Secret gardens in my mind

He used to want to come home to the quiet of his house, to feed the stray cat outside and maybe read a little before bed. He used to like to sleep in on his off days, to spend the time couch rotting with a good book or some mind numbing TV. He used to like ordering takeout and never leaving the house unless he had to.

He saw enough action at work, anyway. no need for more of it.

But you are living life for the very first time and taking advantage of every second of it. Occasionally you'll sleep in until ten, if he's lucky. But you're out the door by eleven. Shopping or visiting museums or driving three hours to a store for some product that finally says it's back in stock.

And Robby—god. He loved to trail behind you the whole time.

He liked to carry your shopping bags and watch you try on clothes just to put them back. He liked to watch you order something new at a restaurant and see your reaction. He liked to watch as you take a hundred photos on your phone and even let you pose him so it turned out exactly like the vision in your head.

He liked hearing your giggle when you turned your phone to show him some silly TikTok he doesn't understand.

He even liked staying out late now, because you're always at a bar or a club. Always on the dance floor with a drink in your hand. Robby liked to watch you dance wildly, liked to watch the lights reflect in your eyes, liked to come home covered in your body glitter and your coconut perfume and your love.

In truth, Robby had been a little nervous thinking about the first time you'd sleep together. Worried he couldn't keep up with you, that you'd want him more often than his age would allow.

Cause, ya know—he's twice your age, and his stamina isn't what it used to be, and you're so alive and so bright and he's so…him. A little grumpy and a whole lot tired.

But what Robby discovered after some time is that his desire for you overshadowed all else.

He looked at your smiling face and all the nerves settled in his head, going from a raging storm to still waters in an instant.

He wanted your first time together to be romantic. Maybe he'd cook you some pasta and the two of you could get wine drunk and stumble up into his bedroom late one evening, and he'd be real sweet and soft. He wanted to make love to you. Wanted you to know just how much you brighten his life, wanted you to know just how cherished you really are.

But what actually happened is far from romantic.

It's not in his bed or even his house. It's in the back of his car, in broad daylight, on a random side street one rainy, Tuesday afternoon.

You'd asked him to stop and try that new coffee place downtown before you went to meet Trinity and Dennis for lunch. The downpour had intensified while you were inside ordering, and by the time you'd ran back to the car you'd both gotten drenched.

An event that would've irritated Robby before you, but how could he be upset about the rain and his wet hair and the droplets on his glasses when you were laughing about it? How could he be upset or irritated when you wore the sweetest smile?

You'd leaned across the center console, took his face in your cold hands, and pressed your mouth to his. you always tasted so sweet, and the combination of your warm tongue against his and the cool, wet slide of the rain on your lips—god. It had him weak in the knees.

Arousal pooled low in his gut instantaneously. He tried to think of other things. Gross things, terrifying things, of anything but you. None of it worked to erase the intensity of his desire.

He was ten minutes away from the diner when he pulled over and admitted what was going on. "Sweetheart, I'm…I'm really sorry, I know you were looking forward to this but I think we might have to cancel."

A crease formed between your brows, and it pained him to see it. "What? Why? What's going on, are you okay?"

Robby's face warmed, and he knew he should probably lie. Make up some fluke of an excuse as to why he'd suddenly had a change of heart and needed to return home at the very last second. But the look in your eyes was full of true concern, and Robby knew he'd never be able to lie. Not to you.

So, he took it on the chin. Swallowed down his embarrassment and said, "Yeah, yeah. But…uhm—when you…when you kissed me, it was really…" he laughed, fingers fidgeting. "It felt really nice. Too nice, actually, and—"

"Oh," you interrupted. "You're hard?"

The words are said so plainly, as if there's nothing wrong with the fact that he'd gotten this worked up over something as small as a kiss. Robby shook his head. "I've tried to get it to go away, but," he scoffed. "It's not—uh, not working, so—"

"Well, let me help you." Your lips turned up at the corners, a knowing smirk forming. you unbuckled your seatbelt and moved closer, leaning over the center console until your mouth is a breath away from his. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Robby's head turned, glancing out of the rain-clouded windows. There was no one around, and he very much wanted you to touch him, but— "Are you sure? Here?"

Your nod is both certain and enthusiastic. "What better place than here and now?"

He laughed. "Anywhere would be better than here," he said. "My bed, your bed, the damn couch, for christ's sa—"

You palmed at his bulge through the too-thick fabric of his jeans. "Yeah? That's where you wanna fuck me, Mikey? The couch?" Your voice was low and teasing in his ear, sending shivers up his spine.

Robby swallowed, muscles slackening beneath your touch. You squeezed his length in your hand, stroking him with your thumb.

"Or…" you began. "Do you wanna fuck me here?" Your other hand joined the first, aiding so you could unbutton his jeans and slide your hand down the front of them.

He's not wearing boxers—Robby can't stand the extra fabric and the way it bunches—and suddenly your hand was wrapped tight around his aching cock. His head tilted back against the seat, eyes closed as you whispered against the shell of his ear.

"You're even bigger than I thought you'd be. Gonna feel so—so full, when you're inside me." you said, stroking his cock with the perfect amount of pressure. "I think about you fucking me a lot, Mikey. You're just so strong and so big and so fuckin' sexy. You remember when I asked you to send me those pictures when you were in the shower? I've touched myself to them so many times."

It killed him to hear it. To imagine you with your fingers on your clit or buried deep inside you while you're thinking about him. His cock pulsed, throbbing with desire. "This isn't—fuck—this isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to—to be sweet. Dinner and wine and rose—jesus—rose petals and—"

"I don't want rose petals today," you murmured. You licked at his neck, wet tongue sliding up over his pulse, over the stubble there that he's gone a day too long without shaving. "What I want is to suck your cock. Can I do that, Mikey?"

Robby was nodding before he could think any better of it. He lifts his hips just enough to pull his jeans down, cock springing free and resting against his belly, reaching just below his navel. It's thick and aching for you, resting just on top of the dark hair of his happy trail. "'Course you can, baby."

The smile you gave him in response is nothing short of earth-shattering.

Robby doesn't think anyone has ever seemed this eager for him. No one's been so desperate for it. The realization made him feel dizzy with affection for you and the way you worship him, the way you trust him.

You leaned over the center console, took his cock in one hand, and pressed a wet kiss to his tip. Your mouth is so soft and so sweet and so warm. Your tongue swirled around his length as you eased him into your mouth, tracing each vein over and over as if for memorization.

Robby didn't know where to put his hands. He wanted to touch you, to smooth your hair back away from your face. He wanted to reach over and squeeze the supple flesh of your ass through your leggings. He wanted to reach lower, to press his fingers against your folds through the cotton fabric until you moaned for him.

But he didn't know what was too much, or what wasn't enough, and—

You suddenly swallowed him down, taking all of him in your mouth, nose pressed to the thick hair at the base of his cock and it felt so fucking good that he nearly finishes right then and there.

And Robby, on instinct, grabbed the back of your neck to steady himself. "Oh fuck," he choked out. "Careful, pretty girl. Careful, careful—"

You slowly leaned back, mouth sealed tight around him, sucking hard until his cock pops out from between your lips. You turned your head to look up at him, slapping the underside of his length lewdly against your tongue. Spit bubbled at the corners of your mouth, sliding messily down your chin. "I love sucking your cock," you said.

A smile stretched across his face. Real and true and happy. "Yeah?"

You nodded in response, teary eyes alight with desire. "Mhm."

"Well, it's not fair for you to have all the fun now, is it?" Robby's fingers curled around the back of your neck, pulling you up and off of him. He guided your mouth to his, the kiss wet this time in a whole different way. His free hand found your neck, bracketing your throat completely between his big hands.

You moaned against his tongue and Robby smiled against your lips.

He pulled away only to instruct, "Why don't you go ahead an' get in the back seat for me, baby."

A grin formed on your face—pretty and submissive and alive with hunger. Robby could get real addicted to this, he thought. Real addicted to you.

He let go of your throat, and watched as you hurriedly did as told. Obedient little thing, so perfect.

Robby followed closely behind. He reached tbeneath the passenger seat to push it forward. The space is too small for him; cramped even when he bends on aching knees to the floor of the back seat.

Kneeling between your thighs, Robby hooked his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and pulled them down, over your high top sneakers. His hands come to feel the softness of your exposed skin, roaming up and beneath your shirt, feeling you this close for the very first time.

Robby palmed your breasts over the fabric of your bra, thumbs running over the subtle swells of your peaked nipples. "You're so pretty," he mused, leaning forward to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

His mouth traveled downward, peppering kisses across your belly until his lips met the fabric of your panties. Robby delighted in the shiver you gave as the warmth of his breath fanned across your cunt. He pressed a kiss right over your clit and grinned to himself as your spine arched.

"Let's take these off, yeah?"

You nodded eagerly, and Robby didn't waste time before pulling your panties away.

"Oh, look at that," Robby muttered. He brought his hand between your legs and slid his fingers gently through your arousal. "So fuckin' wet, isn't she? This all for me, baby?"

"Yes," you breathed out. "Need you, Mikey. So bad."

"I know you do. S'alright, I've got you." Robby took his glasses off and set them on the leather seat beside you, before leaning forward and kissing you right where you needed him most. A shallow breath stuttered out of your chest, but he doesn't give you a moment to gather yourself. His tongue darts out, licking you from your entrance to your clit and then circling.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Robby obliged your silent instruction, suckling your clit into his mouth and flicking his tongue over the pulsing nerves.

His heart was beating fast in his chest, his cock aching to be inside you. He had one hand on your breast, and brought the other to your cunt. Robby finds your opening with two gentle fingers and pushed them in.

"Oh god," you cried out. "That's so good. You feel so—fuck."

Robby curled his fingers inside of you, pushing hard against the softest spot."Talk to me, pretty girl," he urged. "Tell me what feels good."

"M-maybe a little…hmm—a little faster?"

He quickened the pace of his fingers and licked at your clit more feverishly, humming when you give a little gasp in response.

"Fuck—yes, yes. Like that. And—your fingers just a little deeper—just—"

Robby listened like a trained dog, heeding your every beck and call. He pressed deeper, thrusting his fingers upwards until—

"Ohmygod, yes—just like that, just like that please. Don't stop, don't stop—"

He doesn't. Robby licked and sucked at your clit until his spit dripped down onto the leather seat below you. He groaned low at the taste of your arousal, ambrosia made just for him. sweet and youthful and delectable.

He didn't deserve it, Robby knew. Your desire, your love, your light. But he'll eat it all up for as long as you continue to give it.

You clenched around his fingers and Robby pulled his mouth away, strings of saliva snapping against his chin. "You about to cum, baby?"

"Yes, yes, please, Mikey I need it—!"

"Nuh-uh," he said with a shake of his head. He pulled back fully, sliding his fingers out of you and rising to his full height. "M'gonna watch the first time you cum for me. Wanna see it on your face. Wanna feel you milk my cock 'til I fill up that sweet little pussy of yours."

A whimper left your mouth, and Robby could do nothing but smile cause he knew. He knew how needy you feel, how frantic that desire made you. He knew because it lived in him, too.

He pressed your legs upwards, setting the soles of your sneakers against the edge of the backseat. He grabbed at the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head before picking up his glasses and setting them back on his face. "Take it all off," Robby ordered. "Let me see you."

You do as told, quickly adding your hoodie and bra to the growing pile of discarded clothes.

Robby took a minute just to absorb it all; to memorize the way you looked, spread out for him in the backseat of his car, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. You're the prettiest little thing. Half his age, half his heart.

That four letter L word flitted across his mind, but Robby doesn't give life to it.

Not yet, anyway.

He dragged his hand down the center of your chest instead, but thought you must be able to feel the love in it, manifesting at the very tips of his fingers.

"I want you inside me," you whispered, bringing your hand to his against your chest, holding tight to his knuckles.

Robby nodded and took his cock in his free hand, sliding it through the syrupy wetness between your legs before he lined himself up with your entrance. He pressed his cock in, just the head at first. Enough for him to notch himself there so he can wrap his hand around the back of your neck instead.

He forced you to look at him, eyes locked together as he slowly pushed all the way inside.

You breathed out synchronized sighs of relief the moment he's seated fully inside you, cock pressed right up against your womb.

You're so tight around him, so wet and warm and perfect. Robby began to gently rock his hips, keeping you steady with his heavy hands. One on your chest, the other at the back of your neck. He can feel your heart beating beneath his palm, pulse elevated in the way his likely is.

"God, Mikey—"

You don't need to ask him to quicken his pace, not this time. Robby heard it in your voice. And some old dogs could certainly learn new tricks.

He finds a rhythm that has your eyes threatening to roll back. The perfect tempo, filling you up and fucking you deep. "My girl," he muttered. "My pretty girl. So good to me. Fuck."

Your spine arched off the back of the leather seat, chest pressed more firmly against his hand. "That's so good, so'fucking—mmm."

"Touch yourself for me, baby," Robby said.

You find your clit and circle it with deft, practiced fingers. Robby took note of the direction you move, cataloging the information for later. "It's so—so big—"

"I know, sweet girl. But you can take it, hm? Can't you?"

"Yes, yes—don't stop, please don't stop I'm so close, I'm so—"

The words are broken in your mouth, overtaken by a wanton moan.

"I know you are," he whispered. "Can feel her squeezing me real tight. You gonna cum for me already?"

He'd said it as a taunt, but in truth Robby was no better. He'd been fighting off his own release from the very moment he'd slid his cock inside you.

"Look at me," he ordered, fingers flexed around the back of your neck. And once you do, a satisfied smile formed on his mouth. "Good. Good. Now cum for me, baby. Give it to me."

Your breath halted, the exhale stuck in your chest. And then Robby could feel your cunt pulse around him, and you let out a ragged whimper as your release rocked through you. "Cum with me, please," you cried. "Want you to cum inside, Mikey."

That's what did him in; the sound of your voice, whining out his name. A moniker he only ever allowed you to call him. So fitting, coming from the soft, bright thing you are. "Shit," he hissed, his own orgasm clouding the edges of his vision. "Takin' it all, huh? Yeah, that's it. That's my girl."

He didn't stop, not until he was well and truly spent. Until he'd fucked all of his release into your cunt, until his cock was sensitive and your breathing evened out beneath his palm.

Robby pressed his mouth to yours tenderly and could feel your smile as it formed. He pulled away, stuffed himself back into his jeans and asked, "What's so funny?"

You shook your head. "Nothing, just…I think Trin is calling me."

It's only when you say it that Robby finally heard the buzzing coming from the front seat. He reached towards it, taking your forgotten phone in his hand and examining the screen to find a photo of Trinity with her head in your lap.

Robby remembered the night he'd taken the photo, some third shift party at John's place you'd insisted on crashing. You'd made friends with Trinity in two seconds flat when she'd confessed her part in his Tinder profile to you, much to Robby's dismay.

He passed the device to you. "Wanna answer it?"

You took your phone, clicked the screen once, and pressed it to your ear. "We're late, I'm sorry, I know," you laughed. "We're on our way. Got stuck in traffic. Order me one of those strawberry lemonades."

Robby helped you find your clothes, tugging your panties back over your legs and righting them around your hips. Your leggings were next, and he tried not to think about his cum that slowly spilled out of you to avoid another stop on the way to the diner.

Robby couldn't fight his grin as he found his shirt to pull it back over his head.

"Trin, no. A shot? It's not even noon—well, yeah, now it is, but—!"

You both climbed to the front of his car, and Robby reached over to buckle you in.

"Well…I mean, if it's a mimosa…"

Robby laughed as he turned the key in the ignition. Knew right then and there he'd probably spend half the afternoon taking care of you, but knew good and well that he'd love every moment of it.

He promised himself he'd give you those rose petals later.

But for now, the vibrancy you've painted in his heart is enough.

"We've got a residential fire at 720 River Row," Brett heard the speakers cry out overhead just as he walked onto the open floor of his station. 

Instantly, his body tensed. Residential fires had the potential to spread and grow beyond measure, especially in the middle of dry season. One wrong spark, and half of California would light up brighter than a Christmas tree. 

"Let's get it moving!" he barked, already stepping to his open locker to shuck on the heavy standard fire suspenders and jacket with Ct. Brett Richards patched to the front flap. His helmet went on next, and his hair flattened beneath as he strapped it in place. 

The familiar wail of a fire truck overwhelmed his senses, and he wondered how he hadn't gone deaf yet. Twenty years on the service without significant hearing loss must have been a new record. He was closer to losing the ability to hear due to older age than continually getting his eardrums blasted on a daily basis. 

With a grunt, he pulled himself up into the passenger seat, and his body lurched when the truck screeched out of the station, wheels finding grip and purchase of the concrete road. 

"Show station 42 on route. What's the status?" he spoke into the radio. 

"Caller said the oven caught on fire. She had an extinguisher on hand, but with dry season, it needs to be overlooked." 

"Understood." He set the radio back into the holder and groaned. "It's just some oven fire." 

The driver chuckled. "Probably some old lady that fell asleep baking a casserole or something." 

Brett gave him a quick smirk. "Yeah . . . probably." 

However, when the truck pulled onto the small residential street with cars littering both sides, he couldn't help but note that the house where the fire had been wasn't the usual old-lady type, normally covered in overgrown grass and a scary amount of lawn ornaments. 

Brett fucking hated the gnomes. 

Instead, this house had a more modern look to it with a beautiful forest green front door paired with a porch goose dressed up with a yellow rain jacket. He snorted; rain wasn't coming anytime in the near future, that's for sure. 

With a grunt, he heaved himself out of the truck, knees slightly tingling from the height. The sidewalk was also well kept, he noted. No cracks in the foundation, no weeds. Whoever lived here was obviously well able to keep up with lawn maintenance. 

To his right, a low whistle sounded clearly through the bright day. "I take back the old lady comment, cause hot damn." 

Brett side-eyed him before looking at the police officer talking to the homeowner, and then, his driver's comment made sense because there you were. 

Beautiful is what hit his mind first and followed by young. Too young for him. 

Even from far away, Brett couldn't see a wrinkle in sight. His hazel eyes took you in. Your hair gleamed and perfectly framed your worry-pinched face. You were wearing an oversized, flour-dusted shirt and basketball shorts that hung past your knees. As you stood there in the middle of your walkway, you shifted back and forth, feet probably burning on the hot concrete, and Brett felt the urge to go over there and pick you right up. 

Instead, he continued walking until he stopped a few feet away, and your eyes widened when they caught on him, and your stomach somersaulted down to your toes. 

There he was: the hot firefighter you saw with bulging biceps as he cleaned equipment just in the entrance of his station as you walked by with bags of ingredients since the store was close enough to where you lived. 

You hadn't been able to get him out of your mind and especially your dreams that had you waking with a warm sweat and tingling thighs that led to a hand dipped between them. You tried not to stare and keep your eyes on the police officer while he finished writing down your statement, but every fiber of your being wanted to turn its attention to the silver fox. 

The officer gave you a nod before turning away with a small greeting to the firefighter. Now, it was just him and a few more men from his crew. 

He smiled at you and stuck out his hand. "Heard you had a fire here?" 

"Yeah," you responded, trying not to come off as desperate as you savored the way you hand fit snuggly into his. "Set the oven a little too high and a little too long." 

"Guessing whatever you were making got caught in the . . . cross fire?" 

"My poor brownies were the only casualty," you joked back, insides beaming when he barked out a small laugh. 

Brett conjoined his hands at his front. "Well, seeing as there's no active fire, I just need to take a walk through for protocol during dry season and make sure everything's in order." 

"Perfect," you said before taking small steps in the direction of your house. "Follow me?" 

He nodded in response, and his thick heavy boots clomped the whole way up your small steps. 

"Cute goose," he muttered. "Though, I think he looks a little hot in that jacket." 

The corner of your mouth twitched. "I have a different outfit for him during the summer, but I've been too busy baking." Your wrist twisted to get the front door open. "His name's Richard, but I call him a little dick because after I bought him and put the sand in, he tipped over right on my foot." 

"Oh?" Brett said as he stepped through the threshold and into your house. "What a coincidence that I share a name with your . . . uh . . . dick goose." He tapped a finger against his name patch. "Though my first name fortunately happens to be Brett." 

Your eyes gleamed. "Glad to finally put a name to a handsome face." 

Oh, you were flirting Brett caught on, and deep inside his chest, his heart fluttered a bit. 

He did his best to not look around your house, but his hazel eyes almost felt drawn to all the little bits and pieces of your evident life within the walls. Although a little hazy from the fire, he could feel that this house was home. 

"You have a beautiful house," he mentioned while you walked him deeper towards the kitchen. "Matches the gorgeous owner." 

You didn't turn around, not wanting to show how red your cheeks had gotten. "Thank you," you finally managed to squeak out just as your kitchen came into view. 

Brett stepped around you and tsked as the sight. The extinguisher foam covered your countertops and oven, and he knew that'd be a bitch to clean. He bent at the waist and looked inside at the racks, eyes scanning for anything resembling a left-over ember. 

"Mind if I take a look at your smoke detectors? You'll have to replace them because of the smoke." 

You twirled a piece of hair around your finger. "I was meaning to replace them before this . . ." 

Above his head, you had at least three detectors that he counted on his way in, and when he looked up with a craned neck, his eyes narrowed. 

"You know these have been expired for a year, right?" His low, disappointed tone sent a shiver up your spine. 

You sighed loudly. "Guess I haven't had time for those either. I don't think I even own a ladder anymore after my ex took his." 

Brett tried not to focus on the burning feeling of jealousy that simmered. "Did they even go off when the fire caught?" 

"No. I smelled the smoke from my bedroom. Normally, I bake low and slow, but I needed to get these brownies over to the bake sale asap, so I tried a higher degree but forgot that the time should have decreased to," you rambled from the top of your head even if the bake sale was completely fictional, and you'd been baking brownies since you could walk. 

But a girl had to do what a girl had to do to get the sexy firefighter to her house. Screw your social anxiety, but setting brownies on fire seemed easier than going up to him and asking him out. And the best part? It all worked according to plan. 

Brett crossed his arms when he finally looked back at you. "These need to be replaced as soon as possible." 

"Got it," you said, nodding along. "I'll pick up a ladder and new detectors next time I'm in town." 

"And make sure that your oven is at the right temperature and the timer is set accordingly. I think your bake sale would prefer your safety over you being tardy." 

"Yes, sir. I'll make sure to keep an eye on the oven." 

Brett tried not to show how much the sir sent blood from his head and down lower. 

"Good." He bit back the want to place girl at the end. "Pretty girls like you don't need to go up in a house full of flames when it can be avoided." 

He liked the way you tore your eyes away from his and the flush that rushed into your cheeks. Your chest expanded fully in a deep breath, and Brett swore you weren't wearing a bra. He needed to get out and fast before he popped a boner in his pants like a teenager. 

"Guess that's everything then," he sighed. 

You wanted to pout, wanted to ask him to stay longer, but after seeing the sweat pooling down his cheeks, you knew he probably wanted to leave and get out of his jacket. You silently cursed yourself for not turning the air down any cooler or not even having something for him and his guys to drink. 

You cleared your throat. "Thank you for making sure that everything's fine. I can sleep well knowing Dick and I are safe." 

Brett tipped his head. "That's what we're here for." 

The two of you made your way back to the front, and you stopped at the door. "Um, Mr. Richards—" 

"Please, call me Brett, sweetheart." 

"Brett," you echoed, and Brett never wanted anyone else to say his name but you. "Are people allowed to bring food by the station if possible?" 

"Yeah," he said, running a hand along his stubbled jaw. "Lots of people do it. I know the guys really appreciate it when someone does." 

"Okay." Thoughts about bringing him something to eat made you go a bit fuzzy, but a few rapid blinks kept you straight. "Stay safe and cool out there." 

"Will do. And don't forget those detectors," he warned playfully, "or Dick might become barbecue." He stepped out onto the porch and then down the step just as the door clicked shut behind him. 

Brett sighed loudly into the air as he rejoined his group. “Let’s load up and get back to the station.” He pulled back up into the passenger seat and slumped in his chair. “So much for the old lady. “

What he didn’t know is you did the same to your front door, back pressed against the wood as you formulated what to make to take to the station once you got your kitchen cleaned up. Desperate, you looked through the fridge and pantry, and somehow, you noticed you still had the right amount of everything for brownies. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The tin filled with fresh brownies warmed your palms while you carried it in the direction of the firestation. Beneath your sternum, your heart clenched and fluttered wildly like a swarm of butterflies had gotten stuck on the way down to your stomach. In just a few more steps, you’d get to see Brett again. It had only been a few days since your planned oven fire, and you guessed it’d be appropriate to wait until you showed up unannounced, but you couldn’t wait any longer. 

Your ears perked at the sound of boisterous laughter the closer you got. 

Not knowing which way was the entrance, you slowed your steps until you got to the large opening of the station. Inside, you caught two guys standing in a not-quite-there half circle with their backs toward you. Thankfully, your steps didn’t echo in your approach, and you got to take a deep breath to calm your nerves before speaking. 

“Excuse me?” you asked, and tempted like a sirens song, they whirled around with surprised expressions. 

The one in the middle with Donovan plastered to his shirt spoke first. “How can we help you?” 

You slightly raised the tin. “I don’t know if any of you remembered, but my oven caught on fire a few days ago, and I wanted to bring a small thank you gift for responding so quickly.” 

Their eyes widened, and the one with Crawford on his shirt smiled widely. “You were the one with the duck on your porch.”

You went to correct him, but a new voice beat you to it. 

“Goose, Crawford. That thing didn’t even look like a duck,” Brett answered for you. 

Crawford rolled his eyes. “It’s a bird with a beak, Chief. Goose, duck, they’re all the same.” 

Brett raised his eyebrows in a greeting to you. “How can we help you, sweetheart?” 

If the two firefighters looked toward their chief with weird, confused faces, you didn’t notice, too busy locking your eyes with hazel ones that you wanted to drown in. 

“I brought brownies.” You tilted the tin for him to look through the clear, plastic covering. “As a thank you for making sure my house wouldn’t burn down.” You thrust them out for him to take. 

His lips twitched and spread into a smile that made his crows’ feet appear around his eyes. “We will definitely enjoy these.” He took them from your hand, and you tried not to gasp softly when his fingers brushed yours. 

You thought he’d ask you to leave, but Brett Richards was full of surprises. He handed the tin over to Donovan before saying anything else. 

“Why don’t you two take these into the breakroom? I have a few follow up questions to ask . . .” He trailed off, suddenly realizing he didn’t even know your name. 

However, you happily provided it for him, and somehow he smiled even wider. He jerked his head in the direction over his shoulder. 

“You got a second for me?” he asked, and you nodded faster than you should have. “My office is just this way.” 

You kept still when his hand planted in the small of your back to push you along with his long strides you almost failed to keep up with until he stopped right at the door.

“It’s not as pretty as your house,” he warned. 

“I bet it’s not too bad,” you replied after he splayed a hand against the grain while pushing it open for you to slip by. 

The gap wasn’t big enough to give you space when you walked through, your shoulder brushing against his firm chest as you did, and a small flash of him pressed up against your body zapped through you like lightning. 

In the office, he had a small desk and two small chairs in front. You chose the one on the right and sat down, hands nervously brushing over your pants in hopes you hadn’t gotten flour on them. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked. 

You shook your head. “A bit too bitter for me, unless you have the most sugary creamer known to man.” 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m all out of that, I fear.” He almost seemed disappointed that he didn’t have what you wanted as he sat in the leather chair behind his desk with a small groan. “Just wanted to ask if you’ve gotten your detectors yet? I know you said something about not having a ladder . . .” 

He watched you visibly brighten, and something told him you’d listened to his words. 

“They just arrived this morning with the rest of my Walmart order. And I even got one of those carbon mo-mono—” 

“Monoxide.” 

“Yeah . . . that! One of those detectors too.” 

He tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t have that one to begin with?” 

Your fingernail found a piece of skin to pick at. How you hated disappointing anyone, especially him. “No. I thought I did, but I guess that just got away from me too.” 

“That’s okay, sugar. As long as you have one now, that’s all that matters. Were you able to find a ladder to get them installed?” 

You looked down at your lap. “I guess that’s why I also came here. I did get a ladder, but I’m worried I won’t be able to get them in correctly. Do you think one of your guys would be willing to come by my house at some point and do it for me?” 

Brett gripped the arm wrests and sank his blunt nails into the leather at the thought of sending someone over to your home, someone getting to spend time with you. It sent jealousy raging through his veins. He blinked slowly to rein in his feelings. 

“Why don’t I just come over,” he settled on. 

“But aren’t you busy? One of those guys called you Chief. I wouldn't want to take any of your time away for something as silly as installing smoke detectors,” you nervously chuckled with a wave of your hand even if you wanted to scream yes. 

He sputtered out a breath. “Nonsense. I’m more than happy to do that for you. Besides, the only ones waiting at home for me are my cats. I think they could wait a little longer for dinner.” 

“You have cats?” you asked, voice high-pitched and excited. “Can I see a picture?” 

Brett dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I have three: two bengals and a tabby that decided my house was its property.” He turned his phone around, thankful that he decided to use a more recent picture as his screen saver. 

You softly took the device and held it to your face. “Brett, they’re so cute!” 

“The bengal on the right is Bagel, then the tabby is Marble, and then the other bengal is Swirl.” He laughed at himself. “Real original, right?” 

Your eyes met his over the top of the phone. “I think they’re absolutely precious. I thought about getting a cat until my friend’s ragdoll had to stay over one time, and he licked frosting right out of the bowl for a wedding cake I was making.” You pouted at the memory. “I had to make a whole other batch and it took forever. So, that’s why it’s just me and Dick.”

“I’m sure Dick is glad that he’s the top bird of the house.” 

“When he’s not falling on my feet that is,” you grumbled before settling into the chair after handing Brett his phone. “Are you sure you’re free to come over? I don’t want to keep you up.” 

Brett leaned forward and clasped his hands on top of his desk. “I wouldn’t have offered to do it if I didn’t mean it. Do you have any plans for tonight? I’d sleep better knowing you’re in a house with proper detectors.” 

You tried to not let that go to your head, along with the idea of Brett possibly sleeping over under those same detectors. So, you did your best to keep calm and smile prettily. “I’m all yours.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

There was one thing you hadn’t thought through in the grand scheme of things. 

The first time Brett had been in your house just a few days ago, he was hidden beneath a few layers of heavy-duty, fire-resistant clothes that completely drenched his figure and hid him out of sight. But now as you watched him install your detectors in plain clothes, saliva pooled around your tongue, eyes trailing his body while he did one of the most mundane things men could do. 

His shirt wasn’t tight at all, but did it ever stretch over his biceps as he used both hands to twist the detector into the ceiling. His hazel eyes tracked his own movements, and his face tilted slightly at the right angles to see where to screw the thing in. You wondered if he was this tentative with other things, face near inches to the circular object. Your eyes trailed lower to where the swell of his stomach sat against the top of the ladder, and a small pudge pushed over the indent. He had one foot settled on a higher rung where his right knee jutted out and his left stayed straight down, but it was his thighs that kept your attention—his sturdy, thick thighs that you wanted to wear as earmuffs. 

“Hey, sugar? Can you hand me the screwdriver I put on your counter?” he asked, not even taking his eyes off the detector. “I just want it to be secured to the ceiling and not fall off in the night.” 

You stood underneath him with wide eyes, not fully comprehending what he asked you. You were way too busy thinking of his bicep wrapped around your neck than the words coming from his mouth. 

When you didn’t answer, Brett finally looked down and met your slightly ditzy expression. 

“Sweetheart?” he questioned again, and the name seemed to finally pull you out of where your brain went. 

“Oh! The screwdriver.” 

“On the—” 

“Counter,” you finished. “Got it.” 

Turning, your hair swished with the movement, and when you disappeared around the corner, Brett sighed and pinched his eyes shut, head resting against his raised arms. Sure, he might have looked as though he were concentrating on getting the damn thing in the ceiling, but installing detectors was something he could do in his fucking sleep. He didn’t need a damn screwdriver; he just needed you out of the room before his cock swelled to the point you could see the print through his pants. He had already been sporting a half-chub since he walked into your home. The ladder could only do so much to hide it. 

Brett didn’t know how much more he could take of your big eyes and need to do everything he asked with a smile and earnestness in your step. 

Fortunately—more like unfortunately—the one he was working on was the last to install, and he was dragging it out more than he should have. 

“Here you go,” you said, tapping the end of the screwdriver on his hip, and Brett nearly jolted at the surprise. 

When had you come back? 

“Thanks, sugar,” he muttered as he wrapped his big hand around the pink tool he got from your small tool kit. 

You pursed your lips. “I know this is the last one, but would you like to stay for a bit? I have pie from yesterday that hasn’t had a taste tester.” 

“Oh, I shouldn’t be here longer than needed.” 

“B-but, you didn’t even get a brownie that I made for you.” 

He smirked slyly. “Thought those were for the whole station.” 

Your foot twisted into your hardwood flooring. “Yeah they were, but you’re the one who came in and checked. I also have coffee . . .” 

“And the most sugary creamer on earth?” 

“You know it,” you giggled. “Whad’ya say, Chief Richards? Stay for pie?” 

He pretended to think for a moment before nodding his head. “Fine. You’re pulling my arm.” He shoved the detector into the holder and placed two hands on the ladder. “Right on time too, because you are now the owner of a sanctioned working smoke detector-ed home.”  

Your hands clapped together. “Thank you so, so, soooo much again. I still can’t believe they had been expired for a full year.” 

Brett jumped down from the top rung on instinct, not bothering to go down one by one. “Most people remember to look closer at the dates when changing the batteries. I wouldn’t go right to saying it’s a good thing your oven caught fire, but who knows what would have happened if your house went up in flames when you weren’t home.” 

“I think a really hot firefighter would have still come to my rescue,” you said with a wink. 

A beautiful flush filled his cheeks, and he tried to clear his throat, but it came out as more of a half-groan. 

“All right, sweetheart, let’s have your pie before you give this old man a heart attack with your sweetness,” he said and started to usher you towards the kitchen. 

“You’re not that old,” you scoffed. Brett sat in one of the chairs at your dining table while you uncovered the pie. “It’s apple; I hope that’s okay?” 

“More than okay,” he responded. “And I’m at least twenty years your senior, sugar, you don’t have to lie.” 

You hummed, dragging a knife through the crust and filling. “What year were you born?” 

“1975.” He caught the wince on your face. “Oh, don’t give me that. Older than twenty years?” 

“Try twenty three,” you said softly. You used a clean finger to swipe the pie off and onto a plate. 

Brett ran a hand down his face. Fuck. You were younger than his daughter. His hands curled into fists. What kind of sick, pervy old man was he acting like? There was no way he was going to give in to his deep desires now, not when you—

“Brett?” you asked, plate filled with pie outstretched. 

He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Sorry; distracted.” 

“Oh.” 

Now he’s made you upset. Double fuck. How dare he? He’d done all this for you: flirty, coming over to your house, letting his jealousy run his mind. This wasn’t your fault. 

The fork you’d given him scraped against the ceramic, and he put a bite in his mouth. He moaned around the metal and let his eyes flutter shut as the flavor of rich spice, apple, cinnamon, and buttery-flaky crust exploded on his tongue. 

“Fuck, sugar, that’s—” 

“Good?” He swore your eyes got bigger with anticipation. 

“That’s the best damn pie I’ve ever tasted. Probably the best damn thing to get in my mouth,” he groaned, already going in for another bite. “This is all homemade right?” 

You giggled again at the way he shoveled the pie into his mouth between his sentences. “Yep. Crust first, cause it always takes the longest. Then the filling. It’s just apples, cinnamon, and honey.” 

“Just apples, cinnamon, and honey my ass,” he grumbled. “This—you should open a bakery.” 

“Really?” Your eyes gleamed. 

“Fucking really. And do it right across the station so I can come by every day. I’d be your best customer if I got to eat this all the time. Probably get too fat to fit in my uniform, but it’d be worth every bite.” 

Your thighs clenched together at the idea of being the one to feed him, to see him every day just because he loved what your hands made. You did your best to stifle the whimper that followed, but the small noise squeaked out loud enough that he looked up at you through his eyebrows just as he put the last bite into his mouth. 

He said nothing while your eyes locked. Instead, he dragged a finger across the plate, tip picking up any crumbs or sticky filling leftover, and popped the digit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. 

“Brett,” you whimpered, tongue peeking out to wet your dry lips. “Can’t do stuff like that.” 

“Like what, sugar? I’m just being the kind guest and finishing the plate you made for me.” He pushed up from the table and stood at full height. “But something’s telling me I haven’t eaten everything yet.” 

In two steps, he towered over you and placed a hand on your chin. His bicep bulged in his sleeve while he applied upward pressure to stand you up, top of your head barely reaching the middle of his throat. His chin dipped. You looked up and noticed how blown his eyes were; pupils almost covering the deepened hazel of his irises. 

His hands rose and cupped your face. You weren’t too sure who moved first, but in the next sharp inhale, his lips met yours, and you melted right into him like butter in a hot pan, hands coming to grip his forearms that you could barely wrap your fingers around. His lips moved against and enveloped yours in hot, heavy lapping motions. 

He bent his knees to get at you with a better angle, and the movement made your hips knock together, drawing moans from both your chests. His hands moved downward, fingers trailing from your neck and tightening around your waist before finding your ass. He squeezed hard, and the feeling had your mouth opening further for more noises to escape. 

Brett found his opening, and his tongue slipped through your teeth. The hot, wet muscle explored your mouth as he took in your taste. If he focused enough, he found a hint of chocolate and coffee. 

“You taste so fucking sweet, sugar,” he moaned out. You took big gasping breaths against his lips. “Need more,” he muttered, more to himself, before taking your lips back against his, tongue diving right back in to swirl and dance against yours. 

You, on the other hand, tasted the remnants of the pie: apple and spice and something completely notable as Brett Richards. You wanted to bottle him, add him to your next dessert. Your hands wandered across his body as he kissed you. Palms flat against his stomach that tensed under your touch. Fingers gripping onto his pecs and feeling the muscle of them under his shirt. 

He pulled back again when oxygen became much too needed, and he rested his forehead against yours. 

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he sighed. “I’m too—” 

“If you say old,” you panted, “I’m going to hit you. Age just makes wine finer, and Brett, you’re the finest man I’ve ever seen.” 

He groaned loudly, the noise echoing in through your open kitchen. His knee buckled slightly, and you stepped up, letting your core slightly brush against the top of his thigh. You whimpered at the pressure, and Brett’s eyes snapped open. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” he tutted before placing his hands back at your waist and turning you around in a fluid motion. You arched into him when the edge of your table dug into your lower back. “What type of guest am I? Making you all needy and not doing anything to help.” 

Without any struggle, he lowered his hands to the plush of your thighs and lifted you onto the table’s surface, legs dangling and spread just enough for him to push between, his thighs barely fitting against yours. The size difference sent a wave of dizziness up to your brain as you noticed how much he swallowed you up. 

His palms rested against your knees, and he bent at the waist to meet your lips again with searing heat and tongue. 

“Brett,” you mumbled against his lips and bucked your hips upward. “Need you.” 

He began to trail open-mouthed kisses along your neck, stopping only to suck and nip at your skin. “I’ll help you, baby.” 

He lowered until his knees hit the small bit of the circular carpet you had under the table legs and his face slotted near your core. He didn’t look away as he hooked his fingers into the waistline of the shorts you were wearing and the hem of your underwear. They both slid down your legs with little resistance, and Brett tossed them to the side. Without the constraints of the fabric, your thighs opened a bit wider on instinct. 

Brett’s throat constricted around an inhale as he stared right at your glistening folds. Almost mesmerized, he ran a shaky finger right down the middle from where your clit peeked through its hood and down to the top of your sopping entrance. Above his head, you keened at the lightest touch, body already begging for more. 

“Easy, sugar. Let me savor this dessert,” he whispered. 

He inhaled deeply, taking in your purest scent, before leaning in. He first dragged his flat tongue along your outer folds, adding to the wetness with his thick saliva. You moaned loudly at the feeling. Your fingers curled around the edge of the table just near his cinnamon sugar curls that you desperately wanted to latch onto as he edged his tongue nearer to where you needed him. 

Stars littered your vision when he finally circled your clit with the stiffened tip of his tongue, your bud rolling with pleasure and heat that had your thighs clenching around his head. Your stomach dipped and tightened, hips softly rocking in small motions to egg him on. 

When you looked down your stomach, his hazel eyes were already looking up at you, the lower half of his face covered by your soft mound as he sucked your clit between his lips. He kissed at her like he kissed you with wanting, languid puckers and tongue. But you needed more of him. 

“Breeetttt,” you breathily moaned. “Please, I need—” 

Your words died in your throat and changed into high-pitched mewls as your walls stretched around the finger he slowly thrusted in. Brett groaned into your pussy at the feeling of your muscles sucking the digit in farther, and the vibrations sent rolling hot pleasure straight to your navel. 

“Ohhh!” you gasped as your thighs tensed. “Feels—fuck!—Feels good!” 

“Yeah?” he asked, pulling back enough to wear his lips gingerly moved against your puffy folds. “Feel how deep I’m inside you? You’re so fucking tight around my finger. I’m going to need to stretch you out with at least three before I can get my cock in you, baby girl.” 

Your hips bucked at his words, and your chest tightened. 

Brett felt the way you clenched down, and in the next thrust, he added his middle finger to the mix. Your whimper that followed due to the filling pressure was music to his ears. He slightly parted the two as he ran his fingertips along your walls, prodding and dragging them to add to your building ecstasy. His wrist twisted so he could start curling them upwards, wanting to find the spot that made you squeal. 

He found it in three tries, and your body tensed and spasmed when he pressed into the spongy spot. 

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he asked before licking a hot stripe from where his fingers dipped into you and up to your clit. 

You nodded dumbly. “Yes, siiirrr,” you slurred, tongue heavy in your mouth. “Feels good. Shit!” 

With a glance up, Brett smiled widely at your fucked out expression and tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. The sight made his cock somehow swell even more, and he fought the urge to bring a hand down to rut against. If he was going to cum, he wanted it to be deep inside you. 

He withdrew his fingers from your fluttering hole and swirled them around your soaked, spit-slick, throbbing clit, causing more moans and stutters of your hips. 

“One more finger, baby.” 

He dragged all three through your folds as he stood from the kneeling position to take your lips back into a kiss. You leaned back to accommodate the way he still had to lean over you. In one inward motion, he pushed his fingers back into you, and you pulled away from his lips to whine loudly at the intrusion, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. 

Brett thought you looked so pretty with your glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, and without thinking, he licked up the tear trails, the small tang of salt mixing in with the sweet aftertaste of your arousal. He then kissed you deeply. A moan ripped through your throat. 

You could taste yourself on his tongue. Your lips sucked on the muscle, chasing after it when he tried to look down at his fingers and how you clenched around them. You were still tight, and your walls had eased, but Brett knew you’d be like a vise around his cock. 

“You’re going to feel so good around me, sugar,” he groaned, already envisioning the feeling of your tight warmth squeezing his length. “Already feel so good around my fingers.” 

“Yeah?” you panted, head tipped back and eyes squeezed shut as you focused on the in and out and in and out and in and out of his fingers. “You too.” 

“Are words getting hard, baby? Are you close to cumming just from my fingers?” he cooed and pressed small kisses along your jaw. “I can feel you tightening. Sooner you let go, sooner I can fuck you, sweetness.” 

“Brett!” you yelped with a buck of your hips. “Wanna cum!” 

“I know you do.” He curled his fingers and lightly thumbed at your clit. The reaction in your body was almost instant as you tensed, muscles preparing for the pure onslaught of rushing arousal that was about to snap. “And I want you to cum for me.” His fingers pistoned into your walls. “I want to feel your pussy clench around my fingers.

Your shirt was still on, but like he imagined you had the first time he was over, he could tell you weren’t wearing a bra. So, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your right nipple hard enough to set off your orgasm. 

In a loud moan that dipped and rose into a higher pitch, your walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers, holding him deep against the spot that made your thighs tense. Your body shuddered and leaned into Brett’s sturdy chest as you came. 

“Oh, good girl,” Brett muttered after unlatching from your nipple and leaving a wet spot on your shirt around the nub. “Cumming so beautifully for me; looking so pretty like I knew you’d be.” His thumb never stopped swiping at your clit to draw the effects of your high for as long as possible. “Can’t wait to fuck you, baby girl.” 

“Brett,” you whimpered, chest heaving against him, hands gripping at his shoulders. You knew he’d probably have crescent nail marks deep in his skin after you let go. “Bedroom.” 

He scooped you up without even thinking. Your bare core sidled up across the rough, scratchy fabric of his pants, and you jerked slightly in overstimulation. Brett said a non-verbal thank you to whoever built your one-story house. He was about to fuck you three ways till Sunday, but the idea of his knees giving out up a flight of stairs would have buried him in embarrassment. 

Knowing exactly where your bedroom was after installing yet another detector on your wall, he kicked the door in gently, and in three large strides, he tossed you onto the bed. Your body hadn’t even had the chance to bounce against the plushness of your duvet before Brett tugged you towards him by your ankles, spine dragging across your mattress, shirt riding up to give him a sliver of your bare breasts. 

Once you got the idea to hook your ankles around his waist, he wasted no time in yanking your shirt clean up over your head. Now, you lied naked in contrast to him being fully clothed, and a jolt of pleasure had your pussy clenching around nothing and your lips pushing into a pout. 

Brett leaned down and ran a thumb across your bottom lip. “Don’t give me that look, baby.” He tapped the side of your thigh with his palm and jerked his head. “Move up and get on your hands and knees for me, sugar.” 

Your torso twisted as you rolled over and began to crawl up the bed. However, the sound of clothes ruffling caught your attention, and you stopped to look over your shoulder as Brett pulled his shirt off and unbuckled his belt. He tossed the accessory to the ground with a heavy clunk before pushing his pants and boxers down in one go. Your mouth went dry before instantly watering as your eyes tracked the way his cock bobbed slightly under the sheer weight of it. 

He was definitely the thickest you’ve ever seen, head already on the verge of purple and smeared in a glinting wetness. He had one prominent vein running along the side, and you were sure he seemed to get thicker at the base before the rest disappeared into a thatch of greying, wiry hair. He gripped himself slightly, running a thumb into the spot between the head and the shaft, and another dribble of pre cum trickled over his knuckles. 

Brett groaned at the feeling of finally getting some pressure around his cock. When you let out the smallest, neediest whine he’d heard from you yet, he looked up and met your eyes over your bare shoulder. 

“What’d I tell you, huh?” he asked. 

He took one step before kneeling at the edge of the mattress. His eyes caught the small bit of drool pooling at the edge of your lip. If he had more time, he would have let you suck at his tip, but he needed to be inside you now. His cock jostled as he placed his hands on your hips and tilted them upwards, his knees knocking against yours to widen your thighs. He shuffled forward until your ass flushed against his pubic bone. 

“Hands and knees,” you whimpered, head already lolling downward. 

A hum rumbled through his chest. “Good; you can listen.” He gripped himself again, positioning the head to slip along your folds before notching it against your entrance. “Ready, sweetness?” 

You nodded against the pillow, but that wasn’t enough for Brett. 

“Use your words, or are you already too dumb to find them?” he grunted. “Haven’t even gotten my cock in you yet.” 

“Please,” you warbled, “please fuck me.” 

“Okay, baby, deep breath for me,” he muttered before slowly pushing his hips inward. A grunt ripped from deep in his throat when his tip slipped through your first ring of tense muscles, and he tried not to tip forward onto your back at the feeling. 

Below him, you felt as though you were already being split wide open, his fingers did little to actually prepare for his size. Your body tensed, and your walls clenched tightly, pausing his movements. 

“Fucking hell, relax for me, sweetheart,” Brett grit through his grinding teeth. “Gripping me like a fucking vice.”

He reached over and down across your hip and slowly started circling your clit to ease himself deeper. After a few moments of gentle stimulation, he felt your walls begin to relax. “There we go. Loosening up so well for me.” 

His hips made a shallow thrust, feeding his cock to your pussy inch by inch. He groaned loudly, and the noise echoed in your bedroom and danced with the pathetic noises slipping through your lips. 

“Biiiggggg,” you panted, tongue peeking through your lips and wetting the pillow case with a small circle of drool. 

“Yeah?” Brett asked. Sweat already beaded at his brow. His body trembled. “‘M not even all the way in yet. Don’t think I can push through—” 

“You can!” you sobbed. “Want it, want it, want it all. Please.” 

His hands tightened around your hips, wanting to leave perfect bruises in the shapes of his fingerprints. “All right, baby. I’ll give it to you.” 

Your breath shuddered as he bullied his cock the rest of the way in through your fluttering walls. You could feel him in your throat. He was so fucking big, and it almost hurt to breathe. Your arms shook where they held you up, your belly tightening with pure pleasure from just being stuffed to the brim. 

Brett sighed in relief when he fully sheathed himself inside, and you choked on a moan because his cock brushed right against your soft spot as his tip kissed your cervix. He continued rubbing at your clit while starting off with small thrusts. A loud squelch sounded from between his cock and your pussy, and his eyes caught the small ring of creamy white already sticking to the hairs at his navel. 

“Baby girl,” he moaned and thrust back in, pushing all the air from your lungs. “Fuck!” 

Your head dropped again so you could see down your stomach, and your thighs tensed at the small bulge of your stomach. You tried your best to balance on one hand to touch it, to squeeze at his cock through your skin, but every time your hand lifted, your other arm wobbled too much. Brett felt the few attempts and paused. 

“Is everything okay, sugar?” he asked, voice filled with concern. 

You nodded. “Can see you.” 

His brows pinched. “You can see me?” he echoed. 

“Stomach.” 

His expression dropped when it hit him. “Oh.” 

He slowly splayed a hand across your stomach and did a small thrust. Right there, in the middle of his palm, he could feel himself dragging through your walls. The thought of him being big enough that he was visible sent a shiver down his and your spines. 

“Oh.” He seated himself inside and pressed upward with his hand. “Damn, fucking—” He sputtered out as you squealed, your insides tightening around his length. “Can feel myself right here. I’m so deep—shit!” 

You tried your best to say something, but your mind went blank, mouth only capable of spitting out whimpers mewls with each jolt of his hips against your ass. Your cheek dug into the plush of the pillow. 

He started to speed up in wet plap, plap, plaps, thighs hitting the backs of yours where your arousal was spreading downward toward your knees. With one particular hard thrust upward, your arms gave out, and your chest now flushed with the bed. 

“Oh, you sweet baby. Can’t even hold yourself up for long,” Brett cooed through his cock reaching depths you didn’t even know could be reached. “Can’t stay put, can’t speak, can’t fucking make sure your smoke detectors are working.” He pulled out, letting his cock slip from your clenching walls. 

Your whine of confusion barely hit his ears before he pushed your hips down onto a pillow he quickly slipped below. Through the hazy and numb fuzz of your brain, you moaned when his weight rested on top of your back, his stomach slotting into the dip of your spine, thick thighs pinning you down.  

He was deliciously heavy everywhere. 

His hips tilted to the side so he could slip back into your soaking pussy. “Is this better for your dumb brain, sugar? Need me to do everything for you? That’s right. You need me to make you safe, make you feel good. Used me to get your house up to date, used my fingers and tongue to get yourself off.”

He pushed upward, and you wailed beneath him at the angle change. You tried to lift your head, but your neck quivered at the weight. 

“Even now,” Brett tutted, “you can’t even hold your head up. But don’t worry, sweetheart, this old man can do it for you.” His freckled arm curled around your neck until your chin rested on the hump of his bicep. “Is that better?” 

You nodded, mouth wide open to take in lungfuls of air. He could even feel a small sliver of your drool drip from the corner of your lips. He smirked against the side of your head. 

“Droolin’ all over me in every place.” His hips languidly moved against you, his cock hitting deep with every single roll. “Mouth, pussy, just a drooly little baby who can’t do anything.” 

With his free hand, Brett reached between you and the duvet that was probably soaking up all your spilled slick that he pushed out of you. The tips of his fingers brushed against your throbbing clit, and he used his thrusts to grind yourself against his fingers. The added pleasure and stimulation was growing to be too much. His hips stuttered slightly when your walls started to clench and keep him buried. 

“Oh, your pussy loves when I play with your clit. She just wants to cum, sweetheart. So fucking tight around my cock.” His thrusts changed into rhythmic, punchy motions. 

“G-gonna!” you managed to squeak out right as your body tensed once and long as you came around him. 

“Fucking—” Brett cursed. 

He did his best to continue keeping a pace to draw out your high and fluttering walls that sucked him in, but he was no match. He thrust in once, twice before his body seized through his own orgasm, cock spurting his release deep inside to mix with the frothy arousal dripping out of you. Having felt like you sucked the life right out his cock, Brett put all his weight on top of you. 

The feeling had you melting right into the sheets, lungs compressing in a breathy sigh of content. 

In the gooey waves of endorphins, Brett rolled you both to the side, his dick slipping from your hole in the motion. However, he was quick to drag his fingers through the mix of you and him that seeped out and push the wet glob right back in. You whined through the tinges of overstimulation, but he quietly hushed you. 

His arms never left your middle as the two of you came down from the high, and he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck while he lightly dragged his fingers up and down the skin of your arm. You gripped onto the arm that was trapped between your body and the bed. 

“Worth it,” you sleepily muttered. 

At the sound of your voice, Brett propped his head up with a bent arm. “What was that, sugar?” 

“I said,” you grumbled as you fought back the urge to sleep, “worth it. Saw you—” Your jaw popped in a yawn. “Saw you at the station; thought you were hot; wanted to say something but I was scared so—” 

His body jerked in a laugh. “Don’t tell me you set your brownies on fire just to get me in your bed.” 

“Stop, drop, and roll, Captain Richards.” You blindly reached for the duvet that had been pushed down to drape it up over both your bodies. “But it worked. Like I said . . . worth it.” 

Brett shook his head before gently kissing your shoulder. “You’re nothing but trouble. Might have to teach you a lesson after you take a nap.” 

“I can take it, old man,” you muttered before letting yourself dip into sleep. 

“We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.”  

You knew the story. You knew what woke in him to see you like that. The ghost of his mother taking her own life would haunt him for the rest of his life, and yours too. But he was supposed to be your rock. And instead all you got was quicksand.

The kids cried often, Mila more than Isaac. She’d snuggle you closer as you cried silent tears whenever the yelling woke her up. At 4 months she had already learned to stop crying whenever you picked her up with fresh tears of your own. Little bundle of empathy.

Isaac always tried to wait for daddy perched on the couch, cars or planes clutched in his fingers as he dozzed off and you'd have to carry him to bed. A two year old feeling tremendously heavy under the pain of post-partum.

That night he came home late, again. You knew Jack wasn’t working, you texted almost daily. Him checking up on you and the kids, knowing far too well his brother was not. You were already in bed when you heard the door and the rummaging in the kitchen.

You went downstairs barefoot, hoping he would accept to eat something. But instead, he was grunting at everything you said.

His plate was still warm when was yelling at you again. Saying he couldn't be home 24/7 to take care of you, that you were the one who wanted kids in the first place, that he didn't have time to be worrying about you while he was working. And then you whispered, foolishly, that he should see a therapist. 

Because you knew that anger wasn't really directed at you. You knew it belonged to your late mother in law. That woman you didn't know but still whispered prayers in her name every now and then. Still saw her in the songs Robby sang to the kids on bedtime. On the little understanding he had about motherhood.

Robby slammed a heavy hand against the counter, his fingers curling into a white-knuckled fist.

You could have sworn the entire house shook. Your heart certainly did, crumbling into dust, because you knew, with chilling clarity, that this was the end.

“Get out,” you ordered, your voice thick with tears.

He looked at you, his face twisted into a mask of cruel confusion. “What?”

“Get out of my children’s house.” Your voice splintered, but the command was absolute.

Robby scoffed, a dismissive, ugly sound. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“The fuck you won’t.” You sneered, the fire of self-preservation finally overriding the fear. “I should have stopped you sooner, but I’m stopping you now. You’re out of your fucking mind if you think this is acceptable.”

He scoffed again, a sound that made your stomach turn. “What are you on now?”

You rounded the counter and stood before him, daring him to see you. “Get out, or I’m calling Jack.”

“Jack? What’s he going to do? Mediate?” He mocked, head shaking in disbelief.

“Considering he’s the one who told me to stop trying to ‘fix’ this the moment your anger turned physical, I think he’s going to drag you out of here and kick your ass.” You pulled your phone from your pocket, your thumb hovering over the screen. “Your choice.”

“Give me that.” He lunged, trying to snatch the phone.

But you retreated instantly, releasing a frightened sigh and raising your arm to shield your face. An intuitive response that betrayed the truth and shot Robby dead right there: you had come to fear him. 

The movement stopped him.

When you finally dared to look at him, the cruelty had vanished, replaced by the raw reality. He took a step back, then another, until he reached for his backpack. “I’m sorry,” he choked out.

He walked out the door.

You called Jack anyway. Let him know what had happened. Twenty minutes later, he texted you confirming that Robby was at his door.

That night, you knew the marriage was over.

“Javi?” you called softly, knocking on the door. You didn’t exactly wait for an answer, though. You knew you weren’t going to get one.

Javi was so deep in his own head, drowning in guilt, that he didn’t want to let anyone near him. For one thing, you’d known him long enough to recognize when he got like this.

And for another, you’d run into Messina in the hallway just as she was leaving his room. She’d only shaken her head and said something about there being no point trying. Almost like she meant there was no point trying to comfort him. Or talk him out of blaming himself.

You knew she hadn’t meant anything bad by it. From what you could tell, she genuinely liked Javi. As her subordinate, of course.

Still, it pissed you off. It felt like everyone had already given up, like none of it really mattered because Peña would get over it eventually. But you didn’t think that way. Not when it came to him. So you walked in without waiting to be invited.

“Fuck, what now? I already said I don’t wanna talk about it,” Javi snapped. That told you he hadn’t even heard your voice when you knocked. He clearly thought Messina had come back. Then he finally looked toward the door.

You saw his body go a little tense when he realized it was you. He hadn’t expected to see you. Not now, not like this. Not even tonight. You hadn’t made any plans to meet. “What are you doing here?” was all he asked.

He was sitting in the chair behind his desk. In front of him sat a half-empty bottle of whiskey, or whatever the hell it was, and a glass that had already been mostly drained.

You found yourself hoping the bottle hadn’t been full when he opened it. He didn’t look drunk, but the last thing he needed right now, while he was blaming himself for everything, was to get completely wasted on top of it.

“I heard what happened.” You slowly walked farther into the room, heading toward the desk. Files were scattered across it, his gun resting on top of them. A small lamp gave off a weak yellow glow. You stopped in front of him.

You didn’t know whether you should touch him. God, you wanted to. But you knew him.

He was too far inside his own head right now, buried under everything he thought he’d done wrong.

If you reached for him or tried to hug him, you’d only make him pull away. He’d shut down before you got anything out of him.

So instead, you slowly sat on the arm of the chair across from him, moving his denim jacket out of the way with one hand.

Javi watched you through narrowed eyes. Suspicious.

And honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Not after what had happened tonight. “I... I know you probably don’t wanna hear that it wasn’t your fault. Messina probably already told you that before I got here, but–”

“You’re right. I don’t,” he cut in, his voice low. He propped his head up with one hand. The other rested between his thighs, his legs slightly spread as he sat there.

Fuck, he looked vulnerable.

Before you could say anything else, Javi spoke again. “What are you doing here?” he asked for the second time.

Honestly, you didn’t know what to say. You wanted to tell him you’d come because you needed to see him. Or that you knew he’d blame himself for Carrillo’s death and that you’d known you would find him exactly like this.

But none of it felt like it would mean anything. Because the man sitting in front of you clearly wanted nothing more than to be left alone with the silence of this shitty room and the alcohol already running through his veins.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” you finally said. And it wasn’t a lie. That was exactly why you were there. “Not now. Not after what happened.”

“What the hell do you know about what happened?” Javi said bitterly. He lifted the glass to his mouth and swallowed whatever was left in it.

“I talked to Murphy.”

Javi let out a quiet laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. It was just a short, bitter breath as he reached for the bottle and poured more whiskey into his glass. This time, he didn’t even bother setting it down properly. He left it sitting crooked between the scattered files and stared into his drink like there might be something at the bottom of it that nobody else had managed to tell him. “So now you know everything,” he said. “Murphy told you how the whole thing went to shit, then explained how obviously nobody’s to blame.”

“He told me what happened.”

“No.” Javi slowly shook his head. “He told you how it ended.” He lifted the glass toward his mouth, but didn’t drink. He just held it between his fingers, his thumb running along the rim.

You watched his hand and noticed the slight tremor. It wasn’t obvious. Barely there, really. But with Javi, even that meant more than someone else breaking down right in front of you.

“The tip came to me,” he said after a moment. His voice was still calm. Too calm. “Straight to me. Nobody brought it in. Nobody made me believe it. I questioned that fucking girl. I decided what she was saying made sense.”

“Because you had no reason to think it was a trap.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours. They looked tired, red, and completely empty. “No reason?” he repeated. “After everything Escobar’s done? All the fake tips, dead informants, people he’s bought off?” His jaw tightened. “I had a thousand reasons not to trust it.”

“And how many tips have you checked that turned out to be real? You can’t know ahead of time every single time.”

“That’s my job.” He said it so simply that the words hit you somewhere under the ribs. “My job is knowing who I can trust. My job is knowing when someone’s trying to put us exactly where they want us.” He set the glass down harder than he meant to, and whiskey spilled over the edge onto one of the files. Javi didn’t even notice. “Instead, I picked up the phone, listened to where Escobar was supposed to be, and passed the information straight to Carrillo.”

“Javi...”

“I saw the look on his face when I went to him with that.” His eyes dropped again. “I told him I believed it.” The words didn’t come easily. He had to force them out, one at a time, and with each one, more tension settled into his face. “And he trusted me,” he added quietly. “He didn’t even ask me more than once if I was sure.” His voice dropped even lower. “He just believed me.”

“Because you’d never knowingly given him bad information.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that helps him a lot now.” He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was his heavy breathing.

You wanted to get up, go to him, and wrap your arms around him so tightly he couldn’t keep going. So he couldn’t say another one of those things he was using to tear himself apart. But you knew if you touched him now, he’d push you away. Maybe harder than he meant to.

“You know how many times I’ve replayed that conversation in my head since it happened?” he asked suddenly.

You didn’t answer.

He wasn’t expecting you to. “Over and over. Every word. Every fucking second.” He dragged a hand over his face, then let it fall between his thighs. “I keep trying to find something I should’ve heard. Something in her voice. Something in the tip. One fucking thing that should’ve stopped me.”

“Why? Because you need to prove you could’ve prevented it?”

His jaw tightened immediately. You saw something shift in him. The pain he’d been holding down started turning into anger. “Don’t tell me what I need.”

“Then tell me what you want from me. What do you need right now?”

“I want you to leave.” He didn’t raise his voice. He said it flatly, without looking at you, like if he sounded calm enough, you might actually get up and leave him there.

“No.”

That made him look at you. “No?” he repeated slowly.

“I’m not trying to make you talk. You don’t have to explain anything to me. But I’m not leaving you alone while you’re clearly trying to drown yourself in that bottle and convince yourself you killed Carrillo.”

The second you said Carrillo’s name, Javi went completely still. For a moment, he didn’t even breathe. Then he planted both hands on his thighs and shot up from the chair. “I don’t have to convince myself of anything.” The chair scraped across the floor when he knocked into it. He took a few steps toward the wall, but the room was too small for him to get away from you or from his own head. He stopped with his back to you, both hands on his hips, his head lowered. “The tip came from me,” he said, louder now. “And I passed it on to Carrillo and sent him there.”

“You passed along information. You didn’t tell Escobar to be waiting for him.”

“You think that fucking matters?” He spun around so fast his shirt shifted around his body. “You think Carrillo’s any less dead because I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger?”

“Escobar killed him.”

“I put him on that street!” His voice slammed into the walls. He wasn’t only yelling at you anymore. He was yelling at Messina. At Murphy. At Escobar. At Carrillo. At himself. At every fucking thing he couldn’t change. “I told him where to go! I told him the tip was good! Then I sat there like a fucking idiot listening to the radio, waiting for him to call and tell me we had Escobar, while he was driving straight into a trap I sent him into!”

“You didn’t know!”

“I should’ve known!”

“How?” you shot back. “Tell me how, Javi. How the fuck were you supposed to know this one tip was a trap?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted. “But I fucking should have!” His voice cracked on the last word.

Just barely, but you heard it. Underneath all that anger, the thing he’d been trying so hard to hide finally broke through. Pure, raw helplessness.

Javi turned his back on you and ran both hands through his hair. He took a few sharp breaths, but they didn’t help. His shoulders kept rising and falling like he’d just run for miles, even though he’d barely moved across the room. “You know what the best part is?” he said after a moment. His voice was quieter now, but the anger was still there. It had just turned back in on him. “This isn’t the first time.”

He slowly turned to face you.

“He’s not the first person I told everything was gonna be okay. He’s not the first person I sent somewhere they never came back from.” A bitter smile pulled at his mouth, but his eyes stayed completely empty. “People around me die. Informants. Agents. Cops. Anyone who trusts me long enough to do what I tell them.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“No. It’s just what you need to believe right now, because hating yourself is easier than admitting you can’t control everything.”

His expression hardened. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I know you’re trying to scare me.”

“Then be fucking scared!” he snapped. “For once, listen to what I’m telling you. Anyone who gets close to me ends up fucked. Carrillo trusted me, and now he’s dead. Helena trusted me too, a long time ago, and look what they fucking did to her. How many more people is it gonna take before you realize this isn’t some goddamn coincidence?”

“So that’s why you’re trying to throw me out? Because you’ve decided you’re protecting me?”

“Yes!” The answer came out immediately. No hesitation. Only after he said it did he seem to realize what he’d admitted.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Javi looked away and clenched his fists. He suddenly looked so exhausted you were almost surprised he was still standing. All the energy he’d had a second ago seemed to disappear with that one word. “Go home,” he said, much quieter now. “Just go.”

“No.”

“Jesus fucking christ, why can’t you listen to me for once?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“This isn’t about what you want.”

“And it’s not only about what you want either.”

Javi shook his head, but this time he didn’t argue. He slowly went back to the desk and grabbed the back of the chair. For a moment, he just stood there, hunched over with both hands gripping it like he needed to make sure his legs were still going to hold him up.

Then he sat down heavily. Not like before. This time, he practically collapsed into the chair. He rested his elbows on his thighs, let his hands hang between his knees, and dropped his head so low you couldn’t see his face.

He looked smaller somehow. Not physically. Just more broken. Like that short burst of anger had taken everything he had left and left nothing behind. “I can’t do this anymore,” he breathed. The words were so quiet you almost didn’t hear them.

You didn’t know whether he meant tonight. Colombia. Escobar. All the dead bodies. Or everything.

“I can’t keep sending people out there and waiting to find out if they’re coming back,” he continued. “I can’t keep listening to people tell me it wasn’t my fault when I was right in the middle of it every fucking time.”

“Javi...”

“I gave him the tip.” His voice was rough, more broken than you’d ever heard it. “If I hadn’t, he’d still be alive.”

“Maybe he would be. Tonight,” you said quietly. “Maybe it would’ve happened next week. Or next month. Maybe he would’ve survived all of it. I don’t know. You don’t know. Nobody does.”

His jaw tightened, but he kept staring at the floor.

“But I do know who killed him,” you continued. “And it wasn’t you.”

“Stop.”

“No.”

“I said stop.”

“And I’m telling you I’m not gonna stop just because you yell at me.”

Javi slowly shook his head. He looked like he didn’t have the energy to tell you to leave again. Like all he could do was sit there, stare at the floor, and wait for you to finally give up on your own. “You don’t know what I’m like,” he muttered. There was no anger in his voice anymore. He wasn’t blaming you either. He just sounded defeated. “You don’t know all the shit I’ve done. The people I’ve used. The people I let walk because it worked for me at the time. How many people I promised we’d protect, only to end up doing fuck all when it mattered.” He swallowed and rubbed his palms together like he was trying to wash off something only he could see. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am.”

“Then maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

This time, it didn’t hurt. Not because it wasn’t cruel, but because you knew exactly what he was trying to do.

He wanted to piss you off. He wanted you to take it personally, get up, and walk out because he didn’t have it in him to make you leave any other way.

And that was exactly why you finally stood up from the arm of the chair.

Javi noticed. His shoulders dropped slightly, like for one second, he really thought he’d done it. That he’d finally pushed you far enough to leave.

But you didn’t head for the door. You walked straight toward him. When you stopped in front of his chair, he still didn’t look up.

He just clasped his hands between his knees and kept his head down, his eyes fixed somewhere near your feet. “Go,” he said one last time. But there was nothing left in his voice that could make you listen.

You reached down and took his chin between your fingers.

Javi flinched slightly at the first touch, but he didn’t pull away. His jaw only tightened, like he was waiting for another argument he’d have to defend himself against.

You held him a little firmer and slowly lifted his head until he had no choice but to look at you. “Then look at me when you tell me I’d be better off without you.” You still had your fingers under his chin, and you could feel how tense his jaw was.

Like even now, he was fighting the urge to look away, shut down, and disappear back inside his own head before you saw anything else.

But this time, you didn’t let him. “Say it,” you continued quietly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you want me to leave because you don’t want me here. Not because you’ve convinced yourself you need to save me from you.”

Something shifted in his eyes. A quick flash of pain that he tried to bury almost immediately. “You don’t know what you want,” he said at last.

“I know exactly what I want.”

“No.” He shook his head, even though your hand made it harder. “You see me like this and think you can fix me.”

“I’m not trying to fix you.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?” The question came out sharper than he probably meant it to, but underneath the anger, all you could hear was exhaustion. Almost desperation. Like he was honestly asking you to explain why you were still standing there when he couldn’t think of a single good reason for you to stay.

You slowly ran your thumb along his jaw. “I want you to stop acting like I don’t get a say in my own life.”

Javi frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This.” You held his chin for another second before letting go. “The way you keep deciding what’s best for me. Deciding I’d be better off leaving. That I should be scared of you. That pushing me away somehow means you’re protecting me.” Your hand moved to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your palm, rough with stubble. “You can’t keep pretending you’re giving me a choice when you’re doing everything you can to make me choose what you want.”

“I want you to be safe.” This time, he said it quietly. No yelling. No bitterness. And somehow, that made it hit even harder.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” His eyes dropped, but your hand stayed against his face. “You don’t know what it’s like waiting for the phone to ring and finding out another person you care about is dead.”

“And you don’t know what it’s like being stuck on the outside, wondering if you’re ever gonna let me in.”

His eyes lifted to yours again.

“I can’t promise nothing will ever happen to me,” you continued. “Just like you can’t promise you’ll always come back. But you don’t get to push me away every time you’re scared you might lose something.”

“I already lost someone.” His voice cracked so quietly you might not have noticed if you hadn’t been standing so close.

“I know,” you breathed.

Javi closed his eyes. For a second, he leaned into your palm. Barely. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it until it was too late to stop himself. There was something so painfully vulnerable about it that your chest hurt. “Don’t tell me it’s gonna be okay,” he muttered. “Because it’s not.”

“Then I won’t.”

“And don’t tell me it’ll stop hurting.”

“I won’t tell you that either.”

He slowly opened his eyes. “Then what the fuck can you tell me?”

You leaned closer until there was almost no space left between your faces. “That I’m here.”

Javi didn’t move.

“That you don’t have to be alone tonight. You don’t have to explain anything or defend yourself. You don’t have to be a good agent. You don’t have to know what happens next. You don’t have to pretend you’re the guy who can handle all of this.” You slid your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck and gently held on. “You can just be here. With me.”

His breath brushed your lips. You could smell the whiskey, but his eyes were focused now. Present. Not as empty as they’d been before. “You shouldn’t want me right now,” he said.

“Stop telling me what I should want.” You brought your other hand to his face, holding him with both hands now.

“I’m fucked up.”

“I know.”

“I could hurt you.”

“Then don’t.”

The simple answer shut him up. For a moment, he just looked at you. Guilt, want, self-hatred, and something that almost looked like fear all crossed his face. Not fear of you. Fear that if he touched you, he might stop thinking about Carrillo for a few minutes. That he might let himself want something other than punishment.

You leaned closer and lightly pressed your lips to his forehead. It wasn’t a kiss asking for anything. Just a brief, warm touch. “I’m not asking you to forget him,” you whispered. “I just don’t want you destroying yourself tonight because of him.”

Javi’s hands finally moved. They closed around yours, still holding his face. He didn’t pull them away. He just held on, like he needed to make sure you were really there. “What exactly do you want from me?” he asked again, his voice lower this time. Then he slowly let go of your hands.

“Right now?”

He nodded.

You lowered your hands from his face, letting them slide down his neck and onto his chest. You could feel his heart pounding beneath his shirt. “I want you to let me stay.”

Javi swallowed. His large hands moved to your hips, gripping the fabric of your clothes. He still didn’t pull you closer, but he wasn’t trying to stop you either.

“And if you don’t want this,” you added, keeping your eyes on his, “then tell me. Don’t tell me what’s better for me. Don’t tell me I should leave. Just tell me you don’t want me right now.”

His jaw tightened again. He didn’t answer for a long time. Then his grip on your hips got tighter. “I can’t tell you that.” The words hung between you, heavy and hot.

You slowly stepped between his spread knees. Javi tilted his head back to keep looking at you as you placed both hands on his shoulders. You gave him one more second. One last chance to pull away, push you back, or say no.

He didn’t do any of those things. Instead, his hands tightened around your waist.

You leaned down and kissed him. Not hard. Not desperate. Careful at first, almost like a question, until you felt his lips finally move against yours.

Something in him gave in. Not the pain. Not the guilt. Just that endless fight against letting anyone touch him.

When you pulled back a couple of inches, his eyes stayed closed. “Look at me,” you whispered.

He did.

You slowly slid one hand down from his shoulder. Javi watched every move, but he didn’t stop you. His breathing only got faster when your fingers reached his belt buckle. “I can still stop,” you said quietly.

Javi looked at you for a long moment, then placed one hand on the back of your neck. “Don’t.”

You didn’t wait any longer. You brought your other hand down and used both hands to undo his belt, then the button of his gray pants. Before reaching for the zipper, you looked up at him again. “I could still stop...” One last chance for him to end this. To tell you to leave.

Instead of answering, Javi slowly pressed the growing bulge beneath his pants into your palm. He lifted his hips just a little, like he was trying to tell you without words that he needed you. He really fucking did.

You didn't hesitate anymore. Your fingers slowly dragged his zipper down, painfully slow. Then you hooked your fingers into the waistband of both his pants and his boxers. “Hm.”

Javi got the message. He lifted his hips again just enough for you to pull them down beneath his ass.

You tugged both his pants and boxers down to his knees. That was all you needed.

He wasn't fully hard yet. Just half hard. The alcohol and everything that had happened that night were still getting to him.

But you knew exactly how to fix that. You spat into your palm.

Javi's breath caught the second he saw it.

Then you wrapped your wet hand around his cock. At first, you didn't even stroke him. You just slowly spread the slickness over him, running your hand from base to tip, making sure every inch of him was covered.

His stomach rose with a slow, heavy breath. His breathing got rougher. His hands found your hips again like he needed something to hold on to.

That's when you finally squeezed him. Firm. Hard enough to push every bit of the night's bullshit out of his head. You wanted him here. Right now. Feeling nothing except your hand moving around him.

You felt him getting harder in your palm. A little more. Then even more.

“There you go,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over the head of his cock, already slick with precum. Now he was exactly where you needed him.

Javi's hand suddenly came up to your neck, pulling you into a kiss. His tongue was in your mouth almost instantly, impatient, desperate, like it was the only thing he wanted right then.

You sighed into the kiss, heat pooling low in your stomach. You could already feel yourself getting wet. Still, you kept your focus on him.

While your tongue moved against his, your hand finally started stroking him for real. Long, steady strokes. Your hand slid over him once. Twice. Three times. Four.

Javi let out the quietest little moan against your mouth. You'd barely have heard it if you hadn't been this close. “I need you...” he whispered. Like he didn't even mean to say it out loud. Like part of him was still trying to fight it. But he was already too far gone.

You let go of his cock, now fully hard and ready for you. “Okay,” you whispered, barely loud enough to hear. For once, you were glad you’d worn nothing but a short skirt  in the Bogotá heat. You didn’t have to waste time taking off your pants. You just pushed your skirt up over your hips and spread your legs enough to climb onto his lap.

Javi watched you with dark eyes. One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, like he was making sure he stayed hard.

You slowly lowered yourself toward him. You could feel the heat coming off his body, and just before the head of his cock reached your folds, Javi seemed to know exactly what you needed.

With his free hand, he slipped your panties to the side. He ran a finger between your folds, making you gasp as a sharp wave of need rushed through your body.

You didn’t wait another second. You lowered yourself onto the head of his cock. Painfully slowly, you took him inside you, feeling every fucking inch as his thick cock stretched and filled you.

You both moaned as you slowly sank down around him.

Javi’s hands shot to your ass. His fingers dug into your skin as he pulled you down harder, like he couldn’t wait another second. Like he needed to be buried inside you now.

So you gave him what he wanted. You lowered yourself the rest of the way until your pussy had taken every inch of him. You grabbed his shoulders and looked at him.

Neither of you looked away as you rolled your hips and started moving.

Javi’s eyes narrowed, but they never left you. Like he needed something to focus on. Like holding your ass wasn’t enough. He needed all of his attention on you. His whole body. Even then, he let you set the pace.

You rolled your hips in slow circles, lifting yourself every now and then before sinking back down onto him again. Letting him feel your walls tighten around him. Feel your body pulling him back in. Every time you came back down, the room filled with the quiet, wet sound of your bodies coming together.

He felt huge inside you. Hot and deep enough to make your thighs shake every time you took him all the way. Javi breathed hard beneath you, every breath rough and uneven.

You could feel every muscle in his shoulders tighten beneath your hands. His chest rose faster, and when you rolled your hips again, a low, rough sound caught in his throat. “Fuck...” he muttered. It almost sounded like a warning. Or maybe he was begging you not to stop.

His hands weren’t just resting on your ass. Even though he was letting you control the pace, his fingers dug into your skin hard enough to hurt in the best way.

Every time you lowered yourself onto him, his hips lifted without him even thinking about it, pushing himself just a little deeper inside you.

You could feel his pulse racing beneath your hands where they still rested on his shoulders. You picked up the pace, rolling your hips a little faster before leaning in until your breasts were pressed against his chest.

Javi tipped his head back. For a second, his eyes fell shut. The way your pussy tightened and pulsed around his cock was getting too fucking intense. Between the alcohol still in his system and everything you were doing to him, whatever control he had left was starting to slip away.

Javi lifted his head again, looking for your face. His eyes were completely dark now, unfocused but fixed on your lips. One hand left your ass and slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. “Don’t stop,” he breathed against your mouth, his hot breath still smelling like whiskey. “Fuck... don’t let go of me.” His body started moving beneath you without thinking, his hips lifting to meet yours every time you came back down.

The change in rhythm sent a sharp wave of pleasure through your lower stomach, and your muscles tightened around him as you found the angle that brought both of you closer.

Exactly where you wanted to be.

Where he needed to be.

You sped up, settling into a hard, steady rhythm. Right then, there was nothing except your warmth and your skin. And somehow, that reached the part of him that hurt the most.

His hand slipped from the back of your neck, both hands moved to your hips, gripping you so hard you’d probably have bruises tomorrow, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was him thrusting up into you, his hips lifting every time you came back down. It was desperate. His body trying to drown out everything going on inside his head.

“Javi...” you breathed as that familiar, sharp pressure started building low in your stomach.

His eyes closed the second he heard his name. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, buried his face in your neck, and took a deep, shaky breath.

You could feel the heat of it against your skin, mixed with sweat.

“I can’t...” he growled into your neck, his voice rough and completely wrecked. “Fuck... I can’t do this anymore.”

You didn’t know if he meant he was about to come, or the whole fucking day, Carrillo, the blood he thought he had on his hands, or the way everything around him was falling apart.

It didn’t matter. Right then, it was all the same thing.

You grabbed a fistful of the thick hair at the back of his head, pulled him even closer, and moved your hips as fast as you could. The friction was almost too much. Your walls clenched hard around his cock, sending waves of heat through your entire body.

A raw, broken sound tore out of Javi, somewhere between a growl and a sob.

Then it hit you. Your orgasm tore through your body all at once. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your body tightened around him in hard, uncontrollable pulses.

Javi felt every one of them. That tight, pulsing grip pushed him right over the edge. He sucked in a sharp breath, then came inside you with a loud, broken moan that sounded like pure relief tangled up with every bit of pain he’d been holding inside. His whole body went rigid in the chair. His hips jerked up into you, and his head fell back.

You felt every hot pulse of his release inside you. You felt him shaking from head to toe.

It went on for several long seconds, like everything was being ripped out of him all at once. Not just his cum. The anger. The helplessness. Carrillo.

And when it finally faded, Javi sagged beneath you. His grip finally loosened, and he let his head fall forward, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

He stayed there, folded into you in the chair, breathing fast and hard while the room slowly went quiet around you.

His body was no longer rigid, but you could still feel the tension sitting heavy in his shoulders. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, though he wasn’t holding you tightly anymore. It felt more like he was hanging on, like he was afraid that the second he let go, all the shit in his head would come rushing back. 

You lifted one hand from his shoulder and ran your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

After a while, Javi took a deep, shaky breath. He pulled his face away from your skin and lifted his head to look at you. His eyes were half closed, his jaw still tight.

“There’s one thing you need to know,” you said quietly but firmly, your voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Javi lowered his chin a little. “No, please...” he muttered, his voice rough.

“No. Listen to me, Javi.” You took his face in your hand and made him look at you.

His dark eyes were unfocused and exhausted when they met yours.

“None of this fucked-up night was your fault,” you said slowly, making sure he heard every word. “Carrillo chose to go there. Escobar killed him. Not you. And if you’re gonna sit here blaming yourself because of some fucking tip that turned out to be a trap, when there was no fucking way anyone could’ve known, then you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

Javi just stared at you for a few seconds.

You saw the old reflex kick in. The need to argue, snap at you, tell you to fuck off, or shut you out again.

His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. But he didn’t have the energy for another fight. Whatever anger he’d had left was gone. Instead, he let out a long breath through his nose, closed his eyes, and slowly shook his head. “You’re fucking unbearable,” he muttered. His voice was low, with no sarcasm or anger behind it. He just sounded completely exhausted.

“I know,” you said softly.

Javi’s hands tightened around your hips.

He hadn’t fixed anything. He didn’t agree with you, tell you that you were right, or promise things would get better. Javi Peña didn’t work like that.

But he didn’t push you away either. He let you stay there on his lap, and he let your words sit between you. Right then, that was the most he could give you.

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Robby is watching you from Trauma One.

His sweetest kept secret.

For some reason, you have managed to bypass the seven-week itch and Robby thinks it’s down to being younger than him by a margin; meaning you often ran circles around him. 

From his obstructed view, he can occasionally capture you stretching above the line of the monitor like a docile cat. Before you reduce yourself to a bad posture again, Robby notices that soft fatigue that glazes over your watery eyes when you yawn. A sleepy look that—since the big shift in your non-labelled situation—he can recognise. 

Because you’ve started staying the night.  

Dr. Mohan is leading a hilar flip when he asks her, “You got this?” in which she gives him a strained smile alongside a curt nod; the tension still taught between them. 

He backs out of Trauma One and takes a leisurely stroll up behind you. You’ve dozed off somewhere in between him habitually sanitizing his hands and pulling a singular latex glove from a box nearby. He spares you a moment, so he can read the long waiting list of patients allocated to rooms across the department. 

Snap! 

You jolt awake from the feeling of thin rubber striking the back of your neck. You peel your eyes open to see Robby bending at the waist to look at you warmly. 

“Hello,” he says sweetly, his smile reaching his eyes, “Good sleep?” 

“I’ve had better,” you grumble and rub at your eyes, “I was just catching up on my long overdue notes like you asked me to do.”

Robby hums, “It looked like it too,” he chirps sarcastically and takes a deep inhale as he speaks again, “Save the charting for later. I’ve got a patient with GERD that has your name written all over it. Easy case to wake up to.”  

You emphasise your lack of enthusiasm as you stand, “You just told me to catch up on my charting.” it comes out as a whine. 

“Yes, I did. Then you started dozing off at the workstation, so now, I’m telling you to follow me so we can get this patient discharged and free up a bed,” Robby lilts as you catch up with his pace, his eyes on every corner of the PTMC. 

“If I have to redo my third-year of residency because of your indecisiveness on where to put me, Dr. Robby, I will be filing a report against you,” you grumble in discontent. 

Robby huffs a laugh. “Ho-ho. I’ll be sure to send you flowers.” 

“No you won’t.” 

“No, I won’t. Not for that anyway.” Robby advises you casually, he spares you a glance over his shoulder with a crooked smile on his face, “Because you won’t have to redo your third-year.”

The easy banter between the two of you makes your stomach burn with giddiness. 

You liked how things were going with Robby. Under the radar, no strings attached. Though, somehow, you both seemed to be getting a little tangled in your…well, entanglement. 

It was proving to be difficult to not have the boundaries blend into a real thing with all the bells and whistles of emotional feelings attached. The initial intentions were simply just for sexual pleasure—and then you started getting pleasure by just co-existing.

It was messy. But it was your kind of messy. 

McKay catches up to you, bumping your shoulder with hers, “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you all morning.” 

“About to give a patient a shot of Mylanta for his GERD,” you respond quietly, “Dr. Robby caught me sleeping.”

“Yikes.” she cringes, “Well, he’ll keep you right.” 

He has been for the better half of the year, in more ways than you know. Is how you want to respond to Cassie’s innocent statement. You settle for the latter of a hopeful smile and shrug of your shoulders. 

The three of you come to a slow halt in front of the patient bay Robby had selected for you off of the board. 

You peer into the window of the room. 

A bucket of ice cold water dumps over you.

“I can’t take this case on,” you blurt in a panic, which in turn has Robby and McKay’s head cock to the side, because what do you mean you’re rejecting a case as a R3. You shake your head, “No, seriously. It sounds stupid, but I matched with that guy on Tinder, and…it didn’t end on good terms.” 

It was true. The male sitting upright on the gurney, in a hospital gown one size too big for him, was currently under the status of blocked on your phone. 

Things had been going well within the app at the time, you matched, connected over menial interests and then took the conversation to text message. You must’ve missed the lesson in life that made the translation of app messaging to text messaging the equivalent to a hard launch into a relationship with a guy you had never met face-to-face. 

Because—and what a story to weave into a one truth and two lies game it had come to be—whilst you were elbow deep in a wide array of traumas that wheeled through the doors of the PTMC, this guy had left exactly 54 text messages, 32 missed calls and 1 beautifully arranged voicemail that poetically told you that you fumbled the catch of the century. 

(Fish were slippery for a reason, right?)

Even with the slight malicious tone blurred between his words, you still kept the voicemail; because it was deeply comforting to play to your co-worker Dennis Whitaker at 4PM after his patient had just coded. 

McKay dips her head to speak lowly to you. “You mean he’s the guy?” 

“What…guy?” Robby’s question is lost to the wind when you squeal out confirmation to McKay that the patient was in fact, the guy. 

He watches the exchange between you and McKay like a third party stuck behind a noise cancelling window. Somewhere amongst the back and forth with hints of worry and mild amusement, Robby starts to feel left out from the bigger picture. 

Tinder. Voicemail. Blocked, is all he took away from this. So…he frowns and crosses his arms across his chest.

“Wow. In the flesh…I’ll swap you for Central 8,” McKay barters, “Utensil through the nose.” 

“Can someone tell me what’s going on here?” Robby cuts through with his hands up, “You have history with this guy?” he thumbs to the door of South 15.

You nod, “Not so much a history, more a brief encounter that’s funny to talk about over drinks.” 

“Yeah. Well, we—” he gestures between you “—aren’t having drinks.” Robby supposes there’s some sort of streak of jealousy going on in his voice, “Can you catch me up to speed? This guy needs a shot.” 

You launch into a shortened version of the story of how this man came to gain such a notoriety that extended all the way into the pit of the PTMC and used for comedy relief after patient coding. Robby, for all intents and purposes, is trying his best to keep a neutral, maybe slightly concerned facial expression as you gesticulate through a brief recap of how you and this guy came to be.

It’s poorly timed the way the envy flares in his chest. He cranes his neck to take a look at the patient again, brows in a pinch because seriously? You had been setting up a potential, future relationship with that? 

Then you casually drop into the conversation that the male had informed you that someone like you, served no purpose for a man with such a catalogue of aptitudes. (He works in finance.) 

And Michael Robinavitch doesn’t like that.

“So, that’s your type?” Robby physically cannot help himself. It’s like he’s purposely being conspicuous. 

You hesitate in surprise, “Obviously not? I don’t really have a type, per se.” (You do. He’s staring right at you.) “I mean, this was all before…” 

“Before?” Robby goads, shifting from one foot to the other, he sinks his hands into his fleece pockets, pulling at the lint gathered there as the words get stuck in your throat. “Alright. I’ll take the case. In the meantime, you can go back to catching up on your notes. I’ll come find you afterwards.” 

“Dr. Robby, I’m happy to swap cases with her—” 

“I’ve got it.” Robby cuts McKay off with a curt nod and polite smile—something she isn’t buying. 

McKay surrenders, but not without flitting her eyes between the pair of you. If there was anyone that could read signs a mile off, Cassie McKay was the woman for that. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t press on the matter as she breaks away from the group. 

“Discreet, Dr. Robby,” you murmur. 

Robby pulls a face that is ridiculously handsome and borderline cocky, “I’ve got this. Charting. Go.” 

Robby finds you at a different workstation much later on. More awake, a few more cases under your belt, but still wearing a notable level of bleariness. He provided the shot of Mylanta to your ‘what could’ve been’ and spent half of his time between other patients, rendering to the insecurities of the probability that he was the oldest male you have ever been with. 

He mulls over his words until he finds a way to express this to you. 

“So…Tinder?” 

“Nope.” you look up at him, “Offloaded the app.”

“Hm.” Robby nods with a frown and then decides to put some feelers out there, “Do…you think I have a predisposition to geriatric behaviours?” 

Your fingers halt on the keyboard. The patient notes on the monitor are forgone for an easier distraction. The expression of perplexity is hard to squash when your brows pinch at the question that has seemingly been plucked from the thin air of the PTMC. 

Robby stands at full height over the central workstation. Brown eyes shimmering beneath the clinical lighting, there was an ease in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before and the look of innocent curiosity blended nicely amongst his weathered features. 

His long fingers tap idly at the surface top. 

You hesitate, and then point a finger to your chest, “Are you asking me?” 

“Well—” Robby exhales through his nose as he leans against the workstation, his forehead creasing as he peers over the rim of his glasses at you. “—I’d like to think you could give me some biassed insight.” 

He tosses a lopsided smile in your direction, and you harness some restraint to ensure that from an outsiders perspective that this was an ordinary conversation between the Chief Attending and a third year resident. When you poke your tongue into the flesh of your cheek to prevent a broad smile spreading across your features, that is when Robby mirrors the amusement filled to the brim in your eyes. 

Workplace relationships came with hardships. 

It was becoming evident that having a loosely labelled ‘relationship’ with Michael Robinavitch, the long-time bachelor of the PTMC, was a whole different ballgame altogether. 

It was a long-standing commitment, the act of secret keeping that is. An oath to keep things under wraps, whilst also balancing the navigation on what to do when the leak eventually becomes noticeable—all whilst surviving a twelve hour shift on a protein bar and a prayer. It meant that you were met with hurdles like: how morally grey is it really to sleep with your boss, who could also provide you with a gleaming recommendation at the end of your residency? 

The answer fell somewhere in the ‘power imbalances’ category in the tedious employee handbook. 

(Luckily for you, you only skimmed the surface on the hierarchical structures chapter.) 

It also meant that Robby would often approach you throughout the day with a bucketful of insecurities to unload in a feeble attempt to salvage the dignity that he lost on the way. Unfortunately—he thinks, for you anyway—his keen interest to receive intermittent reassurance from you that the gap in your ages was justifiable, through the form of abnormal questions that dogpiled onto your already stressful day; was his way of seeing the world through your eyes.

It was sort of…pendatically romantic. 

You begin to type your notes again, “Did Javadi school you again?” 

“No…” Robby frowns at the thought, “Just extending some morbid curiosity.” he leans one arm against the workstation and scans the rooms closest within his vicinity. “And, you can put an end to my suffering right about now—”

“You act your age.”

Robby slowly edges his attention to you. 

“Act my age?” 

You let out an airy laugh, “That’s a good thing. It means you didn’t peak in your formative years. Or the years following that.” 

“Huh.” Robby clicks his tongue as he straightens up, shaking a finger in your direction whilst he reads off the board, “Pinning this for later. I did not like the way you worded that.” 

“You got it, boss.” you track his movements as he rounds the workstation to depart it. 

Robby lets out a cackle from the back of his throat as he leaves, angling his body with his hands up to allow space for Trinity Santos to stroll past him. She occupies the vicinity in his immediate absence, her jaw slack as she stares over her shoulder at the humoured physician disappearing into the south-end of the department. 

As she idles up to the workstation, her brunette hair swishes around when she turns her attention to you. 

“What did Dr. Goofy want?” she asks plainly. 

“Dr. Goofy?” you repeat, unable to prevent your face from cracking with mirth. 

Santos shrugs, “Yeah. He’s been…like super chill recently. He seems happier? I don’t know. There’s an underground betting pool going on about the source of Dr. Robby’s joy.” 

“Really?” you brighten at the thought, “Have you put money on something?” 

“He’s getting laid,” Santos admits, her eyes narrow whilst she looks around, lowering her voice at the same time, “I just…don’t know who. I mean it has to be someone in the PTMC, right? I like to think he’s like a caged animal—the hospital and his apartment are the only two roaming spaces for the guy.” 

You hum, locking the computer. “Or he’s going to therapy?” (You knew that wasn’t true. Just throwing Santos off her scent.) 

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Like the rest of us are.” 

“True.” you stand and stretch your spine until there’s a soft crack. The clock above ticks just over the next hour, “I’m going to spin round the perimeter and grab a coffee.” 

Trinity saddles up into the desk chair you had resided in for the last fifteen minutes and gives you a two-finger salute as you walk away. 

There’s a release of breath that escapes you once you turn down the corridor toward the coffee station besides Pedes. The news breaking that Robby’s sudden one-eighty into an optimistic nature following some questionable behaviours for a male edging into his fifties, was being highlighted amongst the gamblers of the Pitt; and that was enough to have your pulse quicken. 

It wouldn’t be such a crime to be unearthed by your co-workers. At some point, honesty would be the best policy and you weren’t so sure that the on-call rendezvous would go under the radar for much longer. However, it would feel similar to a humiliation ritual if your situation were to be exposed through sticky notes on the whiteboard in the dispatch room and a lump sum at the end of it. 

When you think about it, you take the mental note to take a leisurely stroll toward dispatch to try sneak a glance at the betting pool exclusionary toward one Chief Attending. 

The slop of coffee sputters into the white styrofoam cup with you patiently waiting with a yawn to encapsulate the low energy levels from spending the night at Robby’s, that had finally caught up to you mid-shift. You slow blink as the liquid fills to the brim of the cup, adding your preferences to the sorry excuse of a caffeine hit. 

You press the lid around the rim until it gives a soft pop. 

By some hideous trick of unfortunate timings and coincidental placement, when you bring the steaming hot coffee to your lips, Robby zooms into your periphery and swipes it out of your hand in hurried passing. He plants it at the coffee station as he ushers you with urgency with a hand to your back. 

The touch would have sent your stomach swirling—especially if it had been hours since the last—if it weren’t for your open mourning over the loss of caffeine searing your taste buds. 

You let out a longing whine, “My coffee.” 

“Will be reheated. By me, personally.” he swings the door from North into Central and manoeuvres you toward the South bays. “Right now, we need you in 15 with an AFib cardioversion.” 

“We?” you repeat, “Am I the guest of honour for this cardiovert?” 

Robby backs into the door of 15 with his hands already slathered in sanitiser. He tilts his chin, exuding healthy amounts of cockiness. “This is a teaching hospital, regardless of a more senior role. Let me teach you,” he croons. 

You chew back a snarky remark about Robby getting a new hobby instead of ‘peacocking’ around you for some telepathic praise. Instead, you find yourself opposite Robby as he snaps the latex gloves up to his wrists and observes the patient whilst Mel, beside you, presents the case to him. 

The patient is within your age range. Sort of handsome if you thought about it for too long. He looks up at you, his eyes glazed in awe. It was as if the white lighting overhead had created a halo effect around your head and he was witnessing the presence of an angel in real time. 

He gives you a lovesick, dopey smile. (You get that a lot.) 

Which, considering his circumstances, was a good sign in the grand scheme of things. 

“They hire from heaven or somethin’?” his question is met with a blanket of silence. His chest rises and falls at an unsteady pace—part of you wonders if it’s his condition or if it’s down to the fact that he is quite taken with you. 

Mel glances between the pair of you as she preps the propofol. 

The monitor beeps behind Robby, who silently tilts his head to see how you approach the compliment.

“Oh.” your eyes drift to Robby who scrunches one eye shut, his lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate. You give an airy chuckle, “Delivered especially for you, Mr…” you look to Mel who mouths the patient’s surname, “King—Quinn.”

Robby glares at you, each wrinkle in his forehead lined with judgement that makes your skin prickle. “Mel, what is the safe window for cardioversion?” 

“Uh, twelve hours.” 

Brown eyes find you again. “What happens after that?” 

“Increased risk of embolic stroke from left atrial blood clot,” you say, eyes following Robby’s direction to the monitor as he encourages you to continue the diagnosis, “…Which he doesn’t have.” 

“Good,” he mutters softly. (You give him a warning glance to end the praise there.) 

Mr. Quinn is in an immediate state of sedation with a successful cardioversion that sends him into a sinus rhythm that will need a few hours of monitoring. Something you don’t jump at the chance to do to lessen the work load that was quickly piling up on your shoulders. 

You exit the room with Robby in tow. 

He walks a few paces behind you, head on a swivel whilst he takes a headcount of fresh faced med-students roaming around the department. Once you’re out of earshot from nearby gossips—Princess and Perlah—Robby bends slightly to talk into your ear. 

“I think you should give patients similar to your age, a wide-birth.” his tone is playful in its emphasis at the very least. 

You tut, “Why encourage patient negligence? I’m clearly a crowd favourite.” 

“Tell that to the grey hairs you give me.” Robby pinches your wrist as he takes over you, heading in the direction of Pedes. Presumably to the coffee station, where your abandoned coffee remains—you hope anyway. “Reheated coffee coming right up. I’ll come find you.” 

“You seem to be doing that a lot today,” you call back to him. He doesn’t respond. 

You decide to double back toward dispatch, to cash in the mental note of placing a bet on the secret betting pool on Robby’s newfound happiness. As always, you find Ahmad standing at the door with his thumbs tucked into his belt loops whilst he scopes his surroundings. 

He looks bored. So, you give him something to be excited about. 

“Do my ears deceive me, or is there some exclusionary betting pool going on that I wasn’t aware about, Ahmad?” you sing as you approach him. 

Ahmad instantly brightens, “Maybe.”

“What have the wagers been so far?” 

“$40 on new motorcycle, $20 on a pay rise, another $20 on pussycat.” Ahmad glances at you with a knowing smirk, “Santos submitted that one.”

“Go figure,” you mumble.

“Are you in, doc?” 

You nod and reach into your scrub pocket, “Sure, why not. I’ll put…$20 on a mid-life crisis.” 

Ahmad smothers his laughter behind his fist. “That’s heartless. Alright. $20 on mid-life crisis.” he takes the bills from your grasp, “You’re lucky he ain’t part of this bet. That recommendation you need after your residency? Dust, if Robby knew.”

“It can be our little secret until then.” you tap at your nose. 

“What can?”

The timing of Michael Robinavitch was impeccably vexing. As the eyes and ears of the ED, most of you began to fear that he was presenting evidence of omnipresence. He appears, he soaks up the happenings, and then he dissolves into the chaos. 

If you wanted to be the one to water the reasoning down, it would be the fact that Robby was slowly becoming the South Pole magnet to your North Pole magnet and you just happened to create such a forceful magnetic field across the department, that it was near impossible to not drag himself toward you when he got the chance. 

He’d just call it grabbing you a well-earned coffee. 

You don’t bat an eyelid as you speak.

“That would defeat the purpose of secrets, Dr. Robinavitch.” you take the coffee from his grasp, fingers intentionally overlapping. You don’t flinch when you feel the card that had been conveniently placed on the underside of the cup—fingers curling to conceal it from Ahmad’s view. 

Robby steps back and gives you a subtle nod. 

On-call room. Fifteen minutes. 

Ahmad holds his hands up in surrender, “I’m out on this one.” 

He manoeuvres himself out of the situation with ease, leaving Robby and you exactly where you wanted to be. Out of earshot and in each other’s company. 

You take a sip of your coffee, kissing your teeth at the bitterness. “You need to be a little more subtle.” 

“That…is what the on-call room card is for.” 

The next thing you knew, you were slipping into the on-call room five minutes after Robby. He meets you in the middle of the room with a face melting into unfiltered fondness, tugging you in by the crook of your elbow, his fingers featherlight against your arm as he envelops you into a warm embrace. 

This was one of the very few places where CCTV couldn’t capture grainy footage of your bond. So, you soak it up when you can. 

With your ear against his chest, you can hear the low rumble he lets out from being content where he is. You tilt your chin upward and he’s quick to catch your lips in a chaste kiss—greedily taking a second.

Being deprived of affection all day, you relish in his undivided attention. 

Robby is staring deeply into your eyes, swaying you both. He decides to take a leap of faith, “Stay tonight?” 

“Two nights in a row?”

“Yes…” Robby grumbles in a warning. 

A smile creeps onto your face. “I think this could be a healthier habit for you to adopt. No reason for me to say no.” 

Crows-feet prominent, Robby smiles and dips to kiss you again. You pull away and begin to pick at the bobbling on the fleece he wears. He keeps you in the warmth of his arms, tucking his chin to watch you busy yourself. 

After a couple of seconds, he brings up a relevant topic of discussion. 

“You want to tell me what that was about with Ahmad?” he coos.  

You give him an innocent expression, “No idea what you’re talking about. We were just having a discussion.” 

“Ah.” Robby draws his brows together, “Nothing to do with the wagers being placed against the reasoning behind my…” he takes a deep breath, “upbeat tempo these days?” 

“Don’t make a snitch out of me, Robinavitch.” you nudge his chest in disbelief, “How’d you know about it?”

“Well. This is my department. I know the inner workings of the entire ecosystem, sweetheart,” he croons before adding, “Plus, Abbot was ecstatic to be the one to tell me.” 

You scoff at the revelation. It just had to be Jack Abbot. 

“Are you mad?” 

“Oh, I think I’ll survive the outside noise for a little while longer.” Robby traces your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, in a way that feels less along the lines of no strings attached. “What did you put your money on?” 

“Something not relating to your sexual deviance.” you tease and Robby brings his fingers up to tug at your earlobe. You moisten your lips and bare your teeth in a sickly sweet smile to soften the blow, “I put $20 on mid-life crisis.” 

Robby’s brows shoot to his hairline, squeezing his eyes shut as he gives his head a wobble to digest your words. There was a conversation that needed to be had somewhere in there; just much, much further down the line. 

And outside of the PTMC. To preserve both of your sanities.

You find yourself trailing the palms of your hands down Robby’s forearms—half covered by the rolled up sleeves of his fleece—to soothe his outward reaction of immediate discontent at the accusation you haphazardly flung out. 

A fucking mid-life crisis.

“You…give me a headache,” he says earnestly.

“I know. But you like it.” (Correction: he loves it.) 

Robby draws back with little time left before your co-workers begin to put two and two together due to the convenient disappearance of you both. 

“I suppose I’ll take it on the chin.” he shoots you a playful look, his eyes glinting with mischief, “I put in an anonymous wager in myself two nights ago. Perks of being the last one to leave this fucking place.” 

“Oh yeah?” your interest piques. 

He reaches for the handle of the door, scratching at the coarseness of his beard with his other hand, “Yeah. I think I have a good shot at winning,” he chirps. 

“Okay.” you nod your head in amusement as he walks away from you, “What did you even wage on? New motorcycle?”

The door buzzes open and Robby swings it open with his face filling with mirth. He leaves you in the on-call room with a singular word uttered; sending you into a frozen shock. 

“$40 on girlfriend.”

Robby hadn’t factored in just how quiet his sabbatical would be.

He never liked the quiet after a shift, either. He filled his ears constantly. airpods in with music, sometimes a podcast. The television running in the background while he made dinner, while he showered, while he fell asleep. He’d wake sometime around dawn to the silence before the birds even stirred outside his window—the Are You Still Watching? menu glaring at him from across the room.

So, out on the open road for those first few days…

It was really quiet.

The thrum of the motorcycle engine beneath him was a welcome version of white noise that filled some semblance of the silence. He could listen for changes in the motor, watch the road surface, calculate how far he could push before he needed gas. For a few hours at a time, his body had a job.

But it wasn’t enough to keep his thoughts from those he’d left behind.

He wondered if Baby Jane Doe ever found a foster. If Baran was having seizures and still working as if nothing was amiss (Robby hadn't ratted her out like he'd threatened to, after all).

He wondered if Duke ever followed up with his appointments. Robby had called him the second day, and Duke assured him he’d call again Monday. But that was a few days ago now, and when Robby tried his stubborn friend again, he hadn’t gotten an answer.

There was nothing Robby could do about that from here.

He wondered if Dana was handling the ED okay, if she still had a loaded syringe in her pocket every day. Hell, he even wondered if Santos and Whitaker were okay. If Trinity had had any more blow ups with Langdon, if she was still having to stay extra hours for charting. Dennis had sent a text on the second day, letting him know he’d gotten into the house okay, that the plants say hi!. Robby knew it was a welfare check. He even thought Santos had put him up to it, with the way Dennis had anthropomorphized the plants to make the whole thing sound casual.

Robby had responded with a thumbs up emoji and nothing else. Enough for a clear: Yes, I'm still alive. No, I haven't killed myself yet.

Tonight, he was holed up in a shitty little roadside inn with a dingy little bar attached. He’d been sipping whiskeys until last call, and even then the bartender gave him a nightcap to take to his room. Robby had thanked him for not making him ask.

His room didn’t have wifi. It didn’t even have a television because apparently the town he’d chosen to stop in was one where they believed the screen could melt your brain and the blue light would kill you.

It was too bad Robby preferred that outcome anyway.

There was an alarm clock bolted to the nightstand and a laminated card beside it listing the local churches, a bible in the side table. The air conditioner under the window clicked off every six minutes, leaving the room silent until it shuddered back to life.

It was just so fucking quiet.

He took his whiskey into the shower, the hot water scalding the day from his skin and the first layer of epidermis with how hot he'd set the temperature. Even the sound of the water didn't stop him from remembering that little girl who drowned last year. Or Leah. Or Adamson. Or Louie. Or Nick Bradley.

The names just kept coming. Their faces, their stories. The fact Robby knew he couldn't have done any better, but that he should've at least tried.

Fuck. He heard himself grit out, squeezing his eyes shut.

He angrily turned off the water and just stood there, letting himself feel the chill of the bathroom air changing around him, the steam billowing up into the fan. Droplets ran from his hair, down the center of his back, sliding down his calves before slipping toward the drain. He leaned his fists onto the plastic acrylic wall, his head hung low between his arms, trying and failing to erase the vision of all the people he couldn't save from his mind's eye.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He threw back the rest of his whiskey and stepped out of the shower, grabbing the yellow floral hotel towel and drying his hair, then his arms, his legs. Doing something helped a little, distracted by the little scars, then the bruises on his legs from where he’d kicked the stand of his motorcycle down and caught it against his calf.

In the main area of his room, he threw on his sweatpants and a t shirt, then sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his fists deeply into his eyes.

He should sleep. That was the whole point of this, right? To have time away to rest. To distance himself.

But it was so god damn quiet.

He picked up his phone just to scroll. No internet meant nothing really wanted to load. Images remained gray boxes, videos stalled before they began. He refreshed the same pages over and over, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.

He thought maybe he’d put on a podcast, but couldn’t find anything he remotely cared about.

Some of Abbot’s guided meditations came up in his search through Spotify, having been shared unsolicited by the attending.

Letting Go of Things You Can't Control. Power of Natural Energy. Detachment from Overthinking. Healing the Mind.

He also didn’t want to picture his fellow attending listening to these while doing his naked morning yoga, but could admit it was at least better than the blood that had spurted out of Louie’s breathing tube last week.

It took almost nothing now. One word, one image, and Robby was back beneath the fluorescent lights with his hands overlapped, punching into Louie's chest to try and restart his heart.

He closed Spotify.

Then he scrolled through his texts.

He couldn't burden any of these people with his 2am thoughts of mortality. With the memories. With the humiliating admission that four days away from the hospital had left him sitting on a motel mattress, drunk and afraid of turning off the lamp beside his bed.

He didn't want any of them to worry about him. They probably had to be up in the next few hours for their morning shifts, anyway. Or worse, they were at work, and he’d be keeping them from patients.

A recent text from Dr. Caleb came up.

Call me when things get bad.

Robby picked up on the subliminal hint that Caleb had written when not if.

Without letting himself think too much of it, Robby pressed call.

Shit, he forgot it was 2:30 in the morning, and went to go hang up after two rings. The burring of the line had his stomach flipping for the first time, regretting calling at all now. He pictured Caleb waking up beside his partner, fumbling for his reading glasses because Robby couldn't make it through the night without dragging someone into his messes.

His thumb was going for the big red hang up button when he heard—

"Hello?"

He hovered, finger stopped in its tracks.

That was most definitely not Dr. Caleb Jefferson's voice.

For a second, he just sat there staring at his screen, his mouth opening and closing, brows threading while the gears in his mind struggled toward an answer. He checked the name glowing across the top.

Dr. Caleb Jefferson.

The voice came back again.

“…Helloooo?”

It was a woman’s voice.

Somehow, in some way, it put a record-scratch stop to Robby's hurtling thoughts. Louie disappeared from behind his eyes. The drowned little girl was gone. For the first time in days, there was a question in front of him that had an answer he might actually be able to get.

His curiosity piqued.

“Hello," he said awkwardly, "I’m—I'm sorry, is this Dr. Jefferson’s number?”

“Yes, it is.”

"I'm his…" What was he? Not a client, not really a friend, per say.

Before he could settle on anything, the voice— your voice— was back: “You’re Michael, right?”

Okay, now Robby was really intrigued.

"Yes, this… this is Dr. Robinavitch. I work with Caleb at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."

There was a long sigh on the other end, "Shit…"

Robby swallowed, his eyes falling to his knees as he brought the phone back to his ear. So you knew about him. Maybe about the trip, or his very public spiraling only a few days ago. Maybe Caleb had told you enough to understand that it had to be bad if he was calling at 2:30 in the morning—

"I had fifty bucks on you lasting at least two weeks, Dr. Robinavitch." you said, cutting off his running throughts, "I really believed in you."

Robby couldn't help the smile that split his face. It felt foreign, his cheeks sore within seconds from not having stretched the muscles in days.

Something felt loosened, if only a fraction, in his chest. His grip on the phone eased, his shoulders fell with the breath he let out.

He laid back on the bed, pushing a hand through his damp hair as he stared at the water-stained ceiling. "And what was Caleb's wager?"

"Oh, he thought it would take four days and two hours." you said easily, "but you've just lost me my hard earned money, doctor."

Robby glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Caleb had only been off by a few hours.

"Sorry about that."

He heard your light huff of laughter through the phone, followed by a deeper breath. Maybe you were settling back into a chair, or sitting against the headboard of a bed somewhere far away, the phone balanced against your ear.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Robinavitch?”

“Robby, please." he murmured. "Everyone calls me Robby.”

“Not Michael?”

“My grandmother called me Michael.” He grimaced, despite the fact that you couldn’t see it. “Just Robby is fine.”

“Aye, aye, cap,” you said. “Robby it is.”

It reminded him of Dana and the collection of monikers she kept for him. Cap. Boss. Usually coined while she unloaded all the patient updates, or called him of her shoulder toward a room where somebody needed something.

Her face when he’d said goodbye flashed through his head. The way she’d known. The tears welling in her eyes, her hair mussed out of place from fighting the asshole who attacked Emma and the harrowing hours that followed. She had looked at him like she wanted to ask whether he was safe to leave alone and knew he would lie if she did.

The little spark of amusement you’d managed to draw out of him dimmed.

“Why are you up at this hour?” he asked instead of answering.

“Why are you?” you shot back.

Robby sighed.

He’d called, hadn’t he? Did he have to say that the quiet had finally become unbearable? That without the emergency department demanding every usable part of him, there was nothing left to stand between him and his own mind. That all the people he couldn’t save still followed him down the highway like ghosts, keeping pace no matter how fast he pushed the bike?

He wished he could just ask you to say some magic words to make it all go away.

“I’m, uh—well…” he tried, and then stopped.

The truth sat heavy on his tongue, swelling to the point it wanted to be spit out, but he just couldn't do it. So he settled for the second best truth.

“I'm at a shit hotel. There's no tv, no god damn wifi either.”

“Oh,” you chirped.

Robby didn’t know what you looked like, but he liked picturing you on a landline, twirling the cord around your fingers, your feet propped up against the side of your bedroom where your mattress met the wall, your back laid on the bedspread. Very eighties rom-com, sure. But the way your voice lit up, the quick retorts that seemed to come to you without effort, had him picturing you as one of those girls. Big shirt, messy hair, a wad of bubblegum in your cheek, maybe a pen tucked behind one ear while you stayed awake for people who couldn’t be alone.

“So I’m just here because you couldn’t doomscroll?”

“I… guess?” His voice cracked around the answer, turning it into a question.

You hummed in understanding.

Robby waited for you to push. Caleb would have, those therapists he tried to sic on him would've had an empathetic smile and big, understanding eyes. Dana would have stared at him until the silence became unbearable. Jack would have said something measured that made Robby feel dissected from three hundred miles away.

“Well, I’m glad you called,” you said anyway.

“You are?”

“Yeah. Means there’s still time.”

Robby’s stomach hollowed out. Heat crawled up his neck and flushed through his chest, his smile dropping from his face.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, fully prepared to put up a fight, to stack his walls higher one brick at a time.

“You tell me, Robby." you said easily. "It’s 2:30 in the morning where you are. You planned this whole ego-death journey, right? Drove yourself into the middle of nowhere, and still decided to send out one more olive branch. One more call for help.”

Robby didn’t like that one bit.

You reading him like this. It was everything he hated about therapy: the calm voices, the careful questions, the way they thought they could strip him down to the studs and tell him who he was.

But fuck, it had been a long few days.

And you hadn’t told him who he was. You’d only pointed out what he’d done.

That distinction, irritatingly, kept the phone pressed to his ear.

“Where are you right now, Robby?” you asked when he didn't answer.

“Middle of bum-fuck nowhere.”

“Go outside.”

He hesitated for only a second before sighing, hauling himself up from the bed, and walking toward the door.

The summer air met him the moment he pulled it open, hot against his still-damp skin. Cicadas screamed from the trees, something smaller chirped from the weeds beside the ice machine. He even saw a pair of headlights move along the highway a block away, appearing through the gaps in the trees and disappearing again.

"Do you hear that?"

He listened for a long moment. And then: "What?"

"That's life, Robby. All around you."

He let out another breath, stepping out into the pale moonlight hanging above the trees. Moths battered themselves against the fixture beside his door, eager for the light, for the heat, for the thing that might kill them.

That was life, apparently.

The parking lot sat empty beneath him except for his bike and two other cars, every door shut, every curtain drawn. No voices through the walls. No footsteps crossing the concrete. No one calling his name from behind him because something had gone wrong and they needed him to fix it.

He was suddenly gripped the railing with one hand while his throat burned, his eyes stung. He blinked against it, staring out at the empty highway until the white lines blurred together.

Life was all around him, sure. Loud in the trees, crawling through the grass, beating itself senseless against a porch light. The heart pushing oxygen through his body without his permission.

That was the thing. He had spent years watching it leave people. Watching whatever made a person them disappear from the body in front of him—every life taken, every flame extinguished, every mortal coil left vacant seemed to take a piece of him with it, until he had begun to wonder how much of himself was left.

“But I... don't want it." he whispered.

Robby lowered his head, voice catching, his fingers tightening around the railing until the metal pressed into his palms when he swallowed and tried again.

“I want to die,” he whispered after a long moment.

He hoped maybe you’d hung up the phone. That the line had gone dead before he said it, because for once he hadn’t dressed it up. No I don’t want to be here. No what if I don’t come back? Nothing vague enough to retract later. It was plain and simple.

He stood alone beneath the moon, one hand locked around the railing, and felt eight years old again. Young and wiry and small, watching the adults make decisions that split his life open without thinking what would happen to him.

His mother had wanted to die, too. She had gone through with it, and Robby had been left with everything that came after. He could remember her empty bedroom, the cold feeling of the bedspread when he sat on it when grown ups would be whispering in the next room, stopping whenever he walked by. Everyone looked at him with the same pitiful eyes, waiting for him to cry.

He hadn't. He'd gotten angry, he'd locked out all feelings, burying them in the crypt of his work.

He’d carried that anger for so long it had hardened around the boy who still missed her. The boy who had waited for the front door to open long after he understood it wouldn’t. Who still listened for her voice in rooms where she would never be. Who had spent years wondering what he could have done differently, what he could have said, whether he could have been better behaved, quieter. If there was something he could've done to change her mind.

Robby felt closest to him—that boy that still existed within— in moments like this, when his throat burned and his eyes filled and there was no one around to see him lose the fight against his mind.

The rage had never pushed the grief out. It had only sat on top of it, keeping him from touching what was underneath.

"I know," you said softly, and your voice almost made him jump out of his skin. “But, Robby…”

He waited for you to say something important. The Next Right Thing. Something typical and therapized, something beautiful and full of meaning. That life was worth living. That there was still so much left for him. That things got better.

“…that would be a really fucking stupid thing to do.”

Robby blinked.

There was something about you—that attitude. No pity for him or careful, measured voice meant to pull him off the edge with cooing words. You said it like he’d might've suggested driving the motorcycle into a lake because he was tired of paying for gas.

A breath split his chest, caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, sniffling.

"Yes, I believe it is. Would you like to hear why I think it's stupid for you to kill yourself, Dr. Robinavitch?"

Robby tipped his head back.

The moon still hung above him in the cloudless sky, full enough to bleach the tops of the trees and catch along the metal railing beneath his hand. He hadn’t noticed how bright it was when he first stepped outside.

He wiped beneath his nose with the back of his wrist, the corner of his mouth pulling despite himself.

“Why, yes, I would,” he said with a little sarcasm, clearing the roughness from his throat.

“Because you called me, Michael Robinavitch." you said, your voice strong. He could picture you, the woman he'd made up in his head, pointing your finger at him, poking his chest as you stared up at him defiantly, "You had every opportunity to disappear quietly, and instead you picked up the phone and gave someone the chance to stop you. That means some part of you is still arguing for tomorrow. I think it would be really fucking stupid to ignore him.”

Robby was stunned into silence.

The words found the tender spot he’d spent the last five days carefully avoiding. He’d called. Whatever excuse he made about the wifi, whatever lie he told about boredom or whiskey or Caleb’s name happening to appear beneath his thumb, he had called.

“And there are still things worth sticking around for, ya know,” you continued, quieter now. “Chocolate cake. The first sip of a perfect cup of coffee. Really good books. The people who can still make you laugh after a long day.”

The tears were streaming down his face now, unsolicited and hot against his skin. He bowed his head, staring at his bare feet on the concrete walkway while they slipped from his jaw and darkened the front of his shirt.

“You save lives, Robby. That’s a burden no one should have to carry every hour of every day.” Your voice softened further. “But you are more than the people you managed to save. You’re more than the ones you couldn’t.”

His face folded before he could stop it.

He turned away from the metal railing, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes as he sank to the concrete, his back catching against the warm bars behind him. His breathing came unevenly, each inhale snagging in his ribs before it could fill his lungs. He hated crying. He hated that it made him feel like that little boy again who'd lost his mother, hated the heat and the wet and the stuffed up nose, the shake in his shoulders, the fact that you could probably hear every pathetic part of it through the phone.

“There’s more to your life than tonight,” you said.

Robby couldn’t answer.

He sat with the moon at his back and his head bowed, letting the railing hold the weight he couldn’t seem to carry himself.

Then you took a breath.

“You know what I think you need?”

He sniffed hard. “What?”

“I think you need a cat.”

Robby’s head lifted. You kept taking him by surprise, making him cry one second and dragging a laugh out of him the next. It came wet and hoarse, breaking apart in his throat.

“What the fuck am I gonna do with a cat?” he choked out. He wasn't sure if it was a sob or a laugh that punched out of him, but the corners of his mouth were pulling up despite it all.

“A cat will force you to get your ass out of bed in the morning. It’ll scream until you feed it, knock your belongings onto the floor, and sit directly on whatever part of you hurts most.” You sounded entirely convinced. “It’ll love you despite all the shit you tell yourself. A cat is perfect.”

Robby laughed again, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

“This is quite the therapy session,” he said, only then realizing how far you’d gotten him to follow you.

“Oh, I’m not a therapist. I’m Dr. Jefferson’s kid.”

Robby choked on air. “What?”

“I’m kidding!” you said, dissolving into a giggle. “I’m doing a residency rotation in emergency psychiatry with him this year.”

Robby shook his head, still trying to catch up. Just a few minutes ago he’d been sitting on the edge of a motel bed ready to get on his bike and drive off a bridge. Now some intern he’d never met was prescribing him feline remedies.

“You got me, kid,” he said, another rough laugh slipping out. “Got me good.”

“Good. I’m glad I could get you out of your head for a second.”

Robby breathed out through his nose.

The crying had eased. His face felt hot, his eyes swollen, but his shoulders had dropped from where they’d been crowding his ears. He leaned back against the railing again, letting the warm metal press into his spine.

“How are you feeling?”

“Still… weird,” he admitted. “But better.”

“I can stay up a little longer,” you said. “We can talk.”

Robby nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “Okay,” he said, his voice quieter. “Sure.”

“Okay.”

There was a small shuffle on your end, the scrape of something across the floor, then the creak of whatever you settled into.

“So,” you began, “tell me about this terrible motel.”

Robby looked up at the paint chipped motel door with the number 555 across it.

“Well, firstly, no wifi.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered.”

“No cable.”

"People still watch cable tv?" you asked.

"I don't really watch it... I just like background noise."

You laughed, and it settled the rest of the tension in his chest.

He told you about the days leading up to now. The long stretches of road, the towns he’d passed through, the sights he thought he might turn back to see after all. You told him you were at home, drinking coffee that had been reheated too many times and ordering more takeout than you could reasonably justify.

The conversation wandered without either of you forcing it anywhere. For a while, Robby forgot to measure every silence between your words.

Eventually, he asked, “How long are you working with Caleb?”

“I have a year left at PTMC. Why?”

Robby rubbed his thumb along the edge of his phone. The question had come to him before he could decide whether it was a good idea.

“So when I get back…” He paused, glancing toward the empty highway. “Can I meet you in person?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end. He wondered if he pushed too far.

Then: “Oh, so you’re planning on coming back now?”

Robby’s mouth pulled at one corner.

“I suppose so.”

“Well, good.” You sounded entirely pleased with yourself. “Glad to know two hundred thousand dollars of medical debt is finally being put to good use.”

He laughed, quieter this time. “Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes, Robby. And you can still call me from the road. I'll give you my personal cell.”

He tipped his head back against the railing, looking up at the moon again. The prospect of hanging up no longer felt quite so final.

“I’d like that,” he said.

your dad’s already waving him into the garage before the engine has fully died, wiping the grease from his calloused hands onto an old rag as the stranger swings one tired leg off the seat. you catch him rubbing the back of his neck while your father crouches beside the bike.

something about a knock in the suspension. something that started after an ambulance clipped it in a hospital bay before he left. 

the detail catches your attention. you tilt your head to further inspect the man from your seat at the back of the garage. 

so he's a doctor?

whatever the case is, he still doesn't exactly strike you as someone who belongs in a little farming village tucked away in southern alberta. so you can't help but wonder what could've possibly brought him all the way here. 

people don't usually drive thousands of kilometres unless they're headed somewhere with a plan, better yet running from somewhere or something.

your dad whistles. “sounds like that bike’s trying to tell you something.”

the man only huffs a dry laugh. “been hearing that a lot lately.”

“go get a bite to eat, i’ll let ya know when she’s ready” your father disappears further into the garage with the bike before motioning his hand towards you. 

the doctor’s eyes catch yours and you smile before ducking into the little café attached to the shop. for reasons he can't quite explain, he finds himself following before he's even thought to say no. the bell above the door chiming softly as he enters behind you.

it's strange. he'd spent weeks convincing himself not to linger anywhere. yet following your lead feels oddly effortless. he tells himself he's only doing so because that's what your father suggested, and it surely has nothing to do with the way you looked at him when he pulled in or the soft sway of your sundress disappearing through the doorway.

it’s quiet this time of the afternoon. the fresh scent of coffee brewing hand in hand with the cinnamon buns still warm from the oven. the sunlight spilling across the old wooden tables, surfaces smoothed out by decades of elbows. long before your very own.

he’s taller and larger up close. older, too. silver threaded through his dark features. laugh lines that don’t seem to get much use anymore. his sunken eyes are even more predominant as he gives you a quick polite look before ducking his head again. 

he orders only a coffee like someone who forgot food was also an option. so you bring him a slice of pie anyway, best in town. “on the house.” you assure. 

he lips fall into a tight line before he speaks, “i didn’t want to impose”

“i know.” you shrug, “you looked like you needed someone else to do it for you.”

the corner of his mouth twitches. it’s the first genuine smile you’ve managed to pull from him.

—

robby—who you eventually learned the name of—checks on the motorcycle more often than your father insists he needs to.

he’ll wander back into the garage every twenty minutes under the excuse of “just seeing how she’s doing,” only for your dad to wave him away with another promise that it’ll still be a while.

each time you somehow end up following him. not because you know anything about motorcycles, let alone any way you can help, but because talking to him makes the afternoon pass a little faster.

eventually, once your father disappears into the cafe for a quick meal break, he leaves the two of you alone beside the stripped-down triumph. 

“i’ve never actually seen one up close,” you admit, stepping around the bike. “i mean not like this.”

robby’s eyebrows lift. “no?”

you shake your head. “we get people passing through all the time. families heading north to the big cities. campers. hikers. a few bike clubs,” 

your fingers trail carefully over the saddlebag, tracing scratches embedded into the leather from the thousands of kilometres it's already faced. “but nobody really… stays.”

the words come out a bit more melancholy than you intended. you laugh softly to cover it. “i guess that’s what happens when your town’s just another dot on somebody else’s map.”

robby watches your fingertips follow the steel frame. “it looks–” you murmur, searching for the right word. “lived in.”

he glances at the motorcycle, then back at you. “it is.”

silence then settles comfortably between you, but you don’t know why you keep talking. maybe because he’s listening, really listening.

“i always thought i’d leave, too.” your shoulders rise in a small shrug. “go somewhere bigger. see something different. meet people who weren’t born ten minutes down the fucking road.”

you smile to yourself. “instead i blinked, and i feel like somehow my twenties disappeared while i was learning thirty different ways to make cinnamon buns.” robby lets out a titter. 

you chuckle again too, though more wistful than amused. “i mean i love this place. this is my home, but–” you look out toward the small highway stretching beyond the shop. “i just thought there’d be more.”

robby’s mouth twitches. “you say that like you’re past your prime.”

“i’m serious.”

“i know, kid. but trust me,” he leans a little on his bike, hand patting the cover of the fuel tank before he looks back up to you. “you’ve got time.”

you meet his eyes. “that’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

“but?” robby senses. 

“but i don’t know…i just think there comes a point where you owe it to yourself to try for something better.”

the words linger around him for a bit. robby understands them more than he lets on. somewhere between pennsylvania and alberta, he’d convinced himself he’d missed whatever chance he’d once had to build a better life. not with this weight he'd spent years carrying only growing heavier. 

because that would mean digging through every loss, every impossible decision, every face he'd tried so hard to tuck away somewhere his mind couldn't reach.

there were people back home who would've listened. colleagues. friends, even if he was always too stubborn to refer to them as one. people who would have sat with him for as long as it took. but that would've meant admitting he needed them, and somewhere along the way, robby had become much better at stitching himself back together than letting anyone else see where he'd come apart.

only he'd never stopped to consider that everyone else could already see the cracks. they let awkward silences stretch a little longer in the hopes he'd fill them. but he never really did.

funny, huh. different roads, but all the same gloom feeling.

for a long moment, neither of you speaks again. outside, a van rumbles past without slowing, just another traveler. and for the first time in weeks, robby finds himself wondering what it might feel like to stay somewhere just a little longer.

every town had become another place to fuel up, stretch his legs, and leave behind before he had the chance to grow attached. stopping was never part of the plan.

you eventually ask where he’s headed. “head-smashed-in buffalo jump.” he mentions, with a slight flinch. like the words hold a bigger meaning than he’s willing to explain. 

“for your vacation?”

“vacation?” he echos with a quiet laugh, “yeah sure, something like that.”

you don’t press, so you drift your attention back to the motorcycle instead. you ask what it’s like to ride. how long he’s owned it. whether it’s really as freeing as people make it out to sound.

he admits most people back home don’t see it that way, instead they laugh when he talks about the bike. call it a “midlife crisis”. 

you can’t help but think maybe it was meant to carry him somewhere worth going. 

like, to you.

—

early evening settles in and the café sees its usual little rush. neighbours wandering in after their own suppers for slices of pie and fresh coffee. as much as you’d rather keep your conversation with robby going, work calls you back behind the counter.

though, the two of you exchange the occasional glance and smile through the window separating the café from the garage, where your father puts the finishing touches on the triumph.

by the time the last plate has been washed and stacked, and the CLOSED sign flips in the window, the sun has already slipped below the grain fields.

your dad wipes his hands on a rag before giving the fuel tank an approving pat. “she’s as good as new, son. even gave her a re-filling on the house.”

robby thanks him with a hardy shake of the hands, but still makes no move to leave. you realize then that, aside from the slice of pie you’d practically forced on him hours ago, he still hasn’t eaten a proper meal.

“well,” you say, dusting your hands together as robby sways to the sound of your voice. “i guess you’re having dinner with me.”

he accepts without a fuss. 

the meal becomes another cup of wine. wine becomes a walk beneath a sky so crowded with stars that, for the first time in weeks, robby finds himself looking up instead of wondering how much farther he has left to go. and somewhere between you stumbling over an uneven patch of gravel and his hand catching your elbow before you could fall, neither of you seems in much of a hurry to let go.

the buzz leaves your cheeks warm enough that every accidental touch earns another quiet laugh, until eventually they stop feeling accidental altogether.

the distance between you disappears almost without a second thought. his hand brushes yours and neither of you stops it. though, when he kisses you, it's hesitant. like he's asking a question he isn't sure he has the right to ask.

not because he doubts how you're looking at him right now, but because somewhere deep down, he still isn't convinced he's allowed to want something this good. not when he'd already convinced himself of his destination.

but you answer anyway. fingers tangling in every obtainable part of him until you’re both stumbling into your room, the rest of the night unfolding around the two of you, unhurried and wonderfully uncomplicated.

for once, you stop wondering what else might be waiting for you beyond this little town. finally too busy saying yes to something you'd never been brave enough to reach for before. and for robby, it's the first time in a long while that tomorrow doesn't feel more important than tonight.

by the time sleep finally finds you both, his discarded henley hangs haphazardly from the bedpost, your sundress pooled beside his jeans in a careless heap across the floor. your shoes kicked off somewhere near the door as though neither of you had given much thought to anything except the way robby was touching you.

and you like that. the quiet evidence that, for one night, your lives had become marvellously tangled together. two strangers who were never supposed to meet, quietly rewriting each other's stories.

you're the only heartbeat robby can hear before you wake sometime by dawn. the clock on the nightstand reads 4:38 and for a small moment, you forget where you are. 

but it's not long before everything rushes back the moment you feel robby’s arm slung tightly over your waist. his breath warm against your neck and your toes curl at the memory of the blissful feeling between your legs last night. 

you slide off the bed slowly, before throwing on his shirt. the borrowed cotton soft against your skin. it’s far too big and smells faintly of cedar and gasoline, and something that’s simply… him.

robby still lays fast asleep beside you and you wonder if he meant to leave before the sunrise. he struck you as the kind of man who probably slips out quietly, convinced with that ideology that disappearing would be somehow kinder to you than staying.

instead, he’s still here. an arm tucked beneath the pillow, hair mussed beyond saving and the hard lines he carries around all day softened by the slumber. 

he looks different like this. not like the years have left him, but because, for a little while, they no longer seem to weigh on him so heavily. as though, for one night, whatever he’d been carrying across state lines finally set itself down long enough to let him rest.

you smile to yourself. it’s funny how a single day can rearrange what you thought you already knew.

this morning he’d just have been another stranger passing through. but now, his motorcycle is waiting outside for a journey that suddenly doesn’t seem quite so urgent to continue.

Rating: Explicit, MDNI

WC: 7.1k (😵‍💫)

Summary: After being sent to rehab and after reaching his newfound sobriety, Dieter is ready to work on a new project. When he meets you, he’s totally struck by your demeanor and your confidence. Little does he know, you’re going to make a sweet perfect sub out of him and you will give him a new and rediscovered joy of living.

Tags: sub!Dieter, vulnerable!Dieter and sober!Dieter, gentle dom!reader, coworkers to friends to lovers, Dieter is desperate for reader (yeah 🙂‍↕️), reader is an actress, she’s described having a little bush (I’m loving this so much, I think I’m gonna add this detail again and again for the foreseeable future hehe), she has hair but it’s not described in details, no other physical detail about her added besides being gorgeous, she has a little backstory, Dieter is uncut (😌😌😌), use of modesty garments (the ones actors use during sex scenes in case you were wondering), a little edging, oral (both f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, a splash of nipple play because otherwise it’s not my fic, a lot of begging, a lot of praising, Dieter moans like… A LOT in this (as he should 🙂‍↕️), orgasm control, squirting, a lot of cum and cum eating, a bit of rimming, use of pet names, two slaps, mention of drugs and alcohol usage, mention of rehab, Dieter calls his sponsor on the phone at some point, mention of therapy, depressive thoughts, no mention of age but to me they’re both in their 30s (feel free to imagine some legal age gap if you prefer, though).

A/N: I’m a little nervous to share this, I’ve never wrote Dieter before so please be kind 🥺, thank you very much! Thank you again Ess for sending me this request, I love you! ♥️ and thank you @aurorawritestoescape for being my beta and for always being so kind and supportive, you’re a literal angel and I love you to bits 🥰 English is not my first language, any mistake is still on me! Thanks for reading, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

dividers by @/diviniyae

Drabble for V’s Birthday | Masterlist

The night Dieter won an Oscar he thought he would have felt better than any other day in his life. People were clapping hard when he climbed up the stage, he looked in front of him seeing all the major ceo in the industry sat down to praise him and his talent, a nice actress wrapped in some luxury fashion designer’s all glittery outfit handed him the little statue with a big smile on her face. The statuette was quite heavy in his hands and he felt like it was unreal. Truth was, nothing felt good enough to give him a rush of adrenaline anymore. He was becoming so insensitive to spotlight and fame and all the noise that came with that.

The moment he was finally alone, after a million interviews and photoshoots and hand shaking he felt loneliness more than anything else.

A drink would fix that. Maybe two. Maybe an entire bottle. But no, his old friend alcohol didn’t work. It just made him more miserable.

He thought drugs would have worked better, so he called his pusher and grabbed some coke. He sniffed two lines in the back of his limo.

But no, that didn’t work either except for a brief moment.

He went to an after party, hooked up with some actress, great tits and ass, but he forgot her name as soon as he came in her pussy, her face smushed against the wall of a restroom stall.

She wrote her personal number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. Dieter put that into trash as soon as she was out of the restroom.

He didn’t care anymore. Like, yeah, emptying his balls was fine, her pussy was mighty good and feeling her warmth restored him a little bit but nothing more than that.

He was still high and drunk, but that only made him feel more numb and absent, as if his life was no longer his own but he was observing it from the outside.

At that point he didn’t know what to do anymore.

Dieter went back home thinking he was forever broken.

His luxurious villa on the Hollywood hills in which he lived completely alone, 10 bedrooms and 8 bathrooms that he barely used unless he was throwing a party, made him feel even worse.

Of course, having money was good, but they weren’t a substitute for love. At the end of the day he was just another actor with an Oscar and no real connection in his life.

No wife, no kids, no real friends, the ones he had back in the days all moved on with their lives and their schedules never matched his to stay present in his life.

His mom and dad were far away, still living in his hometown. He asked them to move closer to him many times but they were stubborn like that and never accepted to leave the house where they spent all their adult life. And now they were too old to travel.

His assistant found him in bed the day after in a pathetic state, called his doctor no matter how much Dieter was arguing and made him an appointment.

“It’s time to stop,” she said “you have six months before starting a new project and you’re going to rehab”.

Dieter could do nothing but accept and in the back of his mind he was well aware about needing help, the fact that he barely felt anything about the most important thing that happened in his career was speaking volumes.

His assistant was actually the only person who gave a fuck about him and she was paid to do that.

What a miserable fucking life, he thought.

He rolled up in his comforter and looked at his Oscar on his nightstand. Even the statuette seemed to be making fun of him with a mocking smile.

So Dieter did went to rehab and it worked.

He was finally sober, not without great difficulty, after months of therapy and group meetings and withdrawal symptoms.

His assistant accompanied him to the set of his new project a month after he left rehab. He had continued seeing a therapist that month and felt he had truly improved.

While he was rereading the script in his trailer, he heard a knock on the door.

He shouted "Come in!" without getting up from the double bed he'd requested to rest in between takes. When you entered, Dieter looked up just enough to greet you.

"Hi. I'm the lead actress, I just wanted to introduce myself," you said, approaching the bed. Dieter looked up again.

You were beautiful. He'd seen and fucked so many beautiful women, but he was immediately struck by you. You had a proud demeanor, he didn't know how to explain it, but your presence in the room had ignited it with an electricity he'd rarely felt anywhere else. Back straight, intense gaze, a kind but not submissive smile, you exuded self-confidence and self-assurance from every pore. Dieter could have sworn he'd never met anyone like you. If you'd gotten the lead role, you'd certainly deserved it.

He got up from his bed to shake your hand, admiring your body. You looked fabulous in those jeans you were wearing, and your blouse hugged your breasts so nicely he immediately felt a pull in his lower belly. Your handshake was pretty secure no matter how small your hand was compared to his.

He said he was really glad to meet you and excited about the project and you gave him the nicest look and smile saying “let’s do our best work, alright? I’m feeling good about this movie, I think it’s going to be great.”

Dieter was even more glad that he finally got sober, finally feeling happy about something was an unmatched sensation. And you. He was pretty sure you could make the experience even more enjoyable.

You left to get ready for the scene and he repeated his lines over and over while waiting for his call to get his makeup done.

When Dieter had his first take with you, he felt nervous.

He did the best he could and you were very patient with him. He had to repeat some lines a couple of times because he was distracted by your presence. Standing in front of you while you two were trying to play a husband and a wife being in an argument was more difficult than he thought it would have been. Jeez, your eyes, your hair, your body, your voice. Everything about you was so seductive and beautiful. He was lucky to work with you.

The scene after was you yelling at him and giving him a slap in the face in the end. He was stunned by your level of professionalism, you played the part like you were born to do that.

Your talent and your dedication were clearly pouring out of your performance. And then the slap came. Dieter felt a rush of adrenaline he hadn’t felt in months. Your hand was little but the slap was effective enough to make his cheek burn.

He felt the tingling radiate across his skin, transforming from pain to heat until it became pleasurable. You apologized, admitting you hadn't meant to hit him hard, but he immediately reassured you. "The director said to make it a realistic slap, right? So don't apologize, it was perfect." As far as he was concerned, getting slapped by you wasn't bad at all.

On the contrary. When the director asked for a couple of more takes he gladly obliged.

Dieter hadn't felt anything like that in a long time. His therapist had reassured him that he'd start feeling strong emotions again with time, but he didn't think it would happen so quickly. Acting with you made him feel alive again. And he was greatly motivated to do a good job. For himself, but also for you, he didn't want you to think bad of him and he would do anything to prove to you that he was worth something.

In between takes Dieter was always around you, doing small talks, asking questions about your life, discussing the various scenes you had together. The more he talked to you, the more amazed he was. You told him about your theater experiences and how you dreamed of being an actress since you were a child. He learned about your career, directors you worked with and the roles you loved the most.

He also learned how you preferred your coffee and made sure to bring your caramel macchiato on set every morning. You mentioned once that you liked jelly beans when you were a kid and he brought you a whole giant pack to keep in your trailer for you to have something sweet in between takes.

You seemed like you were loving his attention but always kept a professional behavior so he wasn’t really sure about making a risky move.

But he adored talking to you so he stayed quiet and was content to be your friend. You were his first friend in a long time, and he didn't want to lose you.

At some point he confessed to you about his struggles with substance addiction and you were the most comprehensive person, you were kind without being pitiful and he appreciated that so much.

From that day on, you always kept an eye on him, making sure he was okay and wouldn’t want to relapse.

It wasn’t your responsibility to check on him but you did it anyway and Dieter appreciated that.

A great friendship was blooming between you two and as much as Dieter was hoping for something more he was glad about finally having found someone sweet and considerate like you to call his friend.

It came the day you were scheduled to have your big love scene and Dieter was really scared.

He should have kissed you that day and not only that. Of course, you both would have had modesty garments, and he was extremely grateful for that because he was seriously afraid he'd get an erection right in front you.

The intimacy coordinator had been very helpful and had provided him with an extremely secure pouch, which covered everything and was well padded in the front so you wouldn't feel a thing. Dieter's cock was quite big. Not huge, but still considerable, so she'd obviously taken every precaution to contain it.

He walked onto the set wrapped in a terrycloth bathrobe, with nothing underneath but his modesty pouch.

He sat in his chair, trying to calm himself a little, taking deep breaths and looking around as the lighting technicians adjusted the lights and the set designers put the finishing touches on the bedroom. It was a nice room, enclosed by four cardboard walls that looked like real walls, a large bed in the center with bedside tables on either side, pretty white curtains on the windows, and a chest of drawers leaning against one wall. It looked like the real thing.

He couldn’t help but dream of a day when you would share a room with him, far away from cameras and all the fuzz.

You walked in in your powder pink robe, looking like a goddess. Your beautiful legs on display made him shift his body on his seat, and the v shape of the robe over your breasts revealing your cleavage left him breathless.

You greeted him, asking if he was ready for the scene and he babbled a yes, feeling like an idiot.

You giggled “I had plenty of those scenes in the past but every time it feels like the first one.”

You were absolutely right. But the main problem was that he never got to be so enamored with his costar before. And he never got to be sober and so clear minded like he was that day.

Dieter felt the need to drink something, deep down in his stomach, a little voice in his head that was tempting him, “just a sip wouldn’t hurt” playing again and again like an echo through his brain.

Dieter was now well aware that alcohol wasn’t the solution so he decided to call his sponsor instead.

Frank, a guy from rehab that was 20 years sober.

He excused himself and went to the restroom. Frank picked up immediately.

“Hey buddy, what’s up?”

“I’m in trouble, Frank”

“You want to drink? Why? Tell me everything.”

“Fuck, I’m on set and dude, you should see my costar, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and we’re about to play a sex scene and I’m so fucking nervous…” he whined

Frank chuckled “a gorgeous woman? That’s your problem?”

“Hey! Aren’t you supposed to help me?”

“Yeah, of course, I’m sorry mate, go on…”

“What if I get an boner and she feels it? Huh? Cause we’re friends now and that would ruin everything and fuck… she’ll think I’m some kind of creep.”

“Wow, you really care about her, don’t you? You made it clear a thousand times you never cared about what other people thought of you during therapy…”

“Yeah, that was before meeting her, dude, she’s the whole package, you know? She’s beautiful and talented and smart and I feel like a fucking loser.”

“Dude…breathe. Alcohol would only make it worse so don’t do that, okay? As for the boner you might get, you actors wear those thingies that prevent you from being exposed, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, modesty garments.”

“So no big deal! I mean dude, it’s normal, it could happen and I think she’s aware, you know. If you feel like it’s about to happen just think of me while I eat a burrito, you hated seeing that, didn’t you?”

“Ew. The most annoying thing I’ve ever experienced. Ew.”

Frank laughed, “Yeah, it will work. You’re going to be fine. Go make a great job and call me later okay?”

“Thanks, mate.”

Dieter was calmer. Everything was fine. He was going to act like a professional and nothing bad was going to happen.

He stepped out of the restroom and the moment he walked on set he saw you on the bed in only bra and your modesty pouch.

You were sitting there as the director gave you instructions.

His heart leaped into his throat again. Your bra hugged your breasts deliciously, and your skin, glistening from the makeup products they'd applied, looked soft and silky and made his mouth water.

Jesus, you really were something else.

He approached the bed and the director gave him instructions too, but Dieter couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was you, your scent now wafting to his nostrils, your gaze he could feel on him, your smile he could see out of the corner of his eye.

"Come on, damn it, be professional," he said to himself.

"She’s in charge of the game, okay? Is that clear? Dieter?" The director snapped his fingers in front of his face "Is that clear, buddy? Where are you at?"

“Oh no, of course, crystal clear,” he replied immediately, his voice cracking more than he intended. “She’s the one running the show.” “Exactly. Do you need a few more minutes?”

“No, I’m ready,” he replied, trying to sound confident.

"Okay, let's get started. Guys, the intimacy coordinator will be here for anything until we're done with the scene. Don't hesitate to ask."

He took off his robe, which an eager assistant placed on his chair, and lay down on the bed feeling awkward. You seemed calm and at ease despite what you'd said earlier, and he was acting like a kid with his first crush. When he looked at you, you winked and whispered, "Everything's going to be okay."

You stood up to take a position near the fake bedroom door, while he remained lying down as per script.

The scene was supposed to show him, after admitting his mistakes, submit to you, finally giving you the chance to explore what you wanted, understand your desires, and fulfill them. He was the husband who wanted to make amends and had to listen and carry out your orders. As soon as the director said "action," you approached the bed, swaying your hips on your sky-high stiletto heels.

Dieter swallowed, trying to concentrate on his lines.

“Are you ready?” you asked.

He nodded, and as expected, you leaned over and pinched him on the side, warning him, “I need you to say this clearly.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m more than ready, please,” he whined, more desperately than he intended for it to be.

He was already a mess, seeing you standing there, half naked, your body so fine he felt his hands itching to touch you.

“That’s good, honey,” you cooed, a pleased expression lighting up your face.

“Now you have to stay still, promise me?”

He said yes, and you climbed onto the bed to straddle him. Dieter had always thought he wasn’t submissive, nor the begging type, but with you, he couldn’t help it.

Maybe it was his newfound sobriety that made him feel vulnerable, no longer shielded by alcohol and drugs, or maybe it was the way he’d grown attached to you.

He felt like he had everything to lose.

Your weight on top of him only made him more agitated, your thighs wrapped around his waist, your breasts towering over him, your confident gaze studying his face, it was all too much. He stopped his hips from buckling just before ruining the scene. You were gorgeous, warm and sensual, your skin smelled of vanilla and something pleasantly floral, and everything around him disappeared.

The director, the assistant, the few crew members left to make any adjustments, the intimacy coordinator, even the camera, everything was gone, only you existed.

You ran a hand over Dieter’s chest, letting him feel your nails, slowly, lingering on his pectorals, then moving down to his belly, stopping just inches from his pouch. Your protection was equally effective; he couldn't see your pussy and shouldn't even have felt it, but he could have sworn he could feel the heat of it on him, and it was divine. You leaned down to kiss him, and Dieter's ears were ringing, his head light, his heart pounding in his chest like a bloody fist. Your soft lips on his, your hand gently cupping his face, Dieter knew it had to be fake, yet nothing had ever seemed so real.

“Good boy” you whispered, an inch away from his face.

The script called for you to kiss his neck. He felt your nose brush the soft skin beneath his ear, then your lips trailing delicate kisses, and he couldn't help but moan in the most pathetic way he'd ever let out. The vibration of your laughter on his skin gave him the final blow, and no matter how hard he tried, his body reacted regardless. He bucked his hips toward you, and his hands gripped your thighs.

"Stop!" the director ordered. "Hey buddy, calm down, okay? We'll do it again."

Dieter apologized to you immediately. Luckily, you didn't seem annoyed. You smiled at him and replied, "Don't worry, next time will be better."

But it didn't go better, on the contrary. He was increasingly agitated, confused, he couldn't remember his lines, having you so close to him made him sweat and stammer, his cock swelling and pulsing under the soft padded material, his worst nightmare coming to reality. He tried to think about Frank and his burrito but it didn’t work at all. It was a mess. Dieter was mortified.

You barely made it to the point where you had to unhook your bra before the director called a break. You stood up, trying to reassure him, but Dieter barely heard what you were saying. You got dressed, returning to your trailer, while he was pulled aside by the director.

“Listen, buddy, we can't waste any more time. Try to cooperate, okay? Now go have lunch and calm down. When you get back here, I want to see a flawless scene,” he ordered sternly.

He apologized profusely before putting his robe back on and sadly walking off to his trailer.

While he was absentmindedly nibbling on a salad he didn't want, he heard a knock. He got up to open the door and saw you, still dressed only in your robe. He invited you in, certain you'd give him a tirade about how he was ruining everyone's work. You both sit on the couch in the kitchen/living room in his trailer. He was looking at his feet, feeling like an idiot.

"Hey..." you said softly to get his attention. He looked up and saw that you weren't angry, but rather worried.

"Don't worry, okay, it's not easy. I just want you to trust me." Your voice was so calm and reassuring that Dieter couldn't help but think what an incredible woman you were.

He was so sorry that you thought he didn't trust you.

“It’s not that…” he forced himself to say, “it’s…that you’re too beautiful. And you’re making me nervous and I feel like a complete idiot because we’re just acting but…”

You leaned closer, placing a finger on his lips, silencing him. Your gaze held understanding and even a hint of satisfaction. “Shhh, enough. I know what you mean.”

After a few seconds of silence that seemed like an eternity to Dieter, you said, “Maybe we should practice.”

His heart leaped into his throat like a bullet and he could only stammer, “w-what?”

You smiled, twirling a strand of your hair on your finger. “Yeah, maybe we should…you know, get more comfortable with each other”

“Oh, sure, I’ll call the intimacy coordinator.”

You giggled, placing a hand on his knee.

“No need. In fact, I think it’s better if we do it alone.”

Your warm touch on his knee was driving him crazy, but he forced himself to answer. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I trust you, Dieter.”

He looked at you and your whole face was smiling, including your gentle gorgeous eyes. He felt like you were able to see through him, all his flaws and insecurities, the deepest part that remained hidden to the majority of people.

“What do you say? Wanna try?”

“Yes,” he quickly replied.

“Get on the bed,” you commanded, taking the lead like the scene required.

He moved immediately, laying on his comforter after taking off his terry cloth.

You climbed on the bed after taking off your robe, sitting on your shins right next to him.

“I know you’re nervous. I am, too. But this is going to be good, okay?”

He nodded, not being able to do anything else.

He prevented himself from squirming on the bed when your hand ran down his chest again, your fingertips slowly making their way over his pecs, so carefully it felt like you were memorizing every curve and every muscle.

“Liking it?” you asked.

“Yeah…,” he breathed “very much.”

“Good,” you smiled, your lips curving so delightfully he thought there wasn’t a smile that he loved seeing more than yours.

You leaned over him, kissing his neck, a trail of hot kisses on his pulse point, and then whispered against his skin,

“Do you feel comfortable with me straddling you?”

“Of course.” His skin felt hot and his cock beneath his pouch was getting hard. So hard the padded material started to feel tight around him, pressing his cock down uncomfortably. He endured the pain, swallowing and gritting his teeth while you climbed on top of him.

“You good?” You asked, feeling him tense underneath you.

“Yeah, it’s just… that fucking modesty garment,” he hissed “but it’s okay, I can deal with that” he admitted, almost hissing, ashamed that you could realize why it was happening.

“Wanna take that off?” You offered and he felt as if his heart had done a somersault in his chest.

Jesus, that was totally unexpected. He couldn’t even think straight at that point. All of that for the sake of your performance?

“Dieter?” You called him back from whatever place his mind was drifting.

“Jesus…” he muttered “you sure you want me to undress?”

You leaned over again, stopping yourself an inch from his lips, your clothed breasts pressed against his chest, and whispered “yeah…as long as you’re a good boy…you’ll be a good boy for me, Dieter?”

He was in a state he couldn’t even get closer to describing.

Your hot body pressing him down on the mattress, your soft warm skin brushing over his, your honeyed voice whispering that filthy delicious offer, your eyes now enlightened with something mischievous and lustful… was that even true? Maybe he was just having a wet dream and he was about to have the most miserable awakening.

But no, you were real and you were there, offering yourself to deal with his bare cock.

“I…uhm… maybe we shouldn’t…it’s not appropriate…,” he tried to protest one last time.

You cupped his face, your thumb running over his cheekbone “well… it is appropriate because I’d love that… and I’m pretty sure you want that too… am I wrong?”

Dieter gulped, his throat instantly dry, his whole body tensing at your admission.

Fuck.

“Well… yeah,” he murmured, almost ashamed of his own desire.

You smiled content, proud… “yeah, that’s what I thought, baby boy. Let me help you out of this evil thing.”

You moved just enough to reach the sides of his modesty garment, slowly sliding down his legs.

He was so hard underneath that his cock slapped against his stomach. Thick, leaking, the tip engorged and angry red and the veins along his shaft throbbing.

You tossed the garment on the floor without taking off your eyes from between his legs.

“You’re thick, huh,” you cooed “look at that, such a pretty cock.”

Dieter was running out of words, sweat beading on his forehead and damping his hair.

He used to be cocky, bold, almost insolent according to someone, especially under the influence.

He didn't know what had happened to that person, if any traces of them remained inside him.

In that moment, he realized how much he had changed, how his heart was finally exposed, and above all, how you had him in your grasp. You had wrapped him around your finger without him even realizing it. And there was no other place he’d rather be.

“Mmm, I’d like to make a few changes to the script, if you don’t mind…” you joked, licking your lower lip. “I’m feeling a little hungry…”

He immediately understood what you meant, even though he still had trouble believing it was real. All it took was a stammer of “no problem” for it to become more than real, though. Your hand wrapped confidently around his cock, and Dieter gasped through his teeth, desperately trying to contain the lust that shot through him like lightning.

“Hot… and heavy…,” you commented, starting to move your hand slowly along the length of the shaft, “and you’re uncut…delicious.”

His thin skin covered and uncovered his tip in sync with your movements. Dieter was mesmerized by the sight: your soft hand wrapped around his cock, your expression focused and desire burning in your gaze, your thighs wrapped around his knees in a soft grip, your breasts swaying slightly with the movements of your arm. It was the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

“I need to taste it… is that okay with you, baby?”

“Yes. Fuck.. yes, m-more than okay,” he babbled.

Your mouth slid gently over his cock, your tongue flat along the shaft, he felt your spit coating it before you pulled him off with a pop and started sucking gently on his tip.

Dieter’s eyes rolled back, hips bucking desperately. You slapped his hip scolding him “hey! I’ve said be a good boy. Stay still for me, baby.”

Dieter mouthed a sorry and tried with all his might to get back in his place, his cock twitching and desperate for more, a delicious pain radiating on his skin.

“Pushing your cock in my mouth like that will lead you nowhere, you heard me?” Your voice was firm and commanding and Dieter couldn’t do anything if not whining “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please”

“Yeah, you better be, don’t forget who’s in charge here, honey,” you smiled mischievously.

He was a mess already, just from your commanding tone and the brief suckling on his cock.

“Now let me take care of you…and you won’t cum until I say so, we clear?”

“Yes.”

You lowered your face again, holding him at the base with one hand and taking as much as you could of him in your mouth, adjusting your jaw to his thickness and breathing heavily through your nose.

Dieter was in heaven.

You alternated sucking on his tips with your tongue running along his shaft, fondling his bulging veins, he was violently throbbing between your lips but he stayed still as promised, biting on his lower lip to keep his cool. It was hard, though, actually one of the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Damn, you’re so perfect,” he moaned at some point and he felt your giggle right on his tip, the vibration of it sending shockwaves through his body.

“Mmm I know, baby, I can feel how you’re throbbing on my tongue, it’s so good… and all this mess you’ve made… look at that, you’re such a good boy for me.”

He was leaking profusely and you made sure to gather every drop, his tip glistening with your spit, angry red and swollen like crazy.

Dieter was on the edge, one more sucking would have been enough for him to cum. You sensed that and stopped right before he exploded.

“You made me so wet, baby…,” you purred, “wanna feel it?”

Dieter never nodded so fast in his life “Please… please, that’s all I need… fuck, please let me feel your pussy” he whined, his voice so pathetic and needy.

You took off your bra and Dieter stood at your bare tits for a good moment. They were round and firm, your nipples deliciously hard.

You lay down on the bed, commanding, "Take this thing off," nodding your head downward.

Dieter hooked his fingers around the sides of your modesty garment and pulled it down, holding his breath. He was so excited to see the most intimate part of you that his hands were shaking. He'd always thought that having sex drunk and high was the best, but only now did he realize how much he'd gained by staying sober. Being focused on you allowed him to read your body, to notice every little detail, to capture every breath and moan, and to store it in his mind like a treasure.

You absolutely deserved someone totally devoted to you and to your pleasure.

Your pussy appeared before his eyes in all its glory. He was mesmerized. Your folds were glistening with your juices, all pretty and puffy. Smiling, you spread your legs to give him a better view. Your clit was peeking out, swollen and needy, and a trickle of your juices slid down to the crack of your ass. He could also see your puckered hole from that position and the way your legs were raised and bent, and felt his mouth salivate.

“That’s gotta be the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, more to himself.

You chuckled, inviting him right after “show me what you got, big boy, make my pussy cry for you.”

Dieter lay down on the bed, between your legs. He kissed the back of your knee, then higher up, the top of your thigh, and continued in a slow succession of kisses halfway up. He bit your flesh, immediately licking to soothe it, and you moaned his name, closing your eyes and throwing your head back on the pillow. He moved up again, licking the crease where your thigh and hips met, the salty taste of your skin spreading over his tongue. He stayed there for a while, kissing and nibbling, purposely delaying the moment when he would sink his tongue into your warm, wet center. He wanted to feel you squirm beneath him, he wanted to test your every reaction. He looked up at your face and saw your eyes almost pleading with him, finally vulnerable and tender.

He moved to your mound, deliciously covered in a strip of carefully trimmed hair. He traced it with his tongue, stopping before he could go too far down and reach your clit. He kissed the sides, feeling your velvety skin against his lips. He finally moved down to your folds, licking greedily from one side to the other. He never took his gaze from your face, he saw you on the verge of begging him, your lower lip trembling and your eyes shining. He placed two fingers in a V-shape on your labia and licked a long lap along your slit, finally reaching your bundle of nerves.

He took his time with it, swirling his tongue, drawing tight circles with just the tip and long licks with his tongue flat.

You were moaning so hard it was like a symphony into his ears. You stammered, calling out God along with his name. He'd never really liked his name so much until he became famous and everyone started calling out to him, but hearing it from your lips made him seem sweeter than ever.

One of your hands gripped his hair, pushing his face deep into your pussy. "God, yes, Dieter, don't stop, yes… just like that.”

He gladly obliged, his nose buried into your folds hitting your clit while he teased your hole with his tongue, greedily swallowing your sweet nectar dripping all over his mustache, his beard and his chin.

Grinding on the sheets to seek relief, his cock swelling and pulsing for attention, he tried desperately not to cum because you hadn’t said that he could.

The moment he sucked your clit between his lips he sent you over the edge and his middle and ring fingers dipping into your wet hole did the rest. You came, squirting right in his face and Dieter didn’t move an inch, he drank straight from the source and licked your slit clean, guiding you through your orgasm, his hands anchored on your squirming thighs.

“Fuck,” you were wailing “FUCK, so good, oh my God YES.”

When you came down from your high you gently tugged at his hair asking for a kiss and Dieter smiled, leveraging on the bed to reach for your lips, your juices still all over his face. The kiss was deep and passionate, you gently nibbled on his lower lips and whispered in a hoarse voice “I love that I can taste myself on your lips” and Dieter felt his cock twitching again.

He wanted to be inside you so badly but he needed to follow your lead so he kept quiet and kissed you some more, still content that he made you cum so hard.

You took his hand and placed it on your hips, while your head rested in the crook of his neck and you put one leg between his to get closer.

Hugging you like that, your breasts pressing against his chest, your thigh rubbing against his cock, the warmth of your pussy on his skin, he soon got rock hard again.

“Someone wants more attention…” you purred right on his neck and he chuckled “I would never get tired.”

“Yeah? What do you want, my good boy?”

“I want… well, I would like to feel your perfect pussy again… with my cock.”

“Wanna fill me up, don’t you? Fill me to the brim and make me leak your cum in between my legs, is this what you want, baby?”

“Yes. Please,” he whined.

“Do that big boy, make me cum again with that pretty cock of yours.”

You lay on your side and he positioned himself behind you, your ass rubbing against his hard cock. You took his hands and placed them on your tits. He bent his knees to align himself with your pussy and slowly entered you, kneading your breasts with his hands, growling into your neck.

“Like this…all the way in, babe, I want to feel you in my stomach.”

You were soaking wet, your walls stretching deliciously to accommodate him, and it was an amazing feeling, being completely enveloped by you, your hot pussy swallowing him lustfully, your breasts filling his palms, your deep breaths and your voice encouraging him.

“Yeees, oh my Gosh, you’re so big…fuck,” you murmured and Dieter’s chest swelled with pride, he thought if heaven’s existed it must have felt like your pussy.

He kissed your shoulder’s blade, waiting for your command to move and when you finally did he started grinding his hips, first in circles, making sure to stimulate your whole warm dripping hole, his balls brushing on your ass cheeks. You wailed, hard and desperately and he took a faster pace, the sweet noises of your soaking wet cunt bouncing on the walls of his trailer.

“Oh shit, you’re gripping me so hard…,” he moaned.

“FUCK YES, it’s so good…SO GOOD…play with my tits, baby.”

He did, pinching and twisting gently, feeling your pretty little buttons hardening between his digits. It was so fucking good the only thing he could do was moan even harder on the soft skin of your neck.

Dieter left one alone to place two fingers on your clit to jerk it as he sank in and out of you, your moans praising him, your plump ass slamming against his groin in rhythm with his thrust.

He could feel your juices overflowing, creaming his fingers and cock, your cunt clamping down on him so hard when he reached that special spot inside you, he thought he was about to lose it.

“Fuck… I’m so close, please baby…,” he begged.

“Come, baby, burst into me…” you granted him “I want all of it… all of it down my hole… fucking come for me.”

The second he did your throw your head back on his shoulder, eyes shut and moaning so hard he couldn’t help but spraying a big load deep inside you, your cunt clenching around him, his length rubbing on your gummy walls.

It was insane, the most intense sensation he ever felt in his life and his cock didn’t stop, throbbing and twitching and shooting more long thick spurts inside of you.

He kept his fingers on your clit, jerking it off harder, until you came in a long strangled wail, your whole body hot and sweaty against his, quivering hard.

He held you close until your breath returned to normal, his cock still buried inside you, lazily kneading your breasts because he couldn’t get his hands off of you.

You turned around to face him, your make up was a mess, mascara running down your cheeks and your lipstick smeared, your hair was all tousled and sweaty but Dieter still thought you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Please, can I lick you clean?” he begged, and you nodded.

“You’re so needy. Baby…of course you can.” He lowered himself between your legs again.

He grabbed a handful of your ass and lifted you off the bed, placing your legs over his shoulders.

Holding your still-throbbing pussy open with two fingers, he watched his seed slide down your folds, dripping over your skin, all the way to your tight hole.

He couldn’t resist any longer, beginning to lick obligingly and hungrily, his flavor spreading across his tongue, mingling with yours.

You sighed loudly and stroked his hair.

“You’re incredible, you can’t get enough of me, huh?”

He grunted, moving lower, licking your puckered, exposed hole for him, feeling you squirming beneath his tongue.

You tugged at his hair, getting his attention back.

“Hey…you think you’ve earned my tight hole?” He looked up at you pleadingly, overwhelmed by his need for you. “Please?”

You giggled, ruffling his curls.

“Okay…” you conceded. “Go on…”

Dieter smiled, diving between your legs and licking gently, teasing your little hole with his tongue for a while, making you sigh and giggle, before moving back to your sweet pussy.

You were right, he couldn't get enough of you, and seeing you like that, naked on his bed, open and eager for him, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He stayed between your legs, licking, caressing your skin, enjoying the sight of your pussy soaked with his spit, until he felt you tense up and call him back to order.

"Hey, come back here...we don't have time for this right now..."

Dieter sighed bitterly, even though he knew it was true, your lunch break was ending and you would have to be back on set in a few minutes. He hugged you again and you kissed the tip of his nose and then his lips.

“The director probably didn’t expect for us to bond like this,” you joked and Dieter laughed softly.

“It was good, though, don’t you feel more relaxed now?”

“Definitely yes” he answered, searching for your lips again. You didn’t protest at him taking the initiative. On the contrary, you gladly accepted his tongue entering your mouth and licking all he could.

“Mmm… time to get back…,” you reminded him, as soon he detached himself from you.

Dieter grunted, getting up to collect his modesty garment to put it back on.

You did the same with yours, commenting, “It seems so stupid to wear those again now, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “But we have to.”

“Yeah… but I hope we’ll both wear something more comfortable and sexy tonight…” you said, as you tied the silky belt of your robe.

Dieter looked at you with a surprised eyebrow raise, and he felt such a strong warmth spread through his chest. You wanted to spend more time with him. And you wanted it soon.

“Oh. Sure. I’d like to take you to dinner, how does that sound?” he ventured.

“That would be perfect.”

He was happy, truly happy after such a long time.

“Dessert will be served in my room… how does that sound?”

“Perfect.” He replied, winking.

“Hurry up, the director is waiting…” you teased, pinching his ass. “I’m going ahead, the makeup artist will definitely want to kill me.”

You exited his trailer, leaving the door ajar. Dieter watched the light filter through the crack, dust dancing in the air, rays of sunlight scattering across the floor. And finally, he felt that each new day would be worth living.

He turned to you with those sad eyes and immediately pulled you into his arms. “Thank you for coming in. It’s been…a day.”

“I gathered.” You wrapped your arms around him to return the hug. “You okay?”

“Better now.”

The two of you parted and he gave you a quick rundown of the patients and the situation in chairs. While you worked you made a habit of finding Robby whenever you could. Your fingers would find the hair at the nape of his neck and rub gently. It was a self soothing gesture he’d done since he was a kid. One you’d picked up on to help him when he was really stressed. You calming him better than he could ever do by himself.

Every time he closed his eyes and just let himself sink into the sensation for a moment. Neither of you thought much of it, having done the routine for years at this point.

Jack returned from his SWAT run expecting to find you still in bed or maybe curled up on the couch. Instead, he found a note stating you’d headed into work. He frowned then got ready to follow you. He wasn’t sitting around the house by himself.

His eyes scanned the ED taking in the chaos before falling on you standing behind Robby while he sat at one of the computers. Jack’s gaze narrowed at the sight of your fingers playing with the fringe of hair on Robby’s neck.

He walked over to the hub. “What are you two doing?” he asked, not sounding at all accusatory. (This is a lie. Though the tone didn’t affect you and Robby in the least.)

Instead of answering, you gave Jack a small, sad smile and looked pointedly at the man in front of you. Jack studied him for a moment then he realized what this was. You were comforting Robby.

“Oh no.” Jack’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Carry on,” he stated louder before heading to the locker room.

“Did I call him in? I don’t remember calling him.” Robby asked as his friend walked away.

No one answered him.

A couple of hours passed, the end of shift growing ever closer. Night shift started to trickle in. Jack was moving past the hub when his gaze fell on Robby sitting at the desk, palms pressed against his eyes.

Jack’s gaze frantically moved around the department searching for you.

“She’s in a trauma,” Dana’s voice cut in.

He glanced over to find her gesturing toward Robby. ‘Do something,’ she mouthed.

Jack sucked in a breath, nodded once and moved up behind his best friend. His fingers attempted to replicate the comforting pattern that you’d long memorized.

Robby froze.

His hands dropped as he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Jack?” Robby drew out the word. “What are you doing?”

“She’s busy. I’m all you have. Deal with it.”

Robby huffed a laugh and tried to duck away, but Jack’s hand merely followed. “Believe it or not, it’s not near as comforting when you do it. In fact, it’s fucking strange. Knock it off.”

“No. Let me comfort you.” Jack was nothing if not stubborn.

Robby started to protest before just deflating. “Fine.” A pause. “Go a little higher.”

Melissa King walked past the hub, tablet in hand, nodding to the attendings as she passed. Then she stopped, processed and turned to face them. “I…um…I’m not certain that’s entirely appropriate.”

Her words caught Crus Henderson’s attention and he turned to see what had caught her attention. He grinned and stepped up beside her. “Oh, you don’t want to get in the middle of that. Trust me. Just keep moving.”

Jack narrowed his gaze. “I’m soothing him. Do you have a problem with that? I didn’t realize you were so closed minded, Dr King. What if he’s my husband? Have you considered that?”

Crus snorted and patted Mel’s shoulder. “Good luck.” Then he walked off and left her to the wolves—or rather the Abbot.

Mel stuttered, her brow furrowing. “No. I mean…” She huffed in annoyance. “Aren’t you already married to Dr. Abbot?”

“I am Dr. Abbot,” Jack answered, lips twitching as he fought his amusement.

You’d stepped out of the trauma room during the initial conversation and made your way over with a shake of your head.

Robby looked from Mel to you and glanced over his shoulder at Jack. “I’m keeping my last name. Three Abbots is too many.”

You shrugged. “I could always switch to Robinavitch.”

A resounding “No!” came from both men and you smiled.

You turned to Mel. “Ignore them. They’re just like this. It’s a problem really. Hand off your patients to Dr. Henderson, please.”

She nodded slowly, clutching the tablet to her chest as she walked away. She looked back once with a heavily furrowed brow as she tried to process what had just happened.

“You two are menaces,” you said to the men once she’d left.

“I’m soothing,” Jack insisted and Robby chuckled. A real smile was on his face for the first time all day.

You smirked and huffed a laugh. “You just going to keep letting him play with your hair all night or do want to do handoff?”

Robby straightened and brushed Jack’s hand away. “Stop it.”

“I mean, it’s fine. I don’t want to interrupt your bonding moment or anything,” you continued.

“Oh, shut up,” Robby said as he stood, cheeks flaming red.

Bonus:

As Mel gave Crus a rundown on her patients, she kept glancing back to the hub where the attendings were in conversation.

“Hey, you with me?” he asked drawing her attention back to him.

She startled and cleared her throat. “Yes, sorry. Yes.”

Crus chuckled as he flashed her a smile. “I take it you haven’t seen the three of them interact much.”

“Not really. No.”

“You’ll get used to it. They’re a little chaotic, but there is no one better to learn from.”

Mel nodded absently. “So, the Doctors Abbot are married and Dr. Robby is…”

"Bust," Jack says lowly. Of course, his last throw is the one time Robby hits the bullseye. "I win."

"That you do." Robby takes his beer back from Jack. Their fingers brush over the condensation.

Behind them, their friends flurry around the dart board to set up a new game. "Start without me," Jack says. "I'm taking a smoke break."

"Do you mind sharing?" Robby asks before he can stop himself.

Jack finishes the last of his beer; a bit of it dribbles out the side of his mouth and strings a tempting trail down his neck. "Not at all."

The thin yellow light of the alleyway creates a halo around Jack's curls. Robby rocks back and forth on his feet, pretending to be interested in the crumbling bricks, as Jack digs a pack out of his pocket.

"Only one left."

"Ah." Disappointment crashes on Robby hard. "That's alright, man. Thanks anyway."

Jack places the cigarette between his lips. "We can share."

Robby laughs, but it fades as Jack lights it without breaking eye contact. "Share... a cigarette?"

Jack's sun-kissed skin is emphasized as his cheeks hollow around the drag, he nods and releases the smoke slowly. "If you want."

"Uh," Robby is hypnotized by the way Jack wets his lips. "Sure." He holds a hand out, but it's ignored. Jack flips the cigarette between his fingers and places it an inch away from Robby's mouth.

He stares at Jack for a moment, taking in the challenge behind his eyes, then delicately wraps his lips around the end, tentatively brushing calloused skin as he sucks in a breath. Jack pulls the cigarette away and steps forward; the toes of his shoes knock against Robby's.

Robby exhales. The blood in his ears matches the dull thud of the bar's music through the walls.

"There's an idea," Jack says lowly. He takes another step, crowding Robby against the rough brick. "We could actually share."

"What do you mean?"

"Open your mouth." Robby obeys embarrassingly quickly. The sharp bite of the smoke overwhelms him as Jack releases his drag into his mouth. His thoughts float away with it. "Your turn."

Jack pokes his tongue ever so slightly over his bottom teeth; his mouth looks hot and inviting. Robby blows his hit inside it.

The cigarette twitches slightly in Jack's hand. "You know, buddy of mine did a study abroad in London. He said over there they call these fags."

Ash falls to the concrete. "Why's that?"

"I don't fucking know." Jack smirks, "I prefer the fags we have here."

Robby's dick twitches. "Do you know any?"

The smirk grows. Jack nods. "Do you?" He takes a long drag; his Adam's apple bobs deliciously with it.

"Intimately," Robby answers.

Jack leans closer, holding the smoke in only centimeters away from Robby's mouth. He up with enchanting eyes, giving one last out Robby has no intention of taking.

Robby presses his lips to Jack's and takes in the smoke. Bitterness has never been so appetizing.

The next kiss is a real one. No excuses, just hungrily licking into each other's mouths with the small buzz lingering in the back of their minds. Realistically, the kiss tastes terrible, but Robby would rather die than give up the stale aftertaste of nicotine right now.

Jack rolls his hips against Robby's. Their belt buckles clack together in the quiet of the night, not that either of them can hear it. Anything that isn't Jack panting into his mouth gets washed away in Robby's mind.

Even through two sets of jeans, Jack's dick feels heavy. Robby wonders how thick it is, if he wouldn't be able to stop the drool leaking from the corners of his mouth as he buried his nose in Jack's pubic hair. He moans softly into Jack's mouth.

Jack traces Robby's teeth with his tongue one final time, then moves downward, leaving a hot, wet trail in his wake. The cigarette is still perched between two of his fingers, his wrist resting on Robby's shoulder. Robby tilts his head and takes another quick drag. He's never had a buzz like this from nicotine before.

A firm hand cups Robby's bulge and massages it. Smoke slides from Robby's lips as he lets out a weak noise, which only encourages Jack's movements. He's beginning to fiddle with the zipper when the loud, metallic screech of the door interrupts them.

Jack rips himself away, and Robby busies himself with finishing off the cigarette.

"Yo, Jack," the person says. "Can I have one?"

Jack digs the box out of his pocket and tosses it. Robby squints at him knowingly, but Jack doesn't have the sense to be ashamed. He stares Robby down and licks across the bottom of his teeth.

"Hey, man, I'm gonna head out," Jack says, never taking his eyes off Robby.

"Oh, already?"

"Yeah, I got some stuff I need to take care of at home."

"Me too," Robby says. He flicks the cigarette to the ground.

And then you caught it.

“It’s your turn to cry tonight,” Isaac said.

“Nu-uh,” Mila muttered.

“Come on, you’re a big baby. You always cry anyway.”

“I not a baby,” you heard her protest, her voice already wobbling with impending tears.

“You’re crying already!” Isaac huffed, crossing his arms. “Just say you miss Daddy.”

“I miss Daddy,” she admitted.

It broke your heart, a hot prickle of tears threatening your own eyes. But you had to be the adult, had to comfort them. You walked in, sinking onto the rug between them.

“Everything alright?” you asked, your eyes landing on Isaac with a knowing look as your arms went out to scoop Mila up against your chest.

Both of them froze, instantly realizing they’d been caught.

“I miss your father, too,” you said softly, deciding honesty was the best path. “And you both know he loves you with all his heart, and he’ll always be there for you. But Daddy has a very important job, and he needs to rest, too. It’s not fair to make him run over here in the middle of the night if you don’t genuinely need him.” One of your hands reached out to gently smooth down Isaac’s soft brown hair.

“But I do need him” he whined, his brows knitting into a hard frown.

“Come here.” You extended your other arm, and he immediately scrambled forward, burying his face against your side. You pressed a tender kiss to the top of each of their heads.

“Uncle Jack says Dad misses us, too,” Isaac muttered against your blouse.

Hold on a damn minute. You pulled back, holding him at arm's length to look him in the eye. “What else has Uncle Jack been saying?”

He sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “I can’t tell you. We have a secret club. And you’re not part of it.”

“Oh?” Your eyes widened in feigned offense. “Are you a member, too, Mimi?” you asked the little girl in your arms.

She nodded excitedly, entirely oblivious to what the club actually entailed, you were sure.

“Well, what if I want to be a member? How can I join if I don’t even know what it’s about?” you challenged Isaac.

He gave it deep, serious thought. His eyes darted from side to side, a deep frown set on his face. It was completely adorable.

“I guess you’re right,” he finally conceded. “Our secret club is about getting Daddy to live with us again.”

“Ohh,” you exhaled, feeling as though you’d been physically punched in the chest. “And can I be admitted?”

“Well, that depends. Do you want Daddy back with us?”

Mila nodded fervently beside you, her dark curls bouncing up and down.

“Of course, honey. But only when he’s ready.”

“We have to ask Uncle Jack if you can be part of the club first.”

You felt a wicked, competitive smile tugging at your lips. “Sure, baby. Let’s call him.”

Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you tapped on his contact and hit call. It only rang twice before a gruff, sleepy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Rise and shine, Uncle Jack,” you said in a dangerously sweet, clipped tone.

“What’s up? Are you alright? Are the kids okay?”

“Everyone’s just fine. Isaac wanted to ask you something.”

“Hey, Uncle Jack!” Isaac shrieked into the speaker.

“Hey, kiddo.” You could practically hear the fond smile blooming beneath the man’s sleepy voice.

“I told Mom about our secret club.”

Radio silence.

“Jack? Why didn't you tell me about your club?” you asked, letting a rich tease drip from every syllable.

“Run, Isaac. Save yourself, buddy.”

Click. The boy ran shrieking in laughter while you held Mila who was laughing as well.

Later that evening, you told Robby about the kids' secret club and the conspiracy brewing under your roof. He just threw his head back and laughed, promising he’d “take care of it.”

Though, looking at the warm, wicked glint in his eyes, you couldn't quite tell if taking care of it meant shutting the club down, or playing right into its hands.

Like he hasn’t interrupted at all, you’re talking, hands moving the whole time, telling him how Miles took her to his cousin’s wedding as a plus one, introduced her to his whole extended family, and then got weird the second she used the word relationship in a sentence. 

Jack genuinely cannot follow half of this. He’s thirty seconds behind the whole time, stuck on the wedding part, trying to work out what kind of man brings a woman to a family wedding and then chickens out over a label. 

Honestly, he’s kind of enjoying not understanding it, watching you get worked up over somebody else’s nonsense relationship, all animated hands and soft pouts and that furrow between your brows that he’d kiss off your face if you weren’t so deep in it.

“Did she ask him what they are?”

“She’s scared to.”

“Why?”

“Because if she asks and he says nothing, then it’s real, it’s confirmed nothing. But, right now it’s like, undefined nothing, y’know? Kinda feels better somehow even though it’s like million times worse.”

Jack blinks at you, quite a beat too long. He has, in his entire adult life, never once thought this hard about anything that wasn’t a differential diagnosis. But, here you are explaining tiered levels of nothing, like there’s a flowchart somewhere for this. (He thinks you’re going to pull it up one of these days. Educate him, like you keep saying.) 

It should annoy him. It really should. Some kid your age too much of a pussy to know what he wants, doesn’t deserve the headspace you’re giving him, though he keeps that one to himself.

You flop down next to him mid sentence, grabbing his arm and using it as a pillow without asking, and he thinks, not for the first time, that he would listen to you explain literally anything for this long if it meant you stayed exactly like this against him.

His free hand finds your waist, thumb rubbing slow into the dip of it, like he can’t sit next to you for longer than a minute without needing his hands on you somewhere. “You know what I think?” 

“What?”

“I think you people invented whole new vocabulary so nobody has to just ask a question out loud.”

“Okay, boomer.”

“I’m not a boomer.”

“You said ‘you people.’ That’s such a boomer thing to say.”

“I’m fifty.”

“Boomer adjacent.”

He doesn’t really have a comeback for that, mostly because he’s laughing. You’ve created an entire generational subcategory just for him, like he needs his own little demographic bracket. 

Now you’re on some other detail about Miles and a group chat and a screenshot that got sent to the wrong person. 

Jack’s given up on the plot actually, checked out three Mileses ago. He’s just watching your face do fifteen different things in one story, outraged, then gleeful, then outraged again, hands doing most of the narrating on their own, and that’s a hell of a lot more fun to keep up with than Miles.

“Are you even listening?”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“I stopped around the screenshot thing. I got lost.”

“You’re useless.” You smack his chest for that, more out of principle than anything really. 

He catches your hand before you can pull it back, holds onto it, thumb running over your knuckles.

You’re now saying something about how Miles needs to lock the fuck in, or lose it.

Jack’s only half listening. He has zero clue what half your words even mean and somehow could not give less of a shit about that right now.

You snorted into your glass, staring at the screen. The wine gave you a reckless surge of courage, and your thumbs moved before your brain could filter them.

You: you gonna show me how to use it?

His reply came back within seconds.

Jack: Yeah. My place tomorrow?

…

So that’s how you were here. On Jack Abbot’s lap, writhing as his thumb guided a small, buzzy, impossibly effective vibrating bullet directly against your center. His hand was around your hip, holding you steady while his hard length pressed hot against you through the fabric of his sweatpants.

"Told you the other one was overrated." he murmured against your neck, his voice raspy.

You let out a breath, hands clutching his shoulders as you rolled your hips into his palm.

There's an IV in your arm connected to a bag of fluids. The room seems so chilly at first until you notice the cooling blanket draped across your body. You frown as the realisation of what happened settles in.

"Hey, trouble." A groggy voice on your right says, and you recognise it immediately.

You lazily turn your head his way, finding him looking all worried at you. "Shit. Did I pass out?" You ask with a wince.

"Yes. Shen thankfully caught you before you could smash your head on the floor." Jack shakes his head as the image of you hurt pops up in his mind. "Angel, what happened? Didn't you drink enough?"

There's no scolding or disapproval in his voice only real concern, and that makes you practically melt. "I thought I drank enough, Jack. But I've been sweating like crazy so maybe I underestimated it."

You feel so stupid for this mistake. As if it's not enough that people are dropping like flies from the heat, now Jack has to deal with his residents passing out, too...What a mess.

"It's okay, sweetheart. You gave me a mild heart-attack but it happens. Just make sure take better care of my girl next time, okay angel?"

He gives you a cheeky smile and drops a kiss on top of your head. "I know that we are practically rushing from one patient to another but sparing a few minutes to yourself won't do any damage. Having a doctor, down on the other hand, will."

"I know, Jack. I'll be more careful next time." You promise, tugging at his hand to prompt another kiss from him. This time he drops it on your cheek.

"Good girl. You are off for the rest of the shift, doctor's orders. Just rest sweetheart, and I'll come get you when we leave."

"Fine, but for the record I feel completely okay now." You huff out, you don't like not helping your colleagues when the Pitt gets this overwhelming.