took over the lease. He couldn’t let your space go, or all of your things. He slept in your bed and cried himself to sleep every single night.

He spent days of wanting to call you but you were never going to pick up the phone.

Days of planning revenge on Meg, but that doesn’t last long because Jack isn’t a bad man. He’s a sad and broken one.

He eventually returns to the ICU room, this time promising himself that he will not get angry. The nurse in the room tells him the good news, that she’s making progress. He forces a smile, but deep down he couldn’t care less. He wasn’t sure why he keeps coming back here, but he has so many things unsaid that needed to come out, otherwise it was going to eat him alive.

“I miss my best friend, Meg. I miss bug. I miss talking to her, I miss having her at work. I miss our rants to each other. Her smile and her soft giggle. I miss our breakfasts together. I miss the way she’d boss me around, telling me when to take a break when I should have been the one to tell her that.” He continues, his broken voice filling the room, “I decided that one day I might forgive you, but not yet. Not so soon. The funerals been arranged for her, and I have to attend, to say my final goodbyes.” He smiles nervously again, “your mom planned it all and I just know she hates everything about it…”

He feels himself starting to get angry again so he tries to slow the hammering of his heart down, but he fails. He wants to be angry, because he doesn’t want to feel any other emotions. He doesn’t want to be sad, because sadness won’t bring his best friend back. 

“I keep telling you how much I hate you but now I’m going to tell you how much I love bug. Oh I’m so stupid for not telling her sooner. We would have been so happy, but I fell under your charm like an idiot. I love her so incredibly much and it took for her to die for me to realise it. I wish you could hear me because what I’m about to say won’t ever be repeated. If I had a time machine, Meg, I would have refused to meet you. I would have told bug that she’s the only person I ever need in my life. Her and only her. Even if she doesn’t want me to be more than just a friend, I’d still be there for her. I love her with all my heart, and I wish I had told her sooner. ”

Jack moves up from the chair slowly, “when you’re awake, we will talk. And I’m not going to be nice I can assure you that. You’re going to live the rest of your life feeling nothing but guilt!”

The nurses outside the rooms can now hear Jack yell, and security is instantly called in. 

“I love her and I don’t want to live a day without her! I shouldn’t be here and either should you. She should be the only one that’s happy, because she deserves to be happy. Deserved. Past tense because she’s dead Megan! She’s fucking dead!” He cries out, “You should have never been driving. It was there on your fucking chart! You deserve hell and I hope you find it, in this life and next!”

Security grabs hold of Jack and pulls him out of the room. He’s mumbling gibberish at them, trying to fight them off, but he immediately goes still.

Jack doesn’t want to fight anymore. Jack’s too tired for any of it. Because why would he fight? Who is he fighting for?

He brushes everyone off him and leaves the ICU, with one intention in his mind. If you’re not here then he shouldn’t be here. It’s as simple as that. 

He finds his favourite spot on the roof, the same spot you stood at not even a week ago. The same spot you two first opened up to each other after a bad shift.

The first shift he admired you. The first shift he asked you if you wanted breakfast after work.

The same spot he came back to after a bad shift, and you followed to check in on him.

He cries because he’s fucked up. He fell in love with the wrong person but was he truly in love? What was he feeling? Jack doesn’t know what he was feeling and he doesn’t care anymore.

His phone buzzes in his pocket many, many times and he doesn’t bother to pick it up. Whoever was calling had nothing important to say. If it wasn’t you calling then it doesn’t matter.

He wonders if it’s fucked up that he stands in the same exact spot where your friendship started, and his earthly love for you will end.

He hopes and prays that wherever he goes to next, he’d het to see your beautiful smile once more.

His phone rings one more time and he angrily picks it up, “Robby not now!”

“Jack” Robby’s voice is shaky, “where are you?”

“I’m busy we’ll talk later-“

“Jack listen to me there’s- fuck.” … “There’s been a mistake.”

Oh.

Oh.

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s awake, she’s asking for you.”

“I don’t care-“

"Twelve hours," he'd said, voice rough with exhaustion and something else entirely. "Kid was eight. Ruptured aorta, three-liter blood loss, coded twice on the table." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "I brought him back. I brought him back."

And then, quieter—cracking at the edges:

"Help me come down. Please. I need—I need to stop feeling my own hands."

This was the ritual. The only thing that worked when the Pitt left him too sharp, too awake, too much like a weapon that hadn't been sheathed yet.

You'd learned it over months of marriage—the way Attending physician Abbot sometimes needed to be unmade so that Jack could exist again. The way victory could poison him if it didn't have somewhere to go. The way he needed someone to take the weight off his shoulders by pinning him down and taking everything else instead.

So you'd stood up from the couch. Crossed the room to where he stood shaking in the doorway. Pressed your palm flat against his chest—right over his heart, still racing beneath his scrubs—and felt the hummingbird flutter of a man running on fumes and triumph and something close to mania.

"My vest stays on," you'd coo softly. "You deserved this—now I’m going to take it from you."

He'd crumbled instantly. Forehead dropping to your shoulder, a shuddering exhale leaving him, his whole body going pliant in a way that took hours to achieve any other way. Like your permission was the key to a lock he couldn't pick himself.

"Yes," he'd breathed against your collarbone. "Anything. Whatever you want. Just—please—make me stop thinking—"

That had been forty minutes ago. Forty minutes of stripping him down slowly while he shook apart under your hands. Forty minutes of whispering him through the crash—letting the surgeon bleed out of him, letting the Attending physician surrender his rank, until there was nothing left but Jack. 

Your Jack. Desperate and needy and so fucking gone for you that tears had started leaking from his eyes somewhere around minute twenty-five and hadn't stopped since.

Now Jack, trapped beneath you, looked like a demon trying to escape its cage. His fingers fumbled at the buckles, his knuckles white as he tried to strip you of it, but his hands were shaking so violently from his arousal—and the adrenaline still working its way out of his system—that he couldn't seem to line them up right.

"Fuck, just—goddamnit," he gritted out, frustration bubbling over.

You didn't help him. You just shifted your hips, rubbing yourself intentionally against the hard ridge of his erection trapped behind his pants. Jack gasped, his head tipping back, the cords in his neck standing out sharp and tight. He let out a long, ragged whine that started in his chest and twisted into something desperate and pathetic.

You didn't let him finish. You didn't let him beg in that voice—the one that sounded like broken glass.

You leaned down, crushing your lips against his, swallowing his whimper whole. It was a punishing kiss, teeth scraping against lips, tongues clashing in a mess of saliva and heat. You stole the air from his lungs, muffled the noise he was making, turning it into a wet, suffocated hum against your mouth.

"Shh," you murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to nip at his jaw. "You can't make a sound, Jack. Not yet. Not while you have all these clothes on."

"But it's too much," he choked out, his voice cracking. He tried to move his hands to your waist again, to pull you closer, to rip the damn vest off, but his hands were still shaking too much. He looked up at you with eyes swimming in tears of pure frustration. "God, I need you. Please, Y/n, I feel like I'm going to explode. Just—just take it off."

"I am," you whispered, lowering yourself so your forehead rested against his. "I'm taking it off, baby. But you have to be good."

His breath hitched—that familiar sound, the one he made when he was hovering right at the edge of too much. You knew it well. This was the part where you checked in, where you made sure the man underneath you was still the same one who'd safeworded "yellow" three months ago when you'd tied him down too tight after a 12-hour shift.

"Jack." Your voice dropped, gentle now. "Color?"

He swallowed hard, his throat working. His eyes—wet, wild—found yours. "Green," he rasped. "Green, fuck, it's so green, please don't stop—"

You reached up to the side of the vest, taking the strap that ran over your shoulder. You had to maneuver your legs to get around his hips, which were swiveling restlessly, seeking friction he couldn't find. The air between you was suffocatingly hot, sticky with sweat, carrying the salt-and-antiseptic smell of hospital scrubs mixed with something darker—him, underneath it all.

Jack let out another broken sob when you finally tugged the vest strap free. His chest heaved, the soft fabric of his scrub top rubbing roughly against the lace of your bra. He reached up, desperate to touch your skin, to feel the heat of you without a layer of Kevlar in between.

His fingers grazed the side of your breast, and he hissed, his entire body jerking off the couch.

"You touch me," he breathed, his voice breaking. "God, Y/n, please let me touch you. Just skin. I need to feel your skin."

You ignored his plea, pulling the vest straps down your arms and tossing it carelessly to the floor. The weight lifted from your shoulders, and you breathed easier, though not by much. You sat up slightly, working on the clasps of your shirt. Buttons popped off, rolling across the hardwood floor with that distinct click-click sound that seemed deafeningly loud in the quiet room. It was a singular note of clarity in the chaos of your lust.

Jack watched you with rapt, unhinged attention. His mouth hung open slightly, his tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips. He reached for your waist again, his hand hovering over the band of your pants, his fingers twitching as if he were playing a violin that didn't exist.

"Baby," he whined, high and needy. "Please. I can't stand this. The vest... the pants... just... unnngh."

You leaned down again, silencing him with a kiss. This time, you let him kiss you back, let him ravage your mouth while your hands found the knot of his drawstring. The cotton was soft, slick with sweat where your fingers worked, but you refused to break contact.

When the knot finally loosened and the fabric gave way, Jack let out a sound that was half-sob, half-groan. A noise wrecked beyond recognition. He groaned deep in his throat, a vibration that rumbled through the wall of his chest and right into yours.

"Is that it?" you teased, your lips hovering over his. "Is that all you've got, tough guy?"

Something flickered across his face—a flash of that stoic military mask, the one he wore in surgery, in briefings, in moments when he needed to be untouchable. His jaw tightened. His eyes hardened, just for a second.

Then it crumbled.

"Shut up," he growled, but there was no heat in it. Just desperation wearing a thin disguise. He tried to shove his own pants down, but his coordination was shot. He kicked his leg out, the prosthetic clattering against the floor with a hollow, mechanical thunk, and cursed colorfully.

"Leave them," you ordered softly, and you didn't mean his pants.

You reached between your bodies, sliding your hand down the front of his boxers, wrapping your fingers around his thick, leaking length. Jack's back bowed off the couch, his neck snapping back so far it looked painful, his throat exposed and vulnerable.

"Fuck!" he shouted, the word tearing from him as your hand engulfed him.

You didn't wait for him to recover. You squeezed him, stroked him, ran your thumb over the wet, plum-colored head. Jack threw his head back, his mouth opening in a silent scream that was muffled instantly by your hand planting firmly on his chest, holding him down.

You kissed him hard, swallowing the sound before it could become a moan. You kissed him with the kind of ferocity that matched the fire burning in his blood. You tasted the salt on his lips, the metallic tang of his sweat. You wanted to consume him.

"Jack," you whispered against his mouth, "look at me."

He forced his eyes open, dazed, glazed over with tears. They were fixated on your face, tracking every movement. "I'm here. I'm here," he gasped, his chest heaving against your hand.

"You're so hard," you murmured, giving him a slow, deliberate pump. "You're so swollen for me. Look at you—begging me like a dog."

He whimpered, a high-pitched sound that betrayed his military training and his stoic facade completely. The cracks were spreading now, spiderwebbing across that carefully constructed armor. "Yes," he nodded frantically, tears actually spilling over and rolling down into his hairline. "Yes, I'm your dog. Just... please, just... give me something. I can't breathe."

You knew what he meant. This was the headspace he craved—the one where his brain went quiet, where Attending physician Abbot dissolved into nothing but nerve endings and need. Where he didn't have to be good enough, smart enough, fixed enough. He just had to be yours. Where the surgeon's hands stopped shaking because they weren't holding anyone's life anymore—just yours.

And god, you loved giving him that. Loved watching the moment his eyes went glassy and distant, when he stopped trying to control anything—including himself. This was the sacred thing you did for each other: you carried his victories so they wouldn't crush him, and he let you.

"Shhh," you cooed, leaning down to press kisses to his eyelids, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose. "I've got you. I've got you."

A beat of silence. Just his ragged breathing and the thunder of your own pulse. His chest rose and fell beneath you, each exhale shuddering out like he was surfacing from deep water.

"Arch your back, Jack," you commanded softly, though your tone was laced with a teasing lilt that made his jaw clench.

You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the tactical zipper of your own pants. It was a nightmare—buckles, clasps, heavy nylon—but you refused to break contact with his mouth. You needed his mouth. You needed to drown out the sound of his desperation.

Jack watched you with hooded eyes, his lips slightly parted, breathing in short, harsh bursts. He could see the ridges of your spine as you leaned forward, his gaze glued to the movement of your hands like a starving man watching a bird feed. His own hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles bone-white, fighting the urge to grab you.

Zrrrt. Snap.

You pushed the heavy fabric down your hips, but it caught on your boots. You cursed softly, actually cursing, which made Jack whimper—a wounded little sound.

"Come on, baby," you cooed, reaching for your own zipper again. "Almost there. Then you can touch me."

He let out a shattered noise, something like a dog whining when you leave it out in the rain, and tipped his head back further, exposing the long line of his throat. "Please, Y/n. I can't—I'm losing my mind. My hands won't cooperate."

"Shhh," you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to his Adam's apple. You felt the frantic flutter of his pulse beneath your lips, rabbit-fast and erratic. "I've got you. Just breathe."

You worked quickly, your own hands trembling slightly with need, as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and dragged them down. They caught briefly on his erection before sliding past, pooling at his thighs with his already-loosened scrubs. He was exposed completely now—angry and purple, weeping pre-cum, standing proud and demanding against the flat of his stomach.

You grabbed him again, just to ground him, to hold him in place while you finished stripping the last of your gear.

Jack gasped when your hand wrapped around him again, his hips bucking up off the couch involuntarily. "Fuck! Oh god, oh god," he rambled, his voice cracking. "That feels—I'm sorry, I can't—it's too much, Y/n, everything is too much."

The rest of the clothes disappeared—his pooled on the floor, yours kicked away—and then there was nothing left but skin and sweat and desperate breathing.

Cool air kissed your overheated skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. You hovered over him, naked flesh against naked flesh, the heat between your bodies almost unbearable. The contrast was electric—your soft skin against his rough, hair-roughened chest. You guided him with your hand, positioning the thick head of his cock at your entrance.

Oh you know Jack is on cloud nine judging from his facial expressions. He let out a long, ragged moan, a sound that was pure, unadulterated aching need.

And then…

Your hips met his in a sharp, deliberate roll—a promise of what was coming. His breath hitched.

You leaned down and crushed your mouth over his, kissing him with a violence that bruised, swallowing the sound completely. Your tongue swept into his mouth, demanding dominance, tasting him, taming him. You swirled your tongue against his, mimicking the rhythm you wanted to set with your hips.

"Shh," you hummed into the kiss, feeling him melt beneath you. "No sounds, Jack. You don't get to make noise yet. You be a good boy for me."

Jack whimpered into your mouth, his hands flying up to clutch at your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin, leaving bruises that would bloom purple by morning. He was nodding frantically against your lips, trying to obey, but the tension in his body was screaming for release. You could feel the war inside him—the part that wanted to fight back, to flip you over and take control, slowly drowning under the weight of how badly he wanted to surrender.

"You like this?" you whispered against his lips, pulling back just an inch to look him in the eye. "You like being told to shut up while I fuck you?"

"Yes," he choked out, his voice wrecked beyond recognition. "God, yes. Please. I need it. I need to be inside you."

"Say it," you ordered, pushing down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, taking him into your heat.

"I need to be inside you," he rasped, his eyes wide and glassy, following your movements with rapt attention. "I need you, Y/n. Please, I can't— I can't wait anymore."

"Then stop waiting."

You sank down completely, seating yourself fully on him in one hard, fluid motion. Jack let out a cry that you swallowed with a ferocious kiss, his head snapping back, his mouth open in a silent scream as he filled you out  completely. It was better than he could have imagined—hot, tight, and impossibly perfect. Like coming home to a place he'd never been.

"Jack," you moaned, rocking your hips once. He made a choked sound, a whine that vibrated in his throat.

You kissed him again, harder this time, staking your claim on him. You set a slow, deep rhythm, riding him, using him. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave imprints, his thumbs brushing over your hipbones, grounding himself like a man clinging to driftwood in a storm.

"So good," he breathed, the words tumbling from his lips as you moved. "You're so tight. It's... fuck, Y/n, it's like... like coming home."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, the friction building fast. You watched his face—the way his eyes squeezed shut, the way his brow furrowed, the way his lips parted in a silent plea. You kissed the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, his chin.

"Don't stop," he whimpered, his hips bucking up to meet yours, chasing you.

"Keep your mouth shut," you teased, dipping down to nip at his earlobe. "Unless you want to wake the neighbors."

Jack laughed softly, a breathless, broken sound. "I don't care," he whispered. "I don't care about anything. Just you. Just this."

You picked up the pace, the sound of your bodies slapping together filling the room, a wet, slick rhythm. Jack was panting against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, small whimpers spilling out despite your best efforts to silence him. His stubble scraped against your collarbone, adding another layer of sensation.

"Fuck, Jack," you gasped, feeling the coil in your belly winding tight. "You feel so good. You're gonna make me scream."

He let out a desperate sound, a sob of gratitude. "I'm gonna make you scream," he whispered, his voice cracking. "God, I want to. I want to hear you come, Y/n. I want to feel you around me."

You drove him harder, faster, demanding everything he had. He was trembling beneath you, his skin flushed a deep red from hairline to chest, sweat beading on his forehead and rolling down his temples. He looked beautiful—ruined, open, completely yours. Every wall he'd ever built lay in rubble around him.

"I'm so close," you gasped, burying your face in his neck. "Jack, I'm close."

"Please," he begged, his voice high and thin, wrecked. "Come for me. Please, let me feel it."

The feeling of him gripping your hips, of his nails digging in, of his raw need, was the final straw. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, seizing your muscles, making your vision white out at the edges.

Jack sobbed against your shoulder as he felt you clamp down around him. He came with a shout that was muffled by your hair, his body shuddering violently as he filled you completely, over and over, spilling himself deep inside you.

Silence settled over the room like dust, broken only by the heavy, wet sound of your hips pressing together as you tried to find a comfortable rhythm, neither of you willing to break the seal of contact just yet. Jack's eyes were glazed over, staring unfocused at the ceiling, his chest heaving in long, broken gasps. The smell of sex hung thick in the air, mixing with sweat and something else—intimacy, vulnerability, the particular musk of two people who had cracked each other open.

Slowly, you shifted your weight, lifting yourself up just enough to break the connection between your bodies. The sudden friction sent a jolt through both of you, and you both hissed at the oversensitivity. You looked down, watching as the thick, white fluid wept from where you'd been joined, sliding down the side of his shaft and mixing with the slick that had coated him.

Jack's gaze dropped immediately to the sight, his eyes widening. He reached up with a trembling hand, his thumb swiping through the mess with a kind of horrified fascination.

"Fucking hell," he whispered, his voice thick with shame and arousal tangled together. "Look at that. It's everywhere. It's leaking out of you, Y/n."

He stared at it with an intensity that almost hurt to witness. Usually, he would look away quickly, embarrassed by the evidence of what he'd done, how undone he'd gotten. But his face was burning bright red, his ears pink, and a dopey, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "It's... it's hot," he rasped, his hips twitching involuntarily. "Seeing it... seeing it come out of you. God, I love it. Makes me feel like I really filled you up."

"See?" you teased, leaning down to press a kiss to his sweaty temple. "A good boy."

You captured his lips, peppering him with quick, soft pecks—forehead, nose, chin, the corner of your mouth. It was a grounding ritual, a way to tether him back to earth, back to you, back to the room.

"Stay with me, Jack," you murmured against his lips. "Earth to Doctor. Come on. Focus on me."

Jack hummed, leaning into the touch like a cat starved for affection. He threaded his fingers through your hair, keeping you there, reluctant to let you go even an inch. "I'm here," he slurred slightly, still dazed. "I'm right here."

You pulled back to look at his flushed face. He looked wrecked—beautifully, thoroughly wrecked. His silver curls were plastered to his forehead in damp ringlets, his skin glowing with exertion, his lips swollen from your kisses.

But underneath the haze of satisfaction, you could see it: the adrenaline had finally drained. The surgeon's hands had stopped trembling. The Attending physician's shoulders had dropped. 

What remained was the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who'd been running on emergency reserves for half a day—and the phantom ache flaring in his residual limb, and the familiar throb building behind his temples.

An hour of activity with the socket still clinging to his skin—he needed it off. Needed to let the limb breathe before the swelling got bad.

"Okay," you said softly, coaxing him gently back to reality. "I know you're tired. Let me take care of you."

You reached for the box of tissues you'd knocked off the side table in the heat of the moment, grabbing a handful. You dabbed at his chest first, wiping away the sweat and the glistening traces of what you'd done together. Jack didn't flinch at the rough paper against his sensitized skin; he just watched you with those wide, hazel eyes, letting you tend to him with a kind of reverent stillness. Like a priest anointing a saint. Or a soldier letting someone clean his wounds.

Once he was clean-ish, you maneuvered off him carefully, lowering your feet to the floor. The cooling air hit your skin immediately, making you shiver. You grabbed a throw blanket from the arm of the couch and draped it over Jack's lap, tucking it around him.

"Now," you said, kneeling on the floor between his legs, looking up at him. "Take it off."

Jack let out a grunt of agreement, shifting his weight so he could reach the liner still clinging to his residual limb. His fingers found the edge of the silicone, working it down with practiced efficiency—rolling, peeling, releasing the suction that held it tight against his skin. The prosthetic itself lay forgotten on the floor where it had fallen an hour ago, but this part—the unpeeling—still required effort.

This was the part that always made your chest ache. The trust it took. The vulnerability of it.

As soon as the liner peeled away completely, his residual limb was exposed—usually wrapped in a shrinker sock, but now bare. It was swollen and angry-red from the heat and sweat of the past hour, the skin pale and hairless except for the finest peach fuzz along the sides.

"Come here," you said softly, tugging gently on his hand. He groaned, starting to sit up to help, but you stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Stay put. I've got you."

His hand caught your wrist before you could reach for the lotion, thumb stroking lazily over your pulse point. That smirk—the one that got him into trouble in the on-call room—tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Y/n." Your name came out low, sleep-rough. "C'mere. Let me take care of my wife for once."

"You don't need to—"

"I want to." He tugged gently, trying to pull you up onto the couch with him. "You just made me see god twice. Least I can do is make my favorite person shake a little."

You laughed, pulling free with ease. "You already made me shake. Pretty hard, actually. Were you there?"

"Vaguely." His eyes dragged down your body, slow and appreciative. "Doesn't mean I'm done. C'mere. I've got fingers. I know how to use 'em. Graduated top of my class."

"Your class in what? Annoying me?"

"Both." He reached for you again, more insistent this time. "Baby. Come here. Wanna feel you come on my hand. Wanna watch my wife's face when she—"

"Jack." You pinned his wrist to the couch cushion, leaning over him just enough that your hair fell in his face. "Shut up and let me rub lotion on you."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "...That shouldn't sound as good as it does."

"I know."

"Fuck." His head dropped back, surrendered immediately. "Fine. But I'm owed. With interest."

"I'll add it to your tab, Doctor."

"My tab's getting pretty long." That lazy smirk again, darker now. "Gonna collect eventually. Probably when you least expect it. Maybe in the supply closet. Maybe—"

"Leg. Now. Quiet."

"Yes ma'am." But his fingers found your hip anyway, squeezing once before letting go. Asshole knew exactly what he was doing.

You grabbed the cotton ball and moisturizer from the side table—the same stuff you kept stocked in the end table for nights exactly like this one. But doing it for him felt different. Heavier. More intimate.

You wiped the glistening sweat from his residual limb first, gentle as you could be, watching his face for any flicker of discomfort. Then you pumped the lotion into your palm, warming it between your hands before massaging it into the tissue, kneading out the tightness, working the soreness from muscles that weren't there anymore.

Jack closed his eyes, a soft, arching groan escaping his throat—not pain, just relief. "Yeah," he breathed, his head lolling back against the headrest. "Right there. Just like that. God, I love my wife's hands on me."

"They're magic hands," you murmured, pressing your thumb into a particularly tight spot near his knee.

"Mm. They are." One eye cracked open, watching you work. "Know what else they're good at?"

"Jack."

"Just saying. Earlier? When you had your hand around my cock and I couldn't think straight?" His voice dropped, rough and warm like whiskey. "Best thirty seconds of my life. Want about forty more of those. Tonight. Tomorrow. Permanently."

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. "You're impossible."

"And yet here you are." His fingers found your free hand, threading through loosely. "Rubbing lotion on your husband at—" he squinted at nothing, "—whatever time it is. Like you like me or something."

"Debatable."

"Liar." He tugged your hand up, pressing a kiss to your knuckles without opening his eyes. "Love you."

When his limb was fully moisturized and the redness had faded to a dull pink, you helped him shift back so he was fully reclined and comfortable. Then you gathered him into your arms, curling up on the narrow couch with him, tucking your legs up and draping the blanket over both of you like a cocoon. Jack buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply—breathing you in like you were oxygen—and his arm snaked around your waist to hold you against his chest, tight, like he was afraid you'd disappear.

The adrenaline had fully dissipated now, leaving a heavy, lethargic calm in its wake. The phantom pain was dull, just a background hum of discomfort that he could easily ignore with you pressed against him like this, your heartbeat steady under his ear. His hands had finally stopped shaking. The surgeon was at peace.

This was the deal you'd made, months ago, in the quiet after one of his  surgeries, when he'd admitted—voice small—that sometimes he just wanted someone else to drive. Someone else to decide. Someone to make him fall apart so he didn't have to hold himself together. Someone to carry his victories so they wouldn't crush him.

"Then I'll catch you," you'd promised. "Every time."

And you always did.

"You're heavy," you teased softly, nudging him.

"Yeah, well," he mumbled against your skin, lips dragging along your collarbone. "I'm your burden now. Stuck with me. Gotta carry your husband around."

"Someone has to."

"Mhm." A kiss to his throat, then his jaw, then the corner of your mouth—sloppy and half-asleep. "Gonna make it up to you. Gonna wreck you so good you forget your own name. Just... tomorrow. M'tired right now."

"Sure you are."

"You drained me." His laugh was barely a breath. "Literally. There's nothing left. Empty husk of a man here."

"Poor baby."

"Your babe," he agreed sleepily. "Lucky bastard, that guy." He pressed the words into your neck like a brand. "Go to sleep. I'll eat you out for breakfast."

"Romantic."

"I'm very romantic. Put a ring on your finger and everything."

He was out within minutes, the way he only ever was with you. His whole body went slack, face pressed into your neck, breath evening out into something slow and steady. His arm tightened around your waist even in sleep—a reflex, like his subconscious knew better than to let go. The prosthetic sat abandoned on the hardwood, the liner crumpled nearby, neither of them needed when he had this instead: you, solid and warm and his.

You carded your fingers through his silver curls, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing evening out into sleep, and smiled into the dark.

Taglist: @thehockeynerd30@rufles2@eugene-emt-roe@taygrls@jwinz@koiastro@disappearintofanfiction@unknownhuman102@thoughtsandvibeslibrarian@pixviee@cassierins@momdancingtomcr@theariespov@cosmosnkaz@chauchirem@malindacath@snack-at-midknight @saibaxoxo @diasnohibng@rstaverous@midnight-sun-bright-star @solarasirenx @h-l-m @ubiquitous-corvids@clonesdserveb3tter@yuviqik@peachyfckingkeen @collarandcratecravings @goldenmoonbeam@luluskye@abbotaes @in-ky @definitelynotkirby

Brenden didn’t text back immediately, he usually never did unless it was past 8 pm. He was likely still in his surgery. Since he had to scrub out and finish some paperwork after, he told you to wait for him downstairs. And he very much told you not to wait in the ER lobby, as it was “too chaotic” and “you’ll likely end up needing to be seen if you put yourself in that mess”. Which you took offense to. Like yeah you were a little clumsy but a waiting room couldn’t be so bad that it raised the possibility of you getting hurt. It was just probably loud and you knew how much Brendon valued quiet time. One time when you were around 15, he fucking shushed you in your own home. He got smacked for that. But you had learned his need for low levels of noise, and he learned your inability to control your voice volume. Lesson learned. 

Brendon had given you a pinpoint location for where to be dropped off at and where to enter the hospital through.  Being so anal organized, he also gave you specific instructions on where to wait and said he told the charge nurse in the ER department you would be coming. 

When you were dropped off, you collected your stuff and walked past some nurses and doctors taking a break outside. Walking in, you saw a large circular set of desks where a handful of people were at. Bingo. The hub. Brendon said he would meet with you here as soon as his shift ended. 

“Hey, what can I help you with?” a younger brunette asked from behind the counter. 

“Hi! I’m supposed to wait here for a friend.” You replied before quickly adding.,“He’s a doctor! Not a patient.”

“Oh, who is it? I can let them know you’re here.” she replied. 

“Brendon Park.” You stated. It looks like your words stun her as her eyebrows immediately furrow, She is taken aback and her jaw drops a little. She is trying to find what to say, but her brain cannot comprehend what you just said.  Brendon had told you that he had a reputation at the hospital, especially in the ED but you did not expect him to cause this type of reaction. You thought he was just exaggerating to look cooler. 

“Uh, I’ll let the charge nurse know.” The words tumbled out of her mouth as she cranned her neck to look for someone else. She looked around until she found an older blonde woman exiting from one of the corridors. “Dana!” she called. “Shark’s uhh- friend is here.” She didn’t sound super sure of what she was saying, the weird look she had did not help either. Shark? You thought. They really called him a shark? Brendon could be a bit snarky, but this felt different. He had a lot of explaining to do later. 

“Hi, sweetie.” The blonde greeted as she came up to you. “My name’s Dana. Dr. Park will be down as soon as he can. Just hang tight,” she smiled.

You smiled back and turned to set your bag down on the down floor, letting out a sigh. You did not pack light. 

Rolling her chair closer to where you were standing from across the desk, the brunette held her hand out. “My name’s Trinity.”

“Nice to meet you!” you shook her hand as you introduced yourself., 

“How do you know Park the Shark?” she tilted her head. 

“Oh,” you were still surprised to hear the name. “We’re old friends. We’ve actually known each other for most of our lives.” you smiled.. 

“Oh wow.” Trinity sat back, her eyebrows raising. “Has he always been such a… sourpuss?” she asked tentatively. 

“Kinda,” you laughed at her choice of words. “he can be a bit grouchy. But I would describe him more as pouty. He doesn't get what he wants, he pouts. Like he can absolutely rip someone a new one, but if it’s not something super inconvenient, he doesn’t get mad about it. More annoyed if anything.”

“That’s insane.” Her eyes went wide.

“Why? What’s he like at work?” you lean in closer. 

“There’s a reason why we call him a shark.” Trinity leans closer to you too, looking around before continuing. “He’s swift, calculated, and has a nasty bite. He won’t hesitate to put someone in their place.”

“Tell me more.” You whispered, gripping the edge of the counter as you kept inching closer, wanting to be on the secret. You were so surprised. Beatrice and Brendon told you snippets of his work personality, but what Trinity was telling made him sound like an dick.

“Everyone is scared to get in his way, doesn’t want to be chewed out by the scariest doc in the building.”

“Scariest?” you pulled back with a laugh. 

“That’s the sentiment in the ED, I don’t know how it is up there in Ortho.” she shrugs. 

“No… Brendon? He’s a goofball.” You pulled out your phone and started swiping, trying to find the picture you were thinking about. “Look.”

You turned your phone around and showed Trinity a photo of Brendon. It was him, a bit younger, with a birthday hat on and frosting across half off his face. He had his tongue out, trying to reach blue frosting on his cheek. His eyes were looking up, concentrating with his eyebrows shot furrowed. He looked like a normal person. Someone who might actually have fun. Nothing like what Trinity was used to and her jaw was dropped. 

“Oh. My. God.” She reached out for the phone, wanting to get a better look at the photo. “You have to send me this photo.” she looked up as she laughed. 

“Gladly.” you smirked, grabbing your phone back from her. 

Just as you started the process to send it to her, a very familiar voice behind you halted your actions. 

“You better not be spreading propaganda about me.” His gruff tone startling you and making you yelp. You held your phone to your chest, totally because you were spooked and not because you didn’t want Brendon to see what was on your phone. 

“Jesus Brendon, way to sneak up on a girl.” You let out a huff, putting your hair back in its place. 

“Shark.” Trinity mouthed at you, before quickly turning around to her work. You turned to face Brendon and opened your arms out for a hug. He immediately opened his arms and welcomed you in an embrace. Wrapping your arms around his torso, you gave him a tight squeeze. You honestly were using a good amount of strength, but it didn't phase him. In return, he gave you a quick squeeze back and you yelped from the surprise. It had been a long time since Brendon had seen you. He was always happy to see you, but this time you were here in his city and he was excited to say the least. 

“I cannot believe you have that photo of me.” Brendon sighed, shaking his head with his arms crossed against his chest. 

“It’s so cute!” You held your phone out for him to see it fully. “Look at what a baby you are,” You cooed, looking up to Brendon to see his reaction. Brendon just side eyed you and rolled his eyes. 

“I thought you were getting hangry, stop spreading stuff like that,” he pointed at your phone, “and let’s go get burgers.” You perked up at his last word. It was like you were a secret soldier awakened. 

“Oh burgerss," you basically droolled. “You know me so well.”

“I knew you’d want something fulfilling after the flight.” He tilted his head with a small smile. 

“Mmmm.” you hummed, unmoving as you thought of taking a big bite out of a juicy burger. While you were in your head, Brendon picked up your bag from the floor and bumped you lightly with his elbow. 

“Come on, I’m starving.”

‘Don’t have to tell me twice.” You snapped out of your meaty daze. “It was nice to meet you, Trinity!” You call back as you follow Brendon out of the door. Trinity waved back at you before murmuring, “That pic would’ve been so good to have,” to herself. She sighed, pushing her chair across the way to go talk to her colleagues about the new gossip she had. 

Walking next to Brendon, you looked up at him. “Thanks for getting my bag, Park the Shark.” you teased with a smile and an eyebrow wiggle. 

“So you’ve heard.” He let out a laugh. 

“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” you said pointedly. 

“Over dinner.” He shook his head with a small smile. He didn’t talk about 

“You’ve got a deal,” you smiled, “I cannot focus with my stomach growling.”

“I also can’t think with your stomach growlin’.” 

You lightly slapped him on the shoulder in a fake offense, rolling your eyes.

A/N continued: hey!!! I hope you liked it. i'm focusing on building their relationship but i have no clue if it's working. Please let me know what you think! Is the top set up well? (and should do an extra chapter about the er seeing brendon smile) Thanks!!

xo Em

--🩷--

your mom's remarried! you're still seeing jack and he's sooo jealous. not over your mom - over you.

'i'm your daddy,' jack growled into your mouth as you bounced on top of him. 'mmm, daddy... daddy,' you moaned, scratching at his ribs. 'no, babydoll - i'm your daddy,' jack pants. 'he doesn't get you like this. only i get you like this.' you're surprised, and yelp as his thick fingers squeeze down on your hips; hard enough to leave bruises.

'no, stupid baby... you need to learn this... concentrate. he doesn't get to watch you in the shower... hnnngh fuck, he doesn't get to tuck you in at bedtime.' you let out a pathetic whine. 'only you, daddy,' you moan. 'fuckin' damn right only me.' you lean in to kiss him and jack pulls his face back against the pillow. your mouth goes to chase his and he shakes his head, biting his lip. he's fucking up into you at a punishing pace and he's so big it hurts, suckerpunching your cervix.

'he doesn't get to rearrange your guts...' jack pushes hard into your tummy, his hand forcing your skin down to touch where the head of his cock pulses. 'or fuck your face... or cum on those pretty little nipples.' jack pinches then twisted them. 'ammm gonna cum,' you whisper. 'you're too little to understand but you're not having two daddies. i forbid it.' your mouth is parted in horror. 'nuh uh, daddy - don't want him. only you! mmmf.' you cum all over him, gushing down his hips. 'thereeee you go,' jack coos. 'that's it, that's right... good job. feel all better now you've wet yourself? made a big mess on daddy?' you nod, head spinning and your head full of pastel stars.

jack isn't through, though.

'when your little cunt is weeping and achy, who do you come to?' 'youuuu,' you cry. 'me, that's right, good girl.' jack praises you, panting hard and his cock twitches inside you. 'and when you're all itchy inside and your little fingers just can't reach to scratch, who do you come to?' 'oh, you - fuck, only you.'

'i raised you... me... i did that.' jack is losing control as he grinds you down on his hips, scraping your clit against his pelvis. his grey curly pubic hair climbing up his round belly tickles your soft bare skin. 'he's only forty, shit... he doesn't know how to raise you. doesn' know how to fuck you like this, make you feel good.' jack's disgusted. this- th-this stranger is gonna be living with you. living with his girl. he bites down hard on your neck till you bleed, marking his territory. 's'good daddy, i feel so gooood mmmf.' 'yeah you do,' jack's teeth are clenched down so hard his jaw pops. 'i'm fifty, babygirl... i know what i'm doin'.'

jack's squeezing you down by your hips. 'oh i'm gonna cum, princess. fuck i'm gonna cum.' 'need to pull out, daddy! i'm too little for the pill :('. jack laughs in your face. 'no, baby, gonna cum inside that little pussy... my pussy. make her nice 'n full.' you whine, shaking your head. your little hands scrabble uselessly at his chest. jack thinks it's cute. he's just using you like a doll, bouncing you up and down... taking what he needs from your cunt and fleshlighting himself. his thick thighs tense and his eyes roll back. 'oh i'm gonna cum, fuck i'm gonna- here it comes huh uhh urrghhhh.'

jack blows his load into you, pinning you down flush against him. your tiny pussy is too small to contain it all. cream streams down your thighs and onto his scrunching balls, as jack tries to fuck it all back into your tight cunt. 'fucking. take. it.' jack grunts like a boar with every sloppy thrust. the muscle in his cheek twitches as his cock waves wildly inside your cunt, spraying you down in a thick white firehose. 'wanna give you a sibling, baby...' jack sees the look on your face. 'no no no, don't cry.' jack pulls your chest against his, kissing your cheek with a scruff of silver stubble as you nuzzle into his neck. his cock is softening inside you but he can't bear to pull out... not when you're so warm and wet like this. 'won't touch her like i touch you... no, you're my special girl. only you get my presents.' 'yeah?' you sniffle, trying to get a hold of your anxiety. 'yes, baby... only ever share this secret with you. shh shh shhhh.' jack soothes you; stroking your hair and kissing your temple. his cock slithers out with a wet slap! against his stomach.

he scoops up some of his cum from his pubic hair and holds his two fingers to your lips. 'need to make sure you hydrate after playtime.' your eyes widen and you drink down his cum gratefully; slurping from his fingers til they're empty bar your drool. 'good girl.. oh good fuckin' girl... my girl. mine. forever. yeah? should i write it in your planner?'

--🩷--

Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.