missmediocre 🫶

There was an eeriness to the auditorium as you pulled your violin--a different one now, sure; one that was yours entirely and not rented--from its case and you tuned it. The sound of your bow being drawn back and forth echoed over empty seats. You could imagine, in that destined future, that they would be filled.

You finished when you were satisfied with the sound and were about to start practicing when applause suddenly erupted from the back of the auditorium. One set of hands clapping and a grating voice hooting and hollering obnoxiously. You squinted to see past the stage lights, only to scowl as you saw a familiar, irritating silhouette.

"What a great performance," your admirer shouted and whistled up to you. "Encore, encore."

"I haven't started playing yet!" You shouted; you used every bit of self-control not to stomp your foot.

The silhouette scooted forward in its seat. You could hear the sarcastic grin as it responded, "well it sounded pretty good to me."

"Figures that you wouldn't know what tuning sounds like, Munson," you bit out. Finally you used your hand to shield your eyes from the stage lights and you saw the cocky smile that stretched across his face. "What are you doing here?"

"I take naps here between classes. You actually woke me up."

"Tough. This is a closed practice. Get out!"

Eddie jumped to his feet, and started strolling towards the stage. His body language was loose, casual, and felt almost mocking in comparison to your rigid, performance-ready stance.

"Come on now." Eddie's voice dropped to a more normal tone as he got closer. "Why the hostility, Strings?" You rolled your eyes at the nickname. "I could be the audience that you so-clearly think you deserve. You should be a little grateful.”

Bitterness burned the back of your throat.

"Have you ever played for a crowd before?" He continued condescendingly. "Outside of Pachelbel's Canon at your little weddings?"

"Have you?" You shot back. "I think I overheard your buddy Jeff mentioning something about someone falling asleep at your last gig?"

"Ouch." He held a hand over his heart and winced. "Those cheap shots do hurt, you know."

"Here I was hoping that they would kill."

He reached the stage and rested his elbows at the edge of it, then set his face in his hands and stared up at you in a way that, in another reality, could be considered a bit romantic.

You did everything you could not to walk over and kick him in the teeth. He was lucky that you’d worn a skirt today.

"You should stick to music, sweetheart," Eddie sighed. "Comedy does not suit you."

You shot him a sarcastic smile, and were about to throw another insult back at him, when he continued.

"So what are you doing here." His eyebrows disappeared into his bangs. "Usually I'm the only one haunting these halls waiting for Jeff to finish up. Barely anyone else take classes on Friday afternoons."

The question made you falter, because surely, it was a trap and he would just use it to lob another insult your way, as was your routine. Somehow, it seemed a lot more innocent than usual. It seemed genuine.

You thought about the risks and benefits of telling him; truly there was nothing to be afraid of but you always believed that if you spoke the truth about something you wanted out loud that you would jinx it. There was a reason that you were here so late on a Friday, that you'd booked the auditorium at the Tri-County Community College when you knew no one else would: you hadn't told anyone about what you were doing. Not your violin instructor, not your friends, no one.

But, standing here, with Eddie of all people, you figured that you had nothing to lose. In fact, he might be one of the few people who actually understood. You had heard him blather on about destiny, after all. Many times, to your extreme annoyance.

So, you took a deep breath and let the truth out in one go, words bunching together unintelligibly as they left your mouth.

His brows knit together now.

"Whats that, Strings?" He huffed a bit of a laugh. "Sorry, I only talk at a hundred miles-per-hour, not listen."

You pursed your lips, and then tried again, slower this time.

"I'mauditioningfortheIndianapolisPhilharmonic."

He blinked up at you once.

Then again.

And then he spoke.

"Does it pay well?"

You laughed at the unexpected response and it echoed throughout the auditorium. Suddenly, there was a weight off your chest that you hadn't realized was there.

"It actually doesn't pay at all," you eventually responded and sighed. "But experience is experience."

"Fuck yeah it is," Eddie smiled up at you. "Shit, what I wouldn't give for...I don't know, a state-wide metal band. Absolutely shredding with a bunch of other guitarists. Bouncing ideas off each other. I have the guys but..."

"...but it isn't the same," you agreed. It was what you sometimes felt about your own group: a ragtag string quartet that you'd strong-armed into existence in the year that you'd been at TCCC. They were good, you all were good. It was hard to get them to have an artistic vision sometimes.

"Good for you," he said sincerely. "What are you gonna play? Hey, no, wait. Let me get a good seat; I'll be your guinea pig."

"You don't know anything about classical music," you scoffed at him, watching incredulously as he backed away from the stage and dropped into a seat a few rows back. "In fact, you've said that you hate classical music."

"Yeah, so?" He shrugged. "I also have a good ear for music in general, plus I can always tell when you get embarrassed. Ergo, even if I hate what I'm hearing, I'm just as likely to be entertained if you fuck it up."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you deadpanned.

"Anytime!" He grinned. "Now lets get going. What's on deck?"

You went through the pieces that you'd planned for your audition. Mozart's Concerto No. 3 and Dvorak's Songs My Mother Taught Me. Amongst others. But they were favorites. Sentimental things that you'd practiced a thousand times and knew you wouldn't mess up.

Until you did. Until you winced here and there and you saw Eddie's mouth quirk in amusement. Which would throw you off your game, and make you mess up more.

Slowly but surely, you were able to build up a tolerance, were able to look past him and focus on your performance more than him. You'd of course had real performances before, sure; you'd stood on stage many times, from middle school onwards, but you knew that the instructors and conductors that you'd had previously weren't as nearly critical as the Concertmaster at the Philharmonic would be. Not as critical as Eddie was. You felt a sense of gratitude, more than once, that he'd been there to help you find a bit of a flow state to ignore that watchful gaze.

Before you knew it, a half hour went by, and one of custodial staff opened the door to the auditorium to let you know they'd be locking up for the afternoon.

"I guess that means the concert is over," Eddie said, turning back as the custodian left.

"Guess so," you agreed. You quickly packed up your things and Eddie waited until you were ready so you could walk out together. He even held the door for you. Even if he was an ass, he was a bit of a gentlemanly ass.

The two of you walked in silence, through the halls. Eventually, there was a fork where he would turn towards the lit building, where Jeff was finishing up his class, and you would head towards the parking lot. You stared at each other awkwardly, unsure if you should say bye or thanks. Eventually, you swallowed your nerves and asked, "what'd you think?"

"I think you were nervous," he stated after a beat.

"I was," you agreed. "But what did you think?"

"I mean," he shoved his hands into his jean pockets. "We've already established that it's not my cup of tea, but it wasn't bad. Your crescendo's and adagio's and all the o's. Once you stopped looking to see if I noticed where you screwed up..." You groaned and he smirked. "I might even say you were kind of good."

It was a record-scratch moment.

"What?" Your jaw dropped. "What did you say? Did you just say I was good?"

"Don't let it get to your head." He held a hand out to stop your excitement. "You're no Bruce Dickinson, alright?"

"Who's that?"

"God! This!" He threw his arms over his head and screeched. "See, we were having a truce and you went and ruined it. This is why it's better for us not to get along. It's like water and oil, we do not mix. No metal for you, no orchestral compositions for me."

He continued ranting and raving, but you hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder and got him to stop gesticulating into the air wildly.

"Thanks Eddie," you muttered. "For staying. For being my audience."

"Sure. Yeah. It's cool." He reached up, patted your hand with his, and then left it there for a moment or two too long. Then he cleared his throat and backed away; he thumbed over his shoulder. "I gotta go find Jeff."

"Yeah, of course," you nodded.

"Uh..." He sniffed again. "Smell you later, then, I guess."

"Not if I...smell you first," you replied awkwardly.

The two of you turned and went your separate ways.

Until you heard him call out.

"Hey, Strings!"

You glanced back at him.

"Yeah?"

He stared at you for a second, and then continued.

"You're gonna knock 'em dead."

And it might not have been the first time that you'd smiled at Eddie, but it certainly was the biggest.

---

For a moment after the words leave your mouth, the room holds perfectly still, as if even the air is waiting to see what you’ll do next. You expect Eddie to soften it, to dismiss it with something easy you can push away, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, steady and frustratingly calm, looking at you like he’s not afraid of what you’ve just admitted.

“You don’t have to fix it tonight,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, less edged with challenge and more grounded in something you don’t quite recognize.

You let out a small breath—half scoff, half laugh. “I always do.”

“Yeah,” he replies, almost under his breath. “I know.”

That’s what gets you. Not the words themselves, but the way he says it—like he’s already mapped out your patterns and isn’t impressed by them. It settles heavy in your chest, and for a second you don’t move, don’t reach for your usual defenses, don’t redirect the conversation somewhere safer. The silence stretches between you, but it isn’t suffocating the way it was earlier. It simply exists—unfamiliar, but not entirely unwelcome.

You glance down at the letter still clutched in your hand, the paper creased from how tightly you’ve been holding it, then look back up at him. “You should probably go,” you say, the bite in your tone softer now. “Before my parents get back.”

He nods, as if he was already thinking the same thing, but he doesn’t move right away. Instead he glances toward the front window and then back at you, checking that you’re not about to unravel the moment he steps outside. “I’m serious,” you add, quieter. “I’m fine.”

He studies you a second longer, then exhales. “Yeah. You’re better than you were.” It’s not agreement. It’s not dismissal. It’s just accurate.

You swallow and nod once, turning toward the door. “Come on.” You walk him out through the dim, quiet house, your footsteps softer against the floor. When you reach the front door, you hesitate briefly before opening it, letting the cool night air slip inside.

Eddie steps out first, then turns back toward you, one hand resting lightly against the frame. For a second it feels like the conversation might pick up again, like something between you is still unfinished, but neither of you says it. “Don’t go looking for it,” he says instead.

You know exactly what he means. “I won’t,” you reply. This time it isn’t defensive—just tired.

He nods once, like that’s enough for now. “Good.” Another quiet beat passes, softer than before, and then he steps back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he starts down the walkway. “See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder.

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him go, his shape fading into the dark street, and only when he’s almost out of sight do you close the door, the latch clicking softly into place.

Across the street, a car idles in the shadows a moment longer. Victoria sits behind the wheel, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel, her gaze fixed on your front door. She doesn’t need to lean forward or strain to see—she’s already seen enough. The way you stood in the doorway. The way he lingered. The way neither of you seemed in a hurry to part.

Her expression doesn’t change noticeably, but something sharp settles behind her eyes—precise and deliberate, like a puzzle piece sliding neatly into place. Eddie Munson. She lets the name sit there, testing it against everything she knows about you: your habits, your patterns, the careful, controlled way you’ve always moved through the world. This doesn’t fit, which makes it interesting.

Her fingers tap once against the steering wheel, thoughtful rather than impatient, before she shifts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb. Her headlights sweep briefly across the front of your house before disappearing down the street.

Inside, you lean back against the closed door, the cool wood pressing between your shoulder blades as you let out a slow breath. Something feels off. Not wrong, exactly—just exposed. Like tonight went further than you meant it to, like a line you didn’t realize you were approaching has already been crossed.

You glance down at the letter still in your hand, fold it quickly, and set it on the counter as if putting it out of sight will make it easier to manage. It doesn’t. Still, you push yourself off the door and head upstairs, the quiet following close behind you.

Breakfast the next morning is, as always, perfectly normal—which somehow makes it worse. Your father sits with his newspaper open while your mother moves efficiently between the counter and the table. Victoria is already there, coffee in hand, positioned like she’s been observing everything worth noticing.

You take your seat, smoothing your expression into something composed and familiar. “Morning,” your mother says.

“Morning.”

You reach for your plate, focusing on small, manageable movements—fork, napkin, glass—anything to keep your hands occupied.

“You were up late,” Victoria says, her tone light, almost idle. You don’t look up. “I had work to finish.”

“Mhm.” She takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Busy night, then.”

“Something like that.” You can feel her watching you, not obviously.

“It’s important to be careful about how you spend your time,” she adds, almost thoughtfully, “especially when you have so much riding on it.”

Your grip tightens slightly around your fork. “I’m aware.”

“I’m sure you are,” she replies smoothly, setting her cup down. “You’ve just never been one to deviate.”

The word hangs there, deliberate. You finally glance up and meet her gaze. Her expression is calm—pleasant, even—but her eyes are too sharp, like she’s waiting to see how you’ll react. “I’m not deviating,” you say evenly.

“Of course not,” she agrees, the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips. “I’d just hate for anything unexpected to interfere with all your plans.”

Silence settles over the table. Your mother sighs lightly. “Victoria—”

“I’m just saying,” she cuts in, still looking at you, “consistency is important.”

You look back down at your plate and don’t respond. Because suddenly you’re not entirely sure how much she knows. And that is worse than if she had just said it outright.

The field smells like damp grass and sweat, the way it always does this late in the evening when the air cools and clings to your skin. Your lungs burn, your legs ache, and your heartbeat is still trying to settle after the final whistle. You played well—of course you did. You always do.

“Nice shot!” someone calls as you jog off the field, stick still in your hand, hair half-falling out of its tie. You nod, offering a quick, polite smile, already scanning the small crowd along the sidelines. Parents. Friends. A few bored students. Your eyes move over them automatically, not searching, just checking. Your parents aren’t there; they rarely are. You don’t feel disappointed anymore—just a quiet acknowledgment of something expected and already accounted for. You’ve learned how to exist in your own orbit, how to perform without an audience, how to win without anyone watching. It’s easier that way. Less to explain.

You adjust your grip on your stick and turn toward the benches to grab your bag. That’s when you see him: Eddie Munson, leaning against the fence like he’s been there the whole time. Your steps slow. He’s not clapping or calling out. Just watching, one shoulder pressed into the metal, arms loosely crossed, like he’s observing something he doesn’t quite belong to but isn’t entirely out of place in either.

Your stomach does something strange. You ignore it. “What are you doing here?” you ask as you approach, trying to keep your tone neutral.

He shrugs, pushing himself off the fence. “Thought I’d see what all the hype was about.”

“And?”

“And,” he says, dragging the word out, “I think I just watched you nearly take someone’s head off with that stick.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “It’s part of the game.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.” You roll your eyes, but there’s less edge to it than usual. “That would require you to behave first.”

“Hey,” he says, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense, “I am always on my best behavior around you.”

“That’s concerning.”

He grins, and for a second, you catch it—not the reputation, not the rumors, not the version of him everyone talks about, but something easier. Sharper in a different way. You look away first. “Why are you actually here?” you ask, shifting your bag onto your shoulder.

He hesitates just briefly, then shrugs again, more casually this time. “You had a thing. Figured I’d show up.”

Your chest tightens slightly. “That’s not necessary.”

“Didn’t say it was.” A quieter beat passes between you, the noise of the field fading into the background. “You played well,” he adds. It’s simple. Not exaggerated. Not performative. And somehow that makes it land harder than anything else you’ve heard tonight.

“…Thank you,” you say, quieter than before.

He nods once, like that’s enough. For a second, neither of you moves. You can feel it again—that shift, that awareness, like something is building in the space between you that you don’t fully understand yet. Your heart picks up slightly. You hate that you notice it.

“You should probably go,” you say, though it lacks conviction. “Before people start talking.”

He glances around, then back at you. “They already do.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

You don’t answer right away, because you’re not entirely sure. Instead, you adjust your bag again, your fingers brushing briefly against his as you shift it higher onto your shoulder. It’s accidental, barely there, but it lingers longer than it should. You pull your hand back a second too quickly. Eddie notices, but he doesn’t say anything—which somehow makes it worse.

“Walk you to your car?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then, “…Fine.”

The parking lot is quieter now, most of the crowd already gone, distant conversation fading into something indistinct. You walk side by side, not quite touching, not quite distant either.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” he says after a moment.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like everything’s under control.”

You glance at him. “It is under control.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You always are.”

“Only with you.” The words land differently than they should. You feel it—that shift again. Your stomach flips, unexpected and unwelcome. You reach your car and stop, turning toward him. For a second, neither of you speaks. The air feels thicker here, closer.

“Thanks,” you say finally, quieter now. “For showing up.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Anytime.”

Another pause. Then, “Don’t get used to it,” you add quickly.

His mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But something about the way he says it tells you that’s not entirely true.

You don’t notice the car parked a few rows over. But Victoria does. She’s leaning against the hood, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the two of you with unsettling precision. She’s been there long enough to see the walk, the pause, the way you stand just a little too close for it to mean nothing. Her expression doesn’t shift. It rarely does. But her attention sharpens. Eddie Munson, again. Interesting.

She waits until he leaves. Until you’re alone. Then she pushes off the car. “Busy night.”

You freeze, your hand halfway to your car door. “Victoria.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t realize field hockey required an audience.”

“It doesn’t.”

“No?” she says lightly, stepping closer. “Because it looked like you had one.”

Your chest tightens. “He just showed up.”

“Mm.” Her gaze flicks past you toward where he disappeared, then back again. “That’s new.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Is it?”

You grip your keys tighter. “Yes.”

She studies you for a long moment, her eyes moving over your face like she’s reading something written there. “You’re spending time with him,” she says, not quite asking.

“It’s tutoring.”

“That’s not what that looked like.”

Heat rises in your chest. “It doesn’t matter what it looked like.”

“Of course it does,” she replies smoothly. “Everything matters when you’ve built your life around being predictable.”

That word again. You hold her gaze. “I’m allowed to make my own decisions.”

“Yes,” she agrees, almost pleasantly. “You are.” Then, quieter: “I’m just wondering why you’d choose that one.”

The implication sits heavily between you. Your jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about him.”

“No,” she says. “But I know you.” That lands harder. She steps back, giving you just enough space to breathe again. “Just be careful,” she adds lightly. “You’ve never been particularly good at handling things that don’t fit.”

She turns before you can respond, walking back toward her car like the conversation is already over, leaving you standing there with your heart still racing. Because now it’s not just something between you and Eddie. It’s something Victoria has seen. And that makes it real in a way you can’t ignore.

Your desk is exactly the way you left it—clean, organized, predictable. You sit in front of it anyway, pen in hand, notebook open, the same page staring back at you like it’s waiting for something you can’t quite give it. The house is quiet again, your parents still out, Victoria somewhere else, but not close enough to hear.

You should be working. Technically, you are. But your thoughts keep drifting back to the field, to the parking lot, to the way Eddie looked at you like you weren’t just what everyone says you are. It’s distracting. Annoying, even. You press your pen harder into the paper. Focus. You underline a sentence, rewrite a heading, flip the page. Nothing sticks.

You exhale, leaning back in your chair and dragging a hand down your face. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter. You’ve handled more than this. You’ve handled worse. So why does this feel harder?

A soft tap breaks the silence. You freeze. Another tap against your window. You turn slowly, and there he is—Eddie Munson, crouched just outside, one hand lifted like he’s about to knock again. The faintest hint of a grin forms when your eyes meet.

Your heart stutters. “What are you doing?” you hiss, pushing your chair back and crossing the room quickly. You yank the window open just enough to look out.

“Breaking and entering,” he says easily. “Thought I’d switch it up from the front door.”

“You can’t just show up at my window.”

“And yet,” he replies, climbing halfway in anyway, “here I am.”

“Eddie—” But he’s already inside, landing quietly on your floor like he’s done this a hundred times before. You step back, staring at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

He straightens, brushing off his jeans, then glances at your desk. “Studying?”

“Yes.”

“Looks intense.”

“It is.”

He walks past you, slow and unbothered, as if he belongs here now, stopping at your desk and leaning down to glance at your notes. You watch him. You shouldn’t let him do that. You should tell him to leave. You don’t.

“You’ve been staring at the same page for, what, an hour?” he says.

“It’s been ten minutes.”

“Feels longer.”

You cross your arms. “Why are you here?”

He shrugs, turning slightly to face you. “You seemed like you were gonna spiral again.”

“I was not—”

“You were,” he says, cutting you off, but there’s no edge to it this time. “Just thought I’d get ahead of it.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not your job.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I’m getting pretty good at it.”

You try not to react to that. You fail, just slightly. “I don’t need supervision.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

“Then what is this?”

He studies you for a second, something softer settling into his expression. “Checking in,” he says simply.

Your chest tightens. You look away first. “…I was fine.”

“Mhm.”

You huff out a breath, turning back toward your desk and picking up your pen like that ends the conversation. “It doesn’t matter,” you say. “I have work to do.”

He leans against the edge of your desk, arms crossed, watching you again. “You always do.”

“That’s how things get done.”

“Or how you avoid everything else.”

You glance up sharply. “I’m not avoiding anything.”

“Right.”

You set your pen down. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like you have me all figured out.”

“I don’t,” he says. “But I know you’re not as put together as you think you are.” The words land—not harsh, not cruel, just unfortunately true. Your jaw tightens.

“I am put together.”

He raises his brows slightly. “You almost ran out of your house at midnight two nights ago.”

“That was different.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

You open your mouth to argue, then stop. Because you don’t have anything better than that. He watches you a second longer, then pushes off the desk, moving a little closer—not crowding you, but close enough that you’re suddenly very aware of the space between you.

“And you’re not as bad as everyone says you are,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He pauses, really pauses this time. His head tilts slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah?” he says, quieter now.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “You showed up at my game. That’s… not very ‘freak of Hawkins’ behavior.”

He lets out a small breath, something almost like a laugh. “Careful,” he says. “You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you like me.”

Your stomach flips. You ignore it. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” A beat passes between you.

You turn back to your desk, needing something to ground yourself. “Do you even know any of this?” you ask, gesturing to your notes.

“Offended,” he says. “I am a very dedicated student.”

“You can barely say ‘bonjour.’”

“Hey,” he protests lightly. “I’ve improved.”

“Prove it.”

He steps closer, leaning slightly over your shoulder to look at your notebook, his presence suddenly very noticeable. His voice lowers as he reads. “Il faut que tu étudies. You have to study.”

You glance at him. “That’s correct.”

“See?” he says, just a little too pleased with himself. “I’m teachable.”

“Barely.”

“You wound me.”

You almost smile. Almost. Then you realize how close he is. Your breath catches slightly. He doesn’t move right away. Neither do you. The moment stretches, quiet but charged, something sitting just under the surface that neither of you names.

You step back first. “…You should go,” you say, your voice a little quieter now.

He watches you for a second, then nods. “Yeah. Probably.” But he doesn’t move immediately. “Don’t stay up all night,” he adds. “You’re worse when you’re exhausted.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m always exhausted.”

“Exactly my point.”

You shake your head, but there’s no real irritation behind it anymore. “Goodnight, Munson.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

And then he’s gone the same way he came in, slipping back out the window, leaving the room just a little quieter than before. But not empty. Not anymore.

You don’t hear her come in.

“Getting sloppy.”

Your heart jumps. You turn, and Victoria is leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed, her expression calm but her eyes sharp enough to cut.

“How long have you been standing there?” you ask, your voice tighter than you want it to be.

“Long enough.”

Your stomach twists.

“He climbed through your window,” she continues lightly. “That’s new.”

“It’s not what it looked like.”

“Really?” she says, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room. “Because it looked exactly like what it was.”

You cross your arms. “It’s tutoring.”

She smirks, “At night. Through your window.”

You don’t respond because you can’t make that sound reasonable. Victoria tilts her head slightly, studying you. “You’ve always been very careful,” she says. “Very controlled.” A pause. “This isn’t that.”

“I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you think you can.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to your desk, to your notes, to the faint disruption of your usually perfect space. “You’re getting sloppy,” she repeats, quieter now.

The words hit harder this time. “I’m not,” you say.

She just looks at you. And that’s somehow worse.

Dinner is quiet. Way too quiet. Your parents are finally home, conversation drifting between work and schedules, plans you’re already expected to follow without question. You sit composed and controlled, exactly as you should be.

Victoria sets her fork down. “So,” she says lightly, glancing at you, “did you hear back from Notre Dame?”

Your stomach drops. Your parents look up immediately. “What?” your mother asks. “Did something come in?”

You keep your expression steady, neutral, practiced. “Yes,” you say.

“And?”

Your grip tightens slightly under the table. “I didn’t get in.”

Silence, sharp and immediate. Your mother exhales softly. “Oh.” Your father leans back slightly. “That’s… surprising.”

Victoria watches you carefully, like she’s looking for something. “You’ll have other options,” your mother says quickly. “Plenty of them.”

“Of course,” you reply. Your voice doesn’t shake. Your expression doesn’t break. You hold it together, like you always do.

But across the table, Victoria’s gaze lingers. Because now she knows, not just about Eddie, but about the crack forming underneath everything. And she’s paying very close attention.

The classroom feels smaller than it should. It’s not actually different; same desks, same board, same low hum of fluorescent lights, but something about it presses in on you today, like the walls are just a little closer, the air just a little thinner. You sit straighter, pen poised, notes open. You are fine.

“Miss?” Your head lifts immediately. Your teacher gestures toward you. “Can you walk us through the subjunctive form here?”

Easy. You know this. You’ve done this. You glance down at your notes, your eyes tracking the sentence. Il faut que tu étudies. You’ve written it a dozen times. You open your mouth, and nothing comes out. Your mind blanks—not completely, just enough. The words feel out of reach. You blink. Try again.

“It’s—” you start, then stop, your throat tightening slightly. A pause stretches across the room. Someone shifts in their seat. Your teacher tilts their head, waiting. You feel the attention, the expectation.

“It’s the—” you try again, but now your thoughts are moving too fast, overlapping, slipping past each other before you can catch them. You know this. You know this. Why can’t you—

“It’s the subjunctive,” you finally finish, but it comes out wrong. Incomplete. Not enough.

Another pause. Your teacher nods slowly. “Yes… and?”

Your chest tightens. You push forward, overcorrecting now, words coming faster than they should, slightly disjointed, slightly off. “It expresses necessity, like obligation, but in a dependent clause and—” You stop. Because you can hear it. You’re not landing it the way you usually do. Not clean. Not precise. Not perfect.

Silence lingers just a second too long before your teacher steps in smoothly, finishing the explanation for you. “Right, good start,” they say. “Let’s refine that…”

Refine. The word sticks. You nod, sitting back down, your hands a little too tight around your pen. You don’t stay after class like you usually would to clarify or correct. Today you leave fast.

The hallway feels louder, bodies moving around you in waves, voices blending into something indistinct. You push through it, grip tightening on your books, thoughts already spiraling inward. That was nothing. It was one moment. You’re fine. You’re—

“You gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?”

You stop and close your eyes briefly. Of course. You turn. Eddie is leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, watching you like he’s been there the whole time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, already moving again.

He falls into step beside you. “Yeah, you do.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“You blanked.”

“I didn’t blank.”

“You did.”

You stop walking and turn to him. “It was one question.”

“That you knew.”

Your jaw tightens. “Drop it.”

“I’m not making a thing out of it,” he says, quieter now. “I’m just saying—that’s not like you.”

“That’s because you don’t know me.”

He tilts his head slightly. “I know enough.”

You let out a sharp breath, turning away again. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.”

You walk faster. He keeps up. “I’m serious,” you snap. “Just leave it alone.”

“I will,” he says. “If you stop lying to me.”

That stops you. You turn back to him, frustration flaring. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says, not raising his voice, just steady. “And I’m not saying anything in there, I’m not calling you out in front of people. I’m just asking you to stop acting like nothing’s wrong.”

Your chest tightens. You hate that tone. Because it’s not accusing, it’s not mocking. It’s honest.

“I don’t have time for something to be wrong,” you say, quieter now.

He watches you for a second. Then, “Okay,” he says.

You blink. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Then don’t go home.”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

“Come with me.”

You stare at him. “I have work to do.”

“You’re not doing it anyway.”

“That’s not—”

“You were staring at your notes for ten minutes yesterday,” he cuts in. “You gonna do that again today?”

You hesitate, just for a second. And he sees it. “Five minutes,” he says. “If you hate it, you can leave. Go back to being… whatever it is you’re trying to be right now.”

You exhale slowly. This is a bad idea. This is not part of the plan. You should go home. You should fix this. You should—

“…Fine,” you say. The word comes out before you can stop it. His mouth twitches slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “Figured.”

His van smells faintly like smoke and something warm—leather, maybe, or just something lived-in. You hesitate for half a second before getting in. This is new, all of it. The door shuts with a heavier sound than you expect, sealing you into the space with him, closer than you’ve ever been without something structured between you.

You set your bag in your lap. “So,” you say, trying for control, “what exactly is this?”

“Nothing,” he replies easily, starting the engine. “That’s the point.”

You glance at him. “I don’t do nothing.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head. “This is a waste of time.”

“Probably.”

“Then why—”

“Because you’re not as put together as you think you are.” The words land again. Softer this time, yet heavier.

You look at him. Really look. “You’re very committed to that narrative,” you say.

He glances over at you, one hand on the wheel. “Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead you look out the window, watching the road pass by, your reflection faint in the glass. “…No,” you admit quietly. The word feels unfamiliar.

He doesn’t react immediately. Doesn’t push. Just lets it sit.

“And you’re not as bad as everyone says you are,” you add after a moment, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He lets out a small breath, something like a laugh. “Careful,” he says. “You keep saying stuff like that, people might think we’re friends.”

You glance at him. “Let’s not get carried away.”

“Right,” he nods. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

You almost smile. Almost. The tension shifts again—less sharp, more charged. You adjust slightly in your seat, your knee brushing his for just a second. It’s accidental, but it lingers. Neither of you moves right away. Your breath catches slightly, but you pull back first.

“…Where are we going?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

“Nowhere,” he says. “Just driving.”

You nod. And for once, you let it be enough.

Victoria notices. She doesn’t say anything at first. But that night: “You skipped something today.”

You look up from your plate. Your parents don’t react. They don’t know what she means. You do.

“I didn’t skip anything,” you say evenly.

She tilts her head slightly. “Really?”

“Yes.”

She watches you a second longer. Then smiles, small and sharp. “Good,” she says. “I’d hate for you to start falling behind.”

The words land, carefully placed and deliberate. You hold her gaze. “I’m not falling behind.”

“Of course not,” she replies smoothly. But the way she looks at you says she doesn’t believe that for a second. And worse, she’s waiting to see how far you will.

The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water. You lean over the sink, letting the cold water run over your hands before bringing it up to your face, pressing it against your skin as if you can reset something underneath. Your reflection blurs in the mirror, breaking apart into something softer, less defined.

For a moment, it helps. You inhale slowly, exhale, then repeat. You turn the faucet off, the sudden silence settling heavier than before, and reach for the towel, patting your face dry in slow, careful motions.

When you lower it, she’s there—leaning in the doorway. You don’t jump. You don’t react. You just meet her eyes in the mirror, your expression smoothing automatically into something composed.

“How long have you been standing there?” you ask.

“Long enough.” Her voice is calm. Too calm. Like she’s been thinking about this longer than you’ve been aware of it.

You turn slowly, setting the towel down beside the sink. “Do you need something?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead she steps into the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind her with a quiet, deliberate click.

“You’ve been busy,” she says.

You reach for your skincare bottle, unscrewing the cap as if this is routine, as if this is normal. “I always am.”

“Not like this.”

You pause just slightly, then continue rubbing the product into your hands. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mm.”

She moves closer, stopping just beside you at the counter, her reflection appearing next to yours in the mirror. Two versions of the same thing. One is just sharper.

“You left school early yesterday,” she says. “You’ve been distracted. You’ve been lying at dinner.”

Your hands still. “I didn’t lie.”

She tilts her head. “No?” she asks softly. “Then what would you call it?”

You rinse your hands again, slower this time. “I didn’t feel like explaining.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

A second passes, and she watches you through the mirror, not looking away. “You’ve been spending time with Eddie Munson.” Not a question. Your stomach tightens. “It’s tutoring.”

“That’s not what it looked like in the parking lot,” she replies.

You dry your hands again, more deliberately this time, giving yourself something to do. “You were watching me?”

“I pay attention.”

You meet her gaze again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” she says, and there’s the smallest shift in her tone now—sharper, more precise. “Because you don’t do things like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like him.”

The words are quiet. Clean. You feel them land. “You don’t know anything about him,” you say.

“No,” she agrees. “But I know exactly what people say about him.” She leans in closer. “And I know what Mom and Dad would say.”

That hits. Your chest tightens, just enough for her to notice. She always notices.

“You’ve spent your entire life building something very specific,” she continues, her voice softening in a way that makes it worse, not better. “A reputation. A future. A very clear path.” She gestures slightly, like it’s obvious. “And now you’re having sleepovers and skipping school for someone like him.”

You look away. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” she says calmly. “I saw him leave.” Silence. There’s no point denying it now.

“And you think that doesn’t matter?” she continues. “You think that doesn’t change how people see you?”

“I don’t care how people see me,” you say. Too quickly.

She smiles. Not kindly. “That’s not true. It’s never been true.”

Your jaw tightens. “You care more than anyone I know,” she adds. “That’s why you’re good.”

Then— “Which is why this is so… sloppy.”

The word lingers. You straighten slightly. “I can handle it.”

She studies you, long enough that it feels intentional. “Maybe,” she says. Then she leans in just slightly, her voice lowering. “But don’t pretend there aren’t consequences.”

Your breath catches.

“If Mom and Dad knew,” she continues, “what do you think happens?”

You don’t answer.

“They pull you out of everything,” she says. “They’ll question your judgment. Your priorities. Everything you’ve worked for.” Each word lands carefully, strategically.

“And for what?” she finishes. “Eddie Munson?”

The name sounds like a dismissal. You force your expression to stay steady. “I’m allowed to make my own decisions.”

“Yes,” she says. “You are.” She looks you up and down once more. “But this one is an awful decision.”

She steps back, smoothing her sleeve like she’s already finished. “Just try not to ruin everything you’ve built,” she adds lightly. “It would be… disappointing.”

And then she leaves. The door closes, and you turn back to the mirror. You look the same, but you don’t feel it.

The next morning feels heavier. Not chaotic. Not overwhelming. Just watched. You move through it anyway: breakfast, routine, the same controlled version of yourself sliding back into place like nothing happened. By the time you reach your locker, you’ve almost convinced yourself it doesn’t matter. Almost.

“Morning, Professor.”

You close your eyes briefly, then open them. Eddie is leaning against the locker next to yours, one foot propped up, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who absolutely should not be part of your routine.

“Did you start paying rent for that locker,” you say, unlocking your locker.

“Thinking about it,” he replies. “Prime location.”

You open your locker, focusing on your books. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Probably.”

“And yet—”

“And yet,” he echoes, watching you. You grab your notebook, maybe a little faster than usual. He notices. “You okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Mhm.”

You shut your locker a little too hard. “I am.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You always are.”

You start to walk past him, but he steps in front of you—not blocking, but just enough to make you freeze. “What happened?” he asks, quieter now.

“Nothing happened.”

“That’s not true.”

You exhale sharply. “Can you not do this right now?”

“Do what?”

“This,” you gesture, frustration slipping through. “Act like you’re entitled to some explanation.”

“I’m not entitled,” he says. “I just asked.”

That stops you. Because he’s right, again. You look away. “It doesn’t matter.”

He watches you for a second, then says it quietly.

“Was it your sister?”

Your head snaps back up. “What?”

“She’s the only one who looks at you like that,” he says. “Like she’s waiting for you to mess up.”

Your stomach drops. You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He exhales slowly. “What’d she say?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if it’s got you like this.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he says, softer now. “You’re tense. You’re avoiding me. And you keep trying to leave.”

You look at him, really look. For a second, you consider lying. You always lie. You always control it. But something about him standing there, not pushing, not judging, just waiting, makes it harder than it should be.

“…She saw us,” you admit, the words coming out quiet.

His expression shifts. “Okay.”

“And she’s been watching,” you continue, your voice tightening. “Tracking everything. And now she thinks—” You stop.

“Thinks what?” he asks.

You swallow. “That I’m making a mistake.”

A beat passes. He lets out a small breath. “Yeah,” he says. “She probably does.”

You frown slightly. “That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks. “That she’s wrong?”

“Yes.”

He studies you for a long moment. “I don’t think you’re making a mistake,” he says finally.

Your chest tightens.

“But,” he adds, “I do think you’re scared of what happens if she’s right.” That lands harder than you expect. You don’t respond because you can’t. And he knows it. Somehow, that feels worse than if he didn’t.

The final bell rings, and the hallway floods with noise immediately; lockers slamming, voices overlapping, bodies moving in every direction at once. It’s familiar, predictable, something you can usually move through without thinking. Today, it feels louder than usual.

You adjust your grip on your books and turn toward the exit, your mind already racing ahead: home, work, control, fix it, fix it, fix it—

“Hey.”

You don’t stop. You should, but you don’t. Footsteps fall into place beside you. “You’re doing that thing again,” Eddie says.

“What thing?”

“The pretending I’m not here thing.”

You keep walking. “I’m going home.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Then why are you following me?”

“Because you’re about to disappear again.”

You stop and turn to him. “I am not disappearing.”

“You are,” he says, steady. “You do it every time something gets hard.”

Your jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me what I’m missing.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I didn’t say you did.” He pauses. “But you don’t get to just shut me out either.”

That lands differently. You stare at him. “Why do you care?” you ask, quieter now.

He hesitates, just for a second, then shrugs like it’s nothing. “Because you keep showing up,” he says. “And then acting like you don’t want to be here.”

Your chest tightens. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why you got in my van yesterday.”

You don’t respond, because you can’t argue that. The hallway starts to thin out around you, the noise fading just slightly as people move on, leaving the space between you quieter than before.

“You don’t get to just walk away every time it stops being easy,” he adds.

Your breath catches. “This isn’t about ‘easy,’” you say. “This is about everything else I have going on—things that actually matter.”

“And I don’t?”

The question is quiet. Not accusatory. But it lands harder than anything else he’s said.

You hesitate, just for a second, and he sees it.

“Come with me,” he says.

You let out a small, disbelieving breath. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“I have things to do.”

“You always do.”

“That’s because I have a future I’m actually trying to maintain.”

“And this ruins it?” he asks.

You don’t answer. Because that’s the problem, you don’t actually know.

He watches you for a second longer, then nods toward the exit. “Five minutes,” he says. “If you hate it, you can leave. I won’t stop you.”

You exhale slowly. This is a bad idea. You know it is. You should go home. You should fix everything before it gets worse. You should—

“…Fine.”

The word comes out quiet, but it’s enough. His mouth twitches slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “Thought so.”

The drive is quieter this time. No teasing at first, no easy distractions—just the low hum of the engine and the road stretching out in front of you, the town fading behind as he takes a turn you don’t recognize.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“You’ll see.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Relax,” he says. “I’m not kidnapping you.”

“Debatable.”

He huffs out a small laugh. “You’d be a terrible hostage anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’d try to organize the situation.”

You almost smile. Almost.

The road narrows, trees lining both sides now, the light shifting as you pass under them. Eventually, he slows and pulls off onto a small overlook you didn’t even know existed. The engine cuts, and silence settles. You look out the windshield. It’s quiet, no people, no noise, just open space and the faint sound of wind moving through the trees.

“You bring all your tutors here?” you ask.

“Only the difficult ones.”

“Then you must come here often.”

“Constantly.”

A beat passes. You don’t move to get out. Neither does he. The air feels different here, still, close.

“You’re thinking again,” he says.

“I always think.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “That’s kind of the problem.”

You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t stop. Ever.”

“That’s how things get done.”

“Or how you drive yourself into the ground.”

You look away. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You keep saying that.”

Silence stretches again. Then, “If they find out,” you say quietly, staring straight ahead, “everything I’ve worked for is gone.”

The words feel heavier out loud. More real.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you. “Then why are you still here?” he asks.

Your breath catches. Because you don’t have a good answer. Because you shouldn’t be. Because this doesn’t fit into anything you’ve planned.

You turn slightly toward him. “I don’t know.”

It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all day. Maybe all week. Something shifts between you; subtle, but real.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” he says, quieter now.

“That’s not how this works.”

“Maybe it should be.”

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head. “You make everything sound very simple.”

“It is simple.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” he says. “You either want to be here, or you don’t.”

You look at him, really looking this time, at the way he’s sitting, relaxed but focused, like he’s not afraid of the answer either way. Your heart picks up slightly. You don’t like that.

“I shouldn’t,” you say.

“That’s not what I asked.”

A beat. Your pulse is louder now.

“I…” you start, then stop. Because the truth feels dangerous. Because saying it out loud makes it real. But you don’t look away.

“…I want to be here.”

The words barely make it out, but they do. And that’s enough.

Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… something softer. “Okay,” he says.

For a second, neither of you moves. The space between you feels smaller now, closer, charged in a way that wasn’t there before. Your hand shifts slightly on the seat. He does too, not touching, not quite, but close enough that you feel it. Your breath catches.

You look at him. His gaze drops briefly to your hand, then back to your face. The moment stretches, too long, too close.

You pull back first. Of course you do. “I should go,” you say, your voice quieter now.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “You probably should.”

But neither of you moves right away. And that says everything.

The house is quiet again. It always is at night, but now the silence feels deliberate, like it’s waiting for something to happen. You’re sitting at your desk, notebook open, pen unmoving in your hand. The words blur slightly as you stare at them, your mind still caught somewhere else—trees, quiet air, the way your chest felt when you said it. I want to be here.

You exhale slowly. You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have—

A knock at your door. You freeze.

“Can I come in?”

Victoria.

You close your notebook. “Yeah.”

She opens the door without waiting and steps inside like she belongs there—which she does. She always has. Her gaze flicks once around your room—your desk, your notes, everything in place—then settles on you.

“You seem better tonight,” she says. It’s not a compliment.

You lean back slightly in your chair. “I am.”

“Good.”

A beat passes. She doesn’t leave. She just stands there, watching you in that same quiet, evaluating way that makes your chest tighten.

“You’re not seeing him anymore, right?” she asks.

Your stomach drops. The question is casual—too casual—like it shouldn’t matter, like it already does.

You hold her gaze. “It’s tutoring.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Silence stretches. You could lie. You should lie.

“That was… just a one-time thing,” you say finally, your voice steady.

Victoria watches you for a long moment. Then she nods. “Okay.” Too easy. Your stomach twists.

“If it’s nothing,” she continues, moving a little further into the room, “then it should be easy to stop.”

There it is. You feel it settle—heavy, controlled.

“I can handle it,” you say.

“I’m sure you think you can.” Her tone doesn’t change. That’s what makes it worse.

She leans lightly against your desk, her fingers brushing over your notebook like she’s not even really paying attention to it. “You didn’t get into Notre Dame,” she says.

Your chest tightens immediately. You don’t react. You try not to.

“You’ve already lost something important,” she continues, quieter now. “Do you really want to start making choices that explain why?”

The words hit hard. “This has nothing to do with that.”

“Doesn’t it?”

You look at her—really look. “You don’t get to decide that,” you say.

“No,” she agrees easily. “But Mom and Dad will.” A beat. “And I’m just trying to make sure they don’t have a reason to.”

Silence. Your throat feels tight. “You’re overreacting,” you say.

She smiles—small, sharp. “Am I?”

Another pause. Then, softer— “I won’t say anything,” she says. “Unless I have to.”

The room stills. That’s it. That’s the line. Not quite a threat, but close enough.

Your pulse spikes. “Have to?” you repeat.

“If you start slipping more,” she says. “If it starts affecting things. If it becomes… noticeable.”

Her eyes lock with yours. “I’d hate for that to happen.”

You stare at her. Because now you understand. This isn’t concern. This is control.

She straightens, smoothing her sleeve. “Just think about it,” she adds lightly. “You’ve worked too hard to let something like this derail you.”

And then she leaves. The door closes softly behind her. But the pressure she leaves in the room doesn’t.

The next day feels tighter. More controlled. You wake up earlier, move faster, fix everything. By the time you get to school, you’re composed again—posture straight, expression neutral, everything back where it belongs.

You don’t look for him. You don’t think about him. You don’t—

“Wow.”

You stop. Close your eyes briefly. Then turn.

Eddie is leaning against your locker again, but this time his expression shifts almost immediately when he looks at you.

“You look like you’re about to give a presentation,” he says.

“I have class.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You unlock your locker, focusing on your books. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.”

You grab your notebook, your movements precise. Controlled.

“You gonna keep doing that?” he asks.

“Doing what?”

“Acting like yesterday didn’t happen.”

You shut your locker. “It didn’t.”

He goes still, just for a second. Then, “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Okay.”

You move to step past him. He doesn’t block you this time. He just turns slightly, watching you.

“What’d she say?” he asks.

You stop. You shouldn’t. You do.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you’re suddenly pretending I don’t exist.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“You are,” he says, quieter now. “You’re pulling away.”

Your chest tightens. “I’m not—”

“You are.”

The certainty in his voice makes it harder to argue. You look at him, frustration flickering. “I have things to focus on.”

“And I’m not one of them?”

The question lands again. You hesitate, just long enough. His expression shifts. There it is. That small crack.

“I didn’t say that,” you reply.

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretches. You hate this. You hate that he can see it. You hate that he’s right. “It’s complicated,” you say finally.

He lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

A beat. Then, “Doesn’t mean you get to just shut me out.”

You look away. Because that’s exactly what you’re trying to do. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are.”

Another pause. Your pulse is louder now. You should leave. You should walk away. You should fix this. But your feet don’t move.

“Is this about your sister?” he asks.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Thought so.”

A second passes. Then, softer, “You gonna let her decide everything for you?”

That hits differently than Victoria. Not controlling. Just honest. You look at him. “I’m not letting her decide anything.”

“Then what are you doing?”

You don’t have a good answer. And he knows it. And somehow, that’s worse. Because now the choice is yours. And that’s the part you’re not sure you can control.

You find him before he finds you. That’s new.

He’s outside, leaning against the side of the school building, cigarette between his fingers, one foot braced against the brick like he has nowhere else to be. He looks up when you approach, like he already knew you would.

“Hey,” he says, simple, like nothing’s wrong. Like everything isn’t.

“Can we talk?” you ask. Your voice is steady, practiced, controlled.

His expression shifts slightly, just enough to notice. “Yeah,” he says, straightening. “That sounds serious.”

“It is.”

That wipes the almost-smile off his face. He flicks the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his shoe, his attention fully on you now. “Okay,” he says. “What’s going on?”

You inhale slowly. This is the right thing to do. You know it is. “We shouldn’t do this anymore.”

The words come out clean. Sharp. Exactly how you planned them. Silence follows. Eddie doesn’t react right away. He just looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you mean it.

“Do what?” he asks finally.

“This,” you say, gesturing slightly between the two of you. “Whatever this is.”

Another pause. “And what exactly is ‘this’?” he asks.

You hesitate, just for a second. And that’s enough. “You know what I mean,” you say.

“Do I?”

You exhale, frustration flickering. “This, us, spending time together. Outside of tutoring. It’s not a good idea.”

“Because?”

You tighten your grip on your bag. “Because it complicates things.”

“That doesn’t sound like a reason,” he says.

“It is for me.”

He studies you for a second longer. Then, “Is that what you want?” he asks.

Your chest tightens. “Yes.” Too fast. Too easy.

His head tilts slightly. “Or is that what she told you to want?”

There it is. You look away. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Feels like it does.”

“It doesn’t,” you snap. “This is my decision.”

“Then own it,” he says, stepping a little closer now. “Don’t hide behind ‘it’s complicated’ and ‘it’s not a good idea.’ Just say it.”

You meet his eyes. “I don’t want this.”

The words land heavily. And wrong. You feel it immediately. So does he. Something shifts in his expression, not anger, not even surprise. Just something quieter.

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

“I do.”

“No,” he replies, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t.”

Your frustration spikes. “You don’t get to tell me what I mean.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

The question hits exactly where it’s supposed to. Your breath catches. Because you don’t have an answer. Because you’ve asked yourself the same thing. Because you know he’s right.

You look away. “That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

The words are quieter now. Less defensive. More real. You glance back at him. He’s closer now, not touching, but close enough that you feel it. “I’m not trying to mess things up for you,” he says. “But I’m also not gonna stand here and pretend this is nothing.”

Your pulse picks up. You hate this. You hate how easy it is to lose control around him. “This is nothing,” you insist.

“It’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

Your voices aren’t loud, but the tension is sharp, close. “You’re not as put together as you think you are,” he says, softer now.

“And you’re not as bad as everyone says you are,” you shoot back.

The words hang there. Familiar. But heavier now. More real.

A beat passes. Neither of you moves. Your heart is racing, you can feel it in your chest, your throat, your hands. He looks at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s always waiting for you to choose. And that’s the problem. Because choosing him means everything else changes.

You step back. It’s small, but it breaks the moment. “I can’t do this,” you say, your voice quieter now. Less certain. “I can’t risk everything for something that doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes sense to me,” he says.

“That’s not enough.”

Silence. You swallow. Because if you stay any longer, you won’t leave. And that’s worse.

“I’m sorry,” you say. And this time, you mean it.

His expression shifts again. Subtle. But there. “Yeah,” he says. A pause, then, “Me too.”

That lands harder than anything else.

You turn before you can stop yourself. Before you can change your mind. Before you can stay. And you walk away. Each step feels heavier than it should, like you’re pulling yourself in the wrong direction. You don’t look back. You don’t stop. You don’t.

But that night, you can’t focus. You sit at your desk, notebook open, pen unmoving, the silence in your room pressing in on you again, thicker than before. You did the right thing. You know you did. So why does it feel worse?

Your thoughts keep drifting back to him. To what he said. To the way he looked at you when you walked away. You exhale sharply, pushing your chair back. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

You stand. Pace once across the room. Then again. You shouldn’t go. You shouldn’t. You know where he lives. You’ve always known. You just never had a reason. Until now.

You grab your jacket. The decision happens before you can stop it. And that’s the problem. Because this time, you’re not pretending it’s an accident.

The trailer park is quieter than you expected. Not empty; just still, like everything has already settled for the night. A few dim lights glow through windows, the low hum of a television somewhere in the distance, and the faint crunch of gravel under your shoes as you walk.

You hesitate when you reach his door. This is insane. You shouldn’t be here. You already made your decision. Your hand lifts before you can stop it and knocks. Once. Twice. Too loud. Too late.

You step back slightly, your pulse already racing, your chest tight with something that feels a lot like regret, or maybe anticipation. You can’t tell the difference right now.

There’s movement inside. Then the door opens.

Eddie stands there, like he wasn’t expecting anyone, like he definitely wasn’t expecting you. For a second, neither of you speaks. His eyes flick over your face, searching, trying to piece together why you’re standing here after what happened earlier.

“…Hi,” he says. It’s quieter than usual. Careful.

You swallow. “Hi.”

Another pause. You didn’t plan this part. You didn’t plan anything.

“I—” you start, then stop, your thoughts scrambling. “I know I said—earlier, I just—” You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “I shouldn’t have come.”

He watches you. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t push. Just… waits. And that somehow makes it harder.

“I meant what I said,” you add quickly. “About it being complicated. About it not making sense.”

“Okay,” he says. That’s it. No argument. No challenge. Just acceptance. And for some reason, that makes your chest tighten more.

“But—” you stop again, frustrated, your voice slipping slightly. “That’s not the whole thing.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely, still giving you space, still letting you find your way through it. “Then what is?” he asks.

You look at him. Really look. The way he’s standing there, like he’s not going to leave, like he’s not going to fix this for you, like the choice is entirely yours. And that terrifies you. Because you don’t do this. You don’t say things without thinking them through. You don’t show up uninvited. You simply don’t.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit. The words come out quieter than you expect. More honest. “I don’t know how to… want something that doesn’t fit into everything else.”

Your throat tightens. “I’ve spent my entire life doing things the right way,” you continue, your voice steadier now but still soft. “Making sure everything lines up, everything makes sense, everything leads somewhere.” Another deep breath, “And this doesn’t.”

Silence. The air between you feels different now. Closer.

He pushes off the doorframe slightly, stepping just a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to meet you where you are. “Then why are you here?” he asks again.

The same question. But this time, you don’t look away.

“Because I meant that part too,” you say. “About wanting to be there.” Your breath catches slightly. “With you.”

The words land. Real. Irrevocable.

Eddie goes still. Not frozen, just present. Like he’s taking it in.

“You walked away,” he says.

“I know.”

“And now you’re here.”

“I know.”

A small, almost disbelieving breath leaves him. “You’re kind of confusing, you know that?”

You let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “I’ve been told.”

A beat passes. Then another. Neither of you moves. But the space between you feels smaller now. Charged. Honest in a way that’s new and a little terrifying.

“I can’t promise this won’t mess things up,” you say, your voice dropping again, more serious now. “It probably will. My sister already—she’s watching everything. If my parents find out—”

“Hey,” he says gently.

You stop. He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to figure all of that out right now.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Maybe it should be.”

You look at him. At how steady he is. At how unafraid. “I don’t know how to do this without it costing me something,” you admit.

He nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “It probably will.”

That should scare you. It does. But it doesn’t make you leave.

“And you’re still here,” he adds.

You inhale slowly. Then exhale. “…Yeah.” Your eyes flick to him, “So are you.”

Something shifts in his expression. Softer. Closer. He steps forward just slightly. You don’t move back. That’s new.

Your heart is racing now, loud enough that you’re sure he can hear it, your breath catching just a little as the distance between you disappears. His gaze flicks to your face, then lower, then back again. Like he’s checking. Like he’s giving you one last chance to stop this.

You don’t.

“You’re sure?” he asks quietly.

You nod. Just once. That’s all it takes.

He closes the distance carefully, like he’s not trying to rush it, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away. You don’t. And then, he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. It's just real. Soft at first, like he’s still not entirely sure this is happening, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You don’t. Your hand lifts, almost without thinking, brushing lightly against his arm, grounding yourself in something real, something you chose.

The world doesn’t stop. Nothing dramatic happens. But something shifts inside you.

When you pull back, it’s slow. Reluctant. Your forehead nearly brushes his. You’re both still for a second, breathing the same air.

“That didn’t feel like nothing,” he murmurs.

You let out a quiet breath, something softer than anything you’ve let yourself feel in a long time. “No,” you say. “It didn’t.” And this time, you don’t try to take it back.

His hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw as he kisses you again, this time deeper, slower, like he’s savoring the fact that you’re still here. You lean into it, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer without meaning to. The kiss shifts, turning hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip, and you part for him, a small sound escaping you that you don’t quite recognize as your own.

Eddie backs you gently against the doorframe, one hand sliding down to your waist, fingers pressing just enough to anchor you. The cool night air brushes your skin where your jacket has shifted, but his body is warm against yours, solid in a way that makes your head spin. You’ve never let yourself want like this, never let control slip enough to feel the heat building low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively.

He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your mouth, voice rougher now. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You don’t. Instead, your hands move up, threading into his hair, tugging him back down. The third kiss is less careful. Teeth graze, breaths mingle, and when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt to press against bare skin, you shiver, not from cold, but from the spark that races straight through you.

“Inside,” you whisper against his lips, barely a sound.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. The door clicks shut behind you as he guides you in, mouths still connected, hands exploring with growing urgency. Clothes loosen, your jacket hits the floor, then his. You barely register the cluttered trailer around you, too focused on the way he kisses down your neck, the scrape of his teeth followed by the soothing heat of his tongue.

When the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed, you let him lower you down, his body following. He hovers above you, eyes dark, breathing uneven. “Still sure?” he asks, even now giving you the out.

You answer by pulling him down, legs wrapping around his hips. The weight of him feels overwhelming in the best way. His hands map your body with deliberate slowness, like he’s learning every inch, every reaction. Fingers trace under your shirt, pushing fabric higher until you help him pull it off. Skin meets skin, warm and electric, and when his mouth closes over your breast, you arch into him with a soft gasp that turns into his name.

He takes his time, teasing, exploring, until you’re trembling beneath him. Only then does he move lower, hands sliding your pants down your legs with a reverence that makes your chest ache. His mouth follows the path his hands made, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh until you’re breathing his name like a plea.

When his tongue finally finds you, slow and deliberate, the world narrows to the heat of his mouth and the steady grip of his hands holding your hips in place. You come undone with a choked sound, fingers tightening in his hair, hips rolling against him as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

He doesn’t stop until you’re boneless and gasping. Only then does he crawl back up, kissing you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue. “Still with me?” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You nod, hands already reaching for the waistband of his jeans. “Don’t stop.”

The rest is a blur of shared breaths, whispered names, and bodies moving together, slow at first, then faster, more desperate. He fills you with a groan that vibrates against your neck, and for once, you don’t think about tomorrow, about consequences, about anything except the way he feels inside you, the way he watches your face like you’re the only thing that matters.

You move together until pleasure builds again, sharper this time, pulling you both under. When you come, he follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a low, broken sound of your name.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on your skin. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine as the silence settles, comfortable, not suffocating.

You don’t say anything yet. You just let yourself stay there, in the quiet, with him. For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to run.

Morning feels different. Not brighter. Not lighter. Just sharper.

You wake up before your alarm, eyes opening to the same ceiling, the same room, everything exactly where it should be, and yet nothing feels the same. For a moment, you don’t move, your body still, your mind already replaying it: the way he looked at you, the way you didn’t pull away, the way you didn’t want to.

Your chest tightens, not with panic, something else. Something unfamiliar. Something that feels a little too close to relief. And that’s worse.

You sit up slowly, pressing your hand briefly to your forehead, grounding yourself. You chose this. Not by accident. Not by circumstance. You chose him. The thought settles heavier than you expect.

You push yourself out of bed anyway, moving through your routine with more precision than usual, like if everything else stays controlled, this will too. It won’t. You know that. But you try anyway.

School feels louder. Every hallway, every classroom, every passing glance feels just slightly heightened, like you’re aware of everything at once. You tell yourself no one knows. No one saw. Nothing has changed. But you feel it.

You see him before he sees you. Across the hallway, leaning against the lockers, talking to someone, but then his eyes lift, and they land on you. And everything shifts. It’s not subtle. Not entirely. There’s recognition there now. Awareness. Something unspoken that wasn’t there before.

Your breath catches. You look away first. Of course you do. But it doesn’t undo it. Nothing does.

You keep walking, forcing your steps to stay even, your expression neutral, but you feel it when he falls into step beside you a moment later.

“Morning,” he says. It’s quieter than usual. Careful.

“Morning,” you reply. Your voice is steady. Mostly.

A beat passes. Neither of you looks at the other right away.

“You okay?” he asks.

You almost laugh. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.”

You glance at him. “You’re going to keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Not believing me.”

He finally looks at you. Really looks. “Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”

You exhale, shaking your head slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

A small silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Your arm brushes his as someone passes too close. You both feel it. Neither of you moves immediately. Your pulse picks up.

You keep walking.

“About last night—” he starts.

You cut him off quickly. “Not here.” Your voice is low. Controlled. But there’s something under it. He notices. Of course he does.

“Okay,” he says. A beat. Then, softer— “Later?”

You hesitate. Just for a second. “…Later,” you agree.

That’s enough. For now.

Dinner is too quiet. Your parents are both home tonight, which is already unusual enough to make something feel off. Your father sits at the head of the table, your mother across from him, Victoria beside you like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

You feel it before anything happens. That tension. That shift.

You keep your expression neutral, your posture perfect, your movements controlled as you pick at your food like everything is normal. It isn’t.

“So,” Victoria says lightly.

Your stomach drops.

Your mother glances up. “Yes?”

Victoria takes a slow sip of her drink, her gaze flicking briefly to you before returning to the table. “I saw something interesting the other night.”

Your grip tightens under the table.

“Victoria,” you say, a warning.

She ignores it. “Your daughter has been spending time with Eddie Munson.”

Silence. Immediate. Sharp.

Your mother’s expression shifts first to confusion, then to something tighter. “I’m sorry—who?” she asks.

Your father doesn’t speak, but his attention is fully there now.

“Eddie Munson,” Victoria repeats calmly. “He’s been coming by late. Climbing through her window, actually.”

Your chest tightens. “Stop,” you say. Your voice is steady. But it’s not enough.

Your mother turns to you. “Is that true?”

“It’s not, what she’s making it sound like.”

“Then what is it?” your father asks, his voice even but firm.

You hesitate. That’s all it takes.

Victoria leans back slightly in her chair, watching. “It looked pretty clear to me,” she adds.

“Victoria,” your mother snaps, but it’s too late. The damage is already done. You feel it; the shift, the disappointment, the judgment.

“Answer the question,” your father says.

Your pulse is loud now. Your throat tight. “It’s tutoring,” you say. The lie feels thin. “We just—”

“At night?” your mother cuts in. “Through your window?”

You don’t respond. Because you can’t make that sound reasonable.

“That boy—” your father starts, his tone sharpening now, “do you have any idea what people say about him?”

“There are things you don’t understand,” you say quickly.

“Then explain them,” he replies.

“I—” You stop. Because how do you explain something you don’t fully understand yourself?

Your mother shakes her head slightly, her expression tightening. “This is not like you.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

The question lands hard. You look down at your plate. Because you don’t have a clean answer. Because the real answer doesn’t fit here. Victoria watches you, quiet, satisfied.

“Effective immediately,” your father says, his voice controlled but final, “this stops.”

Your head snaps up. “You don’t get to just—”

“I absolutely do,” he cuts in. “You are not seeing him again. You are not associating with him in any capacity outside of school, and we will be speaking to the administration about this so-called ‘tutoring.’”

Your chest tightens. “No.”

The word comes out before you can stop it. The table stills.

Your father’s gaze sharpens. “What did you say?”

Your pulse is racing now. “I said no.” Your voice shakes slightly. But you don’t take it back.

Something shifts. This time, in you.

Your mother stares at you. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not cutting him off like that,” you say, your voice steadier now, even as your chest tightens. “You don’t know him.”

“I know enough,” your father says.

“No, you don’t.”

The words come faster now. Less controlled. “I know what people say,” he replies.

“And that’s the problem,” you snap. “You only know what people say.”

Silence. Heavy. Dangerous. You’ve never pushed like this before. Victoria watches. Carefully. Interested.

“You’re out of line,” your mother says quietly.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re being reckless.”

“I’m making my own decision.”

Your father leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “You don’t get to make decisions that jeopardize everything we’ve worked for.”

And there it is. Everything. The future. The expectation. The pressure. You feel it pressing in on you from all sides. But this time, you don’t fold immediately.

Your voice comes out quieter. But stronger. “I didn’t ask you to build my life for me.”

The words land hard. Your mother looks stunned. Your father goes still. Victoria’s eyes sharpen.

And just like that, everything has changed.

You don’t remember standing up. One second you’re at the table, the weight of their voices pressing in on you from every direction, and the next, your chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

“I’m not doing this,” you say. Your voice is tighter now. Less controlled.

Your mother starts to say your name. You don’t stay to hear it. You turn, already moving, already pulling yourself out of the room before anything else can be said, before you can second-guess it, before you can fold like you always do.

“Get back here,” your father calls.

You don’t. You’re up the stairs before the words even settle, your hands shaking as you push into your room, grabbing your jacket, your keys—whatever you can reach without thinking.

You can’t breathe. Your chest is tight, your thoughts loud and overlapping again, but this time it’s not just pressure, it’s anger. Sharp. Burning.

You don’t stop. Not to think. Not to plan. Not to fix it. You just go.

The night air hits your face hard as you step outside, the cold sharper than you expect, grounding you just enough to keep moving. Gravel crunches under your shoes as you cut across the yard, your heartbeat loud in your ears, your breath uneven as you reach your car.

Your hands fumble with the keys. “Come on—” They slip. You curse under your breath, grabbing them again, forcing yourself to focus just long enough to get the door open, to get inside, to start the engine.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You know that. You should go back. You should fix it. You should...

You pull out of the driveway. The drive is faster than it should be. Not reckless. But close. Your grip on the wheel is tight, your thoughts still spinning, replaying everything: your father’s voice, your mother’s expression, Victoria’s silence.

Effective immediately, this stops.

Your chest tightens again. “No,” you mutter under your breath. Not this time.

You don’t hesitate when you pull into the trailer park. Not like before. You know where you’re going now. You don’t question it. You don’t stop.

You park too quickly, the engine barely off before you’re out of the car, your steps uneven against the gravel as you make your way to his door. You knock. Harder this time.

There’s a pause. Movement inside. Then, the door opens.

Eddie looks at you like he already knows something’s wrong. Not confused. Not surprised. Just… ready.

“What happened?” he asks immediately.

That’s all it takes. Everything you were holding together snaps.

“I told them,” you say, your voice uneven. “Well, no, I didn’t. Victoria did. She told them everything, and now they think I’m—” You stop, frustrated, your hands moving as you try to explain something you don’t even fully understand. “They want me to stop. Completely. No tutoring, no seeing you, nothing. Like I can just cut it off and go back to normal, like it didn’t happen.”

Your breath catches. Because it can’t. You know it can’t.

“I tried,” you add, quieter now. “I tried to do that. I told you, we shouldn’t do this. I walked away, I did exactly what I’m supposed to do, and it still—”

Your voice breaks slightly. You look away, your chest rising and falling too fast. “It doesn’t feel right,” you admit. The words come out softer. More honest. “None of it does.”

Silence settles between you for a second. Then, “Hey,” he says, stepping closer.

You don’t move back. His hand comes up, hesitating for just a second before resting lightly on your arm, grounding you in a way nothing else has all night.

“Slow down,” he says. “Just breathe for a second.”

You try. It doesn’t work immediately. But it’s enough to keep you from completely unraveling.

“They’re not gonna let this go,” you say, your voice tighter now. “They’re already talking about pulling me out of things, talking to the school, like I’ve done something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” he says.

“I know that,” you reply quickly. “But that doesn’t matter to them.”

A pause. Then, quieter— “They’re going to make me choose.”

The words sit heavy between you. Because you both know what that means.

Eddie’s hand drops slowly from your arm, not pulling away completely, just giving you space. “Yeah,” he says.

You look at him. “And I don’t know what to do.”

That’s the truth. The real one. The one you don’t say out loud. Except now you have.

He watches you for a second, his expression steady, grounded in a way that makes your chest tighten again, but differently this time.

“You already made a choice,” he says.

You frown slightly. “What?”

“You came here.”

The words land. Simple. But undeniable.

Your breath catches. Because he’s right. You didn’t think. You didn’t plan. You didn’t calculate. You just came to him.

“I don’t know if that’s enough,” you admit.

“Maybe it is,” he says. “Maybe it’s the only thing that actually matters.”

You shake your head slightly, overwhelmed again. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” he replies. “But it doesn’t have to be impossible either.”

A moment passes. You’re close now. Closer than before. Your pulse is still racing, but it’s not panic anymore. Not entirely.

“You’re going to regret this,” you say quietly.

“Probably,” he shrugs.

That almost makes you laugh. “Seriously.”

“I am being serious,” he says. “This is complicated. It’s messy. It’s probably gonna make things harder for both of us.” He pauses. Then, “But I’m still here.”

Your chest tightens. Because that’s it. That’s the difference. Everyone else is telling you what this will cost. He’s just staying.

“And you’re still here too,” he adds.

You look at him. Really look. And this time, you don’t hesitate.

You step forward, closing the distance between you, your hand finding the front of his jacket, grounding yourself in something real, something you chose.

“I don’t want to go back to how it was,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “Even if it was easier.”

His expression softens. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” Then, “You don’t have to.”

And this time, when you kiss him, there’s no hesitation. No question. Just a choice.

Things don’t magically get better. You learn that quickly.

There isn’t some perfect moment where everything clicks back into place, where your parents suddenly understand, where Victoria backs off, or where the pressure simply disappears. It lingers. It shifts. It finds new ways to exist in the background of everything you do.

But it changes.

Slowly. Carefully. In ways you don’t always notice right away.

The first time Eddie comes over, it’s tense. Your mother hovers, your father watches too closely, and Victoria doesn’t say much at all, which somehow feels worse. The air feels tight, like everyone is waiting for something to go wrong.

“Living room,” your father had said, firm. “Door stays open.”

Eddie just nodded. “Got it.” No argument. No attitude. That surprised them. It surprised you.

He sits on the couch like he belongs there just enough to be respectful, not enough to make anyone uncomfortable. He answers questions when they come, doesn’t overshare, and doesn’t shut down either. He’s careful in a way you haven’t seen before, not fake, not forced, just… intentional.

And somehow, that matters.

It doesn’t fix everything. But it shifts something.

Your mother softens first. Just slightly. Asking him questions that sound less like interrogation and more like curiosity. Your father takes longer, of course, he does. But he watches. He listens.

And Eddie doesn’t push. He doesn’t try to prove anything. He just shows up. Again. And again. And again.

School changes, too. Not all at once. Not dramatically. But you notice it. The way he starts showing up to tutoring is prepared. The way he actually tries. The way he asks questions, not just to mess with you, but because he wants to understand.

“You’re staring,” he says one afternoon, glancing up from his notebook.

“I’m observing,” you reply.

“Yeah? What’s the verdict?”

You tilt your head slightly. “You’re improving.”

He grins. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked.”

“You are.”

You almost smile.

It’s not perfect. You still argue. You still push each other. You still feel that old pressure creeping in sometimes, your future, your expectations, everything you’ve built. But now you don’t carry it alone.

Some nights you sit in your room with your books spread out, your thoughts starting to spiral again, the old patterns threatening to pull you under. And then, a knock at your door. Not your window. Your door.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

You glance up. “…Yeah.”

He steps inside like it’s normal now, like this is something allowed, something real, something that exists in your world without having to be hidden.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

“What thing?”

“The overthinking everything thing.”

You huff out a breath. “I always do that.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “But now I’m here to interrupt it.”

And he does. Every time.

Victoria still watches. She always will. But she doesn’t say as much anymore. Not because she approves, but because she sees it too, the difference. The way you haven’t fallen apart. The way you’ve adjusted. Adapted. Held your ground.

Your parents don’t say it out loud. They don’t apologize. They don’t admit they were wrong. But they let him stay a little longer. They stop asking as many questions. They trust, just a little.

And you, you’re still figuring it out. Still balancing everything. Still learning how to want something without it undoing everything else.

It’s not easy. It’s not clean. But it’s yours.

Because the truth is, you almost walked away. You almost chose the version of your life that made sense on paper. You almost let go of something you didn’t fully understand.

But you didn’t.

You stayed. You chose it. You chose him. You chose something uncertain and complicated and real. And somehow, that made everything else possible too.

All because you held on till May.

and that's all from me:) hope you enjoyed, until the next one<3

This fucking sucks, you think.

A pit yawns into existence in the depths of your stomach, and you kiss your teeth. The night managed to be ruined before it even began. Truly a new record in a string of shitty luck. The only thing left is to decide how to respond.

While in the past, you used a plethora of options (each more inventive than the last), this time you're stumped. Bereft. Left standing on a foundation of shifting sand.

How do you correlate the sting of this offensive to the nature of your not-relationship — could you?

In the end, he owes you nothing.

You scrub a hand over your chest with a frown. This should be a non-issue, and yet... And yet.

What the hell's wrong with me?

Beside you, the bartender averts his gaze. Pretends the task of polishing smudged pint glasses is of the utmost importance while you suffer through an existential crisis.

You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.

Not like there's much else for him to do.

It's a slow night, the locals more interested in the newest blockbuster than sticky floors and cheap drinks with a heavy pour. The music's decent and the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren't offensive enough to induce a migraine.

Moreover, it's quiet as far as bars go - one of the many reasons why it's a favorite meeting place of yours.

Because while its changed hands several times over the years, some things forever remain the same. Like the trashy, half-naked mermaids hanging from the rafters or the bright splashes of graffiti painting the walls in swaths of color... or the low booth crammed into the back corner; a hidden, tell-tale heart hosting an aged carving of yours and Jack's initials on the underside.

The lone vigil of a bygone life filled with coursework and exams, laughter shared over watered down lagers and the pressing clasp of warm palms.

Will we ever be like that again?

Nostalgia's a dangerous thing as you glance at your secret keeper. Makes it harder to avoid the lurch of your heart and the churn of your stomach; the tangled mess of strangleweed emotions threatening to steal the breath from your lungs.

You've been stood up.

Again.

Abandoned in a monument of your youth and surrounded by bittersweet reminders of a time when Jack cared. When he was tender and kind. When the distance between you didn't throb like an open wound.

This isn't the first time. It won't be the last.

Humiliation burns white-hot, sinks its fingers into the apples of your cheeks. It used to be so easy not to take his flakiness personally. He was a busy man with important things to do, even back in college.

When did that change? When did he stop saying sorry? When did he stop caring?

The desolation is much harder to shake off this time. You used to be so understanding but now it feels as if Jack's plunged a hand into your chest, scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find.

Goddamn it. What did you expect?

Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.

He likes getting shot at for fun, plays cop by listening to a police scanner in his free time, flirts with death to a concerning degree, and bends the rules when it suits his needs.

A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.

He reminds you of Icarus, constantly soaring to new heights. And like the boy with hope in his heart and wings made of wax, you live in fear of the day he'd get burned for flying too close to the sun.

However, you didn't expect to be plummiting towards the earth in his stead. And you don't share his knack for compartmentalization, instead thrown off-kilter by this recent disappointment in a long line of tragedy.

What’s going on with me, you think, regret bitter on your tongue. This is nothing new. Jack's doing what he's always done.

Hell, even after you fuck he never acts differently - as casual with you between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch with a carton of greasy Chinese food and beer.

It's been great.

It's been enough.

Why is now different?

Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment makes your skin crawl, knowing he'll swing by after his next shift with a half-assed apology and your favorite drink since you were a sleep deprived undergrad in hand.

Then he'll coax you into bed where you'll get lost in each other's bodies for hours.

He'll continue to take-take-take.

You'll continue to give-give-give.

On and on, a distant star orbiting a black hole - losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left but dust.

Then he'll leave your life.

First in inches, then in miles; a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye. You might be lucky if you get a check-up call once every three months.

After all, your lives went in separate directions before - what's stopping that from happening again?

Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you realize, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I —

An errant thought gains teeth.

Sinks deep and refuses to budge as an awful truth, one buried so well you forgot it was there - ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind. Hysteria swells. A cold chill rakes gnarled fingers down the nobs of your spine.

Oh.

It’s because I love him. Because I’m in love with him. I always have been.

Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. A steel band cinches around your ribs, threatens to crack you open. Your heart lurches. Despair follows on swift wings, and you have no one to blame except yourself.

Fuck, you scrub a hand over your face with a wane smile. How could I…

It'll never work.

Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. Besides, there are too many hurts to soothe, and too many disappointments to name.

Should’ve known better — should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.

Now, you're in too deep.

Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, if-only's.

No more.

It's time to muster up some semblance of self, untangle the threads of connection so you can rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him all those years ago. Relearn how to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock. Content yourself with his friendship and nothing more.

And it starts with a simple reply in the face of everything else you really want to say: Ok.

After, you grab the bartender's attention (not that it was ever on anyone else but you).

He pretends not to notice the tears brimming along your lash line."Ready to order?" he asks. "What'll ya have?"

"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"

The screen of your phone lights up with a notification. His mouth twitches. You waver, refuse to look. Everything is still too fresh, emotions scraped raw and tender.

A simple flick of your finger turns on DND, then you place the device face down where it'll remain until you call it a night. You're far too fragile - and sober - to think about reading Jack's reply.

“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”

Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.

Bottoms up, bitch.

In hindsight, having this conversation with Jack face to face the day after you realized you've spent a significant chunk of your life in love with a man who'll never love you back isn’t the brightest idea.

But if last night showed you anything, it's that every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen. What’s another mistake to add to your long string of misfortune?

It doesn't matter if there's a tremor to your hands when you unlock the door to let him in. It doesn't matter if your stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss only for you to duck aside, his lips catching on the slope of your cheek. It doesn't matter even when he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before pro-offering the drink he picked up on the way.

It can't get any worse.

Right?

(It can. It does.)

When he heads towards your bedroom with a slanted quirk of his lips and a playful wink, his crow's feet crinkling, the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you sputters before fizzling down to embers.

Your heart stutters.

In that moment, he reminds you so, so much of the fresh faced older boy you knew.

The one who dragged you out for pancakes at 3 AM after you crammed for an exam, soft eyes and tender hands. The one you explored your sexuality with, curled against his chest as you kissed and groped each other, lips clumsy and palms sweaty. The one who stole your heart before you realized how empty he'd leave you.

Anguish and despair nip at your heels when you follow him.

You step into the room. This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off for the sake of your friendship.

“Did you have a good night?”

Any attempt at smiling falls flat; ill-fitting, the corners stretched too wide, teeth bared like a dog.

Jack shrugs and shifts his weight onto his good leg, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.” He flashes you a smile. "Always do."

Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and feel far too exposed in the light summer dress you haphazardly threw on, skin too sensitive for anything heavier.

“Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”

Jack hums. “Mm, that’s not like you.” He steps forward, only stopping once he's in front of you. "You're acting weird."

Hands reach for your wrists, broad palms a heated brand as fingers encircle the bone like they're cradling precious china. A rough thumb strokes over your pulse point. Shivery sensation whispers at the touch, awareness dripping down your nerves.

"Is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?"

When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.

Of course he'd notice.

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

Jack grins, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing," he agrees.

With every inhale, your chests brush. The scant few inches between your bodies heats, electric. His torso is a tempting line of hardness begging to mold itself against you just like it has time and time again. It’s torture. It’s too intimate.

The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the glints of spun silver in his hair, the curling sweep of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy, his eyes the shade of kerosene and broken amber beer bottles. He's blinding - like looking at the sun.

Clearing your throat, you shrink back.

“Don’t do that. Where are you going?” He pleads with you to stay, his body curved towards you. A palm settles over your shoulder. “Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.

What a terrible thing to destroy.

If only this moment, this memory could last forever suspended on a string.

Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…

Better to be quick otherwise you fear the words will get stuck around the bend of your throat like a noose. Resolved, you inhale and muster your courage. Steel your heart and do your best to ignore the ginger stokes of his fingertips.

You exhale, "We need to stop."

The world grinds to a startling halt.

Silence descends but for the rigid exhale through his nose, and all you can do is watch as Jack's eyes darken, scalpal sharp in the dim overhead light. Even still, his half-smile never wanes. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. He's always been a greedy man. Wants what he can't have, and destroys what he does.

"What do you mean?" Jack asks (but he knows, there's no way he doesn't). "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetie."

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "Jack, you know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"I just - I can't do," your voice cracks, your free hand motioning helplessly at him, "this anymore."

A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his stubbled jaw working side to side. Muscles bunch and release with every grind of his teeth. Tension impregnates the air, crackling between you like bottled lightening. The calm before the storm.

"You gonna tell me why? Or are you just going to ditch me - act like we," he catches himself, and re-phrases his sentence, "like it didn't fuckin' mean anything?"

“Jack…”

There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. You wish this wasn’t happening. You wish you could take it back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair. Not to you. Not anymore.

Though while you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, Jack's staunch denial still manages to surprise you.

“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.

At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.

— And that’s the problem.

You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.

Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.

As sweet as he is - has been - he won’t treat it gently. He can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.

No, it’s better this way.

Let's what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments. At least, that's what you thought.

Except Jack's shoulders draw up towards his ears and his hands fall away from you. His gaze is glacial as it pins you in place. There's a shadow that lurks in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.

Everything about him looks weighted down, adding years to his face.

If you didn't know better, you'd think it was heartbreak.

"Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I deserve a fuckin' answer after all the years we've known each other." He scoffs. "At the very least."

“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that, Jack. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”

He glares, a snarl rumbling from the depths of his chest. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me the reason.”

"Why does that - I -"

Words fail you when you need them most. Left scrambling for a reason to give while Jack looks so… God, you want to reach out and comfort him (the urge so strong you have to shove your hands under your arms to stop yourself). And then it comes to you, unbidden.

At the beginning of this mess, you only had one rule.

If there's someone you're serious about, you stop fucking. While made for your benefit more than his - barring the few flings after the passing of his wife - it comes as a handy lie. A believable excuse that'll stop any further questioning and save you from incriminating yourself. The last thing you want to do in this moment is be honest, and if he doesn't relent soon, you fear you'll crack under the weight of your grief and the fury in his eyes.

“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”

An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes this for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.

This is it, you think.

You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be his friend. Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward, a snake coiled to strike.

Air flees your lungs as Jack shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame. Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.

You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened. This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It's quickly turning into anything but.

How? Why?

The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.

Jack quickly crowds you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body. The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs as broad palms skim your sides. Warm and calloused, they ruck up the skirt of your dress.

"So that's it, huh?

"What—"

Reaching beneath you to grasp at the soft globes of your ass, Jack yanks you into him. Your pelvises slot together in a harsh clash of friction. Before you can stop yourself, a whine breaks free. The heat of his body sinks into you, and your lashes flutter. A bolt of awareness slices through you as your body responds to his proximity, liquid desire a slow kindling fire behind your navel.

He feels like home - like you're right where you belong beneath him.

Senses overwhelmed as he surrounds you, the heady, pleasent scent of his cologne flooding your lungs with every stuttered inhale. When teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your throat, sharp pinpricks of pleasure-pain lighting sparking sudden and bright, you squirm.

Then he's speaking, low and husky, "My girl's going to leave me for someone else? Think again, sweetheart."

“I’m not your girl. Never was.”

He doesn't need to know how your heart aches at your reply, every beat thrumming in your ears, screaming: it's you, it's always been you, only you.

A cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw, teeth worrying at the flesh as blunt nails dig into the soft fat of your ass. "That right?" Jack asks. His voice rumbles through your torso, your nipples pebbling as they drag over the plains of his chest. "You think you're not my girl?"

The line of his cock ruts into you, dragging wickedly over your swollen clit. It's almost enough to make you swallow your tongue, retract every hasty word and beg for his forgiveness. "I know I'm not your girl," you bite out.

"Ah, so if you're not my girl," he grinds into the cradle of your hips taunting - teasing, "tell me what's got your pretty little pussy so fucking wet, sweetie. C'mon, let's hear it - I'm curious."

"Jack!"

Keening, you rock up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle's just right, spreads your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties to expose your soaked core to the chill of your room. Mortification hooks behind your navel, a warm flush creeping from your crown down to the tips of your toes.

"Don't you know it's rude not to respond when someone asks a question." Jack presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, following up with a stinging nip. His stubble drags over your skin, a path of raw tenderness left in the wake of his attention. "Should I take a guess?"

"I can't — ffuck!"

Blood thrums through your veins, rabbit fast. You're steadily losing all sense of control and rationality, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency the longer Jack keeps himself pressed against your pussy.

"Do you think some nobody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."

A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.

Sweat dapples your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.

“Shit, Jack, please,” you beg, hands tangling in the sheets by your head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here.

Again.

“I want you to tell me who your pussy belongs to.”

Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs and play with the elastic of your panties. You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy. Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your dripping folds, “tell me you’re my girl - always have been ever since college.”

His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells. A brief flicker of worry for his leg snakes through you before being knocked loose by the harsh rut of his hips.

“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars."

Jack doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part to reply. All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch silken flesh open.

You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and puffy as they flutter around his finger. You can't help but wish it was his cock fucking in so deep the tip kissed your cervix with every thrust, hitting that spot just right to make you cum so hard you soak the bed.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Always so soft n wet n pretty for me.”

Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the stretch of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.

Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jack!”

Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.

Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jack's rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.

Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.

Jack peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.

Then his head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”

Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.

“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Jack, baby, please don’t stop.”

He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, sweetie.”

“S’good - I - I’m close.”

You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy, squelching sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.

“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”

You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”

If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure. In the back of your mind, you know Jack's only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry.

He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.

It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.

After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.

“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”

There’s no escape.

He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel. And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.

You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat. Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.

For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.

Jack's arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.

“Jack,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jack, I--”

He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”

The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”

Jack squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so fucking stupid sometimes.”

You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just  - I - I  don’t. ..Jack?”

“How could I not feel the same?” he asks rhetorically, tone resigned and wary. “Have since... since college - it just took me a little longer to realize it, that's all. Honestly scared the shit out of me.”

Me too, you think softly as something unfurls in your chest. Lighter than air; ridiculously buoyant with happiness - with hope.

Oh, how stupid.

He averts his gaze. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Robby helped me get my head on straight.”

“We're idiots, huh?”

Jack hums noncommittally, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a sheepish smile on his lips. “You said it, sweetheart.”

feedback is always appreciated

first, a multi-car pileup at dawn bled into a series of critical post-ops. then, every time he had tired to reach for his coat, another “one last thing” tethered him back to the floor. now, nearly ten hours into a forced double, the walls feel like they’re closing in. all he wants right now is to be through his front door, to shed the smell of antiseptic and the weight of the hospital, and to finally disappear into the quiet comfort of his home, where you were probably already waiting for him.

“it’s too quiet,” dana mutters as she organizes a stack of charts.

jack offers a ghost of a tired smile. “don’t say the ‘q’ word. you’ll jinx us.”

his mind drifts, as it often does during these rare lulls, back to you. he thinks about the way you looked when he left. half-asleep, tangled in the duvet in your hared bed, grumbling about the warmth leaving you as jack got out of the bed. he’d kissed your forehead, whispered that he’d be home by eight, in time to share breakfast with you, and headed into the belly of the beast. as he walked into the hospital, he felt a rare pang of guilt; he’d been working so many double shifts lately that your shared home felt more like a hotel.

i’ll make it up to her, he thinks. maybe he can take you out to that new sushi bar you showed him on your phone the other day. no, you’ll probably prefer thai. you’ve always loved-

the thought is cut short by the sharp, rhythmic chirp of the trauma radio. the sound like a physical blow to the silence.

“dispatch to mercy trauma, we have a level 1 activation. multiple vehicle collision, pileup on the i-579. initial reports suggest a jackknifed semi and at least six passenger vehicles. multiple red-tags. first eta is four minutes. lead bus is carrying a female, blunt force chest trauma, unstable vitals, gcs of 6.”

the er transforms in a heartbeat. the “slump” dies instantly, replaced by the practiced, frantic choreography of a trauma team who’s been through this million times.

robby, that was contrasting the lab results from one of his patients jumps into action.

“abbot, i need you in trauma. we need to get bays 1 and 2 ready. i want respiratory on standby. grab the o-neg. if this is a pileup, we’re going to be drowning in ten minutes.”

“let’s go!” jack barks, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register that defined him as he signals some of the residents to follow him,

the coffee is now discarded and forgotten on dana’s desk as jack pulls on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoing against the white, bright walls of room. here, in the chaos of trauma 1, he’s in his element. he’s dr. abbot, the man who’s used to holding the line between life and death. he feels the familiar rush of adrenaline, the narrowing of his world until only the patients matter.

“eta one minute!” someone shouts.

robby stands at the ambulance bay doors, peering through the glass. a faint rain has started. a cold, miserable drizzle that blurs the red and blue lights of the approaching sirens.

the first ambulance screeches to a halt and the back doors swing open. immediately, a paramedic jumps out, already pumping a manual respirator. “female, trapped in the driver’s side for twenty minutes. we had to use the jaws. bp is 80 over 40 and dropping. she’s trending toward traumatic arrest!”

robby’s breath catches for a fraction of a second. his eyes scan the familiar face, noticing all the blood, the cuts and bruises.

no, he thinks. please, let it not be true.

“get her to bay 1!” he orders, returning to reality as he steps forward to catch the side of the gurney as it flies past.

as robby pushes the gurney, he refuses to look at the patient’s face. but when he walks past dana’s desk, he looks devastated, and she notices. rounding her desk, she walks next to him, matching his quick step.

“i need abbot out of that room,” he says. “now.”

frowning, dana walks next to him.

“what? why?”

robby just shakes his head. “i need you to take him to trauma 2. anywhere, really. just… away from…”

but it’s already too late.

jack’s eyes are locked on the gurney, tracking the way the patient’s body jolts with every bump of the wheels, noticing the blood-soaked bandages on her chest.

“on three! one, two, three!”

the paramedics help slide the patient onto the trauma table. and it’s only then, as one of the them pulls away the oxygen mask to swap it for the hospital’s ventilator, that the world truly stops spinning.

the air leaves jack’s lungs as if he’d been punched.

“jack…” robby tries, but he doesn’t look at him. he can’t react at all.

the female with blunt force chest trauma and unstable vitals isn’t a stranger.

it’s you.

your face is ghostly pale under the smears of blood and road grime. your hair, which he’d smoothed back just hours ago in the quiet of your bedroom, is matted with glass shards. you lay limp, your chest barely moving, a hollow shell of the person he loves.

“jack?” dana’s voice comes from a distance, sharp and concerned. “jack, what are you doing? we need to intubate!”

jack abbot, the man who never flinches, who doesn’t shake under stress, no matter how hard or critical the case, now stands frozen. his hands, usually as steady as stone, are shaking so violently they seem to rattle against the metal railing of the bed.

robby glances at dana over his friend’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“no,” jack whispers, the word catching in his throat. “no, no, no…”

“okay, “robby mutters to himself. “abbot, i need you to get out. now.”

but jack still can’t react, he doesn’t even flinch when dana closes her hand around his forearm, trying to pull him out of the room.

robby pushes past him. “she’s crashing! i need a central line now! jack, get out of the way!”

robby grabs a scalpel, his movements clinical and fast. he doesn’t stop to consider who is on the table. to him, right now you are just a ‘red tag.’ he can’t allow himself to think of anything else.

right now, you can’t be the woman who has quickly become one of his closest friends, one of the main supports on his hardest days. the woman he proudly considers family, the same one he shared secrets and past anecdotes with when he came by to yours and jack’s house for dinner every month.

dana is still trying to get jack out of the room, threatening to call security on him when the attending’s weak whisper makes her stop in her tracks.

“stop,” jack rasps, his voice cracking. he lunges forward, shaking dana’s hand off, too desperate. “stop. that’s… that’s my wife.”

the room goes dead silent for a heartbeat, save for the screaming of the heart monitor. robby looks up, nothing but pity for his friend boring in them.

“jack… you can’t be in here, brother. you know the protocol.”

“i am not leaving her!” jack roars, his voice echoing off the trauma bay walls, raw and heartbroken. “my wife is dying. i am not leaving her!”

“you’re making it worse!” robby hisses back. “you’re compromised! you’re going to kill her if you don’t let us work!”

jack looks down at you. he sees the blood. he sees the way your heart rate is flickering on the screen like a dying candle. a cold, terrifying clarity suddenly washes over him. the panic doesn’t disappear, of course it doesn’t, but he forces it down into a small, dark box in the back of his mind.

he steps back slightly, chest heaving. but his hands stop shaking, the roaring in his ears slows to low hum, enough for him to hear his own thoughts again.

“fuck the protocol. i’m staying,” jack said, his voice now terrifyingly low and steady. “robby, get the chest tube. and i need 10 of epi. now!”

he doesn’t look at his colleagues as he works. he looks only at you.

“stay with me,” he whispers, so low only you could have heard it if you were awake. “don’t you dare leave me, do you hear me? stay with me.”

and so the chaos begins in the trauma bay. robby and jack, along with a couple of residents and some extra hands work together, in synchronicity.

“i need a fast exam, now!” jack’s voice cuts through the noise, steady but edged with desperation, focused on the monitors, on the jagged green lines of your heart rate, the terrifyingly low oxygen saturation. he tries not to look at you, knowing that if he did he’d see your eyes, closed and bruised, and he would shatter.

“jack, i’ve got the ultrasound,” rabby says, his voice softer now, cautious.

he moves the probe over your abdomen, eyes flicking between the small screen and your still form.

you’re so still. the woman who loves dancing in the kitchen to grainy jazz records is now buried under layers of medical plastic and blood-stained gauze.

“we’ve got internal bleeding,” robby mutters, his brow furrowing. “she’s bleeding out into her peritoneum. jack, we need to get her to or immediately.”

“wait,” jack says, eyes falling to the darkening bruise on your lower belly. “check the pelvis. i want a full sweep. if there’s a pelvic fracture we didn’t see—”

“i’m on it,” robby replies. he moves the probe lower, his movements clinical.

the room seems to go silent, though the machines are still screaming. jack watches the ultrasound screen, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating surgical approaches, estimating blood loss, praying to a god he hasn’t spoken to in years.

then, the image shifts.

robby freezes. the probe stops moving.

on the grainy, black-and-white screen, nestled deep within the shadows of your body, is a small, unmistakable flicker. a pulsing light.

jack’s breath hitched. his world, already tilted on its axis, began to spin violently.

“jack…” robby’s voice was barely a whisper. “is that…?”

“no,” jack breathes, the word a plea. “no, it can’t be.”

he grabs the probe from robby’s hand, his fingers slick with ultrasound gel. he presses it down again, his eyes wide and frantic as he searches the screen. and there it is. a gestational sac. maybe ten weeks. perhaps older. a tiny, fragile life tucked away inside the chaos of your broken body.

a life he didn’t know about. a life you hadn’t told him about.

“she’s pregnant,” robby breathes from the bedside, his hand flying to his mouth.

the realization hits jack like a physical blow to the chest. this isn’t about just you anymore. it’s about both of you. every choice he makes in the next ten minutes will not just decide the fate of his wife; it would decide the fate of their child, too.

“we can’t use the standard protocol, jack,” robby says, his voice rising in panic. “the meds we were going to use for the induction, the ct scan, the radiation…”

“i know!” jack roars, the sound raw and guttural. he drops the probe and it hits the floor with a dull thud.

the “doctor mode” he has spent years perfecting, the emotional armor he wears like a second skin, cracks wide open. the image of that tiny, flickering heartbeat burned into his retinas. he sees you then; not as a patient, not as a ‘red tag,’ but as the mother of his child, dying on a cold metal table because of a patch of ice and a moment of bad luck.

the room begins to tilt. the bright fluorescent lights turned into blinding white spots. the sound of the ventilator—hiss-click, hiss-click—is like a ticking time bomb.

“jack, look at me,” robby says, stepping into his line of sight, grabbing jack’s shoulders. “jack, you’re hyperventilating. you need to step back.”

“i… i didn’t know,” jack stammers, his legs suddenly turning to lead. “she didn’t… we couldn’t…”

he looks back at you. your face is a mask of trauma, but in his mind, he sees you the way you were hours ago when he left you cold on your shared bed. the way you smiled at him. did you know then? maybe you were waiting for dinner to tell him.

the grief and the shock collide in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. jack’s knees buckle.

“he’s going down!” robby cries, catching him under his arms before he hits the floor.

jack doesn’t fight him. he can’t. his strength is gone, evaporated. he slumps against the wall, his head in his hands, the bloodied plastic of his blue gown crinkling as he collapses.

“get him out of here,” robby orders, his voice firm as he takes over the lead position at the bed. “now! someone, please, get him to the breakroom. i’ll take her up. i promise you, jack, i will do everything. just go!”

jack feels hands on him, a strong grip pulling him up, guiding him away from the bed. he tries to resist, tries to reach out for you, but his body simply won’t obey.

as he’s led through the swinging doors, the last thing he sees is the team swarming around you, the red light of the blood bags hanging over your head, and the ultrasound screen, displaying that tiny, flickering heart once more.

the doors click shut, leaving him in the hallway, the rapid beat of his heart a deafening roar in his ears.

he’s a doctor. he’s a husband. and now, he’s a father.

and he might lose everything before the sun went down.

jesse lets go of his arm when they arrive at the breakroom, and with a quiet “i’m sorry” and a gentle nod he leaves jack behind and returns to the room where the rest of the team is still fighting to save you.

you and the baby.

god, the mere thought raises tears to jack’s eyes.

a baby.

his baby.

biting the inside of his cheek, jack thinks of the previous times when he heard these news. of the sound of your excited, cheerful voice the first time you came up to him with a positive test.

unfortunately he also remembers your heartbroken wails as he hold you tight to his chest, both of you sitting on the bathroom floor at home. he remembers how he bit his lips, forcing himself to stay strong for you but wanting nothing more but to crumble into pieces right there.

you had stopped trying after the second miscarriage. a decision none of you wanted to made but that you needed in order to protect your own hearts and your sanity.

and now… now you’re laying on a cold, metal exam table, closer to death than you’ve ever been and jack has everything to lose.

the breakroom smells of stale coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. it’s a room designed for brief reprieves, for five-minute naps and hurried meals, but right now, for jack, it feel like a cage.

he seats on the edge of a vinyl chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands, at dark, shiny band on his left hand.

you are pregnant. the thought keeps looping in his mind, a frantic, broken record. how could he miss it? he’s a doctor, for god’s sake. he is trained to notice the smallest shifts in physiology, the subtle cues of the human body.

he thinks back to the last few weeks; your sudden preference for tea over coffee, the way you’d been falling asleep on the couch before the 11 o’clock news. he’d chalked it up to stress, to the gray pittsburgh winter, to his own grueling schedule and the fact that he didn’t seem to have time to spare, time for you.

he closes his eyes and sees you in the kitchen three days ago, laughing at the ridiculous apron he usually wears when he cooks. you looked so vibrant, so incredibly alive. now, you have been reduced to a series of vitals on a monitor, a problem to be solved by people who don’t know the sound of your laugh or your favorite movie from your childhood.

“god, please,” he whispers into the empty room. now, jack abbot is hardly a religious man, but the silence of the hospital is demanding a sacrifice. “take me. just… don’t take them. please.”

the door creaks open and jack bolts upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. dr. robby, his best friend, his brother, stands there. he’s stripped off his bloody gown, but his scrubs are darkened with sweat. somehow, he looks older than he did twenty minutes ago.

“jack,” robby says, his voice level, cautious.

“tell me,” jack demands, his voice cracking. “please, tell me. is she… are they-”

“she’s still on the table,” robby says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “we’ve stabilized the splenic bleed, and the chest tube is draining well. but jack…” robby let’s out a long, heavy sigh. “ the situation is complicated. you know the physiology as well as i do.”

jack slumps back into the chair, the “doctor” part of his brain forcing its way through the grief. he does know.

in a trauma patient, pregnancy changes everything. the blood volume increases by 50%, which means a woman can lose a massive amount of blood before her blood pressure even begins to drop. by the time you see the “crash,” it’s often too late.

“her vitals are brittle,” robby continues, leaning his back against the vending machine. “because of the pregnancy, her heart is already working overtime. and we’re struggling to keep her map high enough to perfuse the placenta without blowing out the repairs we just made.”

“and the baby?” jack asks, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue.

“the fetus is roughly twelve weeks,” robby says. “at this stage, there’s no ‘saving’ the baby independently. the only way to save the pregnancy is to save the mother. but the vasopressors we’re using to keep her pressure up… they cause vasoconstriction in the uterus. we’re effectively starving the baby of oxygen to keep her brain and heart alive.”

it’s the ultimate medical catch-22. to save you, they had to risk the baby. to save the baby, they might lose you.

“the ultrasound showed some subchorionic hemorrhaging,” robby adds softly. “with the impact of the steering wheel, the placenta might be starting to detach. if that happens, she’ll bleed out from the inside faster than we can pump blood into her.”

jack buries his face in his hands. he knows the statistics. he knows that in maternal trauma, fetal demise is as high as 40-50% depending on the severity of the crash.

“i should have been there,” jack groans. “i should have driven her. she told me the brakes felt ‘soft’ last week and i told her i’d look at them on my day off. i didn’t… i didn’t look at them, robby.”

“jack, stop,” robby says firmly, walking the few steps separating him from his friend and crouching in front of him. “the police report said a semi hydroplaned across the median. it wouldn’t have mattered if she was driving a tank. don’t do this to yourself.”

jack looks up, his eyes bloodshot and raw. “how can i not?i’m the one who’s supposed to fix people. i spend twelve hours a day stitching strangers back together, and the one person who matters,” his voice breaks. “i didn’t even know she was carrying our child.”

robby sighs, his expression softening. “she’s a fighter, jack. we both know that. she’s held on this long. but i need you to stay here. if you go back in there…. i can’t worry about you too. i need to focus on them.”

“i can’t just sit here, man,” jack says, his voice rising. “i’m going crazy in this room.”

“then go to the chapel. go for a walk. or go home. but do not come back to that room,” robby warns. “i’ll send dana or jesse out when we have another update.”

as robby turns to leave, jack calls out, “wait.”

robby pauses at the door.

“the heartbeat,” jack whispers. “was it… was it still there when you left?”

robby hesitates for a fraction of a second, a beat that feels like an eternity to jack.

“it was,” robby says. “faint. but it was still there.”

and with that, the door clicks shut, leaving jack alone again.

the breakroom remains too quiet for far too long. jack paces the narrow strip of linoleum between the coffee machine and the round table, his mind a minefield of memories. he keeps seeing you in the passenger seat of his car, laughing at some stupid joke he told, the sun reflecting the stars in your eyes. he keeps thinking about the baby, whose existence had already rewritten the map of his future, even if they haven’t met yet.

then, the overhead speaker crackles. it’s a sound jack hears a dozen times a shift, a sound he usually meets with professional focus.

“code blue, trauma 1. code blue, trauma 1.”

the world doesn’t just tilt; it shatters.

trauma 1. your room.

jack is moving before his brain can even process the command. he throws open the breakroom door, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a bang that echoes down the corridor. he doesn’t care about protocol. he doesn’t care about robby’s orders. he doesn’t care about his own career.

he runs.

the hallway feels miles long, the floor slick under his clogs. he passes a group of residents who scramble out of his way, eyes wide as they see night shift attending sprinting with a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face.

he bursts through the double doors of the trauma bay, his lungs burning.

“jack, wait!” a nurse shouts, trying to grab his arm as he reaches the scrub sinks.

he doesn’t even look at her. he pushes the doors open with his shoulder, crashing into the room like a storm.

the scene inside is a nightmare rendered in high-definition. the rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator has been replaced by the frantic, high-pitched scream of the heart monitor. a flat, unwavering ekg line that slices through the air like a blade.

robby’s standing on a step-stool over your body, his hands locked, his weight throwing everything into the rhythmic compressions of your chest. crunch. crunch. the sound of ribs giving way under the pressure—a sound jack has heard a thousand times—feels like it’s his own bones that are snapping.

“jack, get out!” robby yells, not breaking his rhythm. his face is drenched in sweat, his eyes fixed on the monitor.

“what happened?” jack screams, stumbling toward the foot of the bed. “what the fuck happened?!”

“she went into v-fib, then pea,” dr. santos shouts over the noise. she was at your side, her hands pressed firmly against the left side of your abdomen, pushing your pregnant belly toward the left.

jack’s medical brain registered it instantly. in a pregnant woman in cardiac arrest, the heavy uterus compresses the inferior vena cava, blocking blood from returning to the heart. if they don’t push the baby aside, the compression robby is doing will be useless. there’s no blood to pump.

“charging to 200!” the tech shouts. “clear!”

robby jumps back. your body jolts off the table as the electricity surges through you. jack watches your hands, the same hands he loved to hold while you both were cuddling on the couch on a slow saturday, flop lifelessly back onto the sterile drape.

the line stays flat.

“again!” jack roars, stepping up to the bed, his voice raw. “increase to 300! charge it again!”

“jack, she’s lost too much blood,” robby pants, resuming compressions. “the acid-base balance is gone. her heart is too tired.”

“don’t you say that! don’t you dare say that!” jack lunges forward, grabbing the paddles from the tech’s hands. his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. “move, robby! move!”

robby hesitates for a second, then steps aside, hands raised in surrender, letting jack take over.

jack looks down at you. this close, he can see the gray tint creeping into your skin. he can see the way the light in the room seems to be fading out of you.

“you do not leave me,” he hisses, the words a jagged prayer. “you hear me? you stay. you stay for me, and you stay for this baby. do not do this to us.”

“charged!”

“clear!” jack slams the paddles against your chest.

thump. your body arches. the monitors wail.

silence.

one second. two. three.

then, a tiny, erratic blip on the screen. then another.

“i have a rhythm!” dr. santos cries, her fingers pressed to your carotid artery. “i have a pulse! it’s weak, but it’s there!”

the room seems to exhale all at once, but the tension doesn’t break. it just shifts.

“we need to get the bleeding under control now,” robby says, his voice shaking. “jack… she can’t take another arrest. if she codes again, we won’t get her back. the fetal heart rate is in the 60s.”

robby doesn’t finish the sentence, but jack hears is loud and clear.

you’re both dying.

jack stands there, the paddles still in his hands, staring at the flickering green line of your heart. he’s covered in your blood, his gown torn, his soul laid bare in front of his entire team.

he looks at robby, and for the first time in his career, michael sees the “great jack abbot” looking utterly broken.

“save them,” jack whispers, his voice barely audible over the hum of the machines. “whatever it takes, i don’t care. just… don’t let them… save them. please.”

robby nods slowly. “we’re going to try a high-risk embolization to stop the deep pelvic bleed. it’s the only way to avoid more surgery, but the radiation… it’s dangerous for the pregnancy.”

jack looks at your stomach, then back at your face. the choice is impossible.

life or life.

“do it,” jack says, his voice hardening into a cold, desperate resolve. “save her. save my wife. we’ll deal with the rest when she wakes up.”

as they begin to prep the specialized equipment, jack doesn’t leave. he backs into the corner of the room, his back against the cold tile. he watches them work, his eyes never leaving the monitor, counting every single beat of your heart as if he could keep it moving through sheer force of will.

the icu is a different kind of purgatory than the er. in the er, death is a screaming, bloody predator you could fight with a scalpel and a shout, something loud and violent. in the icu, death is a shadow. something silent, patient, and impossible to pin down.

it’s 11:45 p.m. hours have passed since you were moved up from the er.

now you lie in the center of a web of plastic tubing and wires, the steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator the only thing keeping the room from falling into a grave-like silence. a cooling blanket draped over your legs to keep your temperature regulated, and a specialized fetal monitor strapped across your bruised abdomen, its screen showing a jagged, persistent little line

142 bpm.

jack is sitting in the hard plastic chair pulled flush against your bedside. he hasn’t changed out of his scrub bottoms, though someone forced him to put on a clean gray hoodie to cover the bloodstains on his undershirt. he looks older, tired. devastated. the harsh overhead led lights catch the new lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.

he’s holding your hand, the only part of you that isn’t covered in bandages or sensors. your skin feels paper-thin and cold.

“i’m here,” he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he checks the fetal monitor. that sound, the rapid thump-thump, thump-thump of the baby’s heart, is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever heard. it’s a ticking clock. every beat a miracle, but also a reminder of how much he stands to lose.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles, the stone crowning you ring finger cold and harsh against his skin.

were you scared? were you waiting for the ‘right’ moment? god, he would have given anything for that moment to have been over dinner, or in bed, or literally anywhere but on a trauma table.

he leans his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, his eyes closing.

“i went through our messages while i was waiting for you to come out of the or,” he admits, a ghost of a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “i looked for clues. i looked for a hint. and all i found were grocery lists and you telling me to come home early because you missed me. but i didn’t come home, did i? i stayed for that extra shift. i stayed to fix people i didn’t even know while you were… you were growing a life.”

his guilt is a physical weight, a cold stone in his stomach. he’s dr. jack abbot. he’s supposed to be the one with all the answers, the one who sees the things no one else notices. but he has been blind to the most important thing in his own world.

a nurse slips into the room, her movements practiced and quiet. she checks the bags hanging from the iv pole, her eyes lingering on jack with a mixture of pity and professional concern.

“the baby’s heart rate is holding steady, dr. abbot,” she says softly, nodding toward the fetal monitor. “and her map is at 70. she’s stable for now.”

“for now,” jack repeats, the words feeling like ash. “stable is just another word for ‘waiting for the next crisis’ in this building, and you know it, claire.”

“from what i’ve heard, she’s a fighter, jack,” the nurse replies, mirroring robby’s words from earlier. “and so is the little one. i’ve seen people come back from worse.”

“not many,” jack mutters, but he squeezes your hand a little tighter.

when the nurse leaves, the silence rushes back in. jack stands up, his joints popping, and leans over you. he carefully places his hand on your stomach, right over the sensor. closing his eyes, he tries to feel through the layers of skin and muscle, trying to connect with the tiny being inside you that he had only just met through a grainy ultrasound screen.

“hey,” he whispers to your belly. “i’m your dad. i’m… i’m a bit of a mess right now, but i’m here. and i need you to do me a favor. i need you to keep fighting. i need you to give your mom a reason to wake up. because i don’t think i can do this without her. i know i can’t do this without her.”

before he can realize what’s happening, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down his cheek and landing on the sterile white sheet.

“i’ll be better,” he promises, his voice cracking. “i’ll be home. i’ll fix the brakes. i’ll learn how to be whatever you both need me to be. just… don’t let go. please, don’t let go.”

outside, the rain continues, now heavier, fiercer. but inside the room, time remains frozen. jack abbot, the man who usually held the city’s lives in his hands, now seats back down and waits for the only life that truly matters to come back to him.

from time to time, doctors filter into the room, checking vitals, checking on jack. robby comes up from the er a couple of times to share a sympathetic smile with him, to promise that everything will be fine.

jack sighs, “i’m a doctor too, robby. you can’t lie to me.”

“and i’m your friend and i know that a bit of hope is what you need right now.”

he stays for a while, keeping jack company until his pager calls him back to action.

“shouldn’t you be home already?” jack asks. “your shift was over hours ago.”

robby only shrugs. “people need me around here.”

at that, jack’s eyes regain that teary shine. nodding, he promises robby to call him if anything changes and waves his fiend goodbye before leaning back again on the chair, his eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest.

the world doesn’t come back all at once. it returns in fragments. first, the rhythmic hiss of a machine, the smell of antiseptic, and a heavy, weighted warmth on your left hand. your eyelids feel like they had been leaded shut, but the persistent, low hum of the icu finally pulls you toward the surface of consciousness.

you groan, the sound catching in the back of your throat, dry and scratchy from the tube that has only recently been removed.

then there’s the faint scratch of a chair scraping against the floor.

“hey… hey, look at me. open your eyes, sweetheart.”

that voice. you know that voice better than your own heartbeat. it’s the same voice that whispers sweet nothings into your ear at night, the same one that you hear in your warmest dreams. except now it sounds rough, exhausted, and trembling with a hope so fragile it feels like it might shatter any moment.

you force your eyes open. the light blinding at first, a sterile white haze, but then it focuses. jack. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his hair is a mess and his eyes, usually so sharp and clinical, are now swimming with tears.

“jack?” you rasp, your voice coming out as barely a breath.

“i’m here. i’m right here.” he leans over, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long moment as he takes a shuddering breath. “you scared the hell out of me, love.”

you try to move, but a sharp pang in your abdomen makes you wince. memories start to bleed back in. the rain, the blinding headlights, the screech of metal. you instinctively try to reach for your stomach, but your arm feels like lead.

“the… the accident… jack, i…”

“it’s over,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your temple. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”

a few minutes pass by until the door pushes open quietly. robby walks in, followed by an ob-gyn specialist you didn’t recognize. robby looks at you, a genuine, relieved smile breaking through his professional mask.

“welcome back,” robby says, checking the monitors. “you’ve had a hell of a day, but your vitals are finally starting to behave.”

the ob-gyn, a woman with kind eyes that introduces herself as dr. pauline , steps forward. “we need to talk about why you’re feeling so much pressure in your abdomen, besides the surgical repairs.”

jack’s grip on your hand tightens. he looks at you, his expression a complicated map of wonder and fear.

“you’re pregnant, dear,” dr. pauline says softly. “about twelve weeks. the accident was severe, and the trauma to your body was significant. we had to perform some emergency procedures that were high-risk for the pregnancy, but as of twenty minutes ago, the fetal heartbeat is steady.”

the world stops right there and then.

you look from the doctor to jack, your mouth falling open. “pregnant? are you sure?”

dr. pauline nods and you have to bite your lip to keep it from trembling. jack’s grip on your hand tightens.

“it’s going to be a long road,” dr. pauline continues, her tone turning serious but encouraging. “you have a lot of healing to do. your ribs and the internal repairs, plus the blood loss. and for the baby, we’re going to have to monitor you both every hour. there’s some bruising near the placenta, so it’s going to take hard work, absolute bed rest, and a lot of time before we can say we’re completely out of the woods. but right now? right now, you’re both winning.”

“thank you, doctor,” you whisper, voice so small it makes jack’s chest squeeze. “and thank you, michael. jack told me you were the one who took care of me when i arrived.”

robby gifts you with a small, soft smile. grabbing your free hand, he gives it a squeeze.

“i’m glad i could help. but i don’t think i could’ve done it without my team. or without dr. abbot’s aid.”

that has you snapping your attention back to jack.

“you were there?” he simply nods, eyes glued to your hand, to the ring on your finger. “i thought you guys had protocols for that kind of thing.”

“we do,” says robby, nodding.

“fuck the protocol,” barks jack at the exact same time. “my wife was dying. what was i supposed to do? go home? i did what i had to.”

when your eyes finally connect with his again you see it, the utter exhaustion, but behind that there’s something more. something raw and vivid.

“i’m so sorry,” you whisper. “i’m sorry you had to see that, jack. i can’t even imagine…”

“shh…” leaning forward, jack offers you the safe space of his shoulder to cry. “what matters is that you’re alive, love. you both are.”

after the doctors finish their checks and leave the room, a heavy, comfortable silence settles over the two of you. jack doesn’t let go of your hand. he seats on the edge of the bed, staring at you as if you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.

“jack,” you whispered, your voice a little stronger now. but you still feel the pressure of your tears threatening to spill at any given moment.

the thought of jack having to bring you back to life, your blood covering his gloved hands… knowing that he had to find out about something you had been suspecting for a couple of weeks through a scan in a trauma room in the er…

“twelve weeks,” he says, his voice thick with his own tears. “and you didn’t… you didn’t tell me.”

there’s no accusation in his voice, only a profound, echoing confusion.

you look down at your hands, the plastic hospital bracelet stark against your skin. “i didn’t know, jack. not for sure.”

jack doesn’t speak, he holds on tight to your hand, dropping a feather like kiss on your knuckles.

“i was suspicious,” you admit, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “but i told myself i was just imagining it. that my brain was playing some twisted tricks on me. but then i started feeling so tired. then there was the coffee. god, the smell of it started making me nauseous about two weeks ago. i’ve been drinking tea ever since.”

jack lets out a short, wet laugh, rubbing his face with his free hand. “i’m a doctor, i should have seen it. i should have known.”

“how could you?” you reach out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “we stopped looking for the signs a long time ago, jack.”

the air in the room shifts. the “last two times”, two years of hope, two positive tests that ended in heartbreak before the first trimester was even over. they were the shadows that had lived in the corners of your apartment, the reason you both had stopped talking about possible names or color palettes for the nursery. you had both quietly agreed to stop trying, to protect what was left of your hearts.

“i didn’t want to say anything until i was certain,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes. “i couldn’t handle seeing that look on your face again if it didn’t stay. i was going to buy a test this weekend, i promise. i just… i wanted to be sure before i gave you hope again.”

jack leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. his breath hitches. “hope is all i’ve had for the last few hours, watching you on those monitors. i don’t care about the timing. i’ve got you two now. and that’s all i need.”

he moves his hand, sliding it under the hospital blanket to rest flat against your stomach. his palm is warm, steady, and large enough to cover nearly the entire area where the new life rests tucked away.

“we’re going to do the work,” he vows, his voice low. “whatever the doctors say. whatever it takes. i’m not losing either of you. we’ve fought too hard to get here.”

for the first time since the sirens started screaming hours ago, the tension in jack’s shoulders finally breaks.

you rest your head on his shoulder, the steady thump-thump of his heart syncing with yours. it isn’t the perfect, easy ending. there are months of recovery ahead and a thousand medical hurdles to jump but for now, in the quiet of the icu, the three of you are together.

“i love you,” he whispers into your hair.

“i love you too,” you breath, finally letting your eyes drift shut. “both of us.”

the transition from the icu to the step-down unit was supposed to be a victory. it has been ten days since the crash. your chest tube is out, your color is returning, and jack has finally stopped vibrating with the manic energy of a man haunted by ghosts.

but the “pitt” never let anyone relax for long.

jack is sitting in the armchair, his laptop open as he tries to catch up on charts while staying by your side. you are propped up on pillows, picking at a bowl of fruit, when a sharp, searing cramp radiates across your lower abdomen.

it isn’t like the dull ache of your healing surgical incisions. this is different. cold. deep.

“jack,” you gasp, the plastic fork clattering onto the tray.

he’s at your side before the fork hit the floor. “what is it? where’s the pain?”

“cramping. hard.” you grip his forearm, your knuckles turning white. “it feels… it feels like the last times, jack.”

the color drains from his face, but the doctor in him takes the lead before he can panic. he throws back the blankets. and there it is. a small, terrifying smear of crimson on the white sheets.

“pauline! anyone! i need a fetal doppler in here now!” jack shouts toward the hallway, his voice cracking the quiet of the ward.

minutes felt like hours. dr. pauline rushes in, her face set in a grim mask of professional focus. jack stands in the corner, his hands pressed against his mouth. unfortunately, he knows too much. he knows all the signs, just like he knows that post-traumatic subchorionic bleeds could trigger labor or a final, fatal abruption.

the room is filled with the static sound of the doppler searching.

whoosh. whoosh.

the sound of your own pulse, too fast, too frantic.

then, a silence that feels like a death sentence.

“come on,” pauline whispers, moving the probe. “come on, little one.”

thump-thump-thump-thump.

the sound burst into the room. fast, rhythmic, and stubborn.

“heart rate is 150,” pauline exhales, a visible wave of relief washing over her. “the cervix is closed. it’s a ‘threatened’ event, likely just the hematoma from the accident draining. but we are increasing your progesterone and you are on strict, absolute bed rest. no sitting up, no laptop, nothing but breathing.”

jack doesn’t move for a long time after she leaves. he just leans his head against the wall, his chest heaving. the setback lasted only ten minutes, but it had aged him a decade.

“jack,” you call his name softly, patting the free space next to you on the bed.

he walks over and sat on the edge, taking both of your hands in his. “we almost lost the light,” he whisper. “i can’t… i don’t know that i could take it if it happened again, sweetheart.”

“we didn’t lose it,” you said, pulling his hand to your cheek. “they’re still here. we’re still here.”

jack sighs with relief, nodding. he leas down to press a soft, careful kiss to your lips.

three weeks later, the air in pittsburgh finally shifts from the bitter bite of winter to the hesitant warmth of early spring.

you’re not wearing a hospital gown anymore. instead, you wear one of jack’s oversized soft hoodies and a pair of leggings, sitting in a wheelchair by the large windows of the garden pavilion. you are still weak, and your gait is a slow, painful shuffle, but today is the day the doctors, your husband included, have circled in red on the calendar.

week 14. the beginning of the second trimester. the safe zone.

jack walks into the pavilion carrying two cups of herbal tea and a small, rectangular envelope. he looks different today. he’s actually shaved, and for the first time since the night of the pileup, the haunted look in his eyes has been replaced by a quiet, steady glow.

“happy second trimester,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

“we made it,” you breathe, looking out at the budding trees. “i honestly didn’t think we would.”

“i have something for you,” he says, sitting on the bench beside your chair. he hands you the envelope with a bright smile.

you open it with trembling fingers. inside isn’t a medical chart or a bill. it is a high-resolution 3d ultrasound from that morning’s check-up.

the image is vividly clear. you can see the curve of a tiny nose, the miniature perfection of ten fingers tucked near a chin, and the long legs that robby joked would make the kid a track star.

“look at that nose,” jack whispers, his finger tracing the print. “that’s your nose.”

“yeah. that’s your chin, though,” you laugh softly, a tear of pure, uncomplicated joy sliding down your face. “the abbot stubbornness is already visible.”

while you are still contemplating the small piece of warmth and joy that was still growing inside of you, jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. you look at him, confused.

“jack? we’re already married.”

“i know,” he says, opening the box to reveal a delicate band with a tiny, shimmering stone on top. the birthstone for the month the baby was due. “but the night of the crash, i realized i’d spent so much time being a doctor and a provider that i forgot to be a good husband. i forgot to celebrate the life we were building.”

he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger next to your wedding band.

“this is a promise,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “no more double shifts when i don’t have to. no more missed dinners. from here on out, it’s the three of us.”

you lean your head back against the headrest of the wheelchair, looking from the ring to the ultrasound, and then to the man who quite literally pulled you back from the edge of the grave.

the trauma is still there, the scars on your body and the stiffness in your limbs would be reminders for a long time, but as the sun warms your skin, the angst of the past month finally begins to dissolve.

“jack?”

“yeah?”

“i think i want thai food tonight.”

jack laughs. and it’s a real, booming abbot laugh that echoes through the garden. “you heard the boss,” he whispers to your stomach. “thai it is.”

bonus

the spare bedroom at the end of the hall had spent years as a storage space for jack’s medical journals and your half-finished art projects. it had been a room of “maybe someday,” a door you both tended to keep closed, preferring to keep the bad memories on the other side.

now, six months after the rain-slicked pavement nearly took everything, the door stands wide open and the scent of paint lingers in the air. a soft, muted sage green that jack spent three weekends perfecting because he refused to let anyone else touch the walls.

you seat in the newly assembled rocking chair, your hand resting atop the prominent, solid curve of your stomach. the baby is active today, a rhythmic tapping against your ribs that feels like a secret code. you are thirty-four weeks along, a milestone that, for a long time, felt like a destination on a map you weren’t allowed to reach.

“i think the crib is slightly crooked,” jack mutters, kneeling on the floor.

he was wearing an old pittsburgh steelers t-shirt, his hair disheveled, looking less like the formidable dr. abbot of the er and more like… like you husband, who was utterly determined to defeat a piece of furniture.

“jack, it’s perfect,” you laugh softly. “the level said it’s straight. you’ve checked it four times.”

“five,” he corrects, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. he walks over to the crib, shaking the railing with enough force to test a bridge. “i just… i need it to be steady. everything has to be steady.”

you reach out, taking his hand and pulling him towards you. immediately, he sinks onto the ottoman at your feet, resting his head against your knees. the fierce, protective energy he carries is a byproduct of the trauma; a lingering shadow of the man who collapsed back in that trauma room. but it was softening, replaced by a deep, quiet anticipation.

“oh. i just remembered. we haven’t opened michael’s gift yet,” you say, pointing to the changing table.

sitting atop a stack of colorful onesies is a beautifully wrapped box with a heavy silver bow. next to it is a card embossed with the university of pittsburgh medical center logo.

according to jack, robby dropped it off at the nurse’s station for him to bring home.

“he said if he had to hear me talk about ‘fetal heart rate variability’ during a trauma shift one more time, he was going to quit, so he bought this to shut me up,” he said as he lay the box on the changing table the other night.

you open the card first. in robby’s cramped, hurried physician’s handwriting, it read:

to my dear friends (and my future favorite abbot),

i’ve known you two for a long time and i truly can’t think of anyone better to take care of each other. i also know that kid will be so lucky to get to call you two mom and dad. i can’t wait to meet the little one.

congratulations on the final stretch!

— robby

inside the box is a high-tech, medical-grade infant vitals monitor, the kind that synced to a smartphone. it’s exactly the kind of gift dr. robby would give: a way to keep watch even when the lights were out. underneath the monitor was a tiny, hand-knitted sweater with a small stethoscope embroidered on the pocket.

“he’s a softie,” you whisper, running your hand over the wool.

“don’t tell him i said so, but he’s the reason we’re sitting in this room,” jack said, his voice drops into that low, honest tone he saved only for you. he looks up at you, his eyes reflecting the soft nursery light. “when i saw you on that table… i forgot how to be a doctor. i forgot how to breathe. he held the line until i could find my way back.”

jack stands up and leans over you, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your forehead before moving down to press his ear against your belly. he waits, silent and still, until the baby delivers a sharp kick right against his cheek.

“hey there,” jack whispers to the bump, a grin breaking across his face. “i hear you. we’re ready for you. everything is ready.”

he stands back, surveying the room; the crib, the sage-green walls, the gift from his brother, the man who helped save your lives, and the woman who was his entire world. the angst of the pitt, the screams of the monitors, and the cold terror of the icu feel like a lifetime ago. they are just scars now. like faded, silver lines that proved they survived the storm.

“do you think the baby will like the room?” you ask.

jack wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out at the quiet pittsburgh street below.

“she’ll love it,” jack promises.

You let out a sigh of relief as your daughter fell quiet, save for the little whimpers she made as she calmed down. Her little eyes were locked on Jacks face as he rocked her and the sight of him calmed her down fully. He used the back of his finger to wipe the tears from her soft cheeks. You let yourself collapse into a chair behind the nursing station, your mind and body too tired to ask if that was alright.

"You okay?" Jack asked as he rotated to face you, still bouncing his knees for your baby's benefit. He plucked the soother that was clipped to your daughters onesie and guided it into her mouth. She accepted it from Jack no problem, suckling on it contently, and you tried not to be offended.

"Yeah, just tired. I thought the first visit here fixed her separation anxiety but I guess I was wrong." You answered with a yawn as you propped your elbow up on the desk and rested your chin in your hand. Jack nodded along with your answer, seeing your clear exhaustion. You were raising your daughter alone with limited support from friends and family. There was no one to switch off with in the middle of the night, no one to take over when you were sick, no one to pick up some of the physical and mental load. Your daughter crying and not letting up until Jack held her was probably extremely annoying and inconvenient for you.

"Do you need a cat nap?" Jack asked as your daughter fussed for a second, wanting Jacks focus again. He shifted his arms to hold your daughter with one arm and lifted his free hand so she could grab at his fingers, effectively distracting her as he continued to look at you.

"No, the break to sit for a bit is enough. She'll hopefully fall asleep on the car ride home and I can nap when she's napping."

"You're welcome to sit here as long as you'd like." Jack replied sincerely. He really did want to help you however he could and he knew every little bit helped.

"You sure I'm not in the way?"

"Absolutely not honey." The charge nurse Lena said, injecting herself into the conversation as she returned to the Hub and reached around Jack to give your daughters foot a playful shake. "Get the rest you need. We're more than happy to have this cute little girl brightening up our shift." She gave you a warm smile and you returned it, the knot of anxiety and tension loosening in your chest. Lena went back to her computer and you looked over at Jack holding your daughter.

They were staring at each other, her tiny hand wrapped around one of Jacks thick fingers. Jack smiled down at her and you watched your little girls face break into a big smile, the soother almost falling out of her mouth. Her smile made Jacks grow and the knot in your chest completely unraveled at the sight of her being completely at ease with Jack. You felt yourself melt back into the chair, your whole body relaxing knowing your daughter was in good hands.

The two of you chatted for about thirty minutes to pass the time, about nothing and everything - the weather, sports, your childhoods, your favourite music, and your daughters eating habits. You got interrupted every few minutes so a resident or intern could present a case or run a course of treatment past Jack. You watched him teach and lead with ease as he held your daughter in one arm and held the chart in his other hand. He'd encourage the staff and gently direct them to the right answer with a few careful questions, always helping them rather than just telling them what to do.

Jack was confident and assured and it was wreaking havoc on your ovaries. You did your best to remind yourself Jack was just being nice by helping you with your baby and hitting on him would be inappropriate, but then he'd shift your daughter to lift her up over his head with his hands under her armpits and she'd squeal with little giggles and you were right back to square one.

Jack kept lifting your little girl like that, the soother falling out of her mouth as he got her to laugh over and over before settling her against his chest again. The two of them were face to face and your daughter seized the opportunity to grab Jacks face with her pudgy little hands, her fingers curling over his stubbled cheeks.

"She's going to bite you." You commented with a small smile, catching Jacks attention.

"What?" Jack asked, his head turned towards you right as your daughter leaned forward, basically headbutting Jack as her wide open mouth descended on his jaw. She started to gnaw on his face but was thankfully doing no damage thanks to her lack of teeth. Jack let out a chuckle at your daughters action and tipped his head back to get away from the attack.

"Hey there! I thought we were friends tiny girl." Jack said to your daughter as she attempted to bite him again.

"I'm pretty sure she's trying to give kisses when she does that." You explained from your seat, your arms crossed. "I kiss her cheeks all the time and she's probably learned that it's a way of showing affection but she doesn't know how to pucker her lips."

"Ah," Jack hummed with a nod as he looked back at your little girl. "You tryin' to kiss me tiny girl?" Jack quickly darted his head forward and pressed a fast kiss to your daughters chubby cheek. She let out a high pitched squeal of laughter and bounced in Jacks arms. "That's how you kiss." Jack said with a smile that warmed your heart.

He played with her for a bit longer before you both noticed her eyes drooping a bit, indicting that a nap was in her near future. Jack made quick work of putting her back in the car seat.

"So I was wondering if you wanted to meet up outside my working hours." Jack proposed as he clipped your daughters seatbelt. "I thought that maybe if I saw both of you before she reached the point of uncontrollable crying, it might not happen."

"Like a preemptive visit? Sure, that sounds great!" You tried to not get too excited by the idea of seeing Jack outside of the hospital without people watching you and without him being on duty.

"Great," Jack said with a genuine smile as he passed you your daughters car seat. "I'll text you." You smiled back as you reached to take the car seat handle from him, your eyes drifting down for a moment to see what you were doing when something caught your eye and made your heart stop in your chest.

Jack was wearing a wedding ring.

You quickly took the car seat from him, the hand with the symbol of his fidelity letting go and slipping into the pocket of his cargo pants. You did your best to keep the surprise and disappointment and blinding embarrassment off of your face as you wished him a good rest of his shift and made your escape.

The knot in your chest returned, sharp and tight as you fled the Pitt with your daughter. You felt foolish, stupid, like a lovesick idiot who folded at the first sign of affection and attention from a man. He was kind to you and your daughter and you let your head and heart run wild with the idea of him being interested in you. It's not like you were looking for a boyfriend or a partner, but the attentive nature of Jack was so nice and comforting that you almost couldn't help thinking about him in a romantic light. Plus he was so damn handsome it was hard to not think of him like that.

But he was married and you were an idiot.

And you drove home feeling sick to your stomach.

Jack ended up texting you the following morning and arranged for you to meet up with him in a park on his next day off. You thought of a million excuses to use to cancel the meet up, but every time you'd start typing out a message you'd think of your little girl and her wailing screams and thought better of it. You decided you'd bring up his wife at the park and try to figure out if she knew about you. Jack didn't seem like the type to lie but you also felt a little weird bringing your daughter to a park to meet up with another womans husband.

On the day of the meet up, Jack beat you to your agreed upon location near the pond. He'd set up a large picnic blanket under the shade of a tree and had a cooler bag for food next to him. The preparedness and thoughtfulness of it had your heart singing until your brain reminded you to not read into it. He was just being nice. And he was married. He's nice and he's married.

Jack got to his feet when he saw you, meeting you halfway and taking the heavy travel bag you had slung over your shoulder from you. You'd been struggling all the way from the car, hauling the large bag filled with anything you and your daughter could possibly need for the afternoon while also carrying your daughter on your chest. You'd used a wrap to tie your baby to your chest so you could be hands free, but you always found yourself putting a hand under her butt, just in case.

Jack gave you a bright smile, sending butterflies through your stomach as he led you over to the blanket. The two of you exchanged hellos as you both got settled on the ground. It was a lovely Spring day, blue skies and warm sunshine accompanied by a light breeze. You'd opted for a short sleeved onesie with a pair of loose pants for your daughter and a floppy sunhat to protect her head.

You managed to wrangle her out of the wrap and set her down on the blanket facing Jack. She squealed in excitement when she saw him, bouncing on her bum and throwing her fat arms in the air in delight. Her happy reaction to seeing Jack always made you smile and today was no exception. Your daughter leaned forward as she reached for Jack, almost faceplanting to the ground but Jack was quicker, catching her under the armpits and lifting her into the air in one swift motion.

"Hi tiny girl! I missed you too." Jack held her against his chest, face to face. He reached up and fixed her sunhat that had gotten askew in her excitement and your baby immediately grabbed for Jacks hand.

"How are you today? Excited to be in the park?" Jack said to your baby, talking to her normally like she could respond. She answered back by babbling, making little noises that made no sense. Jack nodded along like he could understand her perfectly and you found yourself smiling again at the care and kindness he showed your little girl.

"The weather is nice today, you're right. The hat was a good idea from your Mama, same with the sunscreen." He remarked as he rubbed her cheek, spotting some sunscreen you'd missed when you were lathering your daughter up before you'd gotten in the car.

"I missed you too, by the way." Jack commented, his attention sliding back over to you. You felt your smile falter a bit at the mixed signals you were getting from him. Making a point to say he missed you felt like flirting. Was he flirting? Surely not, he was married. This was so weird.

You felt your confusion and need for answers rising in your chest like a tidal wave threatening to come pouring out of you. You didn't respond to Jack, instead looked at your daughter as he set her down onto the blanket in front of his crossed legs. Jack was stilled staring at you, watching your face for any kind of reaction to his words.

"You okay?" He asked as he blindly offered your daughter his hands so she could grab onto and inspect his fingers.

"Yeah," You said unconvincingly. "You're really great with her." You gestured at your daughter, your uncertainty twisting inside you.

"She's easy to get along with." Jack said back, his curious stare still on you, like he could tell there was something on your mind.

"Do you and your wife have kids?" You asked, trying your very hardest to be nonchalant even thought the question came bursting out of you. Jack raised an eyebrow at your lack of subtlety and gave you a small sympathetic smile, like he was finally understanding something.

"No, my wife and I never had kids. Not for a lack of trying, it just wasn't in the cards for us. Then she died." Jack said it calmly and matter-o-factly as he played with your daughter, the words coming out easily like he was discussing the weather. Your mouth dropped open before you could stop it and you covered it with your hand as your face grew hot with embarrassment.

"Oh Jack, I'm sorry I brought it up-"

"It's alright," Jack interrupted. "I still wear the ring, what else were you supposed to think?"

"I could have been more tactful with how I asked." You said, trying to make the situation better. Your stomach was turning over, making you feel positively sick for sticking your foot in your mouth. Jack just shrugged.

"That was pretty polite. Like I said, I still where the ring, of course you thought I was married. Let me guess, you were confused why a married man was-"

"Giving me so much attention?" You interjected, giving him an out. Jack didn't take it.

"Attention? Don't you mean flirting?" Jack replied as he looked back over at you, your eyes locking. You were stunned, unable to think of an answer. "Don't worry, I'm not married and I was. Flirting I mean."

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, all your previous interactions with Jack replaying in your mind as you realized this wonderful man saw you at some of your lowest points - exhausted and at your wits end - and still wanted you. The thought made your heart beat faster in your chest. You'd seen online how single mothers talked about the dating scene and how no man wanted to date single moms with kids. It was depressing and abysmal and you'd decided to focus your energy on your daughter while leaving thoughts of romance in the dust.

Maybe all those single moms should try and date older guys.

Suddenly your daughter screeched in annoyance before pulling Jacks hand to her mouth so she could chew on his fingers. Her tiny brows furrowed as she chomped on Jacks knuckle and you knew what she wanted. You grabbed the bag you brought and pulled out a small blanket.

"She's hungry." You explained as you reached for her. Jack picked her up but didn't hand her over right away. He grabbed a pillow you hadn't noticed before and propped it up against the tree you were sitting under and motioned for you to sit back against it. Once you were settled, Jack passed your daughter to you and plucked the sun hat off her head so it wouldn't get in the way, like he could read your mind.

"Speaking of hungry, you want some lunch?" Jack asked as he turned around to give you some privacy as you got your baby situated under the blanket out of view and attached to your breast to eat. Jack busied himself with setting up the picnic for you both, sandwiches and fruit and vegetables and crackers and cheese all spread out for you. He'd even brought a tiny, foldable table so the food would be up and off the ground away from bugs and tiny grabbing hands.

"Is there anything you aren't prepared for?" You asked with a lighthearted laugh as Jack also set out napkins and forks. He gave you a smile over his shoulder.

"Not much, although I get surprised from time to time." The implication of his words sat heavy between you as he stared back at you with an adoring glint in his eye. He turned back to the food without another word and began preparing a plate for you. The two of you sat in comfortable silence as your daughter had her lunch, the sunlight cutting through the tree branches.

The park was quiet today, in the middle of the week. Everyone was likely at work or on the other side of the park where the petting zoo was. You and Jack had this corner of the park all to yourselves, tucked away from any chatter or noise from the street. The breeze blew gently, making Jacks curls move slightly as the sunshine illuminated his face. His freckles and wrinkles stood out under the sunlight and you couldn't help but admire how handsome they made him look.

Jack turned to you with a plate of food and caught you staring. He didn't comment on it but smiled instead as he held out a grape to you, silently offering to feed you while you fed your daughter. Honestly you could have held her one handed and ate with your other but not having to move sounded pretty nice. You craned your neck forward to meet Jack halfway and he put the grape in your mouth for you. This continued for a minute or so, Jack hand feeding you while your daughter finished.

Once she was all done, Jack offered to burp her while you put your clothes back into place. You handed her over, grateful for the offer, and Jack snagged the cloth from your bag to cover his shoulder while he burped her. The continued offers to help were appreciated and he also helped you change her diaper after you'd straightened your clothes. It meant a lot that Jack offered to do these tasks without a second thought to give you back a moment or two. It made sense that body fluids didn't bother him, he was a doctor, but actually helping instead of standing by while you wrangled your daughter brought you comfort.

After your daughter was fed and clean, you and Jack ate the food, and took turns holding your baby. She was, as predicted, very interested in the food she could not have so you both had the fun job of keeping it out of her reach. After a little while she got frustrated and started to squawk loudly to let everyone know she was unhappy with them.

"Are we being too mean to you tiny girl?" Jack asked as he set his plate down and took custody of her again. "How dare we keep you from choking on some grapes! We're monsters!" Jack teased as he held your baby above his head and turned her from side to side playfully.

"It's so tough being small isn't it?" Jack said as he set her down in his lap, facing you. He held her in place with one large hand over her stomach and reached into your bag with his other hand to fish out a storybook made of crinkly paper that would satisfy your daughters senses. She took to the book immediately, crushing the pages in her fist to create the crinkle sound. The book had the intended effect and thoroughly distracted her.

Jack kept his hold on her as the two of you talked for the next hour, swapping stories about your lives and sharing tidbits that made the other person laugh while Jack handed your baby a new toy any time she lost interest in the old one. You threw your head back laughing at Jacks recount of the first time he met a saucy troublemaking patient named Myrna and Jack ducked his head as he laughed at your story about accidentally buying dog shampoo for your daughter when you were sleep deprived.

"There was a baby on the bottle!" You said in your defense, which made both of you laugh harder. "Sure, there was a dog on the bottle too but I was too tired to notice."

"Did you use it on her?"

"No!" You exclaimed with a big smile as you threw your napkin at him. "I noticed before I used it. But it was a close call, she was in the bath and everything." Jack wiped his eyes as his laughing subsided and you took a deep breath as your laughter faded too. There was a happy lull of silence between you, both of you smiling at the other and basking in the carefree moment. Jack looked down suddenly as your daughter leaned over and rested her head on his arm.

"Oh, I think someone's sleepy." You were snapped back into Mom mode and sat up on your knees to see your daughter over the small table between you and Jack. Your little girl had doubled over and was laying on Jacks arm with her eyes closed.

"Oh." You said, a little disappointed. You'd been having so much fun. "I guess I better get her home."

"You got somewhere to be?" Jack asked. You shook your head. "Good, I could use a nap." Jack picked your daughter up, her eyes opening for a moment before drooping closed again as Jack rested her on his chest and he moved back to sit against the tree. He tucked one of the pillows he brought under his back and stretched out to sleep, his ankles crossed.

"Did you bring a book or something with you? I have a crossword and Sudoku book in my bag if you want, or you can nap with us." You sat there a little stunned for a moment, pausing to understand that Jack was doing what he could to extend your visit.

"I have a book in my bag." You replied, moving to grab it. Jack snagged the other pillow and brought it next to him without having to get up. He leaned it against the tree trunk for you, right next to him and your daughter. By the time you got situated, both Jack and your baby girl had drifted off, Jack having placed a baseball cap you hadn't seen before over his eyes to block out the sun.

Your daughter was on her stomach but upright, her chubby cheek squished against Jacks chest and her little hand curled into a fist around his shirt. He had a good hold on her, keeping her in place as they both slept. You noticed absently that he'd moved her sunhat so it wouldn't be crushed under her head and was resting on the side of her face, shielding her from the sun whenever it came through the clouds. You couldn't help smiling to yourself as you cracked open the book that had lived in your baby bag for months that you'd never had the time to read.

What a perfect afternoon.

You and Jack ended up hanging out a lot. Park play dates turned into shopping trips together on the weekends (with Jack carrying everything for you) which turned into dinners at your place where Jack cooked for you (so you wouldn't have to drive home at night from his place or disrupt your daughters schedule) which turned into you and your baby meeting up with Jack at a restaurant near the hospital after his night shifts to have breakfast.

You were spending a lot of time with Jack, most of your time really, speaking to him every day over the phone or through text, and you were starting to wonder about his intentions with you. He'd made that flirting comment in the park and people around you already assumed you were in a relationship. Like that group of jogging elderly women on the street who cooed that you were such a beautiful family, and the waitress at the restaurant who snuck in a comment when Jack was in the bathroom about how it was nice to see a husband who was so attentive to his family.

But Jack hadn't made a move. He was available to you 24/7 and made you feel so seen and special but he hadn't asked you on a date or kissed you. Hell, he kept his hands to himself most of the time. You didn't know if it was because he was being a gentleman or because he wasn't actually interested. You were pretty sure he was interested and yet he hadn't done anything. In truth you wanted him to ask you out but you were too afraid to do it yourself. If you were wrong and he wanted to just be friends, you were worried he'd pull back and you'd lose him completely. So despite the question about how he felt about you burning in your throat every time you saw him, you stayed silent.

You finally got an answer the day you had to be admitted to the Pitt.

Your daughter had been so clingy that day, you had no clue why. Maybe she was getting sick or had a nightmare and wanted to hold onto you for comfort or maybe she was in the very beginning stages of teething and was started to feel the very faint feelings of pain. The reason didn't really matter, not when she screamed and cried every time you put her down. She was fine in your arms but the moment you put her in her playpen or in her highchair, it was tears and screaming until you picked her up again.

The crying and shrill screams were starting to break your patience and your sanity by 10pm. You hadn't been able to shower because of her need to be attached to you and every time you had to set her down to go to the bathroom or grab something to eat, she broke into a fit of screams. She also seemed opposed to going to sleep and every time you put her in the crib after rocking her to sleep she would wake up and cry.

After many failed attempts to get her down for the night and after putting off eating an actual meal for the whole day, you decided to stick her in her highchair as you made yourself a sandwich. She wailed at the top of her lungs the whole time, fat tears streaming down her face as you tried to assemble the ingredients you needed.

"Peanut, please," You begged her, your eyes on her face as you unwrapped your loaf of bread. Your nerves felt frayed and your voice broke a bit as you spoke to her. "Everything is fine, I'm right here. Please." You grabbed a bread knife and started to slice into the bread loaf that Jack had bought last weekend at the framers market for you. Your daughters screams were like a knife in their own way, burrowing into your head and your heart, driving you towards insanity.

"Baby please be quiet," You pleaded, glancing very quickly away from what you were doing to look at your crying infant. "Mommy's begging yo-FUCK!" Sharp, intense pain burst through your thumb as you accidentally sliced into it with the bread knife. The knife clattered to the cutting board as you dropped it to wrap your uninjured hand around the deep cut. Your daughter, sensing your distress, managed to scream louder at a volume you didn't think was possible while you spun around the kitchen to find something to put pressure on the wound.

You'd taken a first aid course when you were pregnant, since you were doing solo parenting, and you could also hear Jack in your head telling you to put firm, direct pressure on it. You grabbed a hand towel and wrapped it around your thumb the best you could to help with the bleeding. Your thumb throbbed with aching pain as you squeezed the towel around your finger.

As you tired to think of next steps you noticed that your uninjured hand was covered in blood from your initial attempt at stopping the bleeding and you looked around the kitchen to see drops of blood on the floor, counter, and cutting board. There was even blood splattered down the front of your shirt and pants.

Fuck.

You got down on the floor by the sink and stuck your injured hand between your knees so they could provide pressure and free up your other hand to reach into the cabinet under the sink for the First Aid Kit. Your baby kept wailing as you sat on the floor and struggled to get the kit open and the supplies out. You wanted to comfort her but you also knew she was safe where she was so you'd have to leave her to cry while you patched yourself up.

You grabbed the gauze and tape you needed with a shaky hand and had to improvise with your teeth to unravel the gauze and pull a strip of tape. With a deep, fortifying breath, you lifted the towel to look at the wound. You only allowed yourself a quick look because it was still bleeding but you saw enough to know you were more than a little screwed.

You hadn't cut your thumb exactly, more the part of your hand that connected your thumb and your index finger. The cut looked deep, deep enough to need stitches which you were unqualified to do, even if you had two working hands. With a crying baby and a hand that needed medical attention, you didn't have time to hesitate.

With another steadying breath, you lifted the towel, applied the gauze and wrapped it as best you could quickly, secured it with some tape, and wrapped the towel around it again for good measure. You got up off the floor to go straight to your daughter and bent down to be in her eye line before you kissed her tear stained cheeks in hopes of comforting her. You shushed her gently to provide some calming sounds as her cries died down, but didn't stop, and you mentally went over the checklist of things you needed to grab to leave to house. You left your baby again to grab your purse and anything else you needed, her cries increasing in volume again once you were out of sight.

With everything you need stuffed into your large purse, tucked in the crook of your elbow, you returned to your daughter and lifted her one handed and a little uncoordinated out of the highchair. She went quiet thankfully and you carried her out of the apartment to head to the Pitt.

And to Jack.

"Hey Dr. Abbot," Victoria Javadi's soft voice came from behind Jack. He was reviewing a chart for Dr. Santos, looking at the CT results.

"One second." He said, addressing Javadi without turning around. "I agree with your assessment of the mass. We'll need a biopsy to know course of treatment." Jack commented as he passed the tablet back to Santos. "Try not to freak him out about the mass, there's no reason to worry until we know more information."

"Got it Boss." Santos said with a two finger salute as she left to give her patient the findings. Jack turned around and came face to face with a very uneasy looking Javadi.

"What is it?" He asked, very familiar with Javadi's deer-in-the-headlights expressions whenever something distressing happened at work.

"Um, your friend is here, the one with the baby who comes by sometimes." Javadi explained, gesturing with her hands. "She's out in chairs and it looks like she cut herself-" Javadi didn't even get the rest of the information out before Jack was moving past her and running towards the waiting room.

He spotted you instantly, sitting in the middle of a row with your daughter in one arm and a very bloody towel bunched around your other hand. Jack moved effortlessly through the crowded waiting room, his whole focus on you as he weaved through the patients standing around waiting for their turn. You looked up as he approached, the relief in seeing him there clear on your face, while the blood on your clothes made his stomach twist with worry.

"What the hell happened?" He asked, his heart beating quickly in his chest.

"I cut my hand with a bread knife. It's pretty deep, I think I need stitches." Jack noted the way your voice wavered a bit as you spoke and he sprung into action, shifting from worry to taking charge.

"C'mon," He said as he reached for your daughter.

"She'll scream." You said with a defeated sigh, not letting him take her. "She's been screaming all day." You sounded so tired and worn out, and frankly you looked like it too. Like all your energy had been leeched out of you over the course of the day.

"All day? Why didn't you call me? I was at home."

"Because I can take care of my own daughter Jack." You snapped, your tone even and hard. He stared at you for a long second and you closed your eyes, sighing at yourself as your frustration fizzled out. "She's fine as long as I hold her." You explained, your voice much softer.

Jack recognized how frayed your patience was so he switched gears and picked up your purse and daughters car seat with one arm and guided you to stand with the other. You got up carefully with your baby and unusable hand and let Jack lead you back to the ED. He got you set up in a room, setting your stuff on a chair, and wheeled over a stool to sit down on before putting on a pair of gloves.

"I'm going to take a look, okay?" Jack asked, his hands hovering over the towel, waiting for your agreement.

"Yeah." You said in a small, resigned voice. Jack nodded once and unwrapped your handiwork carefully, taking a look at the damage.

"You were right, you'll need stitches." Jack commented as he wrapped some new gauze around the wound temporarily. "How's the pain?"

"Like a 5. It's throbbing." You replied without looking at him. You avoided his eyes and stared at your daughter who had drifted off at some point. That was one small miracle, but you were sure she'd cry if you let go of her.

Jack flagged down one of the nurses through the glass door and asked for a suture kit before turning his attention to your baby. Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them before attempting to pick up your daughter. You jerked back away from his reaching hands.

"I told you, she'll cry if I let go of her." Your tone was a little sharper than it had been a moment ago, your eyes going directly to his. Jack could tell that you were definitely upset, probably at your wits end if your baby had been crying all day and you never got a moment to yourself, not even to go to the bathroom. Jack wanted to be respectful of your position as her mother but he also wanted to give you some reprieve.

"I know. Can I try to put her in the car seat? If she cries I'll give her back." You stared at Jack like you were facing off against him, your brow furrowed slightly and lips downturned. However you knew it was a one sided argument and relented, lifting your arm to give Jack silent permission to try and move your daughter.

While she stirred for a moment, your baby remained asleep as Jack slowly placed her in the car seat on the floor. You knew it was likely her lack of a nap today and her constant, energy draining crying that made her so sleepy, but seeing Jack move her with ease made jealous frustration rise in your chest, hot and furious. It was irrational and yet it pressed against your ribs anyways.

Jack retreated from your daughter quietly, being careful about the noise as he sat back down on the stool. The nurse returned and moved slowly when Jack pressed his index finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet. She arranged everything and left Jack to stitch you up. You stewed silently as Jack injected medication into your hand, some to stop the bleeding and some for pain, and you watched him as he prepped the suture while waiting for the medication to take effect.

Jack could sense your bad mood - if it hadn't been clear on your face, it was coming off of you in waves, so he chose to say nothing and instead focused on fixing your injury. You both sat in charged silence as Jack closed your wound with expert efficiency, your anger swirling in your chest as your thoughts raged.

Jack can move your daughter without waking her.

Jack can get her to stop crying.

Jack can fix your dumb, stupid mistake with ease.

Isn't Jack just perfect? And aren't you such a fuck up, can't do anything right. Horrible mother, horrible person.

Jack finished his work, tying off the line and cutting off the excess before covering it with a bandage. He moved the tray of medical supplies out of the way and pulled off his gloves with a snap before turning to you, his hands on his knees.

"What happened?"

"I already told you, I cut myself slicing bread." The words came out harsher than Jack deserved but you found the repetitive question annoying. Jack leveled you with a look, one that said he knew you better than that and that there must be more to what happened. Which pissed you off even more.

"That's all." You said firmly. "She's been crying all day, every time I put her down, and she wouldn't go to sleep tonight so I decided to bite the bullet and let her cry it out in her highchair while I made myself something to eat because I'd spent the whole day only eating small things like fruit and crackers because trying to use the stove or cut food while holding her felt too dangerous." You were talking fast, the overwhelming frustration you felt leeching into your words as you thought about how awful today had been, how unfair it had been, how much you blamed yourself.

"But she just screamed and screamed and I was begging her to stop because it was all she'd done all day, every time I put her down, and I looked away from the cutting board for a second, just one second-”

The echoes of your daughters screams filled your head, as did your thoughts about how much cutting yourself had been a stupid mistake and that taking care of your daughter now with an injured hand was going to make your life harder because you were doing this alone and you had no one to help you. Jacks sympathetic eyes staring at you all became too much, just a reminder that he was there for you but only sometimes, and that you were by yourself in raising your daughter and you clearly weren't doing it right. You were messing everything up for her and there was no one to blame but yourself because you were alone.

Tears filled your eyes before you had a chance to choke them back, every negative emotion from the last twenty four hours bubbling over and out of you.

"It was just a second Jack," Your voice wobbled, wet from the emotion that pushed up your throat. "It was just a second." Your face crumpled as your tears slipped over your cheeks and Jack reached out instantly, pulling you forward into his arms. You collapsed into him, your arms going around him and under his arms as his wrapped around your shoulders and back. Your hands fisted in his shirt, holding him as close as you could as you sobbed into his neck. Jack rubbed your back and murmured soothing promises into your ear as you broke down in his arms - I've got you. It'll be okay. I'm right here. Let it out baby.

You weren't sure how long the two of you sat like that, you clinging to Jack as you let all the emotions of the day come flooding out of you. No one came to bother you, everyone seemingly understanding that Jack was busy and not to be disturbed. You let yourself calm down completely in Jacks embrace, the tears stopping eventually but neither of you moving to part.

You stayed in his warm embrace for a long time, your breathing slowing and returning to normal eventually. Jack made no move to let you go, instead he kept firm pressure as you calmed down. You eventually made the first move, pulling back so you could see his face. Jack didn't let you get far though and pressed your foreheads together to keep contact. You let out a deep sigh, your eyes still closed as you leaned on Jack, his hands holding your waist.

You needed this. You needed the touch of another person, the feeling of connection through human touch. Someone to hold you, to ground you when you were spinning out of control. You needed a safety net, someone to lean on who would catch you if you fell.

You needed Jack.

Your previous questions about how he felt about you popped up in your mind again and you decided that you had to know. If Jack wanted to be with you than you both needed to be all in. If Jack was going to be your partner than he needed to be there to catch you and you needed to let yourself fall sometimes.

If he wasn't interested in you than you needed to make a clean break because you were so entangled with him you weren't sure you'd survive him turning you down. And you needed to know now.

"Jack?" You started as you pulled your head away from his, just far enough that you could look into his eyes. He hummed an acknowledgement, encouraging you to continue.

"I need to know what we're doing. Are we just friends? Or do you want to be more? Because I want to be more but I'm getting mixed signals from you." Jacks eyebrows pinched together at your words and he lifted his hand to cup your face. You couldn't help the way your head leaned into his palm, seeking comfort.

"I'm so sorry I've left you confused about how I feel. I'll be clear, I want to be more than friends." You sat up straighter, his confession helping to lift your bad mood. Jacks thumb rubbed lovingly over your cheek as he continued.

"I've wanted to be more than friends since the first night we met. But you've got a lot on your plate and I didn't want to pressure you or make your life difficult so I held back. You and Peanut are a family and I didn't want to intrude." Your hands flew up to hold his face, a smile breaking out over your lips.

"You're not pressuring me or intruding on our lives Jack. You make our lives better. And I want you too. I want this, I want us." Jack released a sigh at your words, like he'd been holding his breath, his face relaxing into a look of relief and adoration.

"I want us too." He said back as he leaned forward, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. Jack showed you how much he wanted to be with you, how he definitely wanted to be more than friends as his fingers slid to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. There were no mixed signals here, his intentions were clear. You sighed into his mouth, melting into his touch as you leaned closer, almost falling off the edge of the gurney in your need to kiss him back as fiercely.

Jack broke the kiss when his free hand flashed out to your hip to stop you from falling forward. You laughed breathlessly at the situation as you pushed yourself back onto the bed, both of you smiling.

"We have a lot to talk about but it's the middle of the night-"

"And you're still working." You finished for him with an understanding smile. Jack nodded and glanced over his shoulder to see your baby still asleep in the car seat.

"There's an office on this floor, it's for the Head of Emergency Medicine but Robby never uses it. It's got a couch that decently comfortable. If you want, you and Peanut can sleep here and I can drive you home in the morning. I can make us breakfast and we can talk more about us."

With how tired you were, you didn't need to think his offer over. Getting behind the wheel of your car right now would not be a good idea. You followed Jack out of the room, him carrying your purse and your daughter through the hallways until you ended up at a small office tucked away from the noise of the ED. Jack let you in and helped you get settled on the couch for the night with pillows and a blanket over your legs before lifting your daughter from the car seat and laying her on her back on your chest.

Like earlier in the night, she stirred for just a moment when Jack lifted her and put her down, but she thankfully remained asleep as you put your hands over her. Jack checked that you didn't need anything else for the night before saying goodbye.

"I'll see you in the morning." Jack bent over and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. "Sweet dreams." He whispered before shutting off the lights and leaving the room. You closed your eyes contently, much happier than you'd been an hour ago, and fell asleep with a smile on your lips.

dividers by @ cursed-carmine

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If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”

If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”

If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.

Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.

From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.

No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.

“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.

He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.

There was no sound.

Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.

After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.

There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.

He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.

You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.

“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”

He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.

“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.

When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”

You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.

He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?

Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.

After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.

Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”

Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.

“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.

Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”

He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”

“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”

Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.

“You mean the books?”

You nodded.

He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”

“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.

Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”

Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.

“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.

“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”

Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.

Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.

“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”

“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”

He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”

“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?

He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.

“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”

You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.

“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”

That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”

You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.

Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.

He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”

You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.

When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.

“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.

But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.

A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.

He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.

“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.

But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.

“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”

Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?

“No,” you protested weakly.

Bucky tilted his head. “No?”

You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”

Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”

When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.

You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.

“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”

Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.

But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.

Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.

“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”

You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.

“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”

“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”

He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.

Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.

He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.

“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”

With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”

He wasn’t leaving.

He was going to fix you.

You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.

Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.

“Lay down, doll.”

The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.

You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.

“Easy, doll. Easy.”

A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.

He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.

Which… in a way, you had.

Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.

“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”

You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.

“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.

Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.

“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”

You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”

Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.

“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”

You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.

“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.

“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”

You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.

Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.

His mind was always on you.

His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.

“Woah, easy there, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.

“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”

Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”

Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”

Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.

“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”

Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”

Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”

Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.

“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”

A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.

It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.

Christ, you were probably starving.

He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.

You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.

He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.

Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.

His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.

“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”

The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.

“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.

“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.

Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.

So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?

“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”

Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”

Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.

“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”

Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”

“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”

Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.

“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”

“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”

Steve let out a long breath.

He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.

He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.

“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”

It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.

The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?

The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.

Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.

But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.

You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.

“Bucky! You’re back, I—”

You stopped.

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.

Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.

“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”

The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.

Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.

“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”

“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”

You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”

He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.

You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.

“Not poisoned. Trust me.”

He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.

After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.

Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.

Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.

As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.

You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.

It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.

“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”

He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.

“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.

“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”

You stayed silent.

“Have you ever been outside this room?”

Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.

“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”

With each word, he moved closer.

Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.

He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.

“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”

He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.

“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.

“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”

Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.

Ah. There it was.

That was how he could get through to you.

Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.

“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”

You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.

That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.

“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”

You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.

To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.

The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.

Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.

“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”

He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.

“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.

That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.

“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.

He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.

His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.

You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.

“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”

As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.

You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.

Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.

“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”

You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”

“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.

“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”

The air left Steve's lungs.

His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.

Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.

“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Did he rape you?”

Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.

But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.

“What does that mean?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.

“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”

The door shut quickly as he left.

But the lock didn’t click.

The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.

Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.

You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.

It looked like an obstacle.

You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.

The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.

You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.

Then, a shadow fell over you.

“Going somewhere?”

You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”

The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.

His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.

“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”

He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.

He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”

“I just wanted to see—”

“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”

“No, Bucky, I—”

“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”

You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.

“No one saw me—”

“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.

When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.

“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”

He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.

“You did this to yourself, darling.”

You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”

“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”

You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.

“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”

Bucky didn’t move.

The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.

“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”

“I didn’t—”

“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”

“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”

Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.

“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”

Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.

Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.

The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.

“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”

He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.

“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”

He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”

The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.

“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”

Another whack.

“Ow!”

“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”

Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.

He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.

With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”

He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.

“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”

Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”

Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.

Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.

But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.

“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”

He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.

“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”

Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.

You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.

“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”

Bucky hummed in approval.

He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.

He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.

Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.

You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.

“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”

His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.

“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”

You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.

“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”

“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”

“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”

One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.

Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.

The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.

The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.

“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”

He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.

You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.

You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.

“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”

Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.

His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.

“Oh—my!”

The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.

He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.

“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”

His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.

“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”

He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.

“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”

You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.

The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.

Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”

Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.

He loved you.

Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.

“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”

Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”

He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.

“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”

He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.

“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.

Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.

It was hot. It was too much.

He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Like a clock.

Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.

“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”

The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.

Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.

You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.

Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.

His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.

“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”

Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.

“Morning,” he rasped.

A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”

He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”

And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.

But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.

The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.

Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.

“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”

“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.

He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”

The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.

“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”

Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.

Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.

“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.

“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”

Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.

All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.

“Bucky—”

Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.

He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.

“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”

The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.

“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.

“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”

Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.

As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.

He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”

Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.

Was this all your fault?

Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?

“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”

All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.

“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”

Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.

Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.

You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.

With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.

Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.

“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”

And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.

The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.

Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.

“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.

His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.

Bucky hated it.

The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.

“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”

Bucky stayed quiet.

“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”

Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.

“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”

Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.

“What was she to you?”

Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.

“Did you love her?”

Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.

“More than anything,” Bucky replied.

He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.

Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.

It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.

He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?

He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.

He’d find you.

It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”

The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.

“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”

For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.

Insane?

What kind of question was that?

“No.”

anyway how writing this fic found me

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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special: thank you bri for being my number one fan. she really do be thatonefangirl @iamthatonefangirl

His heavy work boots thudded onto the polished concrete floor as he stepped further into the shop, his fingers twitching to start digging through it all.

“Just holler if you need help,” a disinterested voice said from behind the register.

Eddie pulled his eyes away from crate labelled limited eds. just briefly but redirected them back onto the Danish pressing of Melissa his fingers had stalled on when he didn’t actually see anyone behind the register.

Not that he really minded anyway – his brain already short-circuiting over the surprisingly doable price tag stuck in the upper right corner.

Honestly, he was somewhat relieved whoever was behind the register didn’t seem to be one of those pushy salesmen who hovered around customers like it was their fist time stepping into a record store. He preferred being left alone with the crates in front of him – especially considering he was acting like a fucking teenager every time his eyes landed on something he could add to his already ridiculous collection.

Something unfamiliar drifted through the speakers overhead, low and moody enough to catch his attention. Good enough, too, that he made a mental note to ask whoever was behind the register what artist it was.

By the time the soft streaks of sunshine had faded into a dusky blue evening, he’d already piled an embarrassing amount of records on top of one of the crates, and was now trying to convince himself not to go digging through the rack of vintage tees too.

He walked to the rack without really thinking it through. He was already spending more than he should’ve anyway — might as well indulge a little more.

The thin, high-pitched scrape of metal against metal made him scrunch his nose as his ringed, calloused fingers pushed through the hangers, eyes scanning every faded design he flipped past.

The annoying scrape of metal faded abruptly when his fingers stalled on a pristine shirt that was, unfortunately, just a little outside his budget.

"The price is ridiculous, I know," the voice behind the counter mumbled, followed by the faint sound of movement. "But it's an original from '81."

Eddie looked over his shoulder just enough to show he was listening before his attention drifted back to the shirt in his hands.

“Took my dad forever to get that one,” you added absentmindedly.

That finally dragged Eddie’s attention away from the shirt in his hands, his brows already furrowing before he’d even fully turned around.

His dark brown eyes finally landed on you behind the register, your chin propped against your palm while you drummed a pen absentmindedly to the song playing overhead.

You couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

Which, considering the shirt in his hands was older than you were, probably explained the comment about your dad.

“Maiden fan?” he asked, eyes flickering between you and the shirt he still held.

You deadpanned, tilting your head slightly.

“2 AM.”

Eddie furrowed his eyebrows again. “What?”

“You were about to make me name an Iron Maiden song that isn’t Fear of the Dark or The Trooper,” you said flatly, like this was far from the first time you’d had this exact conversation. “So, 2 AM. From their 1995 album The X Factor.”

Eddie stilled, blinking at you a couple times like he genuinely hadn’t expected that answer to come out of your mouth.

“I, uh… wasn’t gonna ask that,” he mumbled, his brows still faintly furrowed. “But, 2 AM, seriously? That’s a depressive pull.”

You scoffed lightly, the corner of your mouth already twitching upward.

“Yeah, well. I like the depressive stuff.”

You still had your chin propped in your hand as your eyes drifted slowly over him, taking in the curls that had escaped his messy bun, and the way his ringed fingers twitched against the preserved cotton.

But the nervous blinking was what really got you, which felt somewhat ridiculous, considering he was, what? In his late thirties, early forties?

Cute.

Eddie recovered – just slightly – from being caught off guard by the blatant way you’d checked him out, enough to squint at you jokingly.

“Alright, smartass. What’s your favourite Dio album?”

You squinted back, pushing your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“Dio the band, or the man himself?” you murmured, slowly pushing yourself off the counter to stand a little straighter. “‘Cause I got different answers depending on what you wanna know.”

“Hit me.” He raised his brows, giving a small nod.

Dragging your gaze down for a split second, you pretended to think about it.

“How about I tell you over a drink?”

Eddie scoffed softly in disbelief, shaking his head as he dragged his eyes away from you for a second before looking back.

“Are you even old enough to get a drink?”

“I asked you out,” you shot back, “not if you could buy me a bottle while I wait around the corner.”

He didn’t say anything right away; instead, he let his eyes linger for a moment longer, noticing the soft way the warm amber lights overhead spread across your face.

He also pretended the tips of his ears didn’t heat up at the fact that someone this young was so blatantly flirting with someone nearly twice her age.

“You flirt like a menace, y’know that?”

The corner of your mouth twitched before you smiled bashfully, some of your earlier confidence slipping for just a second before you pulled it back together.

“Just with people who have good taste in music.”

By the time the bartender slid your drinks onto the table, Eddie still wasn’t sure how a twenty-something-year-old had managed to talk him into this.

You crossed your legs beneath the table as you gently pushed his neat whiskey closer to him before curling your hand around your beer.

His eyes lingered briefly on your chipped black nail polish before traveling up to the heavy silver rings wrapped around your fingers, ultimately settling on your face.

The dim lighting made you look softer than you had back at the record shop, casting a different kind of glow across your eyes.

“You always ask strange men out after arguing about Iron Maiden?” he asked as he mirrored you, curling his hand around his own glass.

“Not really,” you smiled softly, noticeably shyer than you’d been up until now. “Don’t know how you made the cut.”

Eddie looked away for a moment, biting lightly at his lip as he nodded absentmindedly, a strange self-conscious feeling slowly settling in the pit of his stomach.

It had been… a while since someone had asked him out. Not to mention someone nearly half his age – which was definitely a first.

“Holy Diver’s the obvious answer,” you started slowly after taking a sip of your beer. “But Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow kinda ruined my life.”

A small, disbelieving smile found its way onto Eddie’s lips.

“If Rainbow counts,” you added quickly.

“Rainbow absolutely counts,” he chuckled, raising a brow as his gaze dropped briefly to your hand, catching the faint nicotine stain between two fingers. “Lemme guess – Catch the Rainbow.”

“Look at you,” you laughed softly before wetting your lips. “You already know me so well.”

Your eyes sparkled a little too brightly beneath the dim bar lights, soft shadows settling across your face.

And suddenly, Eddie didn’t feel quite so self-conscious anymore. Not with the way you were looking at him.

“You wanna smoke?”

“Can you lose one?” you asked hesitantly before scrunching your nose. “Just ran out, and I couldn’t exactly leave the store to buy more.”

“For you? Always.”

The intimate words slipped from his mouth before he could think them through; strangely enough, though, they didn’t feel weird on his tongue.

Eddie stood first, reaching for your class before you could while you slid out of the booth beside him.

The low hum of conversations and clinking glasses faded into the background as the two of you made your way through the crowded bar, shoulders brushing once when someone stumbled past with an overly loud laugh and an apology neither one of you really paid attention to.

The soft evening breeze hit Eddie’s face the second he pushed the door open with his foot, carrying the faint smell of city streets and beer spilled somewhere along the sidewalk outside.

Most of the patio tables sat empty at this hour despite the lingering warmth of the evening, leaving the two of you to settle at one tucked near the railing beneath the weak amber glow of an overhead streetlamp.

He slid your sweating glass of beer back towards you before reaching for the slightly crumpled pack of Camels in the front pocket of his jeans. He lifted a cigarette to his lips before he pulled out another one and held it out for you.

The lighter followed almost immediately – silver and worn, in the kind of way that made it obvious he’d had it for years.

Eddie flicked it open with easy precision, lighting it and tilting it closer to you.

You slid your glass to the side and placed your hands at the edge of the seat, fingers curling around the cool wood as you leaned forward just slightly with the cigarette already between your lips. The flame reflected warmly in your eyes while you looked up at him from under your lashes before he absentmindedly brought it to his own cigarette, quietly noticing the subtle arch in your posture as you leaned closer.

He took a long, slow drag and let the smoke curl in his lungs for a moment, while he took in the sight in front of him – the way your lips closed around the brown filter, your little habit of actually swallowing down the smoke before you blew it out, the way you still hadn’t looked away from him.

“You’re pretty,” he mumbled under his breath, almost like he wasn’t actually aware he was saying it out loud.

A shy smile crept across your face as you finally broke eye contact – but only for a split second.

“You flirt like an old man,” you chuckled.

“Yeah, well, Sweetheart,” Eddie scoffed jokingly. “That’s kinda what happens when you ask out someone who’s twice your age.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Just six little words were enough to make his stomach twist in a way he wasn’t used to anymore – especially with the knowing smile you gave him afterward.

He knew the smart thing would be to pull away. Change the subject. Steer the conversation towards something safer than this quiet little push and the pull the two of you had slipped into.

But instead, he stayed exactly where he was, fingers curled loosely around his cigarette as his gaze followed the slow lift of your beer to your lips.

A stray drop of beer escaped from the corner of your mouth, threatening to trail down your chin before Eddie reached over and caught it with his thumb before it had the chance.

The look he gave you as he dragged his tongue across his thumb was enough to make it painfully obvious he’d done it on purpose.

Eddie watched your throat move when you swallowed.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you mumbled quietly, “and I’m gonna start thinking you want something.”

His cigarette rested forgotten between his fingers as the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Sweetheart,” he said lowly, “I think we’re a little past that already.”

Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before flicking back up again, subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t have caught it – but Eddie did.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he leaned back in his chair, cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers while he watched you through the thin curls of smoke.

“Careful,” he murmured, finally tapping ash from his cigarette while his eyes stayed fixed on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna forget how old you are.”

“Good.” You held the smoke in your lungs for a second before exhaling slowly, teeth catching your bottom lip out of habit more than anything else. “‘Cause I already forgot yours.”

Eddie’s hand barely softened the force of your back hitting the brick wall he’d pushed you against, the heavy rings on his fingers catching against your scalp as he buried his hand in your hair and pulled.

This close, it was impossible not to notice the scent of motor oil clinging to him beneath the minty cologne, and the cigarette smoke.

And fuck, that alone was enough to ruin you a little.

His other hand found your face, thumb pressing into your cheek while the rest of his fingers spread against the other as he tilted your head and deepened the kiss.

Eddie nudged your mouth open with his, brushing his tongue against your bottom lip first – almost hesitant, like some part of him still wasn’t fully sure he should be doing this. But then he kissed you harder, and his tongue slid against yours, warm and slick, and you could still taste the lingering bite of spicy citrus of his whiskey on him.

“Please tell me you live nearby,” he murmured against your lips when he finally pulled back just slightly.

“Above the shop,” you mumbled back, voice low and still a little drunk on his kiss.

Eddie still had a tight grip on your hair and jaw when he pulled away a little more, pupils blown wide, lips slick with your spit, and his greying curls even messier than they’d been all evening.

He could feel the warmth rising beneath his fingers when he tilted his head back slightly, biting at his lip while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“Good,” he murmured.

He kept his grip on you for a few moments longer, in no real rush to move back towards the shop despite the heat slowly settling low in his stomach, eyes fixed on the breathless look spread across your face.

A quiet fuck slipped from beneath your breath, your thoughts short-circuiting around the tight grip he still had on you and the unbearably cocky look he was giving you.

“C’mon.” He scoffed softly under his breath before tilting his head towards the buzzing street. “Before I take you right here.”

Your pulse hammered beneath his fingertips as his hands grabbed at your hips instead, pulling you away from the wall and back into him for one more quick, messy kiss before he laced his fingers through yours and guided you out the alley he’d pulled you into earlier.

He only let go of your hand once – to shrug off his jacket and drape it over your shoulders when the cold evening wind picked up around the two of you.

Every now and then he’d tug you back against him just long enough to steal another kiss beneath the amber streetlights before continuing down the sidewalk like he hadn’t just completely short-circuited your brain again with his warm, plush lips and the comforting smell of leather and smoke clinging to his jacket.

“You always this clingy after two drinks?” you teased quietly.

Eddie only snorted under his breath before glancing down at you.

“You always this distracting?”

Feeling too flustered to come up with a proper reply, you only clicked your tongue softly before letting go of his hand to dig the cluttered keychain out of your bag once the shop came back into view.

“Please don’t mind the mess,” you mumbled under your breath while unlocking the door.

Eddie barely waited for the lock to click open before one of his hands found your hip again while the other slid around your throat, firmly tilting your head back so he could kiss you again.

While one of your hands curled loosely around the forearm resting on your throat, you weakly pushed the door open with the other as Eddie pressed his chest flush against your back and shuffled the two of you into the cramped entryway.

He nudged the door shut with his foot without pulling away from you – not when the pretty, muffled whimpers slipping from your mouth were making him even harder than he already was.

His rings pressed against your throat as he kept your head tilted back, kissing deep and messily from the awkward angle he held you at while his tongue slid insistently against yours. His bottom lip brushed sloppily against your upper one, teeth knocking together every now and then while a small drop of spit slipped from the corner of your mouth.

He finally pulled away – though reluctantly – when another soft, pathetic whimper slipped from your mouth into his.

“Take me upstairs, sweetheart.”

Eddie’s pupils blew wide as he took in the dumbfounded way you were staring up at him, lips swollen and slick with his spit.

He loosened his grip on you just enough to give your ass a quick smack when you kept staring up at him instead of moving.

“C’mon now,” he muttered, a cocky little grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

You licked your lips and swallowed hard before finally nodding absentmindedly, your gaze flicking towards the stairs.

Neither of you bothered to break the thick, expectant silence as you guided him upstairs.

Kicking off your shoes once you finally got upstairs, you flicked the lights on, revealing a living room that looked like it had been pulled straight out of the seventies.

Brown couch, walls covered in posters, plants crowding nearly every surface, a funky patterned rug tying it all together – not exactly what Eddie had expected from the girl in eyeliner and a vintage Metallica shirt.

Eddie glanced around the apartment before letting out a quiet laugh under his breath.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “This place looks like my childhood.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you.

“Yeah, well,” you chuckled under your breath, “I was raised on old records and questionable interior design.”

Your face warmed a little when he kicked off his boots and drifted towards the record collection in the corner, suddenly feeling weirdly nervous about what he might think of your music taste.

“Fuck, you might have a bigger collection that I do, sweetheart,” he said distractedly. “There’s some seriously good stuff in here.”

You chuckled again, softly under your breath, as you wandered towards the kitchen and pulling two glasses from the cupboard.

“Glad you approve of my music taste,” you teased while pushing through the beaded curtain separating the kitchen from the living room. “Choose your poison: whiskey or rum?”

Eddie looked over his shoulder, his attention finally dragged away from the records when the clinking beads announced your return from the kitchen – which, considering the rest of the apartment, of course only made the drinking cart in the corner of the living room feel more fitting.

The soft metallic raps of the pour against glass filled the room alongside the warm scent of toasted oak and brown sugar from the rum you were pouring yourself.

The bottle twitched slightly in your hand when Eddie suddenly stepped in behind you, one arm wrapping loosely around your waist while he pushed a strand of hair aside to press a kiss against your neck.

“Watcha havin’?” he murmured against your skin, warm breath fanning across your neck.

You swallowed hard, feeling yourself growing flustered all over again before tilting the bottle slightly so he could see the label.

His lips stayed glued to your neck, pressing slow, messy kisses against your skin while he hummed quietly between them.

“Wanna share?” he murmured, voice muffled by the fact he still refused to let go of you.

“If you keep kissing me like that,” you mumbled breathlessly after screwing the bottle shut and setting it back down, “we’re not gonna end up drinking anything.”

His greying curls tickled your skin when he chuckled against your neck.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You looked over your shoulder, catching his mouth with yours and finally forcing him to abandon your neck long enough for you to turn properly towards him.

Your hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck before tangling into his curls and tugging hard enough to pull a rough sound from him.

You bit lightly at his bottom lip before kissing him again – messy and impatient this time – and Eddie immediately tightened his grip on your hips, pulling your body flush against his while his fingers pressed harder into your skin.

“Couch or bed?” you breathed against his lips before dragging slow kisses down the side of his neck.

A rough fuck slipped from Eddie’s mouth as he tipped his head back slightly, swallowing hard when you sucked at his skin.

“You attached to your couch?” he muttered, already steering the two of you towards it.

Finally pulling away from his mouth, you harshly pushed him back against the worn suede cushions before straddling his lap.

“I might after tonight,” you whispered teasingly as your hands slipped up around his neck, drawing him back into another messy kiss before he could even think of a reply.

You rolled your hips curiously against his, feeling the sharp twitch of his cock beneath the thick denim of his jeans before pulling away just enough to brush your lips back against his neck, catching the rapid pulse fluttering beneath his skin. Eddie’s hand tightened around your hip immediately, guiding your movements faster as he tipped his head enough to catch your earlobe between his teeth while his other hand slid down your back, under your skirt to your ass.

A rough groan slipped from him when you sucked harder against his neck – enough to leave something behind for him to remember you by later.

“Take it off,” he mumbled as he tugged impatiently at the jacket still hanging loosely from your shoulders, his movements hurried despite the softness in his voice.

You grabbed at the hem of his shirt and pulled it up over his head before catching his mouth again in another messy, wet kiss. He kissed you with fervour, tongue crashing wildly against yours while he kneaded the supple flesh, warm rings digging into your ass.

Eddie reached down and grabbed the hem of your shirt, breaking the kiss, and hurriedly peeling it up to reveal the lack of a bra on you.

He tilted his back just slightly as he groaned, sounding almost pained, at the view of your gradually hardening nipples. He threw your shirt somewhere behind you, and latched his lips against your throat. He left soft nibs and wet, messy kissed as he trailed down to catch one of your nipples in his mouth, while the hand he had on your hip slid up to pinch the other.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he rasped between licks as you arched further into his touch and buckled against his hard on. “Gonna make you feel so fucking good.”

Eddie curled his lips around your nipple once more, gently biting and pulling at it, and then smoothing the sting down with his tongue before he repeated the whole thing all over again.

Slowly, he trailed his hand lower, calloused fingertips grazing along the sensitive skin of your ribs and inner thighs until he reached the lacy edge of your panties. He hooked his fingers underneath, just to snap the fabric against your skin and steal another whimper from you. He bit your nipple one more time before pulling away, looking at you from under his lashes as he drag your panties down just enough to see the mess you’d made.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he praised huskily, ghosting his fingertips along your slit and circling your swollen clit, “all this for me?”

All you could really do was give him another pathetic whimper.

With a cocky grin, he pulled his fingers away and suddenly lifted you off him to throw you on the couch, scoffing softly at the way your breasts jiggled with the hard movement before biting his lips.

Eddie straddled you before you could react properly and pinned your wrists above your head with his ringed hand while he pulled at your lacy panties with the other.

“I’m going to absolutely ruin you,” he groaned as he ground against your pussy, not caring if it would ruin his jeans.

He finally let go of your wrists to push himself up straight and unbutton his jeans.

Your chest fell and rose erratically, eyes glued to his tattooed chest before they trailed down to his fingers pulling at the zipper. Eddie didn’t take off his jeans after that, too busy dipping his head back to your tits and trailing his tongue down from your nipple to the waist of your skirt.

“This stays on,” he groaned, looking up at you as he dipped lower and pushed your thighs apart with his hands.

“Y-you…” you trailed off breathlessly, gulping down when he licked his lips. “You don’t have to.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” Eddie groaned back, eyes glued to your slick folds. “Can’t just ignore this pretty pussy, not when she’s begging for me.”

He lowered his head and circled your clit with the tip of tongue before sealing his lips around it, sucking greedily. His fingers dug harder into your skin as he buried his face deeper, lapping and probing your leaking slit. He pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it before pulling away to spit on your cunt. Eddie’s eyes flickered back to your face as he slipped one finger into your sloppy cunt, curling it to stroke along your slick walls. His lips, still shiny with you, fell open to groan when he felt you flutter around him, encouraging him to pump his finger a little faster.

“I– Fuck, Eddie.”

Gently adding another finger, he stretched you open before dipping his bead back to lap at your clit, swirling his tongue around it. Eddie thrusted his fingers faster, curling them to hit that special spot inside you to bring you closer to the edge. He relentlessly fingered your cunt open while lashing his tongue against your swollen nub, determined to wring every ounce of pleasure from your quivering body.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he moaned against you when he felt you clench around his fingers, sending vibrations down your clit. “C’mon, baby, you can do it. Give it to me.”

Eddie curled his fingers, thrusting them in and out of you, while he sucked greedily hard at you, sending electric shocks through your body. Your hips bucked against his face as he brought you closer to the brink. He flickered his eyes to yours, crooking his fingers even harder than before, finally pushing you over the edge with a few final hard sucks and thrusts of his fingers.

Your pretty groans and whimpers shattered into a high-pitched moan as you finally came on Eddie’s ringed fingers.

Eddie gave your clit one last greedy kiss, ignoring the overstimulated twitch of your thighs around his face, and pushed himself up to smash his lips onto yours. His chin and cheeks were glistening, and the taste of your slick was heavy on his tongue.

“Can’t believe you were gonna hold out on me,” he said when he broke away, and frowned down at you, dark silver curls framing his face. “Boys your age don’t ever eat you out? That why you tried to stop me?”

You breathed heavily as you blinked a few times to clear your vision from the black spots blocking his view.

Eddie brought his sticky fingers to your face, and tapped your cheeks firmly, his eyebrows still furrowed. “Answer me when I ask you a question.”

“I…” you trailed off, mind hazy from the orgasm he just gave you. “No, they don’t.”

Eddie tsked at that, his brows relaxing while the corners of his mouth pulled into a cocky grin.

“Good,” he murmured, eyes still glued on yours. “More for me.”

Capturing your lips again, he poured all his spent-up energy into the filthy embrace. His slick tongue brushed messily against yours, teeth clinking against teeth, until spit rolled from the corner of his mouth and down your chin. He broke away reluctantly and rested his sweat-dampened brow against yours.

Eddie wrapped his hands around your thighs and pulled you closer until the rough edges of his zipper rasped against your sensitive folds. He gave you a few desperate rolls of his hips before he loosened his grip on you and pulled himself off the couch.

He stood tall, right at the edge of the couch, and let his eyes travel down your body as he pushed down his jeans until they dropped around his ankles with a soft thud. He noticed the way your thighs twitched when he stepped out of it and pulled off his boxers to free his strained erection.

He looked beautiful – long, and thicker than you’d imagined, with a painfully swollen tip that already leaked with sticky beads of pre cum – with his brows furrowed as he wrapped his hand around himself, stroking his cock once, twice, eyes glued onto yours while he did so.

“How do you want me?”

“Raw,” you breathed out before forcing down a dry lump down your throat. “Please.”

Eddie’s cock twitched in his hand while he sank his knees back down onto the couch. He loosened his grip around himself and wrapped his hands around your thighs once more.

He lined the swollen tip against your leaking slit before he changed his mind, and slid his cock between your still sensitive, sticky folds instead – like he hadn’t entirely decided if you deserved to be fucked just yet.

“Careful, now,” he groaned, eyebrows furrowed again as he glued his eyes on the way you were staining his cock. “Might start thinkin’ you wanna be bred.”

Then, when he’d finally lost the rest of his restraint, he notched his leaking tip at your slit, and pushed in slowly – inch, by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

His cock stretched you open, sharp and painfully in the best way possible.

“I– Fuck, Eddie,” you choked out, brows furrowed. “I-I don’t–”

“Yes, you can,” he scoffed, digging his fingers deeper into your thighs. “You’re already doin’ it, sweetheart.”

Eddie stilled, allowing the both of you a moment to process the overwhelming feeling. Slowly, he withdrew until just the tip remained nestled within your slick heat. Then, with torturous gentleness, he sank back in and savoured each slick inch as he claimed you completely.

The pathetic whimpers mingled with his grunts before he leaned over again and pressed open-mouthed kisses along the nape of your neck.

“See? You’re doing it,” he breathed out against your skin. “You take me so fucking well, baby.”

He let out a grow, scrunched eyebrows as he worked you open, faster and deeper with each thrust. You couldn’t help but clench around him, dizzy and stupid with the way his tip brushed against that one spot so perfectly.

You threw one of your arms around his neck while the other found a tight grip in his dark silver curls, pulling at his locks and digging your nails into his skin every time he slid his cock in and out of you.

“Oh, God–”

He only grabbed your thighs even harder, angling his head to suck harshly at your neck, desperate to mark you, to claim you as his while you whine pathetically beneath him. The pretty sounds that left your mouth made his head spin, and his cock twitched with the need to pound you into your couch.

Eddie snapped his hips into yours, desperately thrusting his cock in and out of you as he pulled embarrassing squelching sounds out of your pussy, along with your broken moans and the hard slaps of his heavy balls hitting your ass.

“P-please,” you whimpered.

“Please, what, sweetheart?” He bit at your earlobe. “Am I not giving you enough, is that it?”

He pushed your thighs up until your knees touched your breasts, leaving you splayed wide and exposed, trembling in his hold.

“Look at you,” he groaned appreciatively as he drank in the sight of his cock disappearing in your slick folds with each hard thrust he gave you. “Is this what you wanted, hm?”

You moaned louder with each sharp brush of his curly bush against your sensitive clit.

Eddie was fucking experienced, and it showed by the way he knew exactly how to pound into you and roll his hips while rearranging your guts.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he groaned low in your ear, “wanna have you squeezing around me as you come, can you do that f’me?”

He loosened one of his hands around your thighs and brought up his ringed thumb to your bottom lip. The heavy silver bit into your chin while he forced his thumb into your mouth.

“Suck.”

Your eyebrows scrunched at his request, drunk on his words, while you followed his demand. Your tongue staining his digit with filthy strokes, before he yanked his thumb away again.

Eddie’s thumb easily found your already abused clit – and fuck, the combination of his cock dragging against your slick walls, the tight circles he drew against your clit, and the dumbfounded look he gave you were more than enough to make you clench hard around his cock.

“That’s it, baby,” he chuckled cockily. “Fucking come for me.”

That was all the encouragement you needed; your vision blackened once again while he fucked you through it, heavy thumb still working your clit even when you twitched hard with overstimulation.

You pulled hard at his hair, and treated him as an anchor as you arched your back despite the position he still had you in. Your walls fluttered, and his name you moaned out broke as you came again.

“Ed-Eddie fuckfuckfuck.”

He pressed his forehead against yours while he continuously pushed into you, seeking his own release.

“Atta girl,” he groaned loudly as he rutted deep, his body sweaty, and lips swollen from leaving pretty marks on your neck. “Where do you want me?”

“Inside. Please, Eddie.”

All he needed were those three little words – pretty, panting whispers that made him rut into you until his thrusts went erratic.

Until he gave you one last, desperate thrust, his heavy balls hitting your ass as he groaned out your name and filled you with white, warm sticky ropes. He dropped his head forwards, and bit into your neck as he rode out the last of his orgasm.

Eddie let out a breathy chuckle, his nose brushing against your skin before he finally pulled away from you. He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing the dark silver strands away from his face while he tried – and failed – to catch his breath.

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” he breathed out, licking at his lips while his mouth hung open, chest still rising unevenly.

Then he stepped back just enough for his knees to crack softly as he lowered himself onto the floor between your legs, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch until your legs dangled over his shoulders.

“W-what are you–” you breathed out, low and pathetic, while your eyes did their best to stay open.

Eddie wrapped his hands around your thighs again, holding you there while he trailed soft kisses along your skin. His rings dug deeper into you when you tried to pull away from his lips when he got too close to your overstimulated, leaking cunt.

“I-I can’t, Eddie–” you whimpered pathetically, doing your best to pull your hips away from him, but to no avail. “It’s t-too m-much.”

“Yes, you can, baby.” Your pussy twitched when he chuckled tiredly, his warm breath spreading over you just before he gave you a lingering kiss on your clit. “Just one more. You don’t wanna disappoint me, do you?”

This time, he was gentle with it – he left soft pecks on your swollen nub, slowly trailing down until his tongue lapped at your leaking slit. Eddie leaned softly into your cunt, nose bumping against your clit while he licked you clean from his cum.

You tiredly reached for his head, weakly trying to push his forehead away when overstimulated tears started rolling down.

“Ed-Eddie,” you chocked out a sob, hips twitching against his greedy face. “P-please, I can’t–”

“Shhh,” he whispered against your heat, fingers digging hard into your thighs as he pulled you even closer to his face. “Be good for me, baby.”

Your chest rose up and down erratically as you tried to catch your breath, choking on pathetic whimpers and sobs, while Eddie continued his gentle abuse on your pussy. His tongue was warm and slick against your wet, sticky folds, lapping gently at your slit as he collected everything he gave you.

The tight grip he had on your thighs didn’t stop you from twitching uncontrollably as you clenched around his tongue and came one last time. His name died on the tip of your tongue as he kept lapping at your slit for a few more times, before gently lowering your legs off his shoulders. Eddie then climbed back on you and pulled your legs up his hips.

One of his hands let go of your calf and grabbed at your face instead, pulling your cheeks together until your mouth hang open for him. The corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk right before he opened his lips and spat his cum on your tongue.

You looked absolutely pathetic – eyebrows furrowed and slightly raised, and teary eyes looking tiredly up at him while he still had a tight grip on your cheeks. Goosebumps spread over your body when he leaned down and caught a milky, rolling drop of cum from your chin and gave it back to you when he smashed his lips back onto yours. A desperate uhmpf! slipped from the back of your throat when his cum-tainted tongue brushed against yours in urgent strokes as he let you taste the mixture of both of you.

Eddie’s cock never had a chance to soften – not when your messy cunt tasted so good with his milky release and your tears wet the fingers still digging deep into your cheeks. He twitched against you, swallowing your broken whimpers while he moved his swollen lips against yours.

“I–”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, licking at your bottom lip before he gave you another peck. “I’ll let you rest for now.”

Eddie pulled away just enough to look at you – really look at you – and grinned knowingly.

“Unless you got something better going on tonight?”

⋆˚꩜｡ a/n: i have nothing to say, i'll just... put myself in time out

When you ask her that, she pauses, then avoids the question. This clearly isn't the goody two-shoes Nancy Wheeler you remember from high school.

What you do remember, however, is that she got into some hot water when she started dating Steve "The Hair" Harrington — god, what a douche he was — but last you heard, they'd broken up over some stupid misogynistic shit he pulled and she'd moved onto Jonathan Byers. You thought it was an odd pairing, but it wasn't much of your business.

"Anyway, you're in school for nursing, right?" Nancy steers the conversation effortlessly away from your questioning, and you swallow, bumping your hip against the ugly floral wallpaper that decorates the kitchen walls.

Again, you have no clue how she remembers that. You and Nancy were a year apart in school, and you were friends when you were younger, but you'd drifted apart in middle school.

"You there?" she asks.

You clear your throat. "Yeah, I'm a sophomore. Why does any of this matter, Nancy? You're not answering any of my questions, and honestly, you sound like you're on drugs or like you're having some kind of psychotic break—"

Suddenly, you're cut off by some shuffling on the other end, and you think you hear some yelling — a mix of older teenagers and prepubescent ones, then painful groaning. Your eyebrows furrow in concern.

"Nancy? Nancy, are you alright?"

"This isn't Nancy," a male voice croons on the other end. Your eyes widen. "Hi sweetheart, my name's Eddie. You might remember me, I've been a senior for like, four years. Anyway, good ol' Wheeler isn't on drugs and she isn't having a psychotic break, that I can promise. What she's telling you sounds totally bonkers, I know, because I was you a few weeks ago, but she's telling the truth. I promise."

The image in your brain only gets foggier. Was Eddie Munson on the other line? In what weird, fucked up world is Nancy Wheeler hanging out with Eddie Munson?

"So, all that aside, the reason why we're calling is because we need someone trustworthy with medical skills. Is that you? It kinda has to be, because you already know all the nitty gritty details, and we'll have to kill you if you say no."

You fumble. "Um. I- I don't know. I'm only a sophomore."

"Do you know how to take care of wounds?"

"It, um, depends on how bad they are."

"Let's say they're... moderately bad. From an animal. Hypothetically supernatural. Of the bat kind."

"What?"

"How about stitches?" Eddie continues, "Because, listen, I'm no doc, but I'm pre-tty sure Harrington could use a few."

"Harrington?" you echo, "Wait, this is about Steve Harrington?"

In the background, you hear a child's loud voice: "You said you wouldn't tell her!"

"Eddie," you say slowly, "Are there... kids there?"

"Listen, don't worry about that," he says, and it's far too nonchalant for your worrisome nature to take, "Are you able to help or not?"

You glance at your packed dufflebag on the bed. The one that was ready to spend the week at your parents' house before Nancy Wheeler called 30 minutes ago.

"Yeah," you say, grabbing your keys from the hook next to the front door. "Give me a second to grab a pen and paper, I just need the address."

Up until today, you've never been to the Harrington's house before.

In high school, you were never invited to Steve's infamous parties, but you always heard about them at school on Monday — about someone doing keg stands, about some couple, together or not, having sex, about someone jumping in the pool naked... teenage debauchery you were never part of, yet, for some reason, you yearned to experience.

The house is dark from the outside, and somehow, it feels even colder on the inside. A girl with short hair answers the door — someone you faintly recognize — and she immediately seems more down to earth, but more high-strung than Nancy.

"Hey," she greets in a tone that feels kind and familiar, and a part of you wishes you had that effect on people, "Steve's laying down in the living room. Nancy and Eddie took the kids home."

You nod as you follow her through the expansive house, all marble and tacky and wealth expressed in ways that feel frigid.

"I'm Robin, by the way," she says, "Nance said you were someone we could trust?"

You shrug. "To be honest, I'm not sure why. We were friends growing up but we grew apart... I don't even know how she got my number."

Robin waves her off, "That was all Eddie and Dustin. Don't be surprised if they hack your stuff one day."

You can't tell if she's joking or not.

In the living room, Steve Harrington — who you think you may have spoken to once when you were both juniors, and that's it — is laying shirtless on the couch, his eyes lazily half-closed while The Golden Girls play on TV. You want to snort at that, but you're more concerned about the red, bloody lashings and cuts that cover his side and throat. You swallow at the sight.

"I know Nancy kind of gave you a rundown about the whole monster thing but it's probably a little more gnarly in person," Robin says softly. She kneels down by Steve's head and presses a hand to his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey dingus, we brought someone to help clean you up since we're all no help."

"What did you guys do for him?" you ask, willing your nerves to fade. There's something different about working on someone you knew in high school — the attractive jock all-star everyone had a crush on, that is — instead of some random person you're practicing on.

"Um, Nance made him a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. And we're not sure if he's concussed or anything, but we've been keeping him awake... gave him water and something to eat and some ibuprofen for the pain. That's it, really... we didn't know what else, and we couldn't bring him to the hospital. He looks like he got mauled by a bear."

"Yeah," you agree humorlessly, opening your first aid kit on the floor. You pull your pen light out and bite your lip. "Do you think we can get him to sit up?"

"Sure, if you help me."

You nod, each of you taking one of Steve's arms.

"Hey Steve, we're gonna help you up a little, alright?" you say gently, tactfully pulling him up into a seating position against the couch cushions. You're surprised that he goes easily, his head flopping back as he groans. "Can you hold your head up for me? I remember you had really bitchin' hair in high school. Do you still have it?"

"'f course I do," Steve mutters, his hazel eyes languidly glazing over you. You flick your pen light on to look at his pupils. "Hey, 'member you."

"Hm?" you ask, distracted by the task at hand. He's clearly exhausted and might have been injected by some... supernatural venom, but he's not concussed, which is a win in your book. You decide to move on to cleaning the cuts on his face.

"I said I 'member you," he repeats, hissing when the alcohol cloth makes contact with the bloodied slices on his skin. "We went to school together."

"We did," you murmur, smiling softly. "We were in the same class."

"Uh-huh. Class of '85, baby!" Steve attempts to pump his fist in the air but quickly retracts in, a zip of pain ripping through his shoulder. This time, you do snort with laugher. "You're pretty when you laugh."

"Looks like you haven't changed a bit, Harrington," you say as you finish tending to the wounds on his face. "Let's take care of this thing on your neck, huh? What happened here?"

Steve shrugs nonchalantly. "Demobat tried to strangle me."

"Right," you mutter, assessing the damage. "Looks like you might have some scarring. You'll need to keep an eye on this and make sure it doesn't get infected. Do you trust anyone enough to stay here and do that?"

You look to where you thought Robin was sitting behind you, but it seems as if she's long gone.

"Don' really wanna bother anyone with it," he replies. "I can do it. 'm a big boy."

You furrow your eyebrows. "Steve, you're in seriously rough shape. Someone should be taking care of you."

He pouts. You hate to admit that it's adorable.

"Don' like asking for help."

You sigh. "It doesn't look like you need stitches or anything crazy, but let me stay the night to keep an eye on you, alright? I don't think you should be alone right now."

Steve, wide-eyed and boyish, looks to you like you just hung the moon for him.

He doesn't fight you as you continue to clean and check his wounds.

Steve sleeps for the next day.

You don't bother trying to move him to his bedroom. He's clearly comfortable, snoring away on the couch, and it sounds like he hasn't gotten enough sleep in the past month. So, you let him.

In the meantime, you don't do much. Robin left her phone number behind, so you call her periodically with updates, not that there are many. You don't know where Steve's parents are, but you remember them being quite sparse in high school, so you're unsurprised that the pattern's unbroken almost two years later.

You live out of your duffelbag and call your own parents to let them know that you got caught up with something at school and you'll hopefully be home in a few days. In the meantime, you occupy yourself with reading books that you brought along from your apartment, and when that gets boring, you watch TV and wait for Steve to wake up.

Eventually, that evening, he does.

You brace yourself. You're not sure what for — in the few hours you've spent watching doctors and nurses treat patients, you've seen some people wake up distraught, some angry, others confused and upset, but Steve does... none of those things.

His eyes blink at you blearily, craning his neck and stretching it against the arm of the couch. He lets out a low groan, one that makes your stomach flip, and you swallow, taking slow steps towards him with your first aid kit in hand.

"Hey," you greet delicately, "How are you feeling?"

Steve looks at you as you scan over the angry red marks on his throat. He has on a shirt on, but you'll need to peel back the fabric to assess the wounds on his stomach, too.

"Shitty," he croaks, his eyes widening some at the crack in his voice, "Went through puberty again, too, I guess."

You smile bemusedly before lowering to your knees and sitting back on your ankles. At eye level, Steve looks far less exhausted than he did 24 hours ago.

"You look better," you say, eyeing the cuts on his cheek. "You should eat something and drink some water. Shower, maybe."

"You saying I smell?"

"Well, if you and all your friends really aren't fucking around about all this demoshit, I would assume they can't smell great."

Steve attempts to shrug. "I've smelled worse. Like Dustin Henderson after demolishing multiple roast beef sandwiches."

You wrinkle your nose, popping open your kit to begin the process of cleaning his cuts and replacing the bandaids.

"Is there a reason why you all hang out with freshmen? Or is Nancy's brother just, like, really attached to her?"

Steve winces when the cold alcohol cloth touches his skin. You murmur out a halfhearted apology.

"'s a long story," he mutters. "I kinda... accidentally got myself involved in this and... now I'm here."

"And now you're here," you echo softly. "Barely walking with a random nurse-in-training tending to your supernatural bat wounds."

"Psshhhh," Steve turns his neck to face you, cocking his eyebrows. "'Random'? I told Nance to call you."

You pause, a mess of used, bloodied alcohol swabs on the ground beside you.

"How on earth did you know I was a nursing student?" you ask, reaching for the stack of bandaids. "We barely talked in high school. I don't even think we signed each other's yearbooks at graduation."

"Um, yes, we did," Steve says pointedly. You arch an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Go upstairs to my room. Hawkins Class of '85, the yearbook is on my shelf."

"I'll pass for now," you smirk.

"Anyway," he huffs dramatically. "We were lab partners spring semester junior year. You were always really good at science and I vividly remember asking you why you liked that stuff so much — you're the only reason why I even passed anatomy, and you said you wanted to be a nurse."

"You remember that?"

He shrugs. Like it's insignificant. Like you're surprised anyone can even recall your name instead of just passing over your face like a mushy blob.

"I just thought it was cool," Steve continues. "No one I knew at the time had any idea what they wanted to do, and you were so set already. Even when I was a senior, I had no clue. I was just gonna hang around Hawkins and work for my dad and... I just thought, maybe I could be like you, y'know?"

Your face warms, so you busy yourself with tidying the mess you've made on the ground. It feels silly to be so awestruck by Steve Harrington and yet... how couldn't you be?

"That's really nice, Steve. Thank you." you say softly. His face melts, matching the sweet smile on your face, and he almost looks relieved.

"Thank you for coming here," he mumbles. "I know it's not, like... your typical situation."

"I'm happy to help," you reach out hesitantly and place your hand against his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let me make you something to eat, alright?"

You don't anticipate staying another night at Steve's, but it just... happens.

You make dinner for the two of you while the local news plays lowly in the living room, the TV flashing against Steve's tired face. Together, you eat grilled cheese sandwiches in silence. You hand him a glass of water between bites and then offer him a Gatorade.

After dinner, you run a shower for him in the ensuite bathroom of his bedroom. You lay towels out for him and slowly help him up the stairs, just like he's any other patient, and not the boy who could make any girl, teenager, or woman in Hawkins fall to their knees just with a flick of his eyes. You tell him to shout if he needs you, but you secretly hope he doesn't. You're not sure if you could spare yourself the embarrassment of helped a naked, wet, injured Steve Harrington.

While he showers, you make his bed and prep your supplies so you can tend to his cuts and wounds when he gets out. It's a repetitive but necessary process to prevent any infections, and Steve's lucky he didn't need stitches or anything worse. You're fumbling with your collection of travel-sized bottles of topical antibiotics when Steve emerges from the steamy bathroom in a pair of gym shorts and an old Hawkins High School shirt.

You look up, your polite greeting suddenly lost in your throat at the sight of his wet hair and tired eyes. There's something devastating and boy-like about his appearance, and your heart twists in your chest. You try to shove it down.

"That was exhausting," Steve mumbles, his posture slightly slumped. He eyes his bed, then where you sit on the carpeted floor. "Oh— did you— are you leaving?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," you admit. "I just thought it might be more comfortable for you to sleep in your own bed instead of the couch. And I have to redo all your bandages and stuff."

Steve nods. "Where do you want me, doc?"

"On the bed is fine."

By this point, you and Steve have familiarized yourself with this process, and with each gentle clean and touch, his wounds get a little bit better. You assume he'll be able to do this for himself at some point in the near future, but there's a part of you — the caretaker, nurse part of you, you assume — that really likes doing it for him.

He lifts his shirt, twisting slightly to showcase the bruising and sores on his side.

"Can you stay another night?"

For a moment, you pause. Glance up at him, but his eyes are focused on the Hawkins basketball team pendent tacked up on the wall. You continue adhering the band-aid to his skin.

"I can do that," you say softly. "You're healing up well, though. I can teach Robin or Nancy, or whoever you want, to do this, if you'd like."

Steve doesn't immediately reply. Not when you gently pull down the material of his worn sleep shirt and help him back into a sitting position, and not when he runs a hand through his damp hair.

"Will you grab the yearbook off the shelf?"

Your eyes follow to where he's pointing and you nod, standing from your spot on the bed. You retrieve it and hand it to him, watching as he flips to the back pages. It doesn't take him long to find the masses of autographs — not to mention, a couple of lipstick marks and more than a few phone numbers.

"Looks like you had quite a few admirers." you joke.

"Yeah, and none of them cared once high school wasn't real anymore," he snorts humorlessly. It's a second more before he points to your messy handwriting, shoving the yearbook into your lap. Sure enough, your signature is there, followed by a short message. "Read it and weep, doc."

You roll your eyes. "So? Everyone signs each other's yearbooks at the end of the year. It's a whole nostalgia thing."

"Read it."

"To Steve," you read aloud, "It's been great going to school with you all these years. Excited to see where you land. Wishing you the best of luck."

You look up at him expectedly. He shoots you a look.

"Keep going."

Below your handwriting is someone's unfamiliar penmanship. It takes you a few seconds to decipher it, but when you do, your stomach flips.

Coolest girl in Hawkins. Super smart. Wants to be a nurse. If she ever comes back to this loser town, it's a sign I have to ask her out.

"Who wrote that?"

Steve puffs out a breathy laugh. "Who do you think?"

"You thought that about me?"

"Of course." he says it like it's the easiest answer in the world. "I still do."

You can't help it when a loud laugh bubbles up out of you. Steve grins, wide and toothy, and you think it's the cutest thing you've ever seen in the world.

"I think you're delusional, Harrington. Maybe you are concussed."

"You said I wasn't, and you've been a damn good nurse so far."

You laugh again, shaking your head at the boy before you. You feel unbelievably giddy, like you just found out your middle school crush likes you back.

And maybe, really, that's exactly what it is — even if you're hesitant to admit it to yourself.

With a swallow, Steve gently shuts the hard covered yearbook before pushing it to the side, as if closing it will put some kind of finality to the ridiculousness of everything that was Hawkins High.

You remember Steve having a rough go of it his senior year. You don't know the details, but you heard rumors. No college acceptances, Nancy Wheeler drunkenly breaking up with him at a Halloween party that fall. It had been a long freefall for King Steve — one that had twisted up your insides at the time, even if the extent of your interactions were longing glances in the hallways.

"Stay," Steve suddenly says, and this time, his ask is breathier, quieter than it was 20 minutes ago.

You look at him. Allow your eyes to wash over the golden boy sitting in front of you, who's no longer such a golden boy at all, but bruised and beaten down and cut up by supernatural forces that you still don't quite understand. He's been swallowed up and spit out by Hawkins and young adulthood and Scoops Ahoy and Nancy Wheeler and Tommy Hagan and Mr. and Mrs. Harrington and even his latest venture at Family Video, where he works with Robin but regularly gets yelled at by teens trying to rent R-rated movies.

(He swears it's not that bad, but his eyes all but twitched at the mention of his boss, who apparently has a dictator-like approach to running the store.)

"I already told you I'll stay." you reply softly, hand pressing into the soft mattress. Your fingers make an indentation in the foam, and Steve's mouth parts. Carefully, he reaches out, his larger palm covering yours. Your breath hitches in your throat and you feel like the biggest loser alive, your gaze remaining low on your now-joined fingers.

"No... I mean, stay here. In my bed. If you're comfortable." Steve amends. He almost sounds nervous, and it finally makes you look up. When you do, his eyes are wide, and you realize you're right.

You nod. "Do you want the TV on?"

He thinks for a moment. The past few nights, you've been sleeping to the sounds of the local news and late night re-runs of sitcoms. You don't ask why and Steve's grateful for it.

"No, 's fine," he decides, trying to shift into a more comfortable position against the pillows.

"Don't strain yourself," you scold. "I'll help you move if you need it."

Steve snorts lowly as you round the bed, clicking the lamp off. His bedroom, now bathed in the inky blue of 1 1 pm, feels less intimidating this way.

You climb in on the other side, pulling his comforter over your body.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks as you move onto your side.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Shush."

You smile. Steve doesn't miss it.

He wishes he could face you, but he can't with the wounds on his side. Instead, he lays on his back, his arm splayed out between you two, his hand palm face up. It's quiet for the first few minutes as you both listen to each other's breathing.

Steve's not sure if you're sleeping when he says it.

"Can I ask you something?"

You open your eyes. "Hm?"

"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No," you answer honestly. "I was drifting a little, but I'm awake. What'd you wanna ask?"

He pauses. Promises himself he won't lose his nerve.

"When I'm a little better... Maybe before you head back to school, or maybe in the summer when you come back, like after the semester's over... can I take you on that date?"

Steve stretches his neck to look at you. Even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can't quite make out your facial expression, with the way you're biting your lip and smiling at him. He can't figure out if you're looking at him with pity or if you're excited, but either way, he can't recall the last time he was this nervous to ask someone out.

And then, he feels your hand slide into his, and it's like all of his worries never even existed at all.

"I would really, really love that, Steve." you murmur, intertwining your fingers with his.

Your polite smile widens a little at the nickname. “You paged?”

“We’ve got a three-year-old girl. Suspected meningitis,” Robby briefs in a monotone, each word coated in a thick layer of fatigue. “High fever, lethargy, neck stiffness— labs are ugly, too.”

Your features soften instantly. “Oh, poor baby…”

Your eyes dart to the window. You catch only a sliver of the family through the edge of the curtain — young parents, likely in their early twenties, faking teary smiles for their sick baby, who sits in a too-big bed in a too-big hospital gown patterned with so many cartoon puppies.

“Parents are freaking out, obviously,” Jack adds gently, never once taking his eyes off of you. “We thought you could walk them through the admission process before we take her upstairs.” 

“Of course,” you nod, with a voice as gentle as you look.

Jack passes the clipboard over to you and allows his calloused fingers to brush your softer ones for a beat longer than probably necessary. Though if you notice it, you make no mention of it as you flip through the thin pages and follow behind Robby into the dim room. 

The chaos outside muffles when the door clicks shut behind you. 

A young mother — Nia, the form tells you — sits in a chair beside the bed with a wadded tissue clutched in her trembling hands. Her husband, Malcolm, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, wearing the long day all over, as his daughter curls lazily into his side. Ruby Turner is clammy with fever; her round eyes are heavy with it, too. And beneath her chubby arm, is a stuffed animal wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope around its long neck.

“Hi, there…” you greet in a gentle lilt, crouching beside the bed until you’re eye level with the toddler, who eyes your warm smile with a weary suspicion. “I have to say, that is a very serious giraffe you’ve got there, Miss Ruby.”

The girl blinks back at you with sleep-weary eyes; the same dark brown as her mother’s. “Pickles,” is all she can make out through her hoarse throat. The words came out like dry gravel, which rattles harshly in her chest when she coughs hard a second later.

Her dad pats her gently on the back with a wide hand and flashes you a tired smile. “She named him Pickles,” he clarifies.

“Pickles?” you gasp. “I had a dog named Pickles when I was growing up— He looked a little like that one there.”

You motion to the shaggy white dog on her hospital gown. The girl tilts her curly head down and begins pointing at each puppy herself, aptly naming each of them Pickles. It’s the first time the child has been moderately alert, or otherwise has been willing to engage, since she arrived some hours ago. Watching you work feels a little like watching a magic trick.

“Sorry. Hi. I should probably introduce myself,” you laugh warmly and rise to full height again, shaking both of the parents’ hands. “I’m one of the pediatric caseworkers upstairs— My job is basically helping families know what’s happening next. You know, all the boring insurance details, and making sure you guys aren’t going through things alone.”

The mother nods, wiping her nose with the crumbled tissue in her fist. “So what happens now?” she asks, voice teary and trembling.

You nod with a polite smile. “Yeah, so the pediatric unit is gonna start preparing a room for her upstairs, so our doctors can give her the full evaluation she needs— They’ll probably monitor her over the next few nights, too, just to make sure everything’s okay. And you’ll be able to go with her once transport comes, of course, we’ll just need to get everything squared away with insurance while she’s getting tested.”

“So she’s gonna be okay?” the father presses, half-strangled.

You never lie to families. Not ever. It was, as you saw it, the golden rule in any hospital. Jack noticed that about you, too — because he couldn’t help but notice everything about you. But he saw how hopeful you were without ever being dishonest, without ever making promises you knew you could not keep.

“She’s exactly where she needs to be,” you answer carefully. “And she has the best doctors I know taking care of her now. You guys made a great decision by bringing her when you did.”

The mother beside you sniffles. Her exhale leaves her mouth in a quiet sob, which she buries behind her hands before her daughter can see her crying. It’s not quite sad — certainly not as much as it had been earlier that day — but rather it’s a cry of distant relief; the first time all day she hasn’t felt like the worst mother on the planet.

Robby exhales quietly through his mouth behind you — scruffy cheeks puffing, obviously eager to leave. Jack, however, just keeps on staring at you, as you turn back toward the little girl with your voice now lowered in a feigned sort of seriousness.

“Now, Miss Ruby, I’m gonna need your professional opinion on this, okay?”

The girl blinks slowly back at you.

“…Do you think Mr. Pickles needs his own hospital bracelet, too?”

Jack sees the young girl laugh for the first time all day when you’re helping her wrap a plastic arm band around the giraffe’s stuffed leg. It’s basically your superpower, the way you make all the terrifying things feel halfway manageable. By the time you’re stepping back out into the hallway, with Jack and Robby at your side, the family is a little bit steadier than they were before you arrived.

Jack eyes you up and down for a moment, before leaning in to nudge your shoulder with his broader one. Your soft sweater grazes his bare arm, and he gets a faint whiff of your pretty perfume before he leans away again.

“When did you get so good at that, huh?”

Your head whips to the side. You blink like an owl up at him “…At talking?”

“Sure, yeah,” he laughs. “At talking people off the ledge.”

“Oh.” You bounce a shoulder in a lazy shrug, then reach to pull the neck of your sweater back up again when it slips off your collarbone. “I don’t know, I just… try not to sound like a hospital brochure, I guess.”

“Hear that, brother?” Jack quips, reaching behind you to clap Robby on the shoulder. “Try not to sound like a hospital brochure next time, yeah?”

The older man says nothing. He just lifts his hand and scratches at his temple with his middle finger, discreetly flipping him off.

You laugh under your breath and head back towards the elevator, pretty skirt swishing around your ankles. “Try not to traumatize anyone while I’m gone, alright?”

“Can’t make promises like that down here, Sunshine,” Robby calls back. “You know that.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think we should just keep you down here permanently,” Jack says with a lazy shrug. His freckled biceps flex slightly when he crosses them over his broad chest, swaying back and forth on his feet. “You know, just— bring you into every room before the doctors go in. We’ll call you the Emotional Support Coordinator.”

“Oh, would you?” you scoff a faint laugh and hit the button for the upper floor. 

The doors part with a soft ding a second later. You step in through the threshold and turn to face him once more, giving him a much better view of the smile on your face.

“I mean, it’d certainly make me feel better,” he jokes.

“Well, you’re not the patient, Dr. Abbot,” you retort with a devilish grin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few more years before your geriatric assessment, right?”

“A few,” he echoes sarcastically, light eyes squinted. “My opinion still counts, though.”

You shake your head at him despite the soft grin still dancing on the edges of your mouth. “You’re funny, Dr. Abbot,” is all you say, as you press the panel on the inside of the lift. The doors whir when they slide shut; your grin remains visible between them until hatch closes just ahead of you.

Jack drops his head with a chest-deflating huff when you’re gone.

Robby tries and fails to choke back his laughter. 

“You are officially 0 for 6, brother,” the man jokes. He claps Jack on the shoulder, hard, as his dark eyes squint under the weight of his smiling. “It’s honestly getting a little painful now.”

Jack turns to flash him a deadpanned look. “Shouldn’t you be clocking out now?” he wonders in a monotone.

“Not anymore,” Robby scoffs. “It’s just starting to get fun.”

The pediatric floor was quieter in the mornings, you found, after switching to the day shift some weeks back. It was never truly silent, exactly, but it was still a little bit softer, as the panic from the overnight patients faded into a calmer sort of quiet. 

Cartoon reruns play quietly behind closed doors, while lively children’s music can be heard from further in the main area, down the hall to your right. A softer set of lullabies, meanwhile, plays more distantly from the nursery behind the double doors to your left. And, somewhere within the soft sanctuary of it all, a wailing baby is fighting a losing battle against taking their liquid medicine.

It’s all confetti to you, really, from where you sit behind the reception desk with three different charts open on the monitors ahead of you. 

There’s a highlighter in your hand, a pen behind your ear, a paper cup of cooling coffee between your teeth, and approximately fourteen unfinished tasks glaring at you from the computer screen. 

You have not yet properly woken up — the same way the sun has not quite yet risen over the horizon. Your hair has been haphazardly dealt with, for one. Your cherry-colored sweater is bunched awkwardly at your waist, for another, while the white button-up you wear beneath it sticks out over top of your plaid-patterned bottoms. You vaguely noticed that your socks were mismatched when you slid into your scarlet flats, but were much too tired to bring yourself to care.

You don’t even flinch when the phone rings beside you. You reach for it with your free hand without looking, missing twice before finally plucking the plastic from the hook.

“PTMC—” You falter when you realize you still have the paper cup between your teeth. You scramble to set it back on the desk with the hand not holding the phone. You clear your throat and try again. “PTMC Pediatrics— How can I help you?”

“Morning, Sunshine.” 

Jack’s low voice crackles from the other line. You can practically picture him downstairs in the E.D. just now — leaning against the workstation with a computer glowing before him; with his messy silver curls, and his tired blue-green eyes, and that stupidly handsome half-smile he gets every time he talks to you.

You’re smiling at the thought alone before you even realize it. 

“Dr. Abbot?” you answer. “Do you need something? What didn’t you just page me—”

“Weren’t you the one who said I can call just to say hi before you switched to the dark side?”

(The day shift, he means.)

You scoff quietly and lean back in your swivel chair. “Well, I guess, that is preferable to getting paged about sick babies, so… I’ll take it.”

“Wow…” Jack croons drily. “You always say the sweetest things to me, you know that?”

“Well, what can I say? I’m very charming before seven A.M.”

“I think you’re very charming all the time, Sunshine.”

You falter for a brief moment, unable to tell if he’s flirting with you or if he’s just being nice and you’re the weirdo for thinking otherwise. So you shake the thought from your head and change the subject entirely.

“You sound tired, old man— Isn’t it almost bedtime for you?”

“Almost…” His sigh crackles through the faint static of the landline. “But unfortunately, there’s this case manager upstairs who won’t stop distracting me…”

You exhale a frustrated huff, utterly oblivious as you begin to gossip with him under your breath. “Is Hastings bothering you, too? Because she’s been hounding me about clearing beds up here since I came in an hour ago.”

There’s a long beat of silence on the other line, filled by the sound of distant chatter from the E.D.

“…I’m talking about you, Sunshine,” Jack clarifies.

“Oh…” you trail off, face burning hot. Your brain scrambles further when the light starts flashing on your desk, another call waiting. “That’s, uh— Sorry. There’s— There’s just someone on the other line.”

“Oh.”

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and cheek, fingers whizzing across the keyboard as you type with practiced (only now slightly anxious) hands. “So if you wanna have a conversation, you’re gonna have to trek all the way up to pedes, unfortunately.”

“Damn…”

“Yep…” you hum absentmindedly. “It’s a real difficult journey. Very treacherous elevator ride.”

“Well, you’re making a pret-ty compelling argument here, Sunshine.”

“Goodbye, Jack,” you lilt with a big dumb grin on your face, that you hope isn’t as audible in your voice.

“See you soon, Sunshine.”

You think nothing of his words when you decline his call and take another. You hardly expect to see him now, not when he’s still wrapping up the long night and briefing the day shift that’s trickling slowly in downstairs. He’s about half an hour shy of going home and collapsing face-first into his mattress — and you’re hardly special enough to lose sleep over.

Jack, however, respectfully disagrees. 

And so does Dana, who saunters into the workstation to start her morning, only to find the man hanging up the desk phone with a lazy grin hinting at the edges of his mouth. 

“What’s that look for, huh?” she croons in place of a greeting, shrugging off the jean jacket she arrived in and spreading it on the back of her chair before her.

Jack looks up from where he’s shoving the phone back into its cradle. “What look?” he scoffs. “I don’t have a look.”

“Oh, you most certainly have a look,” she argues.

“I have a face, Dana.”

“Uh-huh,” the older woman deadpans, half-distracted, as she logs into the monitor ahead of her, with her glasses sitting low on her nose. “And right now, that face looks like you’re the main character at the climax of a Nora Ephron movie.”

“…What’s a Nora Ephron?” Jack wonders with furrowed brows.

The corner of Dana’s mouth lifts in a crooked half-smile as she peers at him over the top of her clear frames. “Go ask Little Miss Sunshine about it. She’ll tell ya.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow in a smug sort of look as he strolls slowly past her. “Thanks for giving me an excuse to go up there, Evans,” he quips. 

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You were already on your way.”

There’s a newfound skip in his step, along with a faint limp in his prosthetic from the long shift, as he makes the elevator ride up to the pediatric floor — where he’s greeted instantly by soothing lullabies, children’s laughter, and reruns of old cartoons.

He’s swaddled instantly by the dim lighting and the soft warmth — both of which are rare to find in the cold, sterile chaos of the unrelenting E.D. just a few floors down. It’s like entering a whole new world when he steps out of the elevator.

Jack hears your voice, distant at first, but growing louder the further he treks down the hall. “No, I understand the policy, sir. You don’t have to explain it to me again—”

You exhale an annoyed sigh when the man on the other line prattles on, anyway, talking in a slow monotone as if you hadn’t understood him the first time. Despite your irritation, you perk instantly when Jack enters your vision, still in his black scrubs from the night shift, with a new exhaustion etched across his scruffy face.

He greets you with a tight-lipped smile anyway.

Your chest swells with a funny feeling accordingly.

“Sorry,” you mouth apologetically. “Just— one second.”

Jack waves a hand in your direction. “You’re fine,” he mumbles and turns away, idling awkwardly some feet away with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to hover. He marvels at the paintings on the walls, vivid scribbles from children of all ages, as he shifts on his weight — trying to relieve the distant pressure in his artificial limb.

You return to your phone call some feet behind him: “Yes, I get that. But this is a six-year-old going through extensive leukemia treatment— Delaying authorization for inpatient care would—”

You grumble an annoyed breath and drop your head into your hand when the man on the other line speaks over you once more. Jack glances over his shoulder at you, features softening instantly.

“—No, why should his parents waste their time fighting insurance, which should already be in place, by the way, when they could be spending it with their son? How is that fair?” you continue, obviously angry, but still so soft in your way. There’s a few seconds of silence as the person on the other line responds. You nod wordlessly to yourself at whatever they’re saying. “Yes, I will absolutely call back when your supervisor comes in— and every day until this is handled. Alright? Great. Bye…”

You set the telephone back on the hook with a huff.

“…Asshole,” you grumble around your breath, then get all sheepish again when your eyes find Jack’s. You cower under his softened stare. “Sorry… This insurance company’s trying to deny extended coverage for one of our oncology kids— because apparently compassion is illegal now, so…”

Jack musters a weak smile as he closes the distance between you. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

“Hopefully…” you sigh, a little embarrassed now, as you shrink further in your swivel chair. “So, uh... H-How was your shift?”

“Better now,” the older man croons, folding his arms along the countertop ahead of you, and leaning in until you can smell the cologne lingering on his skin — a mixture of leather and sandalwood.

“You’re such a suck-up, Dr. Abbot,” you say with squinted eyes.

His face twists into a look of faux-offense. “Well, that’s not a very nice thing to say to someone trying to invite you out for lunch, now is it?”

You brighten instantly. “Wait, really? That sounds so fun! Are Shen and Ellis coming, too— I haven’t seen them in ages!”

Jack’s smile falters slightly at the edges. “Well… Well, no, ‘cause I.. I thought, you know, it’d be just us. You know, you and me. Like a date.”

You blink owlishly back at him. “Oh…”

“Unless— Unless you don’t want to—” Jack stammers, quickly losing his ground.

“Of course I want to!” you blurt, a little louder and a far quicker than you mean to. “I just… I didn’t— I didn’t realize that you, you know, that you… liked me.”

His brows lower in confusion because, to him, it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was into you. He’d spent months tripping over himself to get your attention, including the time he ran into a crash cart ‘cause he was too busy staring at you to notice that it was in his way.

A chuckle sputters suddenly from his mouth accordingly. “I’ve been flirting with you for weeks! I mean, I’ve been calling up here just to talk to you since you changed shifts!”

“I thought you just liked bothering me!” you giggle in return, face burning hot.

“Yeah, well,” Jack tilts his silver head. “I do like bothering you, actually.”

“I like when you bother me, too…” you murmur sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s unwavering stare as you swivel anxiously back and forth in your chair. You catch yourself smiling wider than you realize when you tell him, “And lunch sounds great, by the way.”

“Great…” Jack exhales a breath he didn’t know that he was holding, that he feels like he’s been holding in for weeks now. “‘Cause Robby’s kinda been threatening to ask you out for me if I didn’t do it myself, so… Happy to save myself the embarrassment.”

Your eyes widen with a girlish sort of horror. “Wait— Robby knew?”

“Sunshine,” Jack grins. “I’m pretty sure the entire hospital knew.”

It was like all of Jack’s dreams had come true at once, and if he’s being honest he has had a fair few of them since you came into the ED three weeks ago. His hands had barely fluttered over the hard metal beneath your shirt before they had been disturbed and his hands were retreating, but already Jack knew this was going to be better than anything his brain could conjure up. He couldn’t bear to let you go now that he had you, even if you were currently standing talking to your roommate whilst he mouthed at your neck. Jack was exactly where he wanted to be, you’d turn your attention back to him in a moment. Jack could be patient, he had been patient for over a year.

“Let me make sure she gets in a cab okay.” You pressed your lips to his ear, Jack couldn’t help the shiver that ran through him at the contact. “And then how about you take me home with you and I’ll let you see these for real.”

What happened next resulted in you letting out a squeak that Jack would catalogue and saviour for the rest of his life. Before your mouth had retreated back from beside his face his hands were on your waist again, spinning both you and himself around so that his back was now against the wall and you were firmly held against his front, ass to crotch. His arms snaked around you, landing on your stomach as he mouthed again at that little spot beneath your ear.

”I can wait.” He breathed. His eyes flicked up to your roommate who was waiting by the curb for her cab. Jack wished the damn thing would just hurry up already, then he could get you back home. He was already half hard in his jeans, and was certain you could feel him when he felt the minuscule way you rubbed your ass against him. Faint, barely there, like you hadn’t even really meant to do it. Your body reacting without your mind's consent. It almost tugged a groan from his throat and his hands gripped harder at the soft skin on your waist.

Finally the car pulled up and Jack was almost vibrating with excitement. Arguably it had only been two minutes since your friend had ordered the Uber, but by god those were the longest two minutes of his entire life. Jack was polite, he was nothing if not a gentleman, so he did the gentlemanly thing and waited for the car to pull away from the curb before he spun you in his arms and pulled your hips flush with his.

“Do I get to take you home now?” He flashed you a sly grin.

—————————————

You could almost see the countdown ticking away in Jack’s head, and you weren’t even facing him. He waited the exact amount of seconds it was considered polite before he spun you and pulled you close again, his hand gravitating back to your chest as he asked if he could take you home with what could only be described as a shit eating grin plastered across his face.

”Don’t you need to tell your SWAT buddies you’re leaving?” You teased.

“They’ll figure it out.” He kissed your jaw line. “I’m a big boy, I don’t need permission to leave.” He spun you around again, he really needed to stop doing that, you were getting dizzy and everytime he did it sent a wave of electricity through you. His hand interlinked with yours as he pushed off the wall and set off walking, practically pulling you down the street towards his car.

”Slow down.” You giggle. “What’s the rush?” You’d reached his car, an obnoxious oversized truck you will absolutely be bullying him about owning in the morning. He pushed you against it, closing the space between you once again. Jack’s lips meet yours and you realise that despite everything that has already happened this is the first time he’s actually kissing you. You practically melt. His lips are plush against yours, his stubble tickling your chin ever so slightly. The feeling is intoxicating and exhilarating, a soft moan escapes your lips. Jack pulls away, but only far enough to press his forehead against yours.

”You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He breathes and it feels like a confession. Something so juxtaposingly tender compared to what you had just been doing.

”Oh yeah?” You smirk, tilting your head just a little to nudge his nose with your own. Your fingers had looped into the belt loops of his jeans, needing something to hold onto.

”Yeah. Since you transferred over to the night shift last year.” He nods, his breath fanning out against your face.

”I win then.” You giggle. Because even now you can’t help but tease.

”What?”

”My first night shift rotation intern year. The night you talked me through my first lower extremity fasciotomy. It was the way you were standing over my shoulder talking in my ear, I was gone from that moment on.” You chuckled and Jack dove in to kiss you again, bruising. His mouth pressed against yours with as much force as he could muster.

”Get in the car.” His voice was low, as he pulled the door open beside you.

~~~

It was almost amusing to you the way Jack couldn’t keep his hands to himself. That one simple request of ‘can I?’ outside of the bar seemed to have opened the floodgates. His hand is on your thigh the entire drive back to his, gently caressing up and down the entire time. A few times, when you’d hit a red light his hand would trail higher, not enough to give you any satisfaction just enough to tease you. It was driving you insane. Eventually his car turned onto a quiet neighborhood street and Jack pulled up outside of a modest single story home.

You suddenly became quite nervous. This was actually happening. You were outside of Jack’s house, about to go inside. When you pulled Jack out of the bar to stand with you whilst you had a smoke you had no idea that this was where the night could lead. Yet here you were, and realisation was just now sinking in. Jack gave your thigh a small squeeze.

”You coming in then?” He smiled. He still had that shit eating grin on his face, the cat that got the cream, and well how could you say no to that?

”Uh huh.” You hummed sliding out the door. As you walked to the door you felt him squeeze your ass, it made you jump just a little. The chuckle that rumbled out of him was worth the embarrassment.

—————————————

His restraint in the car had honestly been miraculous. Somebody had ought to make him a saint just for that, for the way he managed to never let his fingers trail too high up your leg. Never close enough to where he wanted to get to that it would distract him from driving all together. Even if he so desperately wanted to throw caution to the wind and slip a finger inside of you the whole way back, just to know what you felt like.

You looked down right sinful in that skirt as you walked ahead of him towards his home. He hadn’t paid it much mind earlier, too preoccupied with what lay above the waist, but now he was kicking himself for not noticing the way it accentuated the curve of your ass beautifully. So forgive him if he reached out to give it a squeeze as you walked, and forgive him if his heart fluttered at the way it made you jump.

Jack had barely closed the door before he was pushing you against it, slotting himself between your legs. Now that he had tasted your lips he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live without them. He was like a man starving as he ran his tongue across your lower lip, begging for entrance, for something more. You granted him access, and he dove straight in. A groan he couldn’t stifle bubbled up his throat and into your mouth. You were delicious, and all Jack wanted to do was take. His hips rolled against yours and you let out the most beautiful little gasp he’d ever heard, breaking the kiss. Jack pulled you away from the door, walking you backwards across the hall towards the living room, peppering your lips with kisses as he went. He could take you straight to his bedroom, but it felt so far away now, the living room was closer. He pushed you through the open doorway, flicking the light on without turning his attention away from you, and guided you towards the couch. In one fell swoop he was sitting down and pulling you with him to straddle his legs.

”Hi.” You breathed as you situated yourself on his lap, his hands caressing your back.

”You doing okay?” He raised an eyebrow. He wanted to make sure you weren’t second guessing this. As much as he wanted it, he had to make sure you were right there with him.

”Yeah.” You smiled, catching his lips as you rolled your hips. He was fully hard now, the cotton of your underwear dragging across the bulge in his jeans. He left kiss after kiss across your lips, cheek, jaw, before making it back to your neck nipping at the delicate skin there. The way you gasped and hissed was like music to his ears. Jack’s hands were on your waist, playing with the hem of your top. He knew what he wanted. What he’d craved for the past three weeks, and it was right in front of him now ready to be unwrapped like a Christmas present.

”Let’s take this off, yeah?” He rubbed the hemline between his fingers, itching to lift it up and over your head. The nod you gave him was the only confirmation he needed.

It was like Christmas and his birthday all rolled into one. The way your boobs bounced in front of him from the movement of stripping your top off. If he was twenty years younger he could have cum just from that sight alone.

”Jesus christ, you’re beautiful.” Jack was awe struck. Nothing he could have ever imagined compared to the sight in front of him now. The way your nipples pebbled from the cool air hitting them, and the silver bars jutting through each one. He would be seeing that in his sleep for weeks. His thumb caressed over the pink nub.

”What’s the verdict Dr Abbot?” Jack won’t comment on the way his dick twitched in his pants at you calling him doctor outside of the hospital. “Are they everything you hoped they would be?” He didn’t have words. In lew of a response he leant forward and attached his mouth to one instead, sucking your nipple and the piercing between his teeth. Letting a moan ripple out and vibrate around you. The metallic taste in his mouth was addictive as he sucked and grazed his teeth against you. The sounds you were making were downright delicious.

————————————-

You don’t think you have ever been this wet in your life. You were sure you had soaked through your underwear, and if you moved right now there was sure to be a wet patch on the front of Jack’s jeans. You had never met somebody so obsessed with your piercings before. Sure, they always got a good reaction from the people you slept with. You hadn’t met anybody yet who had turned their nose up at them, but Jack revelled in them like you just presented him with his last meal on death row. You were sure he would be content to stay here all night just doing this. You weren’t opposed to the idea either. The way he licked and sucked and dragged his teeth across them, you were starting to wonder if you could cum just from this alone. He removed himself from your boob with a slight pop before diving straight in for the other one which was met with your breathy inhale as your hands came to grasp at his hair. Digging your fingers into the curls by the nape of his neck he let out another groan. It vibrated through your chest and made your hips roll against him again. Just from feel alone you could tell he was going to be big, and that only served to make you wetter.

”Please.” You gasped, you weren’t sure for what but Jack did. He unlatched himself from your tit to look at you. His hands were back on your waist.

”Come here sweetheart.” He crooned, shifting you so that you were positioned on one leg instead of staddling his waist. “I’m going to play with these for a little while longer, Yeah? You just sit here looking pretty and ride my thigh. Can you do that for me?” You didn’t answer for a second, so Jack took the initiative and pulled your hips forward. The drag of his jeans against your pussy was heavenly. The gasp shot out of you without warning. “There you go. That’s what you needed.” His mouth went back to your tit. The hand on your waist guiding you back and forth along his thigh whilst the other came up to squeeze the tit he had left unoccupied. The feeling was heavenly.

You weren’t sure if you could cum from just this alone, but it honestly felt worth it. It all felt so good to the point it was dizzying. You stayed like this, grinding down on his thigh whilst he lavished your boobs with attention, for a few minutes before you found your voice again.

”Jack please.” You gasped. “More, please.” You needed something, anything. You were so turned on, you needed him to touch you. Reluctantly he removed his mouth from you.

”Okay baby, okay. I know.” He cooed, cupping a hand under your jaw and swiping his thumb across your cheek. “Let me take care of you.” He smiled. Then before you could even register it he was flipping you, laying you out on the couch and settling between your legs.

Your skirt had ridden up to around your waist now and you couldn’t help the giggle that came out.

“What’s so funny sweetheart?” Jack looked up at you from where he was pressing kisses into your thighs.

“If I’d have known this was where my night was going to go, I’d have worn nicer underwear.” You chuckle, looking down at the plain cotton panties you were wearing. Jack didn’t dignify that thought with a response straight away, choosing instead to bite at your inner thigh. He kissed over the top of your clit and it sent shockwaves through your core, your back arching ever so slightly at the contact.

“Well if you don’t like them, how about we just get rid of them all together?” He looked up at you from between your legs. You nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact with him and watched as the grin spread across his face. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and tugged, shifting as he went to get them off your feet. Once they were off he tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans without giving it a second though. It was almost incredulous.

“Are you planning on keeping those?” You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Souvenir.” He shrugged. You tipped your head back and laughed at the audacity of it. The laugh was short lived though, quickly turning into a gasp as Jack licked a long stripe along your cunt.

“Fuck.” You groaned, the muscles in your stomach contracting at the sensation. Jack just hummed and licked again, saviouring the taste of you. One hand gripping your inner thigh, the other settled against your lower stomach.

It wasn’t fair. You were beginning to believe there truly wasn’t anything Jack Abbot wasn’t good at. You were seeing stars as he sucked your clit like a man starved. Your fingers were curled in his hair, holding on for dear life, and every time you dared to look down you could see the way he was rutting against the couch. If his devilish tongue wasn’t sending you over the edge then the sight of that alone would. You were practically writhing beneath him and then he decided to nudge a finger into your hole. All of the air in your lungs escaped at once, your back arching off of the couch as you let out a long moan. He barely gave you a moment before a second one was joining the first. His fingers were incredible. The perfect balance of long and thick, reaching places inside of you that you’d never explored as he pumped in and out at a nailbitingly slow pace.

“You gonna cum for me sweetheart?” He asked when he came up for air. Your juices slick across his chin and lips.

“Kiss.” You breathed out, winded. “Please.” And well who was he to deny you that? His fingers still inside you, Jack moved up your body to catch your lips with his own. The taste of his mouth and your arousal causing you to clench down around him.

“You like being able to taste yourself?” His voice was gravelly, a little hoarse from eating you out. At the same time he crooked his fingers, prodding at that velvety spot inside of you that made you see stars. You gasped and pushed his head back down, back to where you needed him the most. He dutifully obliged, attaching his mouth back onto your clit and sucking hard.

“Jack.” You panted.

“Gonna need you to cum for me before I can do anything else.” He said. It wasn’t a request, more an incentive. He blew cold air over your sensitive nub, the sensation making you full body shiver, before going back to the task at hand. His fingers had picked up pace now and you were barrelling towards your own release at a terrifying pace.

“I’m close. So close.” You could feel it pooling in your stomach. The elastic band wound tight, right on the precipice of snapping. He curled his fingers again and sucked hard. Your orgasm flooded your body. Your thighs snapped close around his head, your fingers a death grip in his hair. Jack let out a guttural groan as the sensation washed over you, stomach constricting and releasing over and over again as he brought you through it, fingers gently pushing in and out, tongue lapping over you serenely. You think you might have forgotten how to breathe as you gasped for air beneath him.

“You okay?” He asked, looking up at you once you’d release his head from your iron grip.

“Holy shit.” It was almost a giggle. If you had the energy left in your body to giggle.

“Oh, I’m not through with you yet baby.” He wiggled his eyebrows. How did he have this much stamina? You felt like you’d just run a marathon. You guess that Jack must have seen the exhaustion written on your face, because before you’d even had the chance to respond he was picking you up bridal style and walking you back out of the living room, down the hall and to his bedroom. You didn’t have the energy to argue with him about carrying you.

———————————

There were many things in life Jack was, a quitter was not one of them. His cock sat heavy and throbbing in his jeans, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to fuck you before you’d cum at least once. And god what a blessing it was to be able to experience it. Being suffocated between your thighs, you hands clenched so hard in his hair he thinks he might wake up with a bald patch, the way your cunt clenched and pulsed around his fingers. It didn’t matter if he died then and there. Jack was exactly where he wanted to be. Nothing in the world could have pulled him away from that.

You looked entirely blissed out on that couch, but Jack knew the main event was still to come. He had to be inside you, now. So he did the polite thing and carried you through to his bedroom, instead of making you walk. Depositing you down on the bed as he made quick work of removing his shirt before sitting on the bed to take his leg off before his pants. He felt the way the bed dipped as you crawled over to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and planting feather light kisses along his shoulders and the back of his neck. It was so delicate and tender, it sent a shiver through his body.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked. You had dropped your head onto his shoulder now, arms wrapped around his chest, just holding him as he tried to wiggle free of his jeans.

“Uh huh.” You hummed, content. Oh, what Jack would give to have you like this everyday for the rest of his life.

“You might want to find that second wind, because I’m not done yet.” He was being smug, he knew that. But who in hell would not be smug after making you cum? He turned where he sat and flipped you backwards, laying you out on the bed for him. It was like a switch flipped behind your eyes. The ones that had been content and sleepy only a moment ago were now looking at him like he was something to eat.

“You sure you can keep up, old man?” You challenged, and yeah that was definitely a challenge he wanted to take. He rolled his hips against your core. The only barrier between you being his boxers. His restraint was wearing thin.

“Those are some bold words for someone who was almost falling asleep on me thirty seconds ago.” He smirked, hovering over you now.

“Are you always this mouthy? Trying to distract me whilst you get it up?” There was an evil glint in your eye. Two could play at that game. He dropped his head down beside your ear.

“I think you know well enough what my mouth can do, don’t you sweetheart?” He dragged his clothed erection against you again, moving his head down to get his mouth around you tit once more, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“Would you just hurry up and fuck me.” You pout. You looked downright edible, he couldn’t deny you any longer if he tried.

Jack didn’t even give himself enough time to properly discard himself of his underwear, just shoved them down to below his balls as he fished his dick out. He watches as your eyes expand when you see him. It was enough to make him preen. Jack knew he was relatively well endowed, but the look on your face was enough to send anyone’s ego through the roof.

“Don’t worry. I’ll go slow.” He shrugged, teasing. You just rolled your eyes and huffed. You were so easy to rile up.

He pressed the tip of himself against your slit, rubbing it back and forth between your folds to gather up your slick and use it as lubricant. You felt amazing and he hadn’t even put it in yet. His eyes flicked up to you as you hummed and wiggled your hips, enticing him in. Slowly he pressed the head inside, both of you gasping in sync at the feeling. As he slid in slowly he could feel you stretching around him. Your walls hot and slick, trapping him in your velvety heat.

”You feel incredible, just sucking me in.” He groaned, unable to stop himself. As he bottomed out he had to pause to catch his breath, if he wasn’t careful he was going to finish too soon and be unable to savor this.

”You're not all talk now, are you big guy?” You were still being bratty. He had no idea where this energy had come from but he loved it. He pulled back and snapped his hips forward harshly. The whine you let out sung in his ears. So that was the pace he set. Sharp deep thrusts over and over again as his head fell onto your shoulder. His hand was back on your tit, squeezing and rolling your nipple between his thumb and finger as he punched into you. You were like putty beneath him and he wanted to keep you like this until the end of time.

”Oh, baby I’m close.” He groaned against your sweaty neck. The salt of your skin on his lips.

”Come in me.” You whined in that high lilt. “Come in me, please.” Jack didn’t think he’d be able to pull out if he tried.

”Yeah? Yeah.” He nodded frantically as his balls began to tighten. Just a few more seconds. His hips stuttered and his teeth clamped around your shoulder muffling the frankly embarrassing whimper he let out as he spilled inside of you. There were a few more lazy thrusts as he milked the last few drops out, your pussy pulsing around him helping the process along before he was collapsing on top of you.

—————————

The sound of your phone ringing woke you up early the next morning. It was still dark outside, making in an ungodly hour. You groaned as you rolled over. Who on earth was trying to call you on your morning off? You fumbled on the nightstand trying to find the phone without opening your eyes. Finally you found it and answered the phone, bringing the device to your ear.

”Hello?” You asked, voice still groggy.

”Who is this?” The voice of Dr Ellis came through the phone.

”What do you mean? Ellis, it’s me.” You were thoroughly confused now. “You called me?”

”Oh, my god.” She gasped. “Tiger, I called Jack sweetie.” You pulled the phone away to look at it. This wasn’t your phone.

”Oh.” Was all you could get out.

”Shen!” You heard her shout away from the phone, her voice slightly muffled now. “Yo! Jack finally grew a pair.” You let out a groan. This was going to be all over the ED within the hour.

”I can say with no uncertainty that there is no growing needed in that department.” You huffed and Ellis wretched on the opposite end of the line. Good, if they were going to try and embarrass you then you were going to make them all uncomfortable. Jack rolled over, awake now, and nuzzled against your bare chest.

”Who was that?” He asked, his voice sleepy.

”Ellis. It was for you.” You sighed and placed his phone back down. He just burrowed deeper against your boobs.

“Hey!”. It’s Samira’s voice, a sharp warning from somewhere behind you, but it comes a second too late.

The patient swings. Not hard enough to seriously injure on its own. But combined with the shove that comes with it, it’s enough. The impact glances off your shoulder, but the force of the push sends you stumbling backwards, your foot catching awkwardly on the edge of the trolley behind you.

There’s a split second where you try to correct it. Your balance almost rights itself. Then, your heel slips.

You go down hard.

Your hip hits first, the shock of it jolting up your side before your shoulder follows, and then your head clips the edge of the cabinet behind you with a dull, sickening crack that makes your vision flare white.

The world tilts. Sound distorts.

You suck in a breath too fast and it catches halfway, your ribs protesting sharply as pain blooms deep along your side, spreading outwards in a way that feels heavy and wrong.

“Shit!”

“Hold her back!”

“Move!”

Hands are on you immediately. Too many. Too fast.

“Don’t move,” Dana says firmly, already crouched at your side, one hand braced against your shoulder to keep you grounded.

“I’m fine,” you manage automatically, even as your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. “I just slipped—”

“You didn’t slip,” Samira cuts in, sharper than usual, already scanning you quickly. “She shoved you.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.

Your body protests instantly. A sharp, deep pain lances through your ribs and your breath hitches before you can stop it.

Dana presses you back down without hesitation.

“No, you’re not getting up yet.”

“I’m okay,” you insist, though your hand has already moved instinctively to your side, fingers pressing there like you can contain the ache if you just hold it still.

“Yeah,” Langdon mutters, crouching on your other side, one brow raised. “You look fantastic.”

You glare weakly. “I am—”

“You’re wincing,” Mel says gently from behind them. “Just stay down a second.”

Across the bay, Robby steps in, taking in the scene quickly, his expression tightening slightly as he looks between you and the now-restrained patient.

“What happened?”

“They got knocked,” Dana says, not taking her eyes off you. “Hit their head on the way down.”

“I’m fine,” you say again, the words automatic now, like muscle memory.

Robby’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than you’d like. Assessing. Weighing.

Then, “Get them checked,” he says. “No arguments.”

You open your mouth to argue anyway. Close it again.

The check is quick. Too quick.

Vitals steady. Pupils reactive. A few questions you answer without thinking, even as your head still feels slightly off and your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply.

“Probably just bruised,” Langdon says, though there’s hesitation there. “Keep an eye on it.”

“I will,” you say.

You go back to work. Of course you do. It’s slower now. More careful. Every movement measured so you don’t aggravate the pain blooming along your side, every breath kept shallow enough to avoid the sharpest edge of it.

You don’t let anyone make a fuss. You don’t give them the chance.

By the time shift change creeps in, you’re running on stubbornness more than anything else.

Your body feels heavy. Your head dull. Your ribs worse. But you’re still standing. That counts for something.

You see Jack the second he walks in.

It’s instinct, the way something in you softens at the sight of him, even through the ache, even through the exhaustion.

He sees you just as quickly, and immediately, his expression changes. “What happened?”

No hello. No lead-in. Just that.

You blink. Too slow. “…nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”

You huff a small breath, trying for normal. “I’m not lying. I just got knocked a bit. It’s fine.”

“Knocked how?”

“Patient,” you say quickly. “It happens.”

His jaw tightens. “You hit your head.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

Jack steps closer, his hand coming up instinctively, hovering for a second before brushing lightly near your temple, careful.

You flinch. Just slightly. Jack notices anyway.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”

“I am,” you insist, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing, Jack. Just a bruise.”

“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s not what this is.”

You don’t let him push further. You can’t, because if you stop holding it together now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to start again.

“I promise I’m okay,” you say, gentler now, stepping into his space, your hand brushing his arm. “I’m just going to go home, sleep it off.”

Jack searches your face. Longer than you’re comfortable with. “…yeah?”

You nod. “I promise.”

You kiss him before he can argue again. Soft. Quick. A distraction more than anything.

“I’ll text you,” you add.

He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go.

You don’t realise how much you’ve been holding in until you get home.

The door shuts behind you. Your bag slips from your shoulder. Everything collapses.

The pain hits first. Sharp. Deep. Your ribs screaming the second you stop forcing yourself to breathe carefully around it. Your head throbbing dully where it connected earlier. Your whole body suddenly too aware of itself.

Then the tears. They come fast. Uncontrolled. Your hands come up to your face as your shoulders shake, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it.

“It hurts,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Soft paws hit the floor behind you. Buddy is there instantly.

No hesitation. No distance. Just straight to you, pressing in close, whining low as his nose nudges at your hands, your face, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Hey, Buddy…” Your voice wobbles as you drop one hand to him, fingers tangling in his fur. “I’m okay,” you murmur, even as you cry. “I’m okay—”

He doesn’t believe you. He licks at your cheek, catching tears, pressing closer until you sink down with him, your body folding as he crowds in, solid and warm and there.

Buddy doesn’t leave your side once. Not when you get up slowly. Not when you change. Not when you ease yourself into bed with a quiet, pained breath.

He jumps up beside you without hesitation. Circles once. Then presses himself along your back, heavy and grounding, his head resting near your shoulder like he’s keeping watch.

You fall asleep like that. Hurting. Exhausted. But not alone.