MSWarriorBabe

Your sisters had waited to call you until three days ago. You loved them dearly but they’d always been a little too flighty. A little too vain. Too self-centered. As soon as you were able, you’d escaped, moving to a city far away and only visiting on the odd occasion. Your mother had died when you were young and your father tended to only call when he needed something. But with daddy missing, your sisters had turned to you, the only reliable adult they knew. The fact they were adults themselves, two of them older than you, seemed to escape their notice.

It was only after you’d arrived home that you learned the full story. Your father had dealings with Danforth. Had gone to his estate and returned home absolutely chipper which was entirely unlike him. The next morning, his bed was empty and no one had seen him since. It didn’t take a genius to determine Titus Danforth had something to do with his disappearance, though your sisters seemed genuinely shocked by the idea.

“We should call the police then,” Naomi, the eldest, said.

You laughed though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Titus Danforth owns the police.”

“He does?” Bettany seemed genuinely confused. “That seems like something people should be made aware of.”

You blinked at both of them and were suddenly relieved the other two were out at the moment. “People know, trust me.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Bettany mumbled.

You bit back a scathing retort. It would be lost on her anyway. Gods, you were catty today. You’d simply told them you’d take care of it and left the house. You drove your father’s car to the estate, parking along the shoulder a short distance from the gate. After one more long look at the massive building in front of you, you pushed open the gate. In stereotypical fashion, it opened with a long groan.

Fantastic. That wasn’t creepy at all.

Long strides carried you up the steps to the front door. It opened before you could knock. A servant wearing a dark suit and a blank face looked down at you. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Titus Danforth.” Your voice came out stronger than you’d feared it would.

One delicate eyebrow lifted and the expression became more pinched. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Good day then,” he responded with no hesitation and began to shut the door.

You lunged forward, hand flat against the door to stop it from closing. “Please. I’m looking for my father.”

His gaze narrowed as he studied you more intently. He glanced over his shoulder then took a step back. “Come in.”

You hesitated ever so slightly before stepping over the threshold. The entrance hall was vast, cold. Dark wood paneling covered the walls behind the gilded portraits that lined the halls. The main wall held a painting twice the size of the others. A stunning woman with auburn hair and hazel eyes looked down on you, a small smile on her lips. A small bud vase mounted to the wall beside it held a single jeweled rose tucked within.

“Stay here,” you were instructed.

You startled slightly, almost having forgotten the man was there. You simply nodded in answer. Several minutes passed before a different servant arrived. A young woman that wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Follow me.”

After the third turn, you quit trying to keep track of your path. Perhaps you should have brought a roll of string so you could find your way out. Eventually you arrived at a study as dark as the rest of the house. The woman showed you in then closed the door behind you.

A man stood at the desk, head bowed while he sorted through papers on the surface. You’d seen enough photos of Titus Danforth to tell you that this was him. He was shorter than you’d imagined. Five-nine maybe, but his presence took up most of the room. His hair was a riot of gray curls with auburn threaded throughout. You imagined his original hair color matched the woman in the portrait exactly. His gaze shot up to you showing you that he had her eyes as well. “Sit.”

You thought about arguing, about demanding your father. But this wasn’t a man you threatened, that you demanded anything from. You lowered yourself onto the edge of one of the chairs in front of his desk.

He turned back to his papers for several minutes. When he spoke, he did it without looking at you. “You’re trespassing.”

“Where is my father?”

A beat of silence. “What does it matter to you?”

Your brow furrowed. What kind of question was that? “He’s my father.”

He looked up then, meeting your gaze again. “And?”

You didn’t know what to say to that. It was evident he honestly didn’t understand why that mattered.

“He took something that belongs to me,” Titus said, voice flat. “Therefore, his life is mine. It’s not personal, it’s transactional.”

A chill ran up your spine. Not necessarily because of what he’d said, but how he’d said it. This was really just another day of doing business for him. You had a sudden vision of your future if your father never came home. Constant pestering from your siblings begging for your assistance. A headache formed behind your right eye.

“That is not transactional. His life cannot possibly have the same value as whatever he stole. That’s insanity.”

He sat suddenly, leaning back in his chair as he took you in. “You’re correct. What he stole was far more valuable than his life. It’s the only reason I haven’t killed him yet. I want it back.”

You shook your head. “But—”

He cut you off. “The rules for a guest in my home are simple. Don’t insult me. Demand nothing. Don’t take that which doesn’t belong to you. He chose to break them.”

“You can’t just keep him here forever.”

“I can. I am. The matter is settled. If that’s all, you may leave.”

It wasn’t settled. Nothing was settled. You couldn’t just leave here without your father. You clenched your teeth together and took a deep centering breath through your nose.

“Take me instead.”

Titus went very still as he continued to hold your gaze. His voice was quiet as he spoke. “Explain.”

“If my father is locked up here, he can’t return what he stole. You said it yourself, it’s worth more than him.” You cringed as you said the words, not believing them in the slightest. “Take me, hold me hostage. But let him go.”

The silence stretched long enough that you thought perhaps you’d miscalculated and he’d just kill you both to be rid of you. He leaned forward suddenly and you instinctively leaned away. He tilted his head slightly.

“And do you think he’ll believe you of more value than what he took?”

The question surprised you and you were horrified to find you didn’t know the answer. You’d like to think that your father wouldn’t hold anything in value over you, but a lifetime with him had suggested otherwise. Well, fuck. “Yes,” you answered and hoped he believed you.

His expression didn’t change. “Fine.”

You remained in the study while arrangements were made, a lone servant watching over you. Your father was not brought to you, you were not permitted to see him. You were simply informed that he was gone then you were led to a bedroom. Your prison for the foreseeable future.

The room was richly appointed which surprised you. You’d half expected to find yourself in a dungeon somewhere. The bed was made up with silk sheets. The adjoining bath was all marble with a soaking tub and warm towels. You’d never stayed anywhere half as nice as the room you now found yourself in.

But gilded chains were still chains.

The first summons came the morning after your arrival, delivered by a servant with downturned eyes. “Breakfast is at eight, lunch at one, dinner at seven. You are to attend.” Then she left.

You didn’t go.

You heard footsteps in the corridor outside the door shortly after one before it opened without a knock. Titus, of course. He stood in the doorway, hands flexing at his sides, jaw tight. You were sitting in a chair in the same clothes you’d worn yesterday because you hadn’t been provided anything else, and you didn’t particularly feel like asking.

“You weren’t at breakfast,” he said.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“You’re late for lunch.”

“Still not hungry,” you said and pressed your lips together.

“You’ll eat anyway.” He crossed the room in long strides, his hand closing around your upper arm. His hold wasn’t enough to bruise but you were certain that could change in an instant.

He pulled you to your feet and you stumbled. He didn’t pause, instead walking you out of the room and through the corridors until you arrived at the double doors of the dining room. He pushed you toward a chair at the end of the table. “Eat,” he demanded as he took his seat opposite you.

Like most of the furnishings you’d seen, the dining table was dark wood and overly ornate. It was long enough to seat twenty but was set for two, you at one end and your captor at the other. Silver candlesticks stood at intervals, lit despite the hour as the heavy drapes on the windows were all pulled shut. The china was white with a gold rim, the crystal thin and fragile. Everything designed to make a statement that you couldn’t care less about.

A meal had been laid before you, elaborate even in its simplicity. Fruit cut and perfectly displayed. A salad perfectly dressed. A sandwich perfectly stacked cut in perfect triangles. You didn’t touch any of it. Instead, you sat with your hands in your lap and watched Titus eat. His hazel eyes found you across the length of the table.

A servant stood at the edge of the room, waiting to be asked for something or for a water glass to need refilling. They kept their eyes locked on the middle of the table, not daring to look directly at either of you.

When Titus finished, he leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth. “If you don’t eat with me. You don’t eat at all.”

You said nothing.

He looked at the servant. “Take her back to her room.”

“Yes, sir.”

Only once Titus had left did the man move to escort you. “You should do as he says,” he said when you were nearly at your door. “It’s better for everyone.”

“For everyone or for him?”

“There’s no difference in this house.”

You didn’t listen. You couldn’t. It would feel like surrender. Like accepting your father was gone and you were here. So you pushed. At every meal, every interaction no matter how brief. You waited two days to eat, admitting you were punishing no one but yourself with your defiance. You attempted conversation on more than one occasion only for him to respond with a flat, dismissive tone as if the discussion wasn’t worth having.

The two of you bickered about everything. Each day that passed had you more irritable, sharper. You’d honestly thought when you suggested this arrangement that your father would return the next day with whatever he’d stolen and you could go home. Titus’ words echoed in your head. And do you think he’ll believe you of more value than what he took?

After another round of bickering over breakfast, you finally had enough. “I didn’t ask to be here, you know.”

He huffed in annoyance. “You offered.”

“I offered to take my father’s place. Not to be treated like—”

“Like what?” he snapped. “A guest? Or do you think I often allow prisoners to sleep on silk sheets? Provide designer clothes for them to wear? Allow them to eat at my table?”

His gaze remained locked on you for another beat. “If you wish to see how I treat prisoners, it can be arranged.”

“If you weren’t such an asshole, maybe we could have a civilized conversation.” Your voice was louder than you’d intended. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, but I’d like to make the best of it.”

Titus went very still then he sat down his silverware and tossed his napkin on the table. He looked at you across the expanse of the table with a flat expression. He stood, pushing the chair back so it slid across the polished floor. He left the room without another word.

You sat at the table, hands trembling sightly in your lap and your food going cold on the plate in front of you. The truth was, you’d only considered trying to get along with Titus over the last couple of days. Every moment that passed without the appearance of your father had you wondering if you would ever be going home. Perhaps you’d be here for years with only the surly master of the house and a flock of servants that were too afraid to talk to you for company.

You expected punishment. A relocation of your room to some dingy basement cell. Or maybe he’d lock you in the attic with the dust and the spiders. Perhaps he’d resort to feeding you only bread and water. Or take away your clothes, leaving you with only what you’d arrived in. You lay awake most of the night waiting for it, listening for footsteps in the hall. When sleep finally came it was restless and unsatisfying.

He didn’t appear for breakfast the next morning. You barely ate, the worry clawing at your stomach. The knock came just after ten. Not the light tap of the servants, but the firmer knock of Titus. You had no doubt he would come in even if you didn’t answer.

You opened the door to find Titus standing on the other side. He was wearing his normal dress slacks with a button up shirt. The sleeves were rolled this morning. You didn’t dare tell him it was a good look for him. His jaw was tight as he narrowed his gaze at you.

You simply looked back, waiting for the verdict.

“I apologize,” he said. The words were firm, forced as if he was unused to saying them. “It’s not you I’m angry with. As it seems you may here for some time, I would like for us to get along.”

You studied him, searching for any sign of deception. You found nothing obvious though you didn’t know him well. “Very well.”

He nodded once and turned to go. Then he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Would you like to see the grounds?”

You agreed because the alternative was staying in your room staring at the same four walls you’d memorized already. And because his awkwardness had disarmed you more effectively than any charm could have. It was real, a glimpse at the man behind the mask.

He showed you the gardens first, they were beautiful and far more vast than you’d imagined. “My mother planted them,” was all he’d said when you’d commented on their beauty. You’d waited, longed for more information, but as far as he was concerned the conversation was over.

He showed you the drawing room with furniture that looked uncomfortable to sit on with a collection of china displayed behind glass. Then the morning room that would flood with sunlight in the early morning hours. With his permission you pushed back the heavy drapes. The windows showed distant hills that also belonged to him, the way everything for miles seemed to.

He was not a good tour guide. He listed facts without context, named paintings without explaining why they mattered, barely showed you rooms as he stated their purpose as if you already knew the layout of a house you’d been in for less than a month. But he was trying. You could see him trying in the way he slowed his normal quick pace to one more comfortable for you, the way he gave thoughtful answers to your few questions instead of dismissing them outright.

He didn’t show you everything. There was no reason when you were only allowed in certain areas. Anything was better than being stuck in your room. Everywhere you went though there were paintings and photos of his mother. Each draped in flowers or having a bud vase mounted nearby with a copy of the jeweled rose you’d seen on your first day in the manor. Titus Danforth was still a mystery but it was clear that he adored his mother.

You enjoyed your newfound freedom though you were surprised when Titus would seek you out to have tea in the late afternoon, or a drink by the fire or even just a spot of conversation. And the conversations the two of you had were your favorite part of the day. He was intelligent, well-spoken. And if the two of you disagreed on a point, he’d listen thoughtfully to your arguments before giving his own.

You had the feeling he felt as lonely as you did. Sure, you’d never had a moment alone growing up with four sisters. The house always filled with chaos, but you were still so alone in the midst of it all. None of them had your love for education, for the written word. They were content to just be pretty and wait to be married off to some man that would take care of them for the rest of their lives. Though their unfortunate personalities had kept them from finding said man. You hated it. You hated your father telling you that you should be more like your sisters even more. That you should want less, be less.

Then, one afternoon, Titus led you to the library.

It was at the end of a hall that had previously been off limits. The double doors were carved wood so heavy they required both hands to push open. The smell hit you first. Old paper and leather with an undertone of the citrus cleaner the servants favored. Floor to ceiling shelves climbed every wall interrupted only by tall windows. This was the only room you’d seen without heavy curtains closed against the sunlight. You’d opened them in the rooms you frequented and had found them that way ever since.

Rolling ladders stood at intervals. In the center of one wall, a large fireplace burned with a low fire. Two armchairs were angled toward it with a small table between them. Above the mantle was the largest portrait you’d seen of his mother yet. Two young children stood on either side of her and you knew it must be Titus and his sister. The bud vases to either side held a single crimson rose, real ones this time. The room was perfect.

“You can read anything you like.” Titus stood by the door, watching you with an expression you couldn’t place. “Nothing is off limits.”

You ran your fingers along the spine of a leather-bound volume without pulling it from the shelf. The gold lettering had faded to the point you could barely read the title. “This place is amazing. Why are you sharing it with me?”

“Because I have found no reason not to trust you, in spite of looking very hard for one.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice that made you look at him. He held your gaze for a moment then glanced away, moving toward one of the armchairs. He picked up a book off the table and opened it. “Sit if you wish.”

You pulled the book with the faded title from the shelf and sat in the other chair. You didn’t talk and it was the first comfortable silence since your arrival.

That became a pattern. You’d spend your mornings in the library while he completed whatever work he had for the day. After lunch, if the weather cooperated, you would walk the grounds, Titus joining you if he had the time. The two of you would talk about yourselves in a way you never had before. He asked about your education. Your life before you’d surrendered yourself for your father. You asked about the people in the portraits scattered around the halls. He told you about his sister that was on another continent ‘making someone’s life miserable’. Fondness tinted his words.

The evenings the two of you spent before that fire in the library, reading beside each other in comfortable silence while you occasionally sipped on a drink. Then, one evening, Titus closed his book and turned to you with a thoughtful expression. “Marry me.”

You laughed, a surprised huff of breath. “I don’t think so.”

Something flashed across his face ever so briefly before resuming its normal blank expression. “Very well.” And he picked up his book again.

The next day, walking through the garden he said it again. “Marry me.”

“No.”

He nodded and kept walking.

The next day, you found your place at the table set beside Titus instead of at the other end of the long expanse of wood. You paused briefly than sat without comment. The question came over dinner this time. “Marry me.”

You turned to look at him with a furrowed brow. “What is this recurring delusion you suddenly have that I’m going to marry you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Indulge me.”

You didn’t, but you didn’t leave the table either. His asking didn’t bother you, not really. You just found it odd.

He asked every day. Sometimes in the library, sometimes on your walks, sometimes over meals. Once he’d asked you as you passed each other in the hallway. He said it so casually you almost didn’t register it. You said no every time. And every time he accepted it without anger. Just the question followed by your answer and a continuation of whatever you’d been doing before.

You began to wait for it. Not the proposal, but the moment after. The moment when he heard no and kept looking at you the same way. Kept treating you the same.

In the library one evening you caught him watching you as you ran your fingers along the spines of the books on a lower shelf, tracing the embossed titles, searching for your next read. His expression was unguarded in a way you’d never seen it. It was open, almost soft. He turned away when he noticed you looking, the moment broken. Neither of you mentioned it.

Somehow against every instinct for self-preservation you possessed, here with Titus Danforth had begun to feel almost like home.

One quiet evening in the library, Titus stood by the window flipping through a book he’d just pulled from the shelf. You sucked in a breath. “I want to see my father.”

He didn’t look up immediately. His thumb paused on the edge of the page then he closed the book slowly and slipped it back onto the shelf.

“Why?” The question wasn’t angry, just cautious.

“Because I want to know why he never returned. Why whatever he took is more important than me. I think I’m owed that much.” You paused. “And I suppose it would be nice to see my sisters.”

He turned from the window. The light caught the silver in his hair and for a moment he appeared older than he was. He looked at you and you could see him weighing the options.

Finally, he nodded. “One week, then you return.”

“Of course.”

“Not a day more.”

“I understand.” You didn’t understand. What would he do if you were gone for longer than that? But you didn’t ask because you had no intention of finding out. He’d asked you to return in a week so you would.

He held your gaze for a moment, as if confirming you did, in fact, understand. That the terms were not negotiable. Then he picked up another book.

“Leave tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll arrange a car.”

The car arrived at nine. Titus was not there to see you off. You didn’t take a bag, you had things at your father’s after all. A servant held open the back door and you slid in. You did not look back at the house as you drove away.

The drive to your father’s home didn’t take long. He stood in the front yard raking leaves when you arrived. He turned to frown at the car then dropped the rake as you stepped out. He looked older. But then you hadn’t seen him in two years even before he went missing. He crossed the yard in three long strides and pulled you into a hug so tight it hurt to breathe.

“You’re here. You’re home.” His voice was muffled against your shoulder.

You pulled back, pushing him away slightly. “I’m visiting. We need to talk.”

He nodded and led you into the house. It was surprisingly quiet. “Where is everyone?” you asked.

“They’re on a trip. You know they’ve always wanted to go on a tour,” he told you as he put the kettle on the stove.

You narrowed your gaze and sat at the table. How could he possibly afford that? He made a comfortable living, but not enough to send four women on a tour, whatever that meant. You waited until he handed you the mug of tea and took the seat across from you. “How long is the trip?”

“Three months total.” He said it as flat as if he’d been telling you the sun was shining.

What the actual fuck? You didn’t ask. Knew he would lie if you did.

“Can I ask why you never returned with whatever you took from Titus so I could come home?” You sipped your tea after you asked so he wouldn’t see the tightness in your jaw.

“I didn’t take anything from him. You must believe me. It wasn’t me,” he insisted, the words coming frantic and desperate.

You absolutely did not believe him.

“I can’t return something I don’t have,” he added.

Now that was slightly more believable. You had a feeling you knew exactly where the money had come from for your sisters’ trip. When you still said nothing, he fidgeted under your stare.

“Besides you’re home now. No harm done.”

You set the mug on the table. “I told you, I’m only here for a visit. I have to go back.”

His face took on a sickly sheen. “N-No. You can’t go back.”

“Someone must. Would you prefer it be you? Or perhaps one of my sisters?” You were making a point, but you knew Titus would accept no one but you.

The week passed in stilted conversations and awkward silences. You would have cut your time short and returned early, but you were hoping for a chance to search the house, to find some trace of whatever your father valued more than you.

Your sisters called on the last day. Your father answered then put the call on speaker. “Your sister is here.”

“What?” came a collective shout that had you cringing.

“I thought she agreed to stay at the Danforths so we could be wealthy?” Caliope, the youngest, whined.

Your father’s mouth opened and closed. You just stared at him.

“Does this mean we have to give it back?” Naomi asked.

The smile you gave him was not a happy one. Rather, it was just the satisfaction at having been proven correct.

“Girls, I’ll call you later. Don’t worry about anything here. Enjoy your trip.” There was a round of goodbyes before he pressed the disconnect button. His hands twisted together in his lap as he looked anywhere but you.

You let the silence stretch.

“I had to tell them something,” he finally stuttered out. “If they thought you stayed to help us then they wouldn’t worry. So, I made something up.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes, they sounded very concerned.” And they had, just not about you.

He slid forward in his seat and took one of your hands in his. “I have to work tomorrow, but please stay. Don’t leave. Let me prove myself.”

“I’ll stay.”

The next morning when the car arrived, you sent the driver away. “Tell him I need another day. There is something I must do.”

You could tell the man wanted to protest, his eyes all but begged you to come with him, but he simply nodded and headed back toward the estate.

With your father gone you could search the house. You had never realized there were so many drawers and cabinets in this godforsaken place. Every time you turned up empty handed. There was nothing here that looked like it belonged to Titus. You’d set everything to rights by the time your father returned.

He made dinner that night, told you stories about your mother you’d never heard before.

“See, this is nice. You should stay one more day. Just one.”

You said yes, knowing he’d be gone most of the day tomorrow as well.

Again, you sent the driver away with the same message. You’d never considered getting Titus’ number when you left. And even if you had, he’d never returned your phone. You hadn’t missed it until you’d returned home and could no longer talk to him every day.

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair before trudging back in the house. You started with all the nook and crannies of the basement before heading to the attic. There had to be something somewhere.

You found nothing. You father asked for another day to make things right. You agreed once more, knowing if you found nothing you’d have to return regardless.

No car arrived the next morning. You ignored the sinking feeling in your gut. You intended to be gone before your father made it home today whether you found anything or not.

You returned to your father’s office and his bedroom, the two most likely places for something to be hidden. You tore both rooms apart, not caring about covering your tracks this time. You were almost ready to give up when you tripped in your father study. A look down showed one floor board slightly higher than the others, scratch marks along the side of it.

You grabbed a letter opener from the drawer of his desk and used it to pry up the board. It came up easily as did the ones on either side once it was out of the way. Lying below was a bundle of fabric. You reached in and pulled it out carefully. You gasped when you opened it.

A beautiful jeweled rose lying beside a cluster of loose gems. Rubies and emeralds along with broken bits of gold. The remnants of another rose. You’d seen dozens like them, scattered throughout the estate, nestled in the bud vases by his mother’s portraits. Then your mind turned to the one in the library. The only one with real roses in the vases.

This is what your father had taken. What he claimed he couldn’t return. Because he’d already begun taking it apart. So, he’d left you to rot so he could send your sisters on the vacation they always dreamed of. The roses were undoubtedly valuable but they meant so much more to Titus. They were a way for him to honor his mother with blossoms that would not die. Your father was a horrible, vile man that you very much wished you didn’t know in that moment. A single tear rolled down your cheek at the thought of Titus finding the vases empty after your father’s visit. How he must have grieved their loss.

You knew exactly what your father would say if he were here. You could hear his voice in your head pleading his case. He has so much. Why shouldn’t I make our lives easier? It was a small thing. How was I to know he would miss it?

You wrapped them carefully back in the fabric and placed the bundle in your pocket. You left the floorboards as they were. It was time to return home.

You went back to your room and packed the few belongings you had left there. You hooked the strap over your head so it would sit diagonally across your chest. You left no note, no goodbye and you walked out the door.

The walk to the estate wasn’t horribly long but every minute dragged. You wanted to be safely behind the iron gates before your father returned home just in case he decided to come looking for you. It was late afternoon by the time you arrived. You ran your gaze over the house, frowning when you noticed that the curtains covered the windows of every room. You thought you’d broken him of that particular habit.

The front door was unlocked which you hadn’t expected. You also hadn’t anticipated the hallways being quite so empty. You saw not one servant, didn’t even hear the echo of a footstep. Odd. You dropped your bag near the door then moved to find Titus.

You glanced in rooms as you passed, frowning at what you found. The china in the drawing room was in pieces on the floor. Random paintings throughout the halls were torn or thrown on the floor. But not the ones of his mother. No, they were all right where they belonged.

Your steps became hurried as you headed toward his office. You’d check there first before going to the library. After that you’d just start shouting his name as you wandered the halls. A strip of light illuminated the floor beneath the office door. You knocked. No answer. You knocked again and when you still had no answer you pushed the door open.

As with the rest of the house, the heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows leaving only the light from the desk lamp to illuminate the room. Papers littered the floor. The chairs in front of the desk were now broken piles of debris.

Titus sat behind the desk, his shoulders hunched, head bowed. For a moment you wondered if he was asleep then he looked up. Your breath caught at the raw devastation you saw there. It was quickly replaced by relief when he took you in. He let you see it for a handful of seconds, then he locked it down. That mask he was so good at wearing, that you hated once you’d seen what was beneath it, slid into place.

“You’re late.” His voice wavered ever so slightly.

“Yes.”

He didn’t ask why as he laced is fingers together on the desk in front of him. “I thought you weren’t coming back.” The words were quiet.

“You didn’t come after me.”

He glanced away, focusing on a point over your shoulder. “No.”

He had believed you gone and he accepted it. Was willing you let you go if that’s what you wanted.

You crossed the room, stopping in front of his desk. You were close enough now that you could see his face clearly. Dark circles sat under his eyes. Thick stubble lined his jaw where he hadn’t shaved. His hazel eyes watched you with a wariness they hadn’t held before.

You reached into your pocket and removed the bundle, laying it on the desk and opening it. “I had something I needed to do.”

Titus had gone very still as he took in what you were offering him. His eyes darted up to yours when you spoke again.

“I needed nothing between us. I needed you to know it was my choice to stay.”

He tilted his head in question.

“Ask me again,” you said.

“What?” The word came out small and broken.

You laid your hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Ask me, Titus.”

“Marry me,” he said, the words a plea this time.

Your lips curled into a smile. “Yes. Of course I will.”

For a moment neither of you moved. Then he stood and came around the desk. You turned as you tracked his movement. He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the scent of his skin, but he didn’t touch you. Not yet.

His gaze moved over your face as if memorizing it. “You came back for me.”

“I did.”

He took one of your hands in his and lifted it to his lips, placing a soft kiss against the inside of your wrist. “I missed you.”

“I am very glad to be home,” you said, stepping into him.

His hands shifted to settle at your waist and yours found his chest. He leaned in and traced the length of your throat with his nose before laying soft kisses along the line of your jaw. Then his lips found yours in a soft kiss. He pulled away to study your reaction, to make certain this was okay.

You were the one that closed the small distance and kissed him again, chasing the taste of home on his lips.

The trailer rocked gently to the rhythm of your movement, the dim glow of a lamp in the living room. Ash leaned back against the couch with his good arm hooked around your waist, guiding your movements as you ride him. Sweat glistened on his forehead, he wasn't used to this much exertion without whiskey in him. "Damn," he breathed out between gritted teeth, half-laughing. “You're ruthless, you know that?” "having trouble keeping up Old Man?" You giggle in-between pants and moans. Ash's eye twitched at the word old, With a grunt, he suddenly flipped and pinned you beneath him on the couch. he smirked down at you, all cocky bravado now.

"Old man?" He repeated in mock offense before crushing his lips against hers in a messy kiss that's all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration from being called ancient by someone half his age. "Yes old..." He thrusts in to you, his fingers digging into your hips. You gasp. “Fuck...” he groans. The cocky bastard was losing control fast. One hand (not his prosthetic hand) flew up to grab your chin, forcing eye contact through heavy-lidded lust as he growled: "I'm gonna make you regret that nickname." Then he yanked you in for another searing kiss.

You whine and moan. “Daddy...” It slips out of your lips. Ash froze. For a second, His eyes widened like saucers. A slow, dangerous grin spread across Ash's face. "Oh?" He raises an eyebrow, and without breaking eye contact (and definitely not letting you squirm away), he leaned down until their lips were almost touching again and whispered: "Say that again.” "d... Daddy..." You whimper out.

Ash's entire body thrummed with something primal as he starts thrusting his thick cock in and out of your tight hole again. His grip tightened on you, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair while his prosthetic hand pressed firmly against the small of her back. A low, almost feral noise rumbled from his chest before he claimed your mouth again, this kiss is deeper, hungrier. All teeth and dominance and zero chill.

When he finally pulls back for air, his breathing was ragged. His pupils were blown wide with lust as he stared down at you like you where his entire world. "Fuck... you're gonna ruin me," you moan hoarsely before pulling him back in for a kiss. "you feel so good Daddy..." Ash lost it. A strangled, desperate sound escaped him, something between a groan and a whimper, as he pounds in to you with the speed only rivalled by a power tool. He kissed down your neck with reckless abandon, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there before murmuring against it. "Jesus Christ... you're perfect." his hands were everywhere, tracing every curve of your body like he needed to memorize it all right fucking now. No more teasing, no more games, just pure worship fueled by that one devastating word that fell from your lips.

"oh fuck..." You whine. "Daddy... So... Fuck so fucking good..." You moan completely lost in him and having no plans of finding your way out. "Goddamn right I feel good," Ash growled, voice thick with pleasure. His fingers find their way back to your hair as he kissed her all messy, desperate, all tongue and heat like he couldn't get enough. "You say that shit one more time," he warned between kisses, “and I'm not gonna last." You nod. "me too..."

Ash's breath caught, a low curse slipping from his lips at the needy edge of that confession. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, trailing a pattern of open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there and savoring every hitch of her breath until he reached her ear. His words were a raw, graveled whisper all hunger and desire. "Say it again." "Daddy I'm close..." Ash's entire body tensed like a coiled spring, both of his hands slid down to grip her hips hard enough to bruise not that he cared right now.

"Fuck, baby...” he breathed out shakily, forehead pressed against youre as your eyes locked. "You feel so good..." His voice was wrecked already, rough and thick with arousal. He leaned in for another searing kiss just as everything started crumbling around. "Ash... Oh god..." Your thighs shake. Ash clung to you, his breathing ragged against your skin.

"Fuckin' hell," he gasped, voice cracking slightly from sheer intensity. His hands roamed desperately over your back tracing every vertebra like a man starved for touch. “C'mon...” Ash urged hoarsely, lips brushing hers between words as you moved together in perfect sync now chasing that sweet release neither could stop anymore. "fuck... Ash! Oh fuck Daddy!” you moan as you finally reach your peak. Ash's entire body locked up as you unraveled beneath him. his name, that word, the way you cried out like he was everything. It shattered whatever self-control he had left. With a guttural groan muffled against her shoulder, Ash followed right after overwhelming pleasure crashing through him in waves that made his vision blur at the edges.

“how’s my favorite nurse?” jack says, sliding up to the nurse’s station beside you where you’re busy reading a patient’s chart for their medication schedule.

“careful. if lena hears you, i think she’ll get offended,” you murmur between slightly pouted lips, glancing up at him briefly through your lashes just to shoot him a playful deadpan.

jack hums in thought, glancing around the station. “well, she’s not around so no harm, no foul,” he shrugs. “and it’s true,” he adds, leaning a little closer to you to murmur conspiratorially, playfully secretive.

his casual way of being friendly – or flirty, as your brain liked to take it – made your stomach bubble with butterflies you’d thought had retired in junior high.

“you have charts to sign off on, dr. abbot,” you state, gesturing to the tablet in his hand, and trying to hide the way your cheeks flushed.

“and you have meds to administer, sweetheart,” he drawls, tapping your own chart.

sweetheart.

does he realize what that does to you? he must. especially with how his mouth tugs upward into an amused smile.

you quickly spin on your heels, baby blue sneakers squeaking against linoleum floors to start making your way to the patient’s room, hiding your flustered state from him. by the way he chuckles after you, you presume he saw it anyway.

you hadn’t planned on developing a crush on jack abbot. come on. not only was he inappropriately older than you by some standards, he was still the chief attending of the night shift. you had no business crushing on an hr nightmare.

but there you were anyway, with your flushed cheeks, frazzled expression and slightly stammering words depending on whatever flattering remark he threw at you.

he was handsome after all…

what you didn’t realize was he was having the same mental turmoil as you. because there you were with your bright, wide-eyed beaming eyes and matching smile, evidence of how early you were in the career that had began beating him down years prior. there you were in your cute scrubs, matching sneakers and undershirts that remind him shit, she’s young… but so pretty.

he couldn’t help himself with the playful teases that went past the line of flirting. not when it made your cheeks flush like that every time and made you avoid eye contact with him.

nor could he help himself when you just so happened to choose to have dinner when he did, sliding into the seat in front of you in the break room.

“what’s for dinner tonight, sweet pea?” jack asks every time, glancing at your pink tupperware lid before back at you standing beside the microwave, waiting for your food to heat.

he always picked something up from the diner he frequented for breakfasts after his shift, having been a regular customer for years now. it was always the same: turkey, bacon, lettuce and tomato with mayo spread on wheat bread.

you, though, seemed to pack something different every shift. sometimes homemade warm food that has his stomach grumbling from the mere smell after you’ve heated it in the microwave, sometimes a healthy salad, sometimes a sandwich. the list goes on.

“pasta with pesto sauce,” you chirp sweetly, used to this routine with jack since you started sharing dinner breaks. you tilt your microwave-safe tupperware in his direction as you walk back over, placing the steaming bowl onto the table and taking the seat across his.

he looks down at the food as you proudly present your craftsmanship. “looks delicious, hon,” he murmurs, lip twitching up into a half smile at your pride.

“want some?” you ask, already pulling out an extra fork. you’d noticed the way he brought the same thing every time you shared a shift and over time, started bringing extra utensils under the rouse of just in case you accidentally dropped one on the floor.

“oh, don’t worry about me, i’m all–”

“try it.” you cut him off, holding a fork full of pasta to his lips, barely grazing them while looking expectantly at him from across the table.

and because he can never deny those big, wide eyes of yours, he leans forward and lets you feed him a big bite.

“well?” you ask when he pulls away, placing the fork down and trading it for yours to have a bite of your own.

“it’s delicious as always,” he answers after humming in delight at the taste. he wonders if you always cook at home like this. if you have someone to cook for. the thought makes an uncomfortable jealously settle behind his ribs.

“i’ll bring you your own plate tomorrow then.” you beam, cheeks flushed unabashedly this time, because you can’t help how a compliment about your food makes you feel.

several lunch breaks later, conversations dip into the territory of outside the hospital. more so, what you do outside the hospital. hobbies, what you like, where you eat. it shouldn’t come as a surprise (but still does) when he dangles a bait of “well, what’s a restaurant you haven’t tried but want to?”

you unknowingly take the bait because, hey, maybe he needs some recommendations?

instead, he asks you to go there. with him. by yourselves.

oh. oh!

so you find yourself on a date with dr. jack abbot. and then another one. and another. before you know it, you’re actually dating. he’s driving you home after your shifts, delivering flowers to your apartment door, spending days off together, the whole shebang.

and because ptmc was ptmc, where everybody seemed to know everybody else’s business within approximately twelve minutes (gotta thank perlah and princess for that), you both decided to keep it to yourselves for a little while.

which was how you ended up sneaking through the hospital like two teenagers who had absolutely no business being together.

an hr nightmare.

but it sure as hell was fun.

“jack,” you whisper through a breathy laugh, glancing down the empty hallway before he quickly pulls you into a secluded corner when footsteps sounded from around the corner.

he places a finger on your lips, signaling your silence as two providers walked by, none the wiser of the attending and nurse hiding in a corner. when the squeaks of their shoes becomes faded, he lifts his finger of your lips to cradle your jaw instead.

“no on-call room,” he murmurs solemnly, rubbing the rough pad of his thumb against your cheek.

you blink up at him, trying very hard not to laugh at the pout on his face. “tragic.”

“i know,” he agrees with a frown. that doesn’t stop him from swooping down to kiss you, lips molding to yours like fitting two puzzle pieces.

you squeak against his lips, hands clutching the front of his scrub top as your eyes flutter closed, shivering at the way his hand cradling your jaw tilts your head back, angling the kiss deeper, while the other hand slides around your waist, pressing you closer to him.

had it not been for his pager beeping, your legs would’ve been reduced to jelly, buckling beneath you.

he groans against your mouth before begrudgingly pulling away, haphazardly pulling his pager out to check it.

“it’s a trauma rolling in,” he mutters, schooling his expression back to serious-doctor mode. “they need all hands on deck.” he leans in to peck your lips once more. “i’ll catch you later, sweetheart.” he rushes off, offering a crooked smile over his shoulder.

and on the days there is an on-call room available? well…

“j-jack our shift starts in five minutes!” you squeal, head pressed against whatever cheap mattress the hospital provided atop the springy bed frame in the on-call room.

“i know, i know – mmmph! – but they can survive a few minutes without us,” he grunts from behind you.

he has you pinned down, head and chest pressed to the bed while holding your ass up in his thick calloused hands. he pounds his thick cock into you from behind, watching it disappear inside your fluttering pussy with every thrust forward.

you mewl as he drives into you, your fists clutching the sheets of the bed to steady yourself.

“that’s a good girl, takin’ me all the way,” he growls lowly, watching with awe at how you practically welcome him in with every thrust forward. “how’s it feel? tell your jackie,” he adds, squeezing the flesh of your ass hard enough there’ll probably be marks by the end of your shift.

“so full, jackie!” you respond with a whine, pushing your hips back against his, the plap-plap-plaps of your bodies slapping against each others bouncing off the walls of the room.

he grins, though you can’t see, so he expresses his amusement verbally. “yeah, i think my baby likes getting fucked at work.”

that makes your belly clench with delicious shame and you can’t ever deny it. not when he’s plowing into you to the point of seeing stars.

“‘m close, jackie! i’m about to–” you pant, voice being reduced to breathy moans.

jack is nothing but a giver, never a taker (no matter how much you beg). he always prioritizes your pleasure, even when he’s the one more pent up. so, it’s no surprise when he reaches a hand around you and between your legs to rub that sweet little bundle of nerves that’s been neglected thus far.

“go on, honey. i’ll catch you,” he murmurs, now leaning his body against yours to speak directly into your ear. “i’m close, too,” he adds.

his words always egg you on the best, so with that and his added fingers against your clit, it’s only obvious it takes you two more thrust from him that has you cunt clenching around his cock in waves as you tip over the edge.

your vision goes white as you orgasm, thighs trembling as he rides it out and he follows you soon after, pumping you with hot ropes of cum coating your insides and inner walls.

your twitching thighs collapse onto the bed, knees no longer holding your ass up.

“shit, went too far?” jack murmurs apologetically at your fucked out state, body twitching in aftershocks.

“need a few minutes,” you murmur blearily against the bed, turning your head to glance at him over your shoulder with a smile. “but ‘m okay.”

he watches you fondly, already reaching for your panties and scrub bottoms from the floor, slipping them back on you. “i’ll tell robby at handoff that you’ve got an upset stomach,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple before reaching for his own briefs and scrub bottoms pooled at his ankles to pull up.

“he’s gonna catch on,” you mumble, rolling over to sit up, and wiping the sweat from your forehead. you lean over to slip on your sneakers. “that, or admit me. this is my fourth stomach ache this month.”

jack chuckles as you stand up on slightly wobbly legs, and wraps his arms loosely around your hips to support you, gently patting your ass. “they’re bound to found out one day,” he reminds you, kissing your nose – a sweet contrast from the way he just manhandled you.

you lean in this embrace, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your cheek to his chest, muscular even through his scrubs. “true. but i would prefer it not be right after you’ve fucked me in an on-call room.”

chapter 14 | the fire

Cody House

Pope gets to the house just after midnight.

He stays behind the wheel with the engine running, looking toward the lights inside the house. He can still hear you at the body shop after he told you he wished the two of you could’ve gone somewhere else.

So come home with me.

It’s stayed with him since he let your hand go. Since Craig and Deran pulled you away and Pope stood there watching the car disappear. He meant it when he told you he was coming home. He still means it.

He just needs to finish this first.

Pope kills the engine and gets out, crossing around the side of the house toward the backyard.

The yard is empty except for Smurf sitting near the pool, a drink on the table beside her. She barely looks up when Pope comes through the gate. “Been trying to call you, baby.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Pope says, keeping his attention on his mother.

Smurf finally looks at him, then behind him, as though she expects everyone else to show up. “Where’s everybody?”

“Not here.”

Smurf looks at him more closely. “Call them.”

“No.”

“Baby.” Smurf sets her glass down and looks at him more carefully. “I just want to talk to everyone. I want to find out what happened.”

“Then talk to me.”

Smurf gets up and comes toward him, bringing both hands to his face the way she’s done his whole life. “My sweet boy. You’re tired, baby. So am I. I just want to know what happened with the job.”

Pope catches her wrists and lowers her hands from his face. “Something could’ve happened to her.”

Smurf pulls away and goes back toward the table. “She knew the risk, baby. She’s the one who said yes the other night.”

“Because you fucking knew she’d do it for me.” Pope’s voice sharpens. “I told you. This was the last job. I don’t give a shit that you didn’t get your score. I came here to tell you I’m done. We’re done.”

“Is that so?” Smurf asks, lifting her glass again. “Because of her? Baby, you had no problem with what we do until she started telling you what to do.”

“You don’t know shit about her.”

“I know girls like her.” Smurf takes a drink, watching him over the rim of the glass. “Pretty girls like her get bored. She was with Baz before she started looking at you.”

“Don’t.”

Smurf puts the glass down and comes toward him again. “Sweetheart, I’m just trying to remind you that no one’s ever gonna be there for you like your mother.”

Pope looks at her. “You call that being a mother?” Smurf’s face barely changes but Pope doesn’t give her time to answer.

“You used me for all of it.” He closes some of the distance between them, and this time Smurf stays where she is. “Everything you didn’t want to touch. The jobs. The blood. All your dark shit.”

“Baby—”

“You used my wife.”

Smurf’s mouth tightens at the accusation.

“And Julia.”

She looks up at him. “You made that choice a long time ago, baby.”

“No. You made it for me.”

“Julia had a problem, Andrew. You knew that.”

“You made me leave her.”

“She was sick.”

“She was my sister.” Pope’s voice gets rougher. “You made her nothing. Made me help you do it.”

Smurf holds his stare, and Pope looks at the woman who spent his whole life telling him there was something wrong with him.

“You’re sicker than I’ll ever be.”

Smurf’s attention shifts past him toward the gate. Pope turns and finds J coming into the backyard. “I thought I told you to get rid of the plates.”

“I did,” J says.

Smurf moves away from Pope. “J, baby. What happened?”

“The unit was empty when we got there.”

“I know that.”

J looks at her. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Smurf’s brows draw together. “What does that mean?”

“It was me.”

Neither Pope nor Smurf answers.

“The storage. The cash. The key from Deran’s office.” J keeps his voice level. “San Pedro. All of it.”

Smurf stares at him. J continues before she can interrupt. “You were too busy looking at Baz. Craig. Deran. Pope.” His eyes shift briefly toward Pope. “You even looked into his wife. You never looked at me.”

“You did this?” Smurf asks.

“Yeah.”

“The guys that were there?” Pope asks.

J looks at him. “I gave them the location and the time. They cleared the place before we got there.”

“You ungrateful little shit.” The control slips out of Smurf’s face. “I brought you into the family after your mother died, and this is how you repay me?”

“I never wanted into your fucking family.”

“For what, J?” Pope asks.

J’s attention moves to him. “I wanted access.”

Pope watches him. “Why?”

“For my mom.”

That stops Pope.

J looks toward the house. “We had nothing. She had nothing. You all got to live here like none of it happened.”

Smurf turns toward Pope, her voice softening immediately. “Baby. He lied to all of us. He stole from this family.” She glances toward J. “He knew your wife was outside the gate tonight. He sent those men there anyway.”

Pope’s attention locks on J. Smurf sees it. “You know what you have to do.”

Pope looks at his mother instead. “No.”

“Andrew—”

“No.” His breathing is rough now, but his voice stays clear. “I’m done.”

Smurf’s face hardens. Her hand moves toward the gun at her side as she turns toward J.

The gunshot cracks through the backyard before she gets it clear.

Smurf drops onto her side near the table. The gun stays loose in her hand as blood begins spreading beneath her.

Pope doesn’t move. He stares down at her, at the woman who raised him and used him and still called him baby while she did it. She doesn’t move again.

Behind him, J shifts. “Pope—”

Pope is on him before J can bring the gun back up. He knocks J’s arm aside, sending the weapon across the concrete, and drives him backward into the sliding doors. His fist catches J across the face before he grabs the front of his shirt.

“You knew.”

“Pope—”

“You knew she was alone.” Pope shoves him against the glass again.

“She wasn’t supposed to be in the middle of it, man.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter.” Pope keeps hold of his shirt. “I almost didn’t get to her.”

J manages to shove him off and catches Pope across the jaw. By the time Pope comes back at him, J has the gun again.

Pope stops.

J holds it on him. “She loved you.”

Pope goes rigid.

“I know.”

“You left her.”

“I know.”

“Stop fucking saying that.” J’s voice finally breaks out of the control he’s kept all night, though the gun stays steady. “She was pregnant. She needed you. And you chose her.”

Pope looks past him toward Smurf’s body, but that isn’t where his mind goes. He sees you at the body shop instead, crying while you begged him to come home with you. The beach house. Your ring beneath his hand. Everything he was supposed to go back to.

He still wants it. That’s the worst part.

Julia wanted him too.

She needed him, and he left with Smurf. Now he gets to go home to you after everything, while Julia never got that chance. The thought turns ugly inside him before he can push it away.

“Should’ve stayed,” Pope says, quieter now. “She should’ve had me.”

“You don’t get to say that now.” J’s jaw tightens. “You don’t get to stand there like you’re different from Smurf. You don’t get to fuck up everything for me and walk away clean.”

Pope starts toward him. “Do it.”

“Pope, stop.”

He keeps going. J doesn’t lower the gun.

The barrel presses into Pope’s chest.

“Do it.”

J’s finger tightens on the trigger.

Beach House

Craig carries you inside. You know that much because your feet never touch the porch steps and his shirt is rough against your cheek when he adjusts his grip. Deran comes in behind you, checking the house while Craig takes you straight to the couch.

He lowers you onto the couch and stays near you until you’re settled, one hand lingering briefly at your shoulder before he lets go. He looks at your face like he’s waiting for something from you, but whatever he expects never comes.

After checking the doors, Deran comes back and crouches in front of you. “Hey,” he says. “You’re at the beach house. Me and Craig are here.”

Your eyes move toward him slowly as your hands rest loose in your lap. When your fingers shift, your thumb catches against your wedding ring. Deran’s attention drops briefly to the ring, but he leaves it alone.

Across the room, Craig keeps finding things to do with himself. He checks the window, his phone, the keys near the door, anything except sit still. You barely follow any of it. Your own phone feels heavy when you finally pull it from your pocket. 

Pope’s name is still near the top of the screen.

You call. It rings three times before you stop counting, and you keep listening until the call cuts away unanswered. “Nothing?” Craig asks.

You shake your head. 

Deran doesn’t tell you to try again. Craig swears under his breath and drags a hand over his mouth before walking toward the window again. The silence stretches until he finally turns back. “I can’t fucking sit here.”

Deran looks at him. “Then sit somewhere else.”

“You know what I mean.” Craig grabs the keys from the table. “He’s over there by himself.”

“He told us to bring her home.”

“Yeah, and then he went back to Smurf alone.” Craig closes his hand around the keys. “I need to know what’s happening.”

“So do I.” Deran’s voice sharpens.

“Then why the fuck are we sitting here?”

Deran gets to his feet. His voice drops before he answers. “Because he told me not to leave her alone.”

Craig’s attention goes to you then. Some of the fight leaves his face. “I’ll stay close.”

“Craig—”

“I’m not going there. But I can’t stand around here. Lemme just get some fuckin’ air.”

Deran studies him. “Call me before you think about doing shit. I mean it, Craig.”

“Jesus, I know.”

Craig opens the door, then pauses with one hand still around the edge of it. He looks back at you. His mouth opens, but when he finally speaks, all he says is, “I’ll be back.”

You don’t answer him and only watch him close the door.

Craig leaves, his engine fading down the street while Deran stays near the door until the sound is gone.

Without Craig pacing around, the living room is almost silent.

Deran disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. He sets it within reach before sitting on the floor beside the couch, his back against the coffee table. The water stays untouched.

Deran watches the dark windows. “Pope can handle himself.” He exhales and shakes his head. “Sorry. That’s not helping either.”

You keep looking ahead as Deran continues. “Not gonna tell you he’s fine. Cause I don’t know if he is.”

Your throat hurts when you finally speak. “He made me leave.”

Deran turns to you. “I know.”

“I told him I wasn’t leaving him.” Your voice sounds thinner than you expect. “He made me go anyway.”

Deran doesn’t try to defend him.

You look down at your hands. “I should’ve stayed.”

“Don’t do that.” Deran shifts enough to face you. “He wanted you out of there. Craig and I wanted you out too.”

You stare at him. “He said he was coming home, Deran.”

Deran looks down at the phone in his hand. “Then that’s what we wait for.”

Deran settles back against the coffee table. You keep your phone beside your thigh, waking the screen every few minutes in case Pope called while you weren’t looking. Headlights move across the front windows, but neither of you gets up to look.

When his phone finally vibrates, Deran answers before the second ring. “What?”

Deran’s mouth tightens as he gets to his feet. “Shit.”

He takes the call into the kitchen, but the house is too quiet to keep his side of it from reaching you. “Where are you?” he asks.

Craig responds, his voice too low for you to hear. “Jesus fucking Christ, Craig.” Deran lowers his voice. “You said you weren’t going there.”

You look toward him, watching as Deran braces one hand against the counter while Craig keeps talking. “Is he there?”

You sit up straighter. 

“Don’t go closer.”

A pause.

“I said don’t go closer.”

You’re on your feet before you’ve realized you’ve moved. Deran looks over when he hears you. “How bad?” he asks into the phone.

Craig answers, and Deran curses under his breath. You’re already near the kitchen when he lowers the phone. “What happened?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer quickly enough.

“Deran.”

He looks at you as he says, “Smurf’s house is on fire.”

“Andrew?” you ask immediately.

Deran’s mouth twists. “Don’t know.”

You go back to the living room and pick up your phone to call Pope. It rings twice before you end the call rather than let it go to voicemail.

When he doesn’t answer, you lower the phone and go back to the couch. There isn’t anything left for you to do but wait, and this time you stop lifting your head whenever Deran moves through the room.

You don’t know how long you sit on the couch before Deran comes over. “It’s late. Do you wanna lie down for a while?”

“I don’t wanna sleep.”

“I didn’t say sleep.”

You push yourself up, Deran staying a step behind as you walk down the hallway.

The bedroom is dark except for the light coming in behind you. The bed is made, neat the way Pope always leaves it.

You move around to your side of the bed and lie down, Deran staying near the doorway.

“Leave the door open.”

“Okay.”

Deran heads back toward the living room without closing it.

From the bed, you hear his footsteps every so often. His phone vibrates once. His voice follows, too low for you to make out more than Craig’s name.

You keep your eyes on Pope’s empty side of the bed until they stop focusing.

Your eyes blur before the tears start. You wipe at them once, then give up and turn your face into the pillow, one hand curled against the sheet where Pope should be.

Somewhere down the hall, Deran keeps waiting too.

By the time the knock comes, the tears have dried against your face.

Deran checked on you once. Since then, you’ve heard him moving around at the other end of the hall, answering Craig’s calls and waiting the same way you are.

The knock is quiet enough that you almost miss it.

“Who is it?” Deran calls.

“It’s me.”

You go still.

Pope’s voice has been with you all night, but only in pieces. I’m coming home. His hands holding your face at the body shop. The look he gave you through the car window after Craig pulled away. You’ve gone over it so many times that hearing him now feels like another part of it, something your head has given you because you wanted it badly enough.

Then Deran says, “Jesus Christ—Pope.”

The front door opens, and Pope’s voice carries down the hall. “Where is she?”

You’re out of bed before you understand deciding to move. When you reach the hallway, he’s already there.

Pope is alive.

One hand is braced against the frame. His shirt is streaked with soot, the collar stretched out of shape, dried blood running along one side of his jaw and dark across his knuckles. Dirt is worked into his hands. He’s breathing harder than he should be for someone only standing there.

He looks like getting there took everything he had left.

Pope looks up and finds you. His mouth opens.

“Baby…”

You reach him before you can answer, hitting his chest hard enough that he catches himself against the frame. His arms close around you immediately, pulling you tight with one hand at the back of your neck.

“Andrew…”

Pope presses his face into your hair. “I’m here, baby.”

Your breath breaks against his chest when his hand tightens at the back of your neck, trembling against your skin. His heart beats too fast beneath your cheek, but it’s real.

Your hands knot harder in his shirt when the shaking takes over, and Pope gathers you closer despite the tremor running through him too.

He smells like smoke.

Like the house you never wanted him to die in.

Behind him, Deran lifts the phone to his ear. “Craig.” His voice catches rougher than before. “He’s here.”

Pope doesn’t lift his head and you don’t let go.

There’s blood on him and soot ground into his clothes. You still don’t know what happened after Craig drove you away, but you don’t ask.

His arms are around you. His face is buried against your hair. Every breath he takes moves beneath your hands.

He told you he was coming home.

He came home.

A few weeks later, there isn’t much left to take.

Most of your clothes fit into two bags. Pope takes even less. By the time Craig and Deran pull up, the car is already packed except for the duffel bag Craig brings with him, stuffed with cash, new IDs and the other practical things none of you talk about too closely. Pope’s skateboard is wedged beneath the bags in the backseat.

He’s healing. The cuts across his knuckles have mostly closed, though one is still covered with a narrow strip of tape, and there’s fading bruising beneath the collar of his shirt. He moves carefully when he reaches too far with his left side, but he hasn’t complained once.

You stopped asking if he was sure three days ago. His answer hadn’t changed once.

Craig comes around the back of the car and looks over everything like he might still find something missing. “You got the cash, the IDs, the other phones?”

Pope gives him a look. “Yeah, Craig.”

“Alright.” Craig shoves both hands into his pockets. “Just checking.”

Craig looks over the packed car once more before his attention comes back to Pope. Then he steps forward and pulls him into a hard hug.

Pope lets out a low grunt when Craig catches his ribs, but his arm comes around him anyway. Craig holds on longer than he usually would before finally letting go. “Don’t disappear completely, alright?”

“I won’t.”

Craig nods like that’s enough. “Good.”

Pope reaches out and grips the back of his neck briefly before letting go.

Deran comes over after Craig steps back and pulls Pope close, one hand at the back of his neck. Pope’s arm closes tightly around his shoulders. “Call when you get wherever you’re going,” Deran says. “Actually call.”

Pope looks at him when they separate. “I will.”

Craig hugs you next. There’s less awkwardness in it than there would’ve been months ago, his arms closing around you tight enough that you have to brace a hand against his back. “Take care of him,” he says. Then, before you can answer, “And yourself too, okay?”

“I will, Craig.”

He pulls away and looks toward the car, blinking hard once before shoving his hands back into his pockets.

Deran waits until Craig moves off before coming to you. His hug is tighter than you expect, one hand firm between your shoulder blades. You close your eyes against his shirt and hold on just as hard. “You good?” he asks.

“Getting there.”

When you pull back, you take the envelope from your bag and hand it to him. Chrissy’s name is written across the front. “Can you make sure she gets this?”

Deran takes it without looking inside. “Yeah.”

“And tell her I love her.”

“She knows.”

“I know. Tell her anyway.”

His fingers close around the envelope. “I will.”

You look at him for another few seconds. “What about you?” Deran’s eyebrows draw tighter. “What about me?”

“You staying?”

He glances toward the street before looking back at you. “Probably not forever. Adrian’s been around a lot.”

Your mouth starts to lift.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were gonna.”

Deran looks down at the envelope in his hand. “We’ve talked about getting out too.”

Something in your chest eases. “Good.”

He gives you a look like he doesn’t want anything more made of it, and you don’t. You hug him once more instead.

Before you get into the car, you look back through the beach-house windows. You can make out the living room, part of the kitchen and the hallway leading toward the bedroom. It was the first place Pope ever really tried to make his, and the first place that became yours too.

Pope is waiting beside the open passenger door when you turn back. “You ready, baby?”

“Yeah.”

Once you’re both inside, Pope starts the car. Craig raises one hand as he backs out of the driveway. Deran keeps his at his side until you’re already turning onto the street, then lifts it once. You watch them through the window until they’re gone.

For the first few miles, Pope keeps both hands on the wheel.

Oceanside passes outside in familiar pieces. Streets you’ve driven with him after closing shifts. The turn that would take you toward The Pig. Roads that lead back to Smurf’s neighbourhood if you stay on them long enough.

Pope takes the highway instead.

You let the city thin behind you before asking, “What happened after we left?”

His hands stay steady on the wheel. You’ve talked around that night since he came home. You know Smurf is dead. You know the house is burned. You know enough to understand why staying wasn’t an option anymore.

Pope never told you the rest.

“J shot her,” Pope says.

You turn toward him, but he keeps his attention on the road. “She went for her gun. He shot her. Then we fought.”

He leaves it there until you say, “Andrew.”

Pope’s grip shifts against the wheel. “He got the gun on me.”

Your stomach turns. “What did you do?”

His jaw shifts. “Told him to do it.”

Your hand goes still in your lap. “You told him to shoot you?”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him. At the healing cut along his jaw. The wedding band around the hand holding the wheel. “You told me you were coming home, Andrew.”

His throat works. “I know.” There’s no defence in it. 

You reach across and touch his wrist. Pope releases one hand from the wheel and turns his palm into yours, closing his fingers around them. “What did J do?” you ask.

“Nothing.” His thumb presses against the side of your hand. “Said I had to live with it.”

“With what?”

Pope looks through the windshield before answering. “Everything.”

You don’t tell him J was right. You don’t tell him he was wrong. You just keep holding his hand.

A few miles pass before you ask, “What happened after he left?”

“Burned the house.”

“Why?”

Pope watches the road. “Couldn’t leave it standing.”

Pope keeps your hand in his for another few miles before letting go long enough to reach inside his jacket. He takes out an old photograph and holds it toward you. You recognize him first, much younger, beside a girl with the same eyes.

“Julia?”

“Yeah.”

She’s smiling, one shoulder pressed against his. “She was pretty.”

Pope looks at the picture. “Yeah.”

When you give it back, he studies it before sliding it beneath the edge of the visor. Julia stays above the windshield, facing the road.

A worn gray ear sticks out from Pope’s duffel between the bags in the backseat.

You know that bunny.

The skateboard lies beneath it, scratched and old. You remember watching Pope ride it at the skatepark, the way something in him loosened once he got moving again. Later that night, he told you he’d forgotten what it felt like to do something because he wanted to.

Now it’s coming with him.

The first time you saw Pope, he had just come home from Folsom.

You can still picture Smurf’s backyard packed with people, everybody getting louder when he walked through the gate. Craig reaching him first. Smurf wrapping herself around him. Pope standing in the middle of all of them like everybody already knew what they wanted from him.

Then he looked at you. You had no idea what would come after.

You didn’t know there would be nights when he’d be waiting beside his car outside The Pig, or the first time he gave you a key, or how badly the two of you would hurt each other before either of you figured out how to do better. There was a time you made him leave because loving him didn’t make what he’d said okay.

He came back differently. He apologized. He started asking instead of assuming and telling you more instead of shutting you out. You let him close again because eventually his actions gave you a reason to.

Then there was a beach house. A drawer emptied for your clothes. A ring he bought before he knew how he was going to ask you to wear it.

And a night when you begged him to come home.

Your fingers tighten around Pope’s hand as he looks over. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He keeps his hand around yours when he looks back at the road.

You watch the highway stretch ahead of you, Oceanside gone from view now unless you deliberately search for it. “Where are we going?” you ask.

Pope thinks about it before answering. “Somewhere else.”

Your throat tightens. “Andrew.”

He looks over at you.

“I love you.”

His fingers close more firmly around yours. “I love you too, baby.”

Julia’s photograph stays above the windshield. Lena’s bunny rests between the bags in the backseat, Pope’s skateboard underneath it.

The first time you met him, Andrew Cody had just come home.

This time, he’s leaving.

His hand stays wrapped around yours.

Pope keeps driving.

Last year, Hatosy took home the award for Outstanding Guest Actor in a Drama Series, putting him on track to potentially make history with back-to-back wins in the same category for the same role. But after a last-minute switch in submissions, he’s now competing in the best supporting drama actor category at this year’s Emmy Awards.

The recognition is more than anything Hatosy could’ve ever imagined for a character with such limited screen time in “The Pitt.” When he first joined the show, he had no idea how much of a presence Dr. Abbot would ultimately have in the ER. But the opportunity to work with longtime collaborator John Wells again, who executive produces “The Pitt” alongside Wyle and creator R. Scott Gemmill, was simply too good to pass up.

“Whatever John wants to do, I’m in,” Hatosy said of Wells, whom he’s worked with on shows like “Southland,” “Animal Kingdom” and even an episode of “ER.”

But even then, he never could have predicted just how successful their latest TV reunion would be.

“That Jack Abbot, he always manages to find ways to surprise me,” Hatosy told me, reflecting on his move up in the Emmys race. “Even looking back to what this project looked like when I first joined, Abbot’s presence, at least in the first episode, you don’t get a lot of him. Then towards the end of that [first] season, you see what he means to this world and the effect he has on not just the staff, but his relationship and the dynamic with Dr. Robby.”

He added, “To go from guest to supporting in two years, it’s an amazing achievement for this character in the way that he was written.”

It’s been one week since the 2026 Emmy nominees were announced, and Hatosy is still thinking about the moment when “The Pitt” creator Gemmill gathered the cast and crew on set that Wednesday morning and read each of the show’s 25 nominations (including 13 acting nods) aloud.

“It was a pretty remarkable day,” the actor recalled of sharing the moment with his castmates. “I’ve never experienced anything like that.”

The same can be said of Hatosy’s time with “The Pitt” thus far, too.

Since the mid-1990s, Hatosy has consistently racked up onscreen credits, appearing in films such as “Anywhere But Here,” “The Faculty,” “In & Out,” “Alpha Dog,” and more. He’s also taken on leading roles in gritty crime dramas like NBC’s “Southland” and TNT’s “Animal Kingdom.” But it’s his breakthrough role in “The Pitt” that has brought the Hollywood vet a whole new level of acclaim, finally, more than 30 years into his career.

“I’ve been doing this a while, and it is such an honor because I know that the people who are making the decisions to click on your name do this for a living,” Hatosy said of his latest nomination. “It doesn’t reaffirm anything per se, but it is just nice to know that people are watching.”

“I’ve been a part of a lot of shows that I thought were pretty cool and they never really found an audience. So with ‘The Pitt,’ sure, it’s wonderful to be a part of something that is critically successful, that everybody’s watching. But what makes it even more significant to me is it’s a show that says something and has a lot of important things to show the world,” he continued. “I think that a television show that can change people’s perspective on a fragile healthcare system and the people that are doing it daily — that’s like the trifecta.”

In just two seasons (with a third on the way), “The Pitt” has already become one of modern television’s most groundbreaking medical dramas. Beyond its stellar ensemble — which includes Wyle, Katherine LaNasa, Patrick Ball, Isa Briones, Taylor Dearden, Fiona Dourif, Supriya Ganesh, Shabana Azeez, Gerran Howell and Sepideh Moafi — much of the show’s success with audiences and critics can be attributed to its unflinching, hour-by-hour portrayal of what it’s like to practice emergency medicine in a broken American healthcare system.

“I think that a television show that can change people's perspective on a fragile healthcare system and the people that are doing it daily — that's like the trifecta.”

For many real-life doctors who watch “The Pitt,” certain moments in the series have felt all too familiar to their own experiences in the hospital. That’s a high compliment in a genre where medical procedurals are a dime a dozen. And while cast members like Hatosy never expected that playing a TV doctor would have such a meaningful impact, he’s honored to play a small part in highlighting the sacrifices medical professionals make every day.

“I didn’t expect it. I didn’t plan for it,” the actor said, reflecting on the unexpected success of his role. “I wasn’t the most academic kid in school. So to be on a show that is inspiring young nurses to follow their passion, or a doctor trying to determine whether or not they want to finish school. I get messages all the time, and I meet people on the street who say, ‘Thank you. Your portrayal has really shown me what I wanna do.’”

“It’s intense,” he admitted, “but I’m very happy to be a part of something like this.”

Hatosy struck out on dozens of auditions after the 2023 Hollywood strikes before he finally landed his acclaimed role in “The Pitt.” Hatosy struck out on dozens of auditions after the 2023 Hollywood strikes before he finally landed his acclaimed role in “The Pitt.”HBO Max life looked a lot different for Hatosy before his star-making turn in “The Pitt” came along. After his long-running series “Animal Kingdom” wrapped its six-season run in the summer of 2022, the actor remembers how “things slowed down a little bit for me, work-wise.” While he certainly hoped his next big role was just around the corner, the road ahead turned out to be more uncertain than he anticipated.

“It didn’t come that easily for me,” Hatosy said of navigating his dry spell between projects. “I was fighting for a lot of roles and just not getting anywhere.”

Things got even tougher the following year when the back-to-back Hollywood strikes left actors like Hatosy out of work and searching for their next opportunity. Even after the strikes ended, he faced one setback after another, with dozens of self-tapes for potential roles ultimately leading nowhere.

“It seems [so easy to be] like, ‘Oh, hey, just put this on tape.’ But for an actor, it’s like a production,” Hatosy explained. “We have to cast it, light it, do the sound, do the hair and makeup, put the wardrobe on, find somebody to do it with us.”

He added: “It’s a big deal, and you’re putting yourself out there. And often you send it, and you don’t hear anything, so it can really chip away at your soul.”

With fewer and fewer opportunities coming his way, Hatosy reached a point where he was unsure of where to turn next. “It was definitely a low point for me,” he admitted. “I was pretty depressed.”

But all that changed when, one day, his wife, Kelly Albanese (a fellow actor who appeared in the Season 2 premiere of “The Pitt”), encouraged him to get back to the basics and give acting school another try.

“I remember, at one point, my wife looked at me and said, ‘You know, you should go back to acting class.’” Hatosy recalled. “There’s this great class, and she gave me the name, and it was helpful for me to kind of re-fall in love with what I like about acting — getting up onstage, collaborating with a group, building a character, figuring out what the stakes are in a scene, and then being terrified because you got to get up in front of people and do it.”

“My wife helped me find that again, so I give her a lot of credit,” he added. “Going back to an acting class, it’s like going to the gym. You’re getting feedback. You’re getting a collaborative feel to something that you have been doing for a long time. You’re getting a note from a teacher. These things are very good and positive and helpful.”

Things finally started looking up for Hatosy after the strikes, as word spread about a flurry of new television projects in the works — including a hotly anticipated medical drama filming right in Los Angeles. He was well aware that “The Pitt” was looking for actors to fill out its cast, but when the role of Dr. Abbot came up, it was his friend Wells who personally put it on his radar.

“I was working on another John Wells show called ‘Rescue: HI-Surf,’” Hatosy recalled, “and then he just sent me a note saying that there’s this character that works for what [‘The Pitt’] is going to be and would I take a look.”

Initially, the actor’s team wasn’t convinced the role had much to offer, especially since Abbot only appeared in one scene at the time. Still, Hatosy was willing to take a chance on whatever Wells had in store. And lucky for him, that one scene from the show’s debut episode turned into something far bigger.

“I blindly accept that it could have just been two episodes,” Hatosy said of his character’s arc. “I had no idea, really, but I was happy to be a part of it. I think the character, even in that first episode [of Season 1], the scene up on the roof was really when you could see that there were many dimensions to him and a lot of layers and things to discover.”

Hatosy’s Dr. Abbot and Noah Wyle’s Dr. Robby have developed a brotherly bond that extends beyond the ER in “The Pitt.” Hatosy’s Dr. Abbot and Noah Wyle’s Dr. Robby (R) have developed a brotherly bond that extends beyond the ER in “The Pitt.”HBO Max Hatosy has taken on plenty of meaty, complex characters throughout his career. But playing Dr. Abbot in “The Pitt” has presented a new kind of challenge he’s enjoyed exploring.

As a widowed former combat medic who sports a prosthetic leg — a revelation that came in Season 1’s finale — Abbot comes with a wealth of backstory Hatosy has been able to sink his teeth into. And as a leader in the hospital’s ER, we’ve learned that he’s every bit as committed to the job as his buddy Robby, if his willingness to give blood on the fly amid a mass shooting event and his habit of listening to the police scanner while off duty are any indication. Though he appears in only a handful of episodes, Abbot has a presence about him that’s felt even when he isn’t around.

“It’s fantastic,” Hatosy said of how audiences have gravitated toward his supporting character. “I think Abbot has a way of, even when he’s not there, he’s kind of there. In Season 1, we learned from one patient that he fudged numbers so she could get the care she needed for an abortion. And then he writes the letter to the sister of the veteran who passed. So, it’s like he’s not there, but he kind of finds his way in there.”

“There’s something about the day shift running, and there’s a lot going on, and Robby’s dealing with his own personal mental stress that he’s having a hard time understanding, and he doesn’t have a lot of people that he can talk to about it. So there’s this need, I think, of Abbot showing up when he’s most needed, so that also creates this appreciation for him. I have played a lot of different kinds of characters, and I think I’ve said in the past, but it’s really nice to play a character that basically everybody likes.”

Still, as “The Pitt” progresses, it’s clear that there’s much more to Abbot as a character than what viewers have seen so far. And if Hatosy has anything to say about it, he’s more than ready to find out what’s really under the hood.

“I think he’s drawn so wonderfully, and there are a lot of questions about what’s going on with Abbot,” he said. “I mean, we did see him up there on the roof in that first episode, so he’s clearly someone who has his own hidden trauma. There’s the information about him being a single-leg amputee and losing his wife, and all of these are answers that I’m sure we’ll dig into, and it will shape how we see him.”

“I have played a lot of different kinds of characters, and I think I’ve said in the past, but it’s really nice to play a character that basically everybody likes.””

There’s also the fact that Abbot has become one of Dr. Robby’s closest confidants at the hospital, who can both relate to his struggles and knows how to talk him down when he starts to unravel. As the finale episodes make clear, his emotional conversations with his PTSD-stricken colleague have given “The Pitt” a rather compelling way to examine the lasting scars that medical professionals can sometimes carry from the job. Refreshingly enough, they also offer viewers a chance to see the doctors as more than just their profession.

“What strikes me about these characters is that they are two incredibly competent doctors,” Hatosy pointed out. “There’s not any [physical] trauma they can’t handle, right? But when it comes to their own mental health, they are completely confused and making the wrong decisions, and I think that says a lot about what they’re having to deal with and how hard it is to admit that you’re struggling.”

“One of them, his therapist said, get a hobby, so he decides that he’s going to go moonlight as a SWAT medic. The other one decides, ‘I’m going to drive a motorcycle across the country without a helmet on,’” he continued. “There are these subtle red flags and cries for help, but what is really moving about that scene at the end [of the Season 2 finale] is that Abbot is finding himself in a situation where he can’t fix Robby. All he can do is offer his perspective, and sometimes that’s enough to make someone realize they’re not alone.”

For Hatosy, working through that particular scene with Wyle and Wells, “two people that I admire and respect so much,” was a “creatively beautiful” experience that he hopes to continue “for many years to come.” Just as long as “The Pitt” keeps the seasons coming.

On the flip side, Hatosy is eager to “see that dynamic reversed a little bit” when it comes to Abbot’s personal trauma too. While he can’t say much about what’s ahead in Season 3 — in part because he hasn’t received all the scripts yet, including the second episode he’ll direct for the show — he’s hopeful the upcoming season will at least bring another signature heart-to-heart moment between Abbot and Robby.

“I feel like that’s sort of what is expected,” Hatosy said. “But who knows? These guys are really clever at setting up an expectation and then pulling the rug out from underneath us.”

Could one of those curveballs be the long-hoped-for night shift spinoff fans have clamored for ever since meeting Abbot and his crew?

“Tonally, there’s an opportunity to explore a side of Pittsburgh that steps through these doors in the middle of the night,” Hatosy teased. “When you look at the types of people that make the decision to work at night, it takes a certain kind of individual.”

Jack Abbot had always been cursed with legs that weren’t quite right. 

Even before he lost his right leg, his lower appendages never looked correct. Right out of the womb, kicking and screaming, his knees curved slightly outwards instead of inwards, and not even two hours old, the doctors had taken one look at him and condemned him with bow legs—that dastardly condition where his knees might never touch, often ruining the "aesthetics" of the human body. 

However, Jack never really gave an ounce of attention to his legs. They carried him through preschool, through football and basketball games in high school, through med school, and through basic training. It wasn’t until he stepped on an IED during his last tour, the makeshift bomb tearing off the lower part of his left leg, that he noticed just how unstable and wobbly his gate truly was. 

During physical therapy, he felt like a baby deer trying to take their first steps; except his first steps after transtibial amputation included a prosthetic leg and twin handlebars to hold his weight up. Each step from then on was calculated with the mental strength of a math genius trying to win mathlete nationals. 

Slowly lift right leg, balance on left, place right down, slowly put pressure on the socket, hope it holds, hope he didn’t step on a slippery tile, pray it doesn’t buckle under his weight, balance, lift left leg, and step. 

Something so normal, something he took for granted for over half of his life turned into his biggest challenge. 

Over time, though, Jack learned how to live with it, how to exceed with only one normal leg that still curved outward. The prosthetic did little to correct the bowness. Whenever he sat down, his thighs and knees continued to refuse to settle nicely against the other. Even when he got back into the gym, and his muscles grew until his pants stretched tightly, that damned space was still evident every time he sat down. 

To combat this, Jack just simply didn’t sit . . . or at least tried to not sit around people. Insecurities ran deeply in everyone, him not being a golden exception. He’d lived through war, seen the grotesqueness that came with it, and had to carry the trauma that latched onto him for the rest of his life, but when someone’s eyes dipped a little lower and paused, his chest tightened into a lead ball. His cheeks would overheat, and his hazel eyes would dim. And most times, he’d use that feeling to push on. 

During twelve-hour shifts—sometimes even longer—he’d stretch the limits of how long he could go without taking a break. He was the attending for fuck’s sake; he couldn’t show weakness around his team. He was supposed to be the one to tell others to sit down, not the one to constantly beeline it to the break room to check on his prosthesis sock and see if the pain he was feeling happened to be caused by broken skin rubbing along the liner. No one caught on to what had been happening; not Lena, not Ellis, not Shen, and definitely not Robby, never Robby. Jack fully believed he could take care of himself and that no one should ever have to carry the burdens of his life and the embarrassment that came with his awkward one and a half legs. 

On one of the nights where the pain had gotten too much to ignore, Jack finally gave in and took a seat behind one of the computers at the nurses station, hands scrambling to massage deep circles into the inflamed tissue near the edge of the socket. He swallowed down the half-groan at the feeling as his mind raced to remember when the last time he sat down was. 

Probably around eight right after handoffs to change the liner after blood had soaked your pants after a trauma it provided, and once glance toward the clock on the wall had him wincing when the hour hand pointed a little past the large 6 and the minute hand just past the 3. 

6:17 a.m. 

He’d been on his feet for over eleven hours and was now being punished for his stubbornness. His eyes flitted downward as he leaned forward to grip the hem of his pant leg to pull slowly inch it upward until it revealed what he’d been dreading: a bright, puffy red chafed ring paired with slick sweat. 

“Damn it,” he hissed before snapping his jaw tightly, hoping no one heard that. 

“Is everything all right, Dr. Abbot?” your soft voice flowed over the desk, and Jack’s head turned toward you so quickly, his neck twinged. 

His eyes instantly met your sleepy ones, your hues diluted with exhaustion. And yet, they always seemed to get Jack’s old heart to beat a little bit faster. Unbeknownst to everyone in the Pitt—excluding Lena because she knew everything—Jack harbored a bit of a yearning crush for you that ranged from wanting to take you out to coffee to pushing you into his bed, cock stuffed between your legs. So now that you’d caught him mid-massage on his gimp leg, that ugly embarrassed insecure feeling roared its face and flooded his cheeks. He let go of the fabric and smoothed it out, pushing it down until it covered the prosthesis. 

“All-all good,” he stammered, so taken off guard that the words stuck like glue to his tongue. “Never better.” 

His lie wasn’t as believable as he’d liked, and unfortunately for him, you saw right through it. 

“Is—” you paused, eyes darting around before meeting his once more, “—is it your leg?” 

The question surprised a short laugh out of him that faded just as quickly. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, sweetheart. Don’t worry about me over here.” 

“Oh.” Your fingers fiddled with a pen. “It’s just that . . . well . . . I couldn't help but notice this is the first time you’ve sat down all night.”

“That’s not true.” 

“Yes it is,” Lena added over Jack’s shoulder. “Abbot, I want you in that chair for at least ten minutes.” 

Jack gawked at the redhead. “Ten?” 

“Ten,” she confirmed. “Dr. L/n here will make sure you spend every moment of it with your ass connected to the seat, right?” 

Her eyes met yours through her thin frames, and you nodded. 

“Right.” 

He swiveled back to face you, torso and shoulders untwisting until his spine rested straight against the back of the chair. “But—” 

“No butts Abbot unless it’s yours. Ten minutes.” Without waiting for him to try to argue, she turned away and walked in the direction of Room Three. 

You at least had the decency to look sheepish, even if the expression didn’t match the pleased smile on your face. “I’ll set a timer for you if that helps.” 

The corner of Jack’s nose sneered slightly. “You shouldn’t have to babysit me. I’m fine.” 

His arms tensed as he tried to push up from the chair, but it was in that moment that his limb finally decided to call it quits, the pain now jolting up his thigh and around to his lower back. The sear sent him right back down, hips shifting to get any weight off for much needed relief. 

“Dr. Abbot, please,” you softly begged. “Taking a ten minute break won’t kill you.” 

Like some divine comedy, Jack watched you pushed up out of your chair with no issues before walking over to him. You paused at his side, chin dipped and eyes looking at his right leg as if you were Superman with his X-ray vision. In the next breath, you bent at the knees and reached for his pant leg. Jack drew it back without warning, and your hands froze in the air. 

“Please,” you whispered, and Jack slowly offered you his leg, body compelled under your one worded plea. 

His eyes never wavered while you pulled up the fabric until it reached his knee, and the soft, worried gasp that fled your lips made a crack in his heart. If anyone should be on their knees, it should have been him not you, getting your pretty scrub pants dirty against the tile. 

“How long have you been on it?” you questioned, fingertips lightly brushing against the inflamed skin, careful to not put too much pressure on it. 

“Not long,” Jack tried, but one raised eyebrow had him rethinking his decision to fib. “Over eleven hours.” 

A surge of anger toward him rushed through your chest, but one look at his ashamed face had you pushing it back down. Right now, Jack didn’t need someone to tell him what he should have done; he needed someone to help him with the consequences of his choices. And with direct instruction from Lena, you decided that the someone was going to be you whether he liked it or not. 

“You are going to stay right here,” you demanded as you pushed up from the squat. “And I am going to be right back with some ibuprofen, wipes, and an ice pack.” 

Jack shook his head. “Sweetheart, that’s not necessary—” 

“If this were me, what would you be doing?” You crossed your arms over your chest. “If this were anyone else in this fucking hospital, would you be telling them that they could handle it and push through for another forty-five minutes until handoffs, or would you tell them to find the nearest on-call room and take more than a charge-nurse induced ten minute break?” 

You had him there. If it were anyone else Jack would have told them to take a break hours ago, but the need to be useful told him that he wasn’t anyone else. He was Jack Abbot, and Jack Abbot learned how to ignore his legs and pain a long time ago when he didn’t have pretty residents looking at him as you were doing just then. 

He sat back into the chair, body giving up any remaining fight, and you held back a small cheer. 

“I only have seven minutes left anyway,” he grumbled. 

Your head tilted, and your lips puckered as you pretended to think. “Actually, you still have ten. Forgot to start the timer.” 

Jack’s jaw dropped slightly at the betrayal. “Why you little—” 

“Ass to the seat, Dr. Abbot,” you giggled before turning around to walk away, probably in search of the small list of things you’d mentioned getting for him.

While he waited, Jack resumed massaging the aching limb. As far as he knew, the nurses station was currently abandoned, the nurses and residents tied up with other patients, and that eased the tightness in his chest. There was no one to see him, no one to look down at his moment of weakness. And the squeezing of his fingers felt so good, he lost himself in the sensation.   

“What’s going on here, brother?” 

Jack shot up so fast that the top of his right knee banged against the lip of the desk, drawing a wince across his face. His poor leg could not catch a fucking break, could it? 

Robby hovered halfway over the counter, looking far too spry for someone up at 6:20 in the morning. But after so many decades, he should have known that 6:20 to Robby was someone’s sleep until noon. 

“Agh just—” Jack threw a hand in the air toward his leg. “Fucking leg’s giving me grief like always.” 

The corner of Robby’s mouth twitched. “How long?” 

Jack went to answer his friend with another lie sitting on the tip of his tongue when you decided to answer for him with “perfect” timing. 

“Eleven hours annnddd—” Your wrist snapped to turn on your watch. “Twenty-one minutes.” You walked around the counter, hands full of supplies, before dropping back down to your knees. “I think that’s a new record,” you muttered. 

“Nope,” Robby said. “Record’s thirteen hours and thirty-seven minutes.” 

“Shift from literal hell,” Jack groaned, using his good leg to turn his chair so you had more room to work. 

With practiced hands that made Jack question if you were hiding a prosthetic of your own, you detached his leg while using your body to cover him as much as possible. All three of you hissed at the sight of liquid red inside the sock hugging his residual limb. 

“It’s not supposed to do that,” Jack pointed out. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” you retorted, already getting one wipe out of the packet while placing the cold ice pack to his knee. “Hold that.” 

“You’ve been an amputee for how many years, brother, and you still get like this?” Robby question, concern lacing every word. “Maybe I need to tell Lena to issue more sitdown times for the attendings.” 

“Fuck you—shit!” Jack yelped when you pulled off the sock and dapped at the blood with a freezing wet wipe. “Little warning next time, sweetheart?” 

You only hummed in return, too focused on cleaning his freckled skin and not getting lost in finally having your hands on him. “Do you have another liner?” 

“In my locker,” Jack sighed. “I’ll put it on, and I promise to clean it thoroughly after I drive home.” 

“Oh-ho-ho, you’re not driving anywhere,” Robby stated while patting his hands on the counter for emphasis. 

Jack’s brows pinched tightly, middles almost touching across his forehead. “Like hell I am.” 

“Like hell you aren’t. I’m guessing you could barely walk before sitting down.” 

“He’d been limping for around thirty minutes,” you added before looking up to look at Jack’s face that screamed Et tu?“Don’t give me that look; I was concerned.” 

Jack threw his hands in exasperation. “Then what am I going to do? Wheelchair myself home?” 

“Nope,” Robby popped the p loudly. “She’s gonna drive you and make sure you actually rest. I’m telling Gloria you need tomorrow night off as well.” 

“Brother—” 

“Don’t fight it, Dr. Abbot,” you said, hand tapping his knee before you stood back up to full height. “Dr. Robby is very convincing.” 

Jack’s face pinched. “I’m your attending. You’re supposed to listen to me, not him.” 

You elected to ignore him. “I’m going to go get our bags and a chair for you, because I know that if I get you crutches, you’re going to use one to hit Dr. Robby.” 

With that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving Jack and Robby alone at the nurses’ station as the sun was just starting to wake up outside. Any minute, the lobby would begin to crawl with morning patients and the day shift: two groups that made Jack decide he’d rather die than see him like this. 

“Can’t I just . . . I dunno, Uber or some shit?” Jack asked. 

Robby scratched at his jaw. “Why? Nervous your girl’s gonna see the nude yoga books on your coffee table and run for the hills?” 

“Not funny, brother.” 

“It’s either her, or I get Williams from upstairs.” 

Jack’s teeth ground together. The decision had been made for him, and Robby smiled a shit-eating grin when he noticed Jack was now in the acceptance stage instead of denial. 

“Good man.” 

“I’m two seconds away from lobbing my leg at you. Don’t tempt me, Robinavitch.” 

“Are we ready to go, Dr. Abbot?” 

Both men turned in the direction of your voice. Jack’s backpack was slung over your shoulder while your smaller, more fashionable bag was tucked under your arm. Your hands gripped the twin handles of a hospital-issued wheelchair, and a warm smile splayed across your face. 

Jack swallowed thickly while one thought ran through his mind. 

This was not how he wanted to get you into his house. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Pittsburgh’s dawn happened to be one of Jack's favorite views on a normal morning. But getting to see the light rays and melted golden yellows and vibrant oranges with you as the driver and him in the passenger seat had Jack wanting to sink into the leather and die. He tired not to focus on you, his eyes staying forward and voice staying quiet except for the short instructions on how to get to his house. He gripped handfuls of his pants, not knowing what else to do with his pathetic body. 

You were beautiful, and he was broken, undeserving. You'd extended such grace and compassion, and all he could do was make the entire trip awkward. 

"Okay," you breathed, hand coming to rest on the buckle after you'd parked his truck in his driveway, and Jack blinked rapidly. 

When had the two of you arrived? He had no more time to mentally prepare, and now you were smiling at him with that soft smile that made his insides melt. For a moment, Jack wanted to just look at you, memorize every freckle and smile line. 

"I'll get your chair out, and then we'll get you settled." 

His heart back flipped down into his stomach, and that awful feeling curled uncomfortably his gut. 

"I can wheel myself," he replied too quickly to take back the harshness of it. He was tired and grouchy. Old man. "Keep the keys; I'll Uber to work tonight." 

He watched your lips purse together, almost like you were trying not to react, but your eyes glimmered with mischief. "Somehow, I don't believe you." 

The buckle and seatbelt side up your chest, and the driver door popped open before Jack could protest any further. You rounded the back, and Jack twisted in the seat. 

"You don't have to do that—" 

"What if I want to?" you grunted as you got the chair out of the backseat. "You ever think about that?" 

No. Jack didn't think about a world where you'd give him kindness without prompt. His world made him believe he could never have you. But you still continued to prove the entire universe wrong when you opened the passenger door and helped him down and into the wheelchair before pushing him all the way up to the door. 

"Okay, you get the door while I go back for your prosthesis and your backpack," you said once Jack was settled and wouldn't roll back down the walkway. 

He'd completely forgotten about those things, and if you'd just driven away, he'd be down to his least comfortable leg for the rest of the day. Even then, a frown tugged at his lips, and he continued to stay quiet while digging his keys out of his pocket, completely ignoring his half-chubbed cock. His body betrayed him in so many ways. Leg. Dick. He couldn't catch a fucking break. 

With both hands, he pushed the wheels forward and up over the threshold lip and sighed at the feeling of the cool AC. Attending money meant he could have that blasting all night long and not have to worry about repercussions. He continued through the hallway and stopped near his kitchen just as his stomach growled. 

The front door clicked shut, and Jack spun in the chair to wait for you, however, you were busy looking at all the pictures that littered his walls. Your face relaxed, all stress melting away as you stared at the gallery, especially when he noticed your delayed attention at the small bunch that held pictures of him and his late wife. 

"Are you going to keep standing there?" he asked, drawing your eyes from the wall and back to him. 

You smirked and pointed at one he knew to be of a decades younger him and Robby. "Just admiring how you looked in the 1900s." 

Jack scoffed. "1900s. Your mouth is gonna get you in trouble one of these days." He spun back around. "You can put the backpack and leg on the table." 

"Do you eat with it like Buzz ate with the arm in Toy Story?" you asked, footsteps echoing before fading the closer you got. 

He stopped and locked the chair near his set of crutches he used around the house. A small grunt pushed through clenched teeth as he stood, left foot holding all his weight in a shaky balance. Twelve hour shifts left him feeling more unstable, and he bet he'd still feel like that even if he had both legs to work with. Once the crutches were tucked under his arms, he made him way into the living room just to plop down into the couch. 

"Actually, can you bring the leg over here?" he asked. 

You set his backpack down softly. "Are you going to put it on?" 

He bit the side of his cheek. "No?" 

A small laugh bubbled from your throat. "Are attendings always like this?" 

"Like what, sweetheart?" 

"Stubborn? Hardheaded? Not practicing what you preach?" 

"Ha!" he barked, head tilting back until the base of his skull rested against the couch. 

"I'm serious," you muttered as you walked into the living room. "You guys preach about heeding the 'doctor's orders' but then completely ignore your own health behind closed doors." 

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Says the resident who showed up to her double with a head cold and raging fever." 

Your draw dropped before snapping shut, and it was his turn to smirk. He got you there. 

"That-that was different," you tried. "We were understaffed and—" 

"And you could barely stay away for more than ten minutes while sitting down." He reached out a hand and did a "give me" motion, fingers curling towards his palm. "So, be a good doctor and hand over the leg." 

You sighed. "Fine." 

It didn't take long for you to reach him on the couch. He expected you to hand it to him and leave, but of course you just had to kneel next to his leg like you had back at the Pitt. His smirk fell, leaving a small pout of his lips behind. 

"If you're going to be a hypocrite about it, at least let me check the bandage and then I'll be out of your hair." 

Jack swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing, cock swelling beneath his pants. "Okay." 

As gently as you could, you carefully began to unwrap the bandage you put on not even two hours earlier. A part of you hoped he wasn't bleeding beneath, and when the bandage was clear of any brownish-red stains, you sighed in relief. 

"At least you're not bleeding through," you said. 

"I only made that mistake once," Jack replied. 

"That thirteen hour shift with no breaks?" 

"Bingo. I got benched for almost a week." 

"Serves you right." The last bit of the bandage unraveled to reveal his freckled residual limb. Your eyes raked over the large scar that spanned the stumped end. 

Above, Jack had closed his eyes. He didn't care if his body was begging for him to take in the sight of you on your knees for him. His soul was burning beneath his ribcage with pity for himself, and pity for you and your sympathy for him. He only opened his eyes when your cold fingers splayed across the hot skin, and he slightly jumped. 

"Sorry," you winced. "Wanted to check for any irritation bumps or buildup." 

"What's the verdict then, doc?" he asked jokingly. "Do I get to keep the leg . . . or what's left of it anyway?" 

You pretending to think, finger tapping your lips. "I think the prognosis is in your favor. Stay off the leg for a few more house, get some good sleep in your bed, and you should be fit as a fiddle by your shift tonight, Dr. Abbot—" 

"Jack."

Your heart pounded against your sternum just as hard as Jack's was. 

"Jack," you echoed, eyes wide as you stared up at him. 

Not knowing what else to say, he sat there under your hand, and his hands itched to grab one of the throw pillows and place it over his lap to cover just how hard he'd gotten from hearing his name form around your teeth. 

Suddenly, the big clock he kept deeper in the house began to chime loudly, and your hand slipped from his leg. 

"I guess I should get going," you muttered before patting his leg twice. "I'll see you tonight?" 

"Dark and late," Jack confirmed. "If I can get my stupid legs to work." 

For a moment, a sorrowful look cast over your face, and Jack hated the look on you. You needed to leave, get out of his house even if he wanted you to stay. You seemed to pick up on his inner turmoil and pushed up off the couch.

Finally. You were going to leave, and Jack could push his pants down to his thighs to get a hand around himself for relief. 

However, what he wasn't expecting you to do was place a chaste kiss against his stump before freezing halfway up. 

"I don't know why I did that," you uttered, completely shocked by your own actions. "I do that for my pediatric patients; why'd I do that to you? Dr. Abbot, I'm so, so sorry—" 

"Man, first kiss you give me, and it's to my gimp leg," Jack blurted. 

Now both of your faces shone with a bright, embarrassed crimson. 

"I also don't know why I did that," Jack murmured, hazel eyes failing to meet yours. "You're free to leave now so I can die in a humiliated heap on this couch." 

His eyes closed once again while he waited to hear your retreating footsteps and the door shut closed. And yet, when he opened them again, you were standing closer, mouth slightly parted, eyes glossy with something Jack had never seen in them. 

"Jack," you whispered. "Do you want me to kiss you somewhere else?" 

First place to come to mind happened to be his cock, but you were already leaning in towards his face, so, he met you halfway, large hands rising to cup your face just as your lips pressed into his. 

Jack's head went dizzy, a simple kiss completely stealing all oxygen from his mind. His eyes fluttered shut when you pushed in deeper, and he leaned back, bringing you down with him. Your knees settled on both sides of his curved thighs, your legs having to accommodate for their size. 

"Sorry," he breathed when he pulled back. "Let me just—" His hands gripped at your sides, and he was halfway through pulling you off his lap to press you into the couch cushions when your hands covered his. 

"Wait, hold on," you tutted. "What are you sorry for?" 

He looked down to the gap between your core and his. "My stupid legs can't get any closer. You're going to get a cramp in your hips." 

You placed a hand along his jaw, and his eyes turned back up towards yours, the hazel hues glistening with known pain. 

"Your legs aren't stupid," you said, voice barely above a whisper. 

"Yes there are," he insisted. "Just look at them. They curve weird. I can't sit normally; it's why I try not to sit at all. And then I have a fucking stump that gives me more fucking grief than troubling patients—what are you doing?" Jack interrupted himself when you slid off his lap and back down to your knees. 

You said nothing as you shuffled forward between his knees. "I don't think your legs are stupid, Jack; not when I fit so well between them." 

"Ooooooooh," Jack breathily sighed when your palm rested against his cock and pressed inward, and his hips bucked up. 

Quickly, you withdrew your hand in order to grab at his scrub pants, but Jack stopped your movements, hands folding over yours to hold them still. 

"You don't have to," he said, cheeks already flushed. 

In return, you smiled. "But I want to. Doctor's orders." 

"Pretty sure your orders were for me to stay off my leg and get a good night's sleep." 

"Well, if I suck your cock, you'll definitely be off your feet for a while." 

"Is that an old man joke?" 

You raised an eyebrow teasingly. "Depends on how fast you get hard after." 

After a split second, Jack let go of your hands to allow you to continue dragging his pants down, him pushing against the cushions to lift his hips. In one swoop, you pulled both his pants and his boxers until waistbands stretched around his thick thighs.

Your eyes widened as you took in Jack and the thick cock he'd been hiding behind baggy scrubs. It was really . . . beautiful if he'd ever led you call it that with a thick vein, ruddy weeping tip, a base that disappeared into greying wiry hair that trailed up his navel. 

Under your gaze, Jack shied into himself, shoulders curling and hands hovering as though he hadn't decided whether to cover himself up or sit on his fingers and let you have at him. You made the choice yourself when you reached out and took his length into your hand. His heated flesh warmed your palm as you squeezed your fingers around him gently, just getting a feel for what he liked. 

The stuttered moan that ripped through his throat told you everything. 

"Feels good?" you asked, already knowing the answer, but you wanted your attending to tell you himself. Keeping him in your hand, your thumb began to brush up and down where the deep red tip met his shaft, drawing out another moan from his lips. "C'mon, Jack. I'll stop if it does—" 

"No!" he shouted before swallowing thickly. "No, it-it feels good."

"So I can continue?" 

"Please." 

That's all you needed. You leaned forward and pressed your mouth to the tip in an open kiss, smearing his pre cum all over your lips. When you pulled back, you dragged your tongue over them and moaned at the musky tang that was distinctly him. Instead of going back in your mouth, your tongue darted out and kitten licked his slit. 

Jack's hands clenched at his sides while you fully took the first few inches of his cock into your wet, warm mouth, and he willed his hips to stay planted against the couch. From your hooded eyes, you watched him battle against himself. 

"Jack," you said after pulling back, his tip now glistening with a thick mix of your saliva and his arousal. "Put your hands in my hair."

He sighed in relief. His hands quickly buried themselves in your hair, fingers twirling around the strands at the roots. He didn't hold you against him, just used you to keep himself grounded while you started to lap at his length, running your tongue along the large vein from bottom and back to the top before taking him in your mouth once more. His fingers tightened at the feeling. 

"Oh, fuck," he groaned when you moved your tongue in languid, savoring movements while your cheeks hallowed around him. "Feel so—shit—so good around me," he groaned, fingers finally bunching your hair into a makeshift ponytail for an easier hold, continuing to keep his hips still. "Doing such a good job." 

You warbled a reply, but the words only sent vibrations around him, adding to the hot pleasure that started billowing in his gut. His head tipped back, exposing the length of his neck, and his jaw unhinged at the feeling of your mouth taking him in deeper. 

"Holy shit!"

You were now bobbing up and down his length, slicking the shaft with rivulets of saliva down to his base, small beads pooling in the thatch of hair. Your hand that held him steady to work at the parts that couldn't fit down your throat twisted around him to match the rhythm of your mouth. 

Jack looked back down his stomach, and his thighs tightened at the sight of his cock slipping in and out of your mouth, his tip catching against your cheek every so often to bulge through the skin. Your pretty little lips formed the perfect circle around his girth, and his hips finally kicked upward slightly right as you swallowed him down, and the loudest moan pulled from deep inside his chest when he felt your throat constrict around with a wet gag. 

"Shit, sorry, sweetheart," he muttered. "Didn't mean to do that at all; not when you've been looking so pretty, baby. Been feeling so good, 'm all dizzy from it." 

His cock never slipped from your warmth even as you inhaled sharply to recover from the intrusion. You hand had gently slipped to the soft inner part of his thigh, and your thumb brushed against the skin in an wordless acceptance of his apology. Once you caught your breath, you went right back to sucking him down. 

"So fucking good," Jack breathily moaned. "I'm—fucking shit—c-close." 

You fully pulled back from his cock to place hot, open-mouthed kisses from the tip all the way down to his balls where most of your spit had dripped across the sensitive skin. That got a particularly loud, wrenched choked noise from Jack, his eyes widening. 

"Fuck! Do that again, sweetheart, please—fucking—" 

You lapped at the pair before dragging your tongue along the vein once again. His cock twitched in your gasp, and the tip spurted another glob of pre cum. You dragged the tip along the flat of your tongue and let the arousal pool before swallowing it down. 

"Don't," Jack warned, "or I'm going to cum just from looking at you." 

You smiled prettily up at him, shifting your weight between your knees. "We can't have that, can we?" 

You didn't give him a second warning before sinking back down, farther than you had before to the point his tip prodded at the back of your throat, making tears prick at your eyes. Jack's leg tensed under your unoccupied hand and his hands tightened around your hair. 

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna cum," he grunted through clenched teeth. "Please, please, please, let me cum in your mouth, sweetheart? Please, you feel so good and warm and—fucking, shit, shit, shit, I'm gonna—" 

To answer without taking him out of your mouth, you pushed down farther, the head notching at the beginning of your throated, and swallowed. 

"Oh, fuck oh, fuck, oohhhh fuuu—" Jack's eyes pinched tightly as his cock pulsed and spilled hot, milky cum right down your throat. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he muttered over and over again. "You look so beautiful, so pretty with your mouth full of me." 

His chest heaved in heavy pants as he started to come down from his high, the endorphins swimming within his body, letting that hazy feeling take over as you finally pulled off his softening cock. 

Through lidded eyes, Jack watched you swallow what was left of him, lips smacking together at the salty taste. He wasted no time in cupping your face to bring you back to his lap, bowlegged thighs be damned, and smashing his lips onto yours. He didn't even wait to lick at your lips for permission before shoving the muscle between your teeth, almost desperate to taste the euphoric mix himself and your saliva. A rumbling groan shuddered its way through his chest. 

When you parted, a thin string of spit connected the two of you. Jack softly brushed it away with his thumb until you turned your head and sucked the digit between your lips. 

At his navel, his cock twitched weakly, causing him to laugh slightly. 

"Give me a couple minutes, sweetheart, before you kill me," he grumbled, and you giggled airily.

"Worried you're down for the count, old man?" you questioned, voice tilted with a tease that matched the smirk across your face. 

Jack raised an eyebrow. "I think you should be the one who's worried, baby," he cooed condescendingly. "Because lucky for you, my tongue and fingers don't get tired too easily."