honey

“We're a sorry pair today, huh,” you scratch the top of Richter’s furry head. The dog replies with a sneeze. You cringe, turning away as your stomach churns. “That’s gross buddy.”

The tv keeps playing, some romcom Sammy had rented along with the big stack of other cheesy movies he'd gotten from Blockbuster in the hopes of keeping your spirits up. He's been really worried about you lately, constantly giving you a sympathetic pout or feeling your forehead with the back of his hand to make sure you're not burning up. 

It was strange.

Whatever bug you'd caught wasn't like the typical cold you've had before. It left you feeling sick and exhausted, but there was no outward symptoms besides the vomit. No fever or snot or sore throat. Just an upset stomach and an exhaustion that made you want nothing more than to curl up in Sammy’s arms and sleep the day away. 

From the coffee table, your phone rings, Richter’s ears perking up as he turns to look at it. You reach over for your baby pink Nokia buzzing against the surface. The muscles in your arms ache in spite of you having done nothing much all day, fingers tingling as they brush the vibrating object. 

You finally get a hold of it, leaning on your elbow as you flip the phone open, pressing the accept button. You hear the click of the line opening, Richter’s paws digging into your thigh as you shift on the couch. 

“Hey,” you yawn into the phone, already knowing who's on the other end of the line. 

“Hey. You doing okay?” Sammy’s soft voice crackles. You can practically picture your husband, leaning behind some filing cabinet, hiding from Nate who's probably got a hundred case files to sort through. 

“I’m okay,” you hum, settling back into the couch. 

“Still not feeling good?” 

“Eh,” you shrug, watching Richter adjust his snout against your thigh. “It's a bit better. I managed to keep down some crackers this morning.”

“That's good,” Sammy says into the phone, not doing a good job of masking the worry in his voice. “You sure you don't want me to come home for lunch? Just to check on you?” 

“No no. It's okay, really.” 

“I can. I’ll bring you that chicken noodle soup from the grandma’s diner down the street.” You groan, stomach churning at the thought of the greasy diner food Sammy often frequented. 

“Oh gosh, don't even mention chicken.” 

“No?” 

“No. Bleh,” you shiver, feeling sick just at the thought of meat. “That does not sound appealing. At. All.”

“Okay, alright.” You can hear the amused smile in his voice. You sigh, scratching Richter’s furry head again.

“How's your day been?” 

“Oh,” Sammy sighs, his tone shifting more seriously. “You know. Just another day in paradise over here.”

“I’m sorry,” you frown. 

“It's okay. We got a bad drug deal case we're working on right now. It's a mess.”

“That sounds awful."

“Yeah… You sure you don't want me to come home?” You smile. 

“What, is Nate giving you a hard time over there?” 

“Nah. But I’d happily spend the rest of the day taking care of you than going through these records.”

“Aw, Sammy,” you grin. “I love being your scapegoat.” He laughs with you.

“But really, I’m okay. Richter’s keeping me company. Won't leave me alone actually.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“He practically breaks down the door when I try and pee.”

“Huh,” Sammy huffs into the line. “Weird.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

Richter hadn't exactly been the chill dog he was acting like when Sammy had first brought him home.

He'd been wary of you, barking when you wore certain perfume, chewing up your favorite pair of shoes. Constantly butting against your calf in need of attention, barking defensively when given said attention.

Sammy had told you he'd get used to domestic life. That after years of always being alert, the dog was probably unsettled by the quiet and calm of your home. 

The dog had definitely adjusted, practically singing a new tune not long before you first got sick. 

From the other side of the line, you can hear a voice calling Sammy’s name. There's a rustling, voices muffled as Sammy covers the receiver and then a loud clang of a drawer

“Sammy?” You frown. 

“Hey sweetheart, sorry. Listen, I gotta go. Nate just got a call we've been waiting for.” 

“That's okay. Thanks for checking on me.”

“Of course. Got to make sure my girl’s doing okay.” 

“I’m fine. Now go crack that case detective Bryant.” Sammy laughs.

“Alright. I love you.”

“Love you too.” 

The line clicks and you shut your phone closed with a tired groan. Richter makes a noise, a low whine vibrating against your leg. He almost sounded worried, big brown eyes watching you. You smile, patting his head. 

“I’m okay Rick. You are really jumpy today, huh.”

He just stares at you. 

------------------------------------------------------

The contents of the fridge stare at you mockingly and you shut the door with a groan. Nothing sounded appetizing or even remotely appealing. 

If you were being honest, you could really go for a fat slice of cherry pie with melty french vanilla icecream. Specifically the pie the wife of one of Sammy’s detective buddies brought to a function last year.

But the sugar would probably do you in further, if you were being honest. 

You pout, opening up the same cabinets you'd been looking at for the past week. 

The same boxes of cereal and pasta and random snacks Sammy brought home. They all rested on the shelves with mockingly bright packages and names that sounded delicious, but made you sick to even think of biting into. You huff, leaning against the counter, your already small energy levels diminishing as you stand around the kitchen. 

Richter is right there at your calves, tongue lolling as he looks up at you expectantly. You smile at him, grabbing the bag of dog treats on the counter and tossing him one. He scarfs it down, lips smacking over his pointy canines, immediately going back to watching you. You snort and shake your head. 

“What is with you lately Richter?” 

The dog just watches you. You sigh, rubbing your forehead with frustration. 

“I swear this is not what I meant when I said I was thinking about losing some weight.” Richter barks, and you nod. “Right. I’d rather run a mile than have to throw up again.” 

You sigh tiredly, just wishing your stomach would settle enough to eat something. Anything. Nothing sounded good. Not between the disgusting smell the leftover steak and macaroni was giving off in the fridge and the sheer desire for that stupid cherry pie you were feeling. 

You wander over to the fridge again, opening it to the same disappointment you were greeted with like the last three times. The sound of Richter’s nails against the tile follows you again and you glance at him.

“What is with you, huh? You’re acting all clingy. What am I dying…” 

Your laughter trails off as you pause. Richter looks up at you, tongue still lolling happily. You stand there frozen, a sudden worry carving its way through your heart. 

Something Sammy has said to you once about K-9 dogs and training their smell.

“You know they’re training dogs for all kinds of stuff too. Not just drugs.”

“Like what?” 

“Oh, you know. Cancer and health stuff. Heard they’re trying to catch illness early.”

“Wow. That’s crazy. Can Richter smell that stuff?”

“Dunno. His sniffer is a little on the fritz. S’ why he retired.”

“He still knows when dinner is ready.”

“That’s just cause your cooking is great hun.”

“Aw, Sammy-”

Richter’s wet nose bumps against your shin, bringing you back to the present. Your mouth is dry when you try to swallow. The dog looks up at you, eyes big and wide. 

Did he know something you didn’t?

The house feels too quiet, the desert neighborhood surrounding you less peaceful and more eerie. Suffocating at the thought something might be wrong. You crouch down beside Richter, hands fluffing the fur around his torso.

“Is there something wrong Richter?”

The dog doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t, dogs don’t talk. But the worry is making you feel nauseous again, and you don’t know if you can wait for Sammy to get home to have your worries quelled.

You stand up with a quiet grunt, trudging down the hall to Sammy’s office room, the dog right at your heels again. The sunlight shines in through the big room, painting the bookcases crammed full of binders and books in soft light, illuminating the messy and crowded desk Sammy was always complaining he needed to organize.

The boxy computer the station lent him fires up with a loud hum, the equally boxy housing system whirring at your feet. You settle into Sammy’s big office chair, the leather worn and comfy, smelling like your husband’s cologne. Richter spins, settling on the floor next to you, eyes still trained on your slouched frame. Like you would disappear.

You laugh in spite of your newfound worry.

The computer screen finally blinks to life and you straighten to attention, fingers clacking against the clicky keyboard. You fire up the search engine system, the big blocky GOOGLE appearing.

Your fingers quickly begin to input questions, your eyes scanning the results as they appear.

Dogs and throwing up. 

Can dogs smell you being sick?

Dogs smelling illness. 

Dogs and-

You pause as you read the third result. 

Dogs and pregnancy. 

The chair creaks as you lean back, like the result personally offended you. 

Like the thought that crossed your mind wasn’t totally and completely crazy.

No.

That wasn’t… that couldn’t be.

You glance down at Richter who’d become very interested in sniffing at one of Sammy’s ties he’d left draped over the chair’s arm. You blink and click on the search bar again, your searches beginning to change. The hope settling in next to your fear becomes almost as overwhelming as the sick feeling still etched into the walls of your stomach. 

Can dogs smell pregnancy?

The question was absurd considering you hadn’t even touched the possibility at all these past few weeks. Although now that the door had opened, it seemed almost the perfect explanation.

You rarely got sick in a normal year and never as bad as the past few weeks had been. Hormone pills weren’t exactly your favorite form of protection and Sammy had a bad habit of reassuring you he was the ‘gun drawing’ champ. Of course, you knew in the back of your head your less than consistent protection methods weren’t exactly full proof.

And maybe.

Just maybe.

There was a teeny tiny part of you that didn’t mind. 

You and Sammy had talked about starting a family.

Plenty of times.

You’d watch diaper advertisements with a big smile or pass by little onesies in the store with longing glances. Sammy was always talking about the kids involved in his cases, how he often felt paternal over their situations. It was one of the first topics that had risen during those early stages of dating. There was no doubt that a baby was something you both wanted.

But you? Pregnant right now?

“I can’t be pregnant,” you laugh as you stare at the screen. “I mean that’s- that’s…”

You trail off, looking down at Richter. The dog is staring up at you again. Looking slightly bored as he chews on Sammy’s tie idly. 

“It’s crazy Richter. I mean, don’t pregnant women get sick later in pregnancy. And doesn’t everything else get… bigger?” You gesture questioningly to your body. Still the same as it had been.

There was only one way to really tell. If you were spiraling or not. 

You push away from the desk after shutting down Sammy’s computer, padding down the hall towards the bathroom. Richter barks, scrambling up onto his paws and following you.

He pushes through the ajar door as you begin rummaging through the toiletry basket beneath the sink, looking for the familiar pink box. The dog sits unashamedly at the door as you hurriedly toss the toilet lid open and make quick work of the pregnancy stick in your hand.

You set the test down on the counter and step back, waiting. It’s the longest three minutes of your life. The clock ticks mockingly slow, your eyes glued to the moving hands as you sit back on the toilet.

“It won’t be positive. It can’t.”

Richter’s tail flops against the bath mat as he sits patiently. Your leg bounces against the porcelain lid.

“I mean,” you chuckle, “It’s flu season. I probably just have a really bad case, y’know.” You look down at the dog. He doesn’t look all that impressed with your reasoning. You sigh and lean over to ruffle the scruff of his neck. 

“What if it is positive Ricky? What am I gonna do?” Richter licks the palm of your hand, whining. “I know, I know. Sammy and I have talked about kids. We both want them. But he’s been so busy lately. And the economy is kinda in shambles right now and to bring a baby into all this…”

You trail off with a defeated sigh.

“I just don’t know.” Richter licks your forearm, like he’s trying to help. You smile, glancing up at the clock.

“Wel… it’s time.”

You stand and nervously look at the test, reaching out for it with shaky hands. The stick feels heavier than before. Like just knowing it now carried the results for your future made all the difference.

You swallow thickly, flipping it over-

Your heart sinks as you stare at it.

One pink line.

Your brows furrow, mouth pulling into a frown as you reach for the box, checking the instructions again.

“But I thought…” you trail off, the words lost as you stare at the test.

The negative test.

Richter stares up at you, waiting for you to say something else. But you don’t. 

You’re not sure what you’re feeling right now. You should feel some semblance of relief. Weren’t you just saying a baby wasn’t exactly the best plan right now? Weren’t you just sick with the worry of what bringing a baby into the world right now would mean?

But something in your heart pulls, twisting into something resembling disappointment. The small and not so secret part of you that really did want a baby. In spite of all the trials it would bring and the aches and pains. You had actually been waiting to see that positive-

Richter whines, making you blink back to reality.

“I’m sorry boy. I just… I really thought....”

You shake your head, stuffing the test into the box and tossing it in the trashcan with a quiet clang. A chill runs down your back and you shiver, sighing as you realize how tired you felt, the sickness you were still dealing with not relenting.

“Come on Richter,” you gesture towards the living room, trying to pretend like you were fine. “Let’s go back and watch some tv.”

Everything was fine. It was fine.

A negative test was a good thing. Right?

You were just sick with the flu. Richter was finally adjusted to being a member of the Bryant household.

There was no baby.

But as you lay on the couch again, the dog settled against you comfortingly, your heart broke a little at the thought.

------------------------------------------------------

It’s late when Sammy finally comes home.

A lot later than he’d wanted to.

The house is dark as he quietly sneaks into the living room, the messy evidence of the day’s battle with your illness still strewn about the house. Sammy doesn’t even really have the heart to pick any of it up, the ache in his back pulling his mind towards his bed, the low rumbling of his empty stomach guiding him to the kitchen.

Sammy sets down his briefcase and coat, kicking off his shoes before he beelines it to the fridge. He pulls out the first container of leftovers he lays his eyes on, grabbing a piece of silverware from the dish rack.

He shovels a few bites of cold mac and cheese into his face while he stares blankly at the tiled backsplash. It’s so quiet in the house, rightly so for it being close to ten. 

Although Sammy is surprised Richter hasn’t come running.

A little high strung and wary of any visitors, the dog is always the first one to check out who’s coming through the door. Sammy can see from his position against the kitchen counter that Richter is not in his dog bed like usual. The plush and cozy bed is empty, save for the chewed and abused rabbit toy you’d bought for him. The one with the leg chewed clean off.

Sammy’s too tired to dwell over it. He tosses the container back into the fridge, throwing back an alka seltzer tablet before he pads down the hall towards the bedroom. 

The hardwood floor creaks beneath his weight, the soft moonlight illuminating through the half closed door. Sammy nudges the door open slowly, standing in the doorway for a moment as he loosens his tie, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

You were tucked cozily under the covers, Richter curled up against your backside. Sammy can’t help but smile at the sight, even if his heart hurt knowing you weren’t feeling good.

You barely move when he pads into the room, the soft smell of chamomile tea long gone cold filling the room, Richter’s soft snores making everything feel together. Stitched like a homey portrait; a scene of perfect domesticity, it made Sammy’s heart ache even more.

Because every night he got to come home to something soft and wonderful and so unlike the violence and horror his job threw at him day after day.

All the awful things LA tried so hard to hide, the awful aftermath of fights gone wrong, kids who didn’t know actions had consequences, people who just wanted to find a way out only to fall into the wrong hands.

But here.

Here in his bedroom, with a closet filled to the brim with your pretty skirts and his collection of mediocre suits, the bed with mismatched sheets and a cozy chair the two of you had found at an estate sale not too long ago.

Here, everything was as it should be. 

Warm. Quiet. A kind of peace that couldn’t be tucked into concrete apartment complexes or busy freeways.

It was the heart of everything that Sammy loved about this place.

You. 

Sammy smiles tiredly as he slips his belt off, setting it carefully on his nightstand so the holster didn’t clatter. He nudges Richter, trying to get the dog to wake, sighing when Richter just turns away from him, snuggling closer against you.

“Richter,” Sammy whispers, slipping the straps of his suspenders off his shoulders. “Hey, come on bud. No dog on the furniture, that’st he rule.”

Richter just puffs at the reminder, eyes glowing in the dark. Sammy makes a face, trying to tug at the dog’s collar. Sammy, as much as he loved the dog, had a hard rule about the animal sleeping in bed with the two of you. It was his job to keep you company at night, not the dogs.

But tonight, Richter didn’t budge. 

In fact he growled lowly at Sammy, turning over further into you. 

“Rick…” Sammy sighs. You mumble groggily into your pillow at the sound, your hand coming up to brush a strand of hair caught in your mouth.

“Sammy?” You whisper tiredly. Sammy’s face softens as the mattress dips beneath his weight, his hand reaching out to brush the hair away from your face.

“Hi baby. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers. 

“S’ alright,” you blink, leaning into the kiss he presses against your cheek. 

“You feeling okay?” Sammy asks. It was a casual question. Almost routine after you being sick for so long. 

“Yeah. I’m okay.” There’s a pause in your voice. Almost imperceptible, but Sammy catches it. He frowns, noting the way the soft lines of your face almost look sad in the dark. 

“You sure?” He asks, thumb brushing along your hairline comfortingly. You give him a smile, opening your arms wide in a silent request as you speak.

“I promise. Just missed you.” Sammy obliges, lowering himself into your arms, being careful to not crush you beneath his big frame.

“Yeah? I missed you too pretty girl.”

You hum, the sound vibrating against his chest. Sammy chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You turn your head away from him, eyes closed as you hum quietly again.

Peacefully. The content sound of everything being as it should be. 

“You need a shower,” you whisper.

“Wow. That’s your best greeting?”

“I’m tired Sammy,” you chuckle. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs into your hairline. “Me too.” 

“Well hurry up then,” you push him away, your hand lacking any real force. Sammy just shakes his head and peels himself away from you, giving Richter a resigned pat to the side.

The shower is cool against Sammy’s broad frame, refreshing after the hot LA sun. The water runs off of his freckled face and shoulders, washing away the grime and grim tension of the day’s events.

Sammy is hanging his towel on the rack, dried and changed into an old academy shirt and a clean pair of boxer shorts, when he accidentally knocks his watch off the sink. It falls in the space between the toilet, bouncing off the little trash can there.

Sammy grumbles, too tired to deal with it. But he does. It’s his only watch, the one you’d spent way too much money on as a gift for his 30th birthday. 

Sammy crouches down, water droplet still dripping off his damp hair as he reaches for the watch. He pauses, his eye catching something in the trash.

A familiar looking box.

He pulls it out by the ripped cardboard flap, the flimsy material pressed between his index and middle finger.

It’s a pregnancy test box.

Of course it was, he’d recognize the magenta and pink box anywhere. It was hard to miss in your mostly drab bathroom. Sammy frowns, forgetting the watch for a moment as he fully pulls out the box, curiosity getting the better of him. 

He can’t help but rifle through it, looking for the used test. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you to tell him these kinds of things. Of course he did. 

But Sammy had a bad habit of sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong. Nate says it’s what made him a good detective. Curiosity helped find answers.

Save lives.

In this case, curiosity revealed that Sammy Bryant was about to be a father.

Sammy stares at the test, squinting at the double pink lines.

The second one was faint, barely glinting beneath the light. But it was there. Any semblance of being tired is zapped as he blinks at those two lines, his mouth falling agape in shock. You were pregnant? 

Something clicks in Sammy’s mind. The sickness you’d been fighting. The way Richter had been acting. Like pieces of a puzzle finally laid into a full picture. 

Sammy shakes his head, sitting back on his haunches.

But… you hadn’t said anything.

You hadn’t even given him a hint that something else might be happening. That you might be hiding this perfect little secret. In fact, you had almost seemed… sad.

Were you sad? Did you not want this?

Something tightens in Sammy’s chest, a hint of doubt. Maybe he should just ask you about it. The station’s couples counselor always says ‘communication is key’, and Sammy knows even the hardest conversations are part of maintaining a healthy relationship.

Sammy sits on the bathroom floor for a while, thinking, thumb tapping against his lip, leg bouncing nervously.

Nervous. He shouldn’t be nervous.

Who was Sammy kidding? He was practically buzzing at the idea of being a father. 

Sammy finally grabs his watch, standing with the test and padding back down the hall to your bedroom. You let out a soft noise when Sammy gently prods your shoulder, head lulling against his forearm.

“What took you so long?” You mumble quietly, not opening your eyes.

“Honey… can we talk?” You crack your lashes open, blearily staring into the dark at him.

“Wha-” Sammy holds out the test.

He knows you can’t see it, eyes straining to focus in the dark. He reaches over for the lamp, giving you a quick apology as he flips the switch on, the room bathed in a soft orange glow. You moan, covering your eyes.

“Samuel-”

“I know, I know.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. But this is kinda important honey.”

You blink, sitting up in bed. Richter isn’t pleased as your legs jostle him, the dog puffing as he rolls over to Sammy’s side of the bed, legs splayed out over the comforter. You squint at Sammy, your hair mussed from sleep, licking your lips as you half glare at him.

“What’s so important?”

“This.” Sammy holds out the test for you.

“Oh,” you say, something sad crossing your face. “I was gonna tell you tomorrow.”

Sammy scoffs, a mixed sound of amusement and disbelief as you take the test from him.

“Tomorrow? You were gonna wait that long?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like it’s gonna change anything.”

“Not gonna change… WHAT?!” Sammy half hisses, confusion written across his face. “What do you mean this isn’t gonna change anything. Of course it does.”

You frown, making a strange face.

“Sammy… what on earth are you talking about? It was a negative test, of course I wasn’t going to tell you about it at 11 at night.” 

Oh. 

You had taken the test earlier and it had been negative. 

Oh. 

Sammy bursts into bright laughter, the sound echoing off the walls. You don’t look even half as amused as him and Sammy doesn’t blame you at all. Not even when you try to push him away when he cups your face and presses a wet kiss to your face.

“Sam-”

“Honey, I think you need to check the test again.”

You pause, frowning.

You glance down at the test, squinting. Sammy watches, his smile brightening further the moment he knows you see it. Your eyes widen slightly, your hands quickly bringing the test beneath the light.

And there they were. Two pink lines.

“But…” you trail off, mouth searching for the words. “It wasn’t- these weren’t there before.”

Sammy grins, his hand reaching out to rest against your thigh. 

“I think you’re pregnant, baby.” You don’t say anything, just stare at the lines. Sammy tries to catch your eye, but you refuse to look at him. He thinks you might be in shock. “Honey?”

Sammy shakes your thigh gently, finally drawing your attention.

“I don’t… I don’t even know what to say.” He frowns.

“Do you not want to-”

“No,” you interject before he can even finish the sentence. “No, of course I want a baby. I really do. It’s just- earlier when it was negative I thought something was wrong with me.”

“Oh, honey.” Sammy pulls you into his arms, your legs curling beneath you as you settle against him. “You’re okay. We’ll be okay.”

You look down at the test and then back up at him.

“What if it's a false positive? Those can happen.”

“They can?” He frowns. 

“I mean, it wasn’t positive before. Maybe-”

“Well, just take another test. There’s no harm in that, is there?”

“Sammy,” you tilt your head. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.” 

Sammy smiles and kisses you softly.

“I’m always looking on the bright side of things honey. If it really truly is negative, then maybe it’s time we start trying.”

“Really?” Your eyes brighten.

“Really,” Sammy nods as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “I think it’s time for a baby.”

You smile brightly. You still look tired and exhausted from being sick all day. But you’re eyes are sparkling. And Sammy doesn’t think he’s ever loved you more than he does right now. At the prospect of you carrying his child.

Richter’s snout pokes between the space of your bodies and Sammy throws him a glare. The dog pushes him away from you, pressing his furry body against your torso. Sammy pouts.

“Although I really don’t think it’s negative, sweetheart.”

You laugh. 

“I think he’s just nosey. Always needs to be a part of things, huh,” you scratch Richter’s ears fondly.

------------------------------------------------------

Bonus: 

You stand in the front of the fridge, the door open as you stare. 

But you’re not staring into the lit insides, the cold air seeping through the fabric of your dress. Your eyes are directed upward, glued to the ultrasound photo pinned to the metal surface by a giftshop magnet. 

A baby. 

Three positive tests and a doctor's appointment to confirm it.

Sammy reaches out to squeeze your hand on the fridge door, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he passes by you.

“You’re gonna waste the electricity just standing there baby.”

You hum in question, not really listening. Too busy thinking about the future baby Bryant and not enough about the cold bowl of cherries had come over to grab.

“What was that?” You ask dreamily.

“I said-”

Sammy turns back to you, going to repeat his statement. But he pauses, taking in how beautiful you look standing there. The slight glow you had, the pure and excited thrill that washes over him as he looks at you.

You were pregnant. He was going to be a dad.

You turn to look at Sammy, reaching into the fridge for the bowl of juicy, red fruit.

“Nothing,” he smiles. “I just love you.”

You laugh, shaking your head. 

“Yeah. I love you too Sammy.”

Baby Daddy

“Mr Cody?” One of the young nurses approached Pope as he sat abnormally upright on the bench adjacent to the delivery room.

His brow was still sweaty and his fists tightly gripping the scrunched up tissues he had swiped to keep his hands busy whilst you went through the most life changing pain one could experience mere meters away from him in another room.

After the birth, you had been taken away, apparently for stitches. The thought alone plagued Pope’s mind and made him sick with fear that the worst outcome had occurred. It was here, almost two hours later, that Pope had remained, like a loyal doberman guarding the room his wife and baby rested in.

Immediately Pope stood up, his abruptness startling the nurse a little, but she raised her hands to reassure him as he began a slew of frantic questions.

“How is she? Is she okay? Is the baby okay? Are the stitches done? What was she needing them for? Can I see them both?”

“Mom is fine, and so is baby. Your wife experienced a second degree tear and required stitches. They’re dissolvable and will take a few weeks to heal, but otherwise both Mom and baby are fit and well.” The nurse said “Would you like to come and say hello?”

The question halted everything in Pope. To see his baby, the little life you and him made together, for 9 months shielded and nurtured within your body, now here.

“Mr Cody?” The nurse uttered gently, catching Pope as he began to drift off into his own panicked thoughts.

“M’ready” He muttered, his sweaty hands balling up into nervous fists at either side of his jeans.

The nurse then turned and opened the door before gesturing for Pope to head inside. He didn’t look at her, but he did mutter a small thanks before stepping past her and into the room.

As soon as he saw you, and the tiny blue blanket in your arms, he froze. He had dreamed of this, of a family, of you carrying and having his baby. Of being a father to a child that was going to know how loved and safe they were.

Part of his brain tried to deny this moment, that he was dreaming all of it including you. The twisted part of him that made him feel deserving of anguish was trying to deny him the reality of this beautiful sight.

But then…it all melted away when you looked up and smiled at Pope, tired and weary, yet content. You had safely given birth to your baby, and he was with you, in your arms, and now your husband was there. Your little family gathered in one tiny room at 6am.

“Hey” you whispered, unable to bring your voice higher in case you woke up the little one cradled in your arms.

Pope approached you both, slow and careful, his eyes moving from you to the baby. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he moved to your bed side, peering over a little to try and see inside the blankets.

“Hey…look who’s here” you whispered down into the bundle, your fingers gently reaching to peel back a portion of the fluffy blue blanket.

Pope immediately felt his heart tighten as he looked over the baby, everything was small, pink fuzzy skin that was wrinkled a little still from nine months of comfort, but perfect. The most perfect little thing he had ever seen. And he had part of it in creating such perfection.

“This is your Daddy” Pope heard you whisper to the sleeping baby, pressing your lips to his tiny forehead before looking up at Pope.

Pope wrung his hands nervously, but couldn’t help himself as he reached up and curled over more of the blanket to look at his son’s face. He felt a swell in his heart as he looked at the tiny person, safely in your arms, cushioned into your chest and surrounded by warmth and love.

“He’s…he’s perfect” Pope breathed, almost in disbelief that someone like him was able to co create something so beautiful.

You allowed Pope to well up, his spare hand coming up to wipe away his tears as his chin quivered. With your hands occupied, you resorted to nudging your head to silently tell Pope to come closer so you could kiss.

Pope reached to cup your cheek as he pressed his lips to you, pulling back to half laugh in astonishment as quietly as he could and half choke a sob. He’d never allow anyone to see him this way, only you. You were the only one who could make him feel this good, this proud, this free of any restraint or punishment for feeling anything other than the darkness his family bred him to embrace.

Pope rested his forehead against yours, blinking his tears and pecking your mouth, imploring you to feel how much he loved you, and how badly he missed not being able to help your during the delivery.

“I love you, so much” He finally breathed.

You smiled at him, and kissed him briefly before returning the sentiment.

“I love you too” You said, eyes moving from your husband and back to the baby as he wriggled a little in his sleep. “He’s gonna look like you by the way” You smiled an amused grin.

“You don’t know that” Pope smirked and shook his head as he wiped his eyes dry.

“Oh no?” You said, looking up at Pope as he perched on the bed beside you. “Look here” you said, and carefully lifted up the baby’s sleep hat.

Under the hat, atop of your son’s head, was sparse and faint little red hairs. Just like his daddy. Pope felt his heart ache in the best possible way at the sight of his son so clearly sporting something that linked to him. Pope frowned a little when he caught a glimpse of congealed blood atop of the baby’s head.

“It’s just a little blood from the afterbirth, it will come off during his first bath” You answered Pope’s silent concern.

“His skin is so…delicate” Pope said, tracing the side of his index finger against the baby’s cheek as he continued to snooze.

“You should hold him” you uttered, not caring to ask, you wanted Pope to hold your child, to feel him, to have this moment.

Pope visibly hesitated, but you rested a hand on your husband’s thigh and softly caressed him.

“You won’t hurt him Andy” You smiled softly, looking deeply into Pope’s hazel eyes to reassure him.

Pope looked from you, then to the baby, before swallowing thickly and moving to shrug off his jacket. He folded it neatly and placed it at the foot of your bed before standing stiffly beside you.

“Mind his head, and just make sure to support his neck” you softly guided Pope as he reached his strong hands down to help you transfer the baby from you and into his own arms.

The minute you let go, and Pope held the light weight of the babe fully in his strong arms, Pope fell completely in love. His instincts kicked in to keep the baby close to his chest, to cradle him securely whilst he continued to sleep. He softly rocked back and forth, bouncing at the knees just so.

“Hey lil guy” Pope whispered, his eyes roaming over his son’s sleeping features. His impossibly small nose, tiny rosy lips, cheeks round and full.

Pope continued to lazily rock the baby, and at one point turned to look at you, but paused as he saw you already resting your head into your pillow, exhaustion bearing down on you, eyes closed over.

“Baby?” Pope softly spoke, he knew you were fine, safe and all clear, but still it didnt stop his imagination from getting the best of him.

He had nightmares of losing you to childbirth, of being alone in the world with a baby, or worse…being left with nothing.

“Hmm?” You said, peeling your eyes open to look at Pope with a slight smile.

“Sorry, I just…I-“

“C’mere” you smiled and reached out, beckoning for Pope to join you, sensing his worry.

He was reluctant for a moment more, but when you waved him over, Pope couldn’t resist being glued to your side. Despite being overjoyed that you were delivering his baby, he was wracked with separation anxiety, and the impending fear of losing you. Now, being apart from you was not an option, he was with you now until the end of time.

“Shit” you winced as you scooted to the side to give Pope room on the bed.

“You okay!?” Pope panicked, his voice a harsh whisper as he looked you over.

“M’still a little…tender” you breathed through the discomfort, but patted the space you had made beside you.

“Maybe I should leave you be and-“

“Andy” you hummed, reaching up to hold your husband’s arm. “Please…sit next to me…that’s what I want the most right now.” You pleaded quietly, looking at him with glassy eyes.

Pope was a goner, he couldnt resist you, not like this. The indomitable need to protect you, to be with you, it overtook him something awful, and so he dutifully maneuvered onto the bed whilst carefully holding the baby securely in his arms.

Pope, now sat on the bed with you, and his baby boy cradled into his arms. You leaned into your husband, immediately relaxing in knowing that he was there, and if you were to drift off, both yourself and your baby would be safe under Pope’s careful watch.

“I love you” Pope whispered and leaned over to press his mouth to your hairline, tasting the faint sweat on your warm skin. He made a mental note to go to the store and stock up on cleaning products and body care for you to scrub away the hospital from you skin. He also made a note to google when you were allowed a bath with stitches so he could buy you things for a long hot soak to ease your body.

“I love you too” You sighed, eyes lingering on Popes thumb as it gently smoothed back and forth across your baby’s soft cheek.

You considered yourself a hopeful person, a woman that believed in manifestation, karma, ‘whatever’s meant for you will find you’ and all that shit. You cruised through life as a survivalist, a mesopredator with opportunistic tendencies, someone who was willing to do anything to survive the wilderness of the world and win the long-lasting competition, while relying on let’s see what happens philosophy.

So, when the opportunity to marry Jordan arose, of course you took it, as it was never about love or devotion to either of you. For Jordan, it was always about keeping up appearances, and for you, it was about A) money; but especially about B) hoping that something good would come out of it, something that would get you further in life – another opportunity. It just never occurred to you that the opportunity would be of romantic matter.

Hate couldn’t quite cut the way you felt about all of them, and that included Jordan. Dan was the sleazeball of the group, they all were, but he held the scepter for sure. Cole had hated you since the moment Jordan introduced you, and you assumed it was because he was one of those guys who believed that their super-tight boyband was the planet Earth, and you were an asteroid responsible for its destruction. You quite liked Alex – not because he was better than Jordan or Dan, but because he wasn’t an active participant of that circle. He was a bit cynical, had a hard time keeping it together, so he was always sweating his ass off in a cheap suit elsewhere.

Obviously, they all wanted a piece of you – except maybe for Cole, but the rest of them looked at you like you were prey. Jordan didn’t mind at all, because he was too ignorant to even notice anything. He had decided a long time ago that you were only pretty enough to occasionally hang on his arm at his events, but you could never replace Emily. Thank fucking God for that.

But then there was Boyd. For a long time, you thought that you hated him too… well, you probably had, but you realized soon that he was the only one who wasn’t making your skin crawl when he called you sweetie or honey as he asked you to bring him some water. You realized that you were pretty quick to fulfill his wishes and too slow when others asked for something.

Boyd observed you. When you caught him staring, he never looked away like Dan. The only thing Dan cared about was your ass, removing his eyes from you as soon as you turned around, but Boyd waited until you locked eyes with him and then slowly and appreciatively dragged them over your figure, squinting when he reached your eyes again as if it would give him an X-ray vision that would allow him to see more of you. Every time you entered the room, he seemed to stop caring about whatever Jordan was saying and focused solely on you, making goosebumps erupt all over your body.

Boyd did make your skin crawl after all, but you loved that feeling when it was caused by him, despite how uncomfortable it was. Jordan was never capable of stirring such emotions in you, but that was okay, he wasn’t obligated to do so.

Jordan also wasn’t the one to notice that you started to dress down whenever the guys were around, that you started to wear a more expensive perfume, that you did whatever you could to get into Boyd’s proximity. Boyd noticed, and that was everything you wanted – at the time, at least.

How did you know he had noticed? He started to mirror your actions – wearing clean clothes, switching his uniform for button-ups unless he arrived straight from his shift, he added belts to his outfits and started wearing cologne. He would also always subtly touch the back of your knee – the softest brush of his fingertips against your skin when he was sat down and you’d just served him with a cup of coffee.

You saw an opportunity.

Boyd had a habit of never locking his car, so one day, when they wrapped up their get-together, you had been already waiting in the passenger seat of his ugly, yellow pick-up truck.

He literally stopped in his tracks when he noticed you through the windshield as he walked to his car, fidgeting with his car keys. He glanced over his shoulder, checking whether some of his buddies were around.

“What are you doing?” he asked, when he got behind the steering wheel.

“I need to pick some flowers for the house. Thought you could give me a ride.” You smiled.

He sniffed, his mustache twitching as he pressed his lips into a tight line, wheels turning in his head.

“Jordan know about that?”

You frowned. “He’s my husband, not my dad.”

Boyd laughed at you, his neck finally twisting to look at you with raised eyebrows as if to say seriously? “Isn’t he your sugar daddy?”

“Still. I make my own decisions. So, will you take me? Please?”

And Boyd just couldn’t resist you – sitting in his car like that, wearing a short skirt and a tight baby tee combined with that puppy look of yours. He couldn’t resist the way you said please to him; he simply wasn’t that strong, and he couldn’t pass on the opportunity to be alone with you. So, he started the car and drove you.

He wondered if Jordan would kill him for thinking about you like this. He didn’t think so. Jordan didn’t like to get his hands too dirty, that was mostly Boyd’s job. He’d lost count of how many people he had disposed of, but there was a time he thought he would eventually be disposing of you, too; that you’d become just another lock of hair in his binder.

He was glad it hadn’t come to that yet. But once it did, what would he do? Could he maybe be the one to prevent it from happening? Boyd bit his cheek, glancing at Jordan’s CD in the cup holders before he parked the car. Thinking.

“Why aren’t you wearing any underwear?”

Your breath hitched, hands hovering over your seatbelt you’d just unbuckled. How did he…?

“What?” you laughed. “I am wearing underwear,” you said defensively. But why? You weren’t wearing any. And Boyd was the reason. Why would you suddenly lie?

“I clean up dead animals. My nose is basically trained to pick up all sorts of smells,” he said, brows quirking as his lips formed a proud smirk.

“Shouldn’t it be desensitized, actually?”  

His expression stayed the same, knowing. “Answer the question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

For fuck’s sake, you wanted to smash your head against the concrete. You felt like you weren’t in control of your own words. What was happening to you? Were you suddenly scared of what he might do? Were you shy? You needed to get it together. You were supposed to be happy he called you out on it.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“No. I think you’re too in your head.”

“Too in my head? Should I check myself then?”

“You want to harass me? I’ll tell Jordan.”

“Like hell you will,” he chortled. “You’ve been bent on slutting yourself out for me the past couple of weeks.”

“Thinking a little too high of yourself, aren’t we? What if it was for Dan?”

Boyd burst out laughing. “Right.”

“Or Cole.”

“You hate Cole. You hate that he’s always taking up your precious space. I can see it in your eyes every time he enters the room.”

“Alex, then.”

He tilted his head at you, the corner of his mouth lifting up. “Alex is never around, for a change.”

Admittedly, you got wetter with each truthful argument he presented, and you were out of excuses. You were finally getting what you wanted. Stars were aligning. And you couldn’t think of doing anything better than reaching for Boyd’s hand and bringing it to your bare thigh, his fingers automatically spread out to cover as much of your skin as possible.

He seemed hesitant at first, eyes fixed on his unmoving hand and throat bobbing with a hard swallow. He remained still until you coaxed his hand up a little and his fingertips slipped underneath the hem of your skirt. Then, as if you flipped a switch, his fingers squeezed, creating soft dents in your skin.

You let your hand travel upward, gently skimming over his strong forearm, feeling all the different muscles that flexed with his movements as his whole hand disappeared under your skirt, his pinky finger bumping lightly against your bare center. He let out a shuddering breath at the feeling of your sticky juices coating his fingertip, then his face hardened into focus again, lips pursed as his eyes flicked to yours.

“Is this all for me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get this wet every time I was around?”

“And every time I thought of you.” You shifted, trying to get him to touch you more.

“Do you get this wet for Jordan, too?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I ever got this wet for anyone.”

You probably shouldn’t feed his ego like that, but the smirk Boyd gave you pushed the thought away.

“And what do you want me to do about it?” he asked, subtly moving his finger over your clit.

Your chin jutted towards the CD. “You listen to his crap, right?” This was the first and only time you’d ever say this. “Do what Jordan says.” Take it.

“He’s my friend, you know. I might as well drive back to the house and tell him what a whore his wife is.” Boyd emphasized the crude word by flicking his wrist and slipping his middle finger between your wet folds.

You leaned deeper into his space which caused your thighs to squeeze his hand tighter, essentially trapping it between your legs.

“Go ahead. Your word against mine. But a little warning? None of you are his friends. I guarantee you that as soon as the shit hits the fan, he’s only willing to save himself.”

To Boyd, that was old news; he wasn’t that naïve. Ever since Jordan became successful, he wasn’t afraid to use his narcissism and entitlement against others, and lately, Boyd’s patience had started running thin with him. Maybe jealousy had something to do with that. Not of his fame and wealth, no, but he was jealous that Jordan had a woman at home that he didn’t deserve in any universe.

Boyd withdrew his hand, nails lightly scraping against your skin in the process, and you thought for a moment that he’d throw you out of the car. Instead, the same hand made its way to your neck, squeezing just above your pulse points and keeping your face close.

If you had any patience left in you, you’d enjoy the way his pupils dilated and his hot breath bounced off your lips, but you didn’t. So you closed the gap and connected your lips with a little too much force that cause the glasses on his nose to shift. His hand around your neck relaxed for just a millisecond before squeezing again as he reciprocated the kiss.

During the kiss, you tried to climb over the console and into his lap a few times, but every time, he tightened his hold on your throat and held you down. Eventually, you whimpered out of sheer frustration and broke the kiss, pouting at him. Boyd fixed his glasses as he gave you an entitled smile, brushing his thumb over you lower lip.

“Are you gonna fuck him tonight?”

What kind of question was that? You couldn’t even remember the last time you had sex with Jordan.

“Maybe. Since you don’t seem interested.”

“Oh, I wanna fuck you,” he rebutted while his hand that had yet to touch you landed on his crotch to adjust himself as if to prove his point. Your eyes followed the motion. “Not in a filthy dead animal pick-up truck, though. You deserve better.”

The butterflies inside your stomach flapped their wings, and you felt your face soften. You wouldn’t peg Boyd for a gentleman.

“So you’ll take me to your place, then?” you leaned in again, eyes flicking to his lips as you bit yours, eager to kiss him again, but the reply he gave you wiped that smile off your face.

“No. I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

…What’s that supposed to mean?

He didn’t explain, just told you to stop pouting which only made you pout more.

What he meant was that you weren’t ready for the collection of toys he possessed, all the cuffs and ropes, nipple clamps, vibrators… You were beyond shocked when you saw all the tools, but more importantly, you became jealous and felt fucking stupid. How could you have been so naïve and thought that he wasn’t sexually active?

“Is that why you came onto me? You felt sorry for me?” His voice wasn’t hurt. Far from it. He was fucking ecstatic to unintentionally play you like that and get such a reaction out of you.

“I didn’t feel sorry for you,” you were quick to correct him. You wouldn’t fuck anybody who you felt sorry for.

“But you thought I wasn’t having sex, correct?”

Your silence was enough of an answer for him.

Boyd was and wasn’t gentle the first time he fucked you. His priority was to learn what made you tick, what your body liked and what your brain liked, what made you uncomfortable and what drove you absolutely crazy and desperate for him. He needed to improvise a bit, because you wouldn’t let him use the toys on you. You told him that that was just gross.

Restraints, you were okay with, but he was still careful to treat you almost like glass. You were young, and Boyd had known Jordan long enough to know that he wasn’t exactly confident when it came to sex. It’s not like you were a virgin, but Boyd could imagine just how far your experience went. So, he dipped a toe in first instead of plunging right in, choosing to tie your hands with his old tie instead of the ropes that were always ready at his bed, coiled around the wooden bedposts.

You were responsive, which made it a hell of a lot easier for him, too. Besides from that, it also made his cock throb – every little whimper, every twitch of your abdomen, every attempt of your thighs to close and shield your pussy from him. Fuck, he loved everything, and he loved when he got to hold you down with his bare hands. He loved building you up to your orgasm only to tear it away, repeating this over and over until you were crying and shivering, and he was out of breath and sweaty.

He did a number on you the first time, but it was nothing compared to the things he planned for you in the future. And he could see it in your eyes, too; that you wanted more, that you would let him do more. You were so fucked out of your mind that day, your pussy was so sore that he was afraid to touch it, and despite that, you clung to his body afterwards, desperate to preserve the feel of his body against yours.

Boyd wasn’t used to that. He had craved it, of course he had. But every woman he had ever got into his bed up and left right after the act. Not that he wanted them to stay, that option had never even crossed his mind; until you. He supposed it was a good thing, but there was a downside to it – he hated that at the end of the day, just a couple of hours after he’d ruin you, you were going to share a bed with Jordan.

Fucking fraud; he always just fucking blabbed and blabbed but never took his own advice.

He tried not to dwell on it too much while he drew circles into the skin of your shoulder, otherwise he was afraid he’d dig his fingernails just a little too deep.

Given Jordan’s disinterest in you, it was pretty easy to sneak around. You and Boyd had a lot of sex. You made him throw out all the toys, and using Jordan’s money, you helped him build a new collection, meant only for you. The toys helped you recognize Boyd’s mood – whenever he was in a good mood, he’d use them on you. If he was pissed, he’d use anything else but the toys, and that was when he was at his most dangerous.

But then the investigation started, Dan had been murdered, and Cole had disappeared. After that, Jordan limited his contact with Boyd and Alex, they didn’t meet at the house anymore, relocating to a place unknown to you. Jordan also had to cancel all his events, which made him snappier than usual and for the first time, because he missed his audience, he started controlling your life instead – deciding when and where you were allowed to leave the house, and if you did, you were always to be accompanied by one of his bodyguards. Don’t be fooled – it wasn’t for your safety; it was for his. He needed someone to keep an eye on you in case you decided to open your mouth and tattle away.

That meant that you didn’t get to see Boyd. On a few occasions, he was bold enough to come by the house, pissing Jordan off, naturally. But he needed to make sure you were okay.

He even managed to steal you away one day, for long enough time to explain to you that even though Jordan had selfish reasons to do all of this, you benefited from it too.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you asked angrily.

 “Well, someone killed Dan. Someone probably killed Cole. You could be next.”

“Or you.”

His reply was a scoff, making your eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh? That sounded pretty confident.” You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you kill them?”

“Excuse me?”

“I wouldn’t be mad if you had.” You shrugged and it just made him roll his eyes.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. Just…” He took a deep breath, taking a step forward and lifting his hands before he remembered where he was and dropped them back to his sides. “Just fucking hang on. I’ll figure something out. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.”  

“I won’t.”

Well…

It got a little out of hand and one night, you and Jordan got into an argument, because you had managed to sneak out of the house. You only went for a walk, nothing else, but he lost it. And you lost it.

You were dumb enough to tell him you had been cheating on him, in the hopes he would throw you out. That he wouldn’t care. You fucking hoped he’d never let you back into that Goddamn house. As you tried to leave on your own, he caught up to you and used his strength to stop you. It didn’t click for you at first what he was doing, but once you realized that he was trying to pacify you, you fought back – kicking, scratching, elbowing him – but then there was a wet rug to your nose and mouth, and you fell into a deep sleep.

When Boyd got the call, he knew something was off. He fucking knew. Jordan had this drop in his voice, the tone of a strategist in what Boyd knew was a completely spontaneous situation. Boyd considered the option that he was just being paranoid, but he wasn’t going to rely on hope, and his karmic debt was a little bit too high. Jesus, he needed to stop listening to your bullshit. He grabbed his gun before he left the house and made his way to the abandoned camp.

Every time you let Boyd tie you up, you looked so fucking ethereal. He could never take his eyes off you when you were in his bedroom, offering yourself to him, free for him to use however he wanted. Just the thought of it made him hard, and oftentimes, when he was patrolling the neighborhood, he had to park the car in a secluded nook so he could jerk himself off to the mental image of your naked body sprawled on his bed.

This time? No dead animal had ever made him want to throw up so bad like the sight of you tied to a chair. He was expecting this though, wasn’t he? So, he needed to focus. He wasn’t even sure what had gone down between you and Jordan. You must have pissed him off, that’s for sure, but he didn’t know whether Jordan had a reason to be pissed at Boyd too. He needed to be careful.

“Jordan,” Boyd greeted, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose before his eyes found yours, trying to assess if you were hurt at all. “What happened?” The question was directed at Jordan, but in reality, he wanted nothing more than to hear it from you. You seemed calm, all things considered, Jordan didn’t even have to gag you. Always such a good girl.

“See this pretty mouth on her?” Your husband gripped your chin, mockingly jerking your jaw like you were a puppet. “Apparently, she’s been using it to suck another man’s cock.”

Boyd’s eyes bored into yours and you gave him a subtle shake of your head. He doesn’t know it’s you.

“So, I thought, since she likes to be shared – right, honey? – That I’d give you guys a few rounds with her. Well, I mean… you and Alex. But Alex is too much of a pussy right now, and he skipped town. So, congratulations. She’s all yours.”

“…You want me to fuck your wife?”

Jordan scoffed. “My wife. A disrespectful bitch is what she is.” He tapped the back of his hand against your cheek. It was far from painful, but it still made you wince. “Come on, Boyd. I know all of you guys have wished for a piece of ass like that. I’m making it pretty easy for you, so take it. We’ll take care of her later.”

And there it was. Boyd knew this moment would come, but ever since you two started having an affair, it had just slipped his mind how dangerous Jordan truly was. Now he regretted that he didn’t get you out of the house before he let this happen.

Boyd nodded slowly before walking towards you. Jordan took a few steps back and prepared himself for the show. Fucking freak. You looked up at Boyd, with those big eyes that still somehow managed to sparkle, no matter the circumstances. He tried not to get too lost in them, because otherwise you’d both be fucked.

“I want her blindfolded.”

Jordan chuckled. “You sure you don’t want to see the tears?” he asked in a tantalizing voice as he took off his tie and threw it to Boyd who could only offer a small, strained laugh. But then he looked at you again and his nose flared, and his jaw clenched and you knew he was holding back.

Once he blindfolded you, as much as you tried to hide it, your breath became heavier and your nails dug into your palms. You didn’t want Jordan to know that you were scared – of him, of whatever might happen to you, of anything… You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. You flinched when you felt a hand caress the crown of your head, Jordan’s laughter bursting your ear drums despite how far he was. It was still coming from behind you, meaning Boyd was the one touching you. Good, that was good.

Another confirmation was when a set of lips pressed against yours, and your brain quickly registered the familiar sensation of his facial hair against the soft skin of your cupid bow. It made you relax a bit, but you didn’t kiss him back, as difficult as it was. God knows what Jordan would do if he found out that all this time, it was his friend who had been fucking his wife.

“Wow. Got no fight left in you, huh, honey?” Jordan taunted, before hissing, “I hope I finally fucking broke you.”

He wasn’t left wondering for too long, because Boyd reached into the waistband of his pants, swiftly pulling out his handgun and aiming at Jordan. He fired three quick shots, every single one of them startling you.

Everything was rushed after that. Boyd freed you and got you the hell out of there, never letting you even glimpse at the lifeless body.

That’s how you ended up here, tied up again, only this time, it had been done with gentleness and a sense of professionalism. You were high on your knees, your arms extended above your head and secured to the upper rails of his antique canopy bed with a rope that was also keeping your wrists together. He had the length of the rope precisely measured according to your height so that you were basically hanging from the ceiling, your body forced into a delicious stretch and prevented from lowering your ass to your heels.

Boyd figured that one out after the one time where you couldn’t handle the swats to your ass anymore and had the audacity to hide yourself from him. He thought that if you hadn’t been tied to the bed, he would have had to chase you around the house.

It was his favorite way to spank you, because this position gave him access to every inch of your body – to touch it, to admire it, to ruin it.

Smack.

Your body arched as pain surged through your body.

“How many was that?” Boyd’s breath tickled your ear before his lips softly touched the skin of your shoulder, a complete contrast to his rough hands.

Honestly, you had no idea. You’d lost count after 18, simply because you got tired of keeping up with the count and he hadn’t asked you in a while, so you just stopped. He’d been playing with you for too long.

You answered anyway, as confidently as you could. Nobody was stopping you from taking a guess. “Thirty-two.”

You heard a huffing laugh, your eyes squeezing shut at the sound as you braced yourself for impact.

Smack.

Fuck.

The rope around your wrists frayed your skin as your torso swung around, and you feared that you’d see blood trickling down your arms soon.

“Where did you learn how to count? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one here.” Boyd lashed your sore skin again, accompanied by a triumphant: “Twenty-five!”

The weight of his knuckles against your butt felt too heavy, even though it was just a brush, mindlessly traveling to your hips and back. He kissed along the column of your neck again. “I wanted to leave it at that, but evidently, you think you deserve more. So I’ll give you thirty-two.”   

He gave you five successive slaps, the thirtieth hit making your ass burn so much that you thought you would stop feeling that part of your body altogether soon. You didn’t let the sensitivity keep you from pressing yourself back against the rough material of his cargo shorts, the zipper irritating your bruised skin even more. Your neck also gave up on the support of your head, and you let it fall against his shoulder while his hands resumed their exploration.

They roamed over your sides, felt over your ribs until they finally settled on your breasts. Boyd pinched your nipples between his index and middle finger, rolling the pebbled peaks and giving them occasional tugs. You arched into him and closed your eyes, letting a happy sigh escape your parted lips.

His breath tickled your cheek as he spoke. “Remind my why we’re here.”

When you didn’t reply, too tired to think of the correct answer, you received another slap, only this time to your tit. It made your head snap upright as you gasped in shock.

“I almost got myself killed.”

“How?”

“I told Jordan the truth.”

“Yeah, and how did that work out for you?”

You shrugged, but it only reminded you of the ache in your shoulders. “Pretty well, actually. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

He smacked your other breast, eliciting a sound between a gasp and a laugh.

“You think this is funny? You made me shoot my best friend.”

You snorted, right before his hand collided with your ass again.

You waited for the pain to subside before you unclenched your jaw and spoke. “I didn’t make you do anything. I was tied up, remember?”

“If you hadn’t decided to be a loudmouth, I wouldn’t have had to kill him.”

“You wanted to kill him– Can we not do this? We’re together, right? That’s all that matters.”

It was easy for you to say. You were just trying to manipulate him into fucking you already. That was all that was on your mind in that moment.

But really, instead of not taking the situation seriously, you should be thanking him, because he was the reason that you didn’t have to worry about anything other than him stuffing you with his cock. You knew he was carrying most of the weight of the situation, but that was on him. You told him you’d help him with the body, but he didn’t want to hear it.

And the fact that Boyd wasn’t in a rush even though Jordan was still rotting at the camp was turning you on.

“It’s not. You need to accept the consequences of your actions and apologize.”

A scowl appeared on your face. Apologize? For what? For speeding up the process?

“Did you listen to his stupid CD’s again?” You rolled your eyes at the possibility. “I thought I threw them all out. Or are you just pretending you don’t have a brain?”

Your body jolted with another slap. Thirty-two. Fucking finally.

“Apologize.”

“No!” you exclaimed incredulously. That’s when you heard the clanking of his belt. You shifted on your knees, hoping – fucking hoping – he wasn’t going to touch you with it. But you already knew you were dead wrong, and soon, as he wrapped your hair around his hand and yanked on it, he was whipping your ass and thighs with the leather until he saw bloody marks forming on the skin and your face was soaked with tears and snot.

“Are you sorry yet?”

You nearly sobbed. “Yes.”

“Well, let me hear it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“I’m sorry for almost getting myself killed. I’m sorry for making you kill your friend. I’m sorry for being stupid when you told me not to.”

You recoiled when he brought his palm to the tender skin to rub gentle circles there. “Good girl,” he said, giving you a kiss under your ear.

Boyd untied your wrists then and made you crawl to the foot of the bed on all fours while he stood in front of you. He cupped your chin, slipping his thumb into your mouth, and letting you twirl your tongue around it for a moment before hooking the finger behind your lower teeth and pulling you upwards until your face was level with his. You kissed him then, fingers curling around his neck as he shrugged his flannel off.

You enjoyed the taste of him, the way his soft tongue danced across yours. When your lips disconnected, he pushed you back down, positioning your arms to hang over the wooden footboard, the carved ridges digging into your armpits. He removed his shorts and boxers too, but not before taking ahold of his gun. His throbbing cock sprung free, bumping against his stomach as he grabbed a handful of your hair and guided your mouth forward.

You didn’t even wait for his command. Opening your mouth for him and swallowing him down was like second nature to you.

But he stopped you before you could do any of that and instead brought the gun to your mouth. Your blinked up at him.

He nodded, lips curling inwards, creating a tight line as if to tell you that you understood correctly. “Suck on the gun.”

“What?”

“Suck on the gun that killed your husband.”

Those words were the pushing force that convinced you to hesitantly wrap your lips around the barrel of the gun, a taste of metal and gun powder absorbing into your tastebuds as your tongue slid against the underside of the weapon.

“Thaat’s it, you fucking slut. You like that, huh?”

You made a sound of agreement, before you moved your head back and forth as if it were his cock that was currently in his hand as he tugged on it.

You frowned, focused on being mindful of your teeth, and you sure as fuck hoped he was being consciously careful too, because you didn’t want them to get knocked out. The metallic taste became more and more prominent with each slide of your soft tongue against the hard barrel, mixing with your saliva that made the gun shimmer under the bedroom lights.

Your focus was disrupted by the clicking sound as he took the safety off, and you couldn’t do anything but glare at him.

“You better hope my finger doesn’t slip. Don’t wanna be scraping your brains off the ground like roadkill. Are you scared?”

Your response was sliding the gun deeper into your mouth while maintaining eye contact with him, and you could see the flicker of pride in his eyes.

“God. Which fucking loony bin spat you out, hm? You’re so fucking sick.”

He clicked the safety back on before pulling the gun out of your mouth and throwing it into the heap of clothes, and then finally, he allowed you to taste his cock, stuffing your mouth full of it.

Once you relaxed your throat, Boyd rocked forward, pulling a gagging sound from you before the fist in your hair pulled you off him until only his tip was resting against your tongue. Your mouth stretched to accommodate more of him, letting him fill your throat until your nose was squished against his stomach.

Your nails scraped against the wood as you coughed around him, bubbles of spit making their way out through the corners of your mouth, your eyes fluttering closed as they stung with budding tears.

When he pulled out, you spurted out the spit that had collected on your tongue and ended up on your chin.

He set a pace then, rapidly snapping his hips against your face and fucking your mouth until you were gurgling around him and moans of pleasure fell from his mouth. Then he stilled his hips again, the head of his cock nestled deep against you vocal cords as he tilted your head a little.

“Look at me,” he ordered, but your gag reflex and eyelids teamed up against you. “Come on, babygirl,” Boyd cooed condescendingly when he saw you struggle, removing the hair that was sticking to your face. “Try to give it your best. Come on.”

You breathed in through your nose and stared up at him, your eyes brimming with tears that made your vision blurry. You could still tell that he was beautiful, though.

“Such a gorgeous, gorgeous girl. It would be a cryin’ shame if I had to dump you in a swamp.”

Boyd pinched your nose, restricting your intake of oxygen and your eyes fluttered shut once again when your brain started to slowly shut off. Your head span faster and faster with each passing second, your back twitching as if you were doing a cat-cow pose, but before you were completely gone, he released you and pulled his cock out of your mouth, your scalp stinging from his grip on your hair. You dry-heaved, trying to come to your senses from all the torture to your body.

The floor under you was wet – with tears, his precum, but mostly, it was the drool produced by your mouth. Strings of saliva hung from your lips until Boyd wiped them with his palm before squishing your cheeks together as he leaned down to kiss your shiny lips, cleaning his own precum away from your tongue.

“You can just say you couldn’t bear to lose me,” you rasped out once he finished licking into your mouth. You didn’t expect him to suddenly go all sweet on you, you knew what would follow. And as soon as you stopped talking, his wet palm collided with your cheek.

“Don’t get cocky now.”

You just grinned, because you had every reason to be cocky. Your boyfriend killed your husband for you, his childhood friend. Without hesitation. And if that isn’t a declaration of love, you don’t know what is.

You shuffled a little closer, and at the expense of your armpits, you started laying small kisses all around his cock – his thighs, along his happy trail, licking at his v-line, and eventually taking his balls into your mouth and suckling on them until he whimpered above you. You took the opportunity of free will and licked a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, following the thick vein all the way to the tip where you twirled your tongue in circles. Boyd grunted and tugged on your hair then, with a force that got you sitting high on your knees again, your hands instinctively shooting up to the one in your hair to get rid of the source of the pain.

His eyes glimmered as they danced across your face – your pretty lips, your pretty nose, those eyes that literally made him commit murder. Fuck, he was down bad, and if he hadn’t had a motivation to keep himself out of prison before, he definitely had it now. He couldn’t let anybody else fuck that face, and certainly not your pussy. If that ever happened, he swore he’d break out just to kill the asshole who touched you. You were his. End of story.

“It was pretty stupid of you, too, to shoot him like that,” you said, bringing him back to present.

He quirked an eyebrow at you. “It was necessary. Telling him that you were cheating on him was stupid. I think we established that.”

You shrugged, giving him a lopsided grin. “What can I say? Love makes you do stupid things.”

He didn’t full-on smile, but it was the wrinkles around his eyes, peeking from underneath his frames that gave him away. Before you could tease him about it, he shoved you and your back bounced against the mattress. You were reminded of the fire your ass was on. Boyd was quick and good at predicting, catching your hand that was already en route to your behind to sooth the pain, but he pinned it down next to your head, your other hand joining too as he hovered over you, glasses gone and revealing the rest of the freckles that decorated his face.

You lifted your hips with the intent of rubbing your pussy against his cock, but he jerked away, tightening his hold on your wrists. “Brat.”

“What? It’s not my fault I’ve been wet since you pulled the trigger.”

“You really get off on me killing someone?”

This time you lifted your head, your noses nearly brushing. “I get off on you killing Jordan.”  

He scoffed. “As I said. Sick.”

You giggled and let your head sink back into the pillow. Boyd decided to tease you then, peppering kisses all over your body. You felt the brush of his lips against your biceps, the crook of your elbow, your chafed wrists and your palms. He took his time kissing over your torso, your chest, your stomach that was especially sensitive to the bristles above his lips. He dipped his tongue into your belly button before licking a stripe up to your breast and sinking his teeth into the underside of your mound.

You played with his hair, auburn curls sticking out between your knuckles as you gently ran your fingers through them. God, but all this hair-pulling was always better when his head was framed by your thighs, and his tongue was lapping at your pussy.

“Boyd,” you whimpered as he kissed along your hips and to the crease between your leg and stomach.

“What do you want?”

“Eat my pussy.”

He gave a kiss to the top of your thigh before he spread your legs and kneeled between them. “You want me to eat your pussy?” he asked, leaning down and bringing his face closer to your center.

“That’s what I said.”

“Yeah?” his hot breath hit your folds, his lips were parted, eyes bored into yours, and he seemed like he was ready to dive in. When he was just a whisker away from kissing your cunt, he turned his head and sank his teeth into your thigh. You cried out, and after he let go of your skin, Boyd crawled up your body, folding you in half as your legs hooked around his arms, his cock brushing against your cunt.

“Say it again.”

“I want you to eat my pussy.”

“Again.”

He made you repeat it five times, until your cheeks were flushed and the confidence in your voice faded. Boyd knelt between your knees again, sitting down on his heels before he lifted your legs and pressed them together. He told you to keep your feet up, so he could kiss along your thighs, facial hair scratching against the patches of abrased skin and sending stinging sparks of pleasure through your body and into your clit. You loved every bit of it. He took his time, switching from one leg to another, but he wasn’t even trying to tease you this time. Your legs were his weakness, and he wanted to worship them.

You didn’t know how much time had passed before he finally spread your legs and threw your legs over his shoulders as he dipped his tongue into your glistening slit. Your eyes rolled back as soon as he reached your engorged clit, a sigh of relief escaping your mouth. It was absolutely electric, the way he flicked his tongue over your bud before taking it into his mouth and sucking, moving his head from side to side before he released you with a pop.

When he moved lower and stuck his tongue into your hole, his mustache created friction on your clit that made your pussy flutter, and your fingers curl into his hair, nearly pulling them out of their roots. He groaned against you, moving his tongue in and out of your weepy hole in a quick pace, fucking your cunt with the wet muscle and setting your stomach up for fireworks.

You whined above him, arching your back and making yourself look absolutely beautiful. He licked a broad stripe up to your clit again, shaking his head from side to side and making a noisy mess of your pussy before tugging the hood of your clit back to hit every single nerve ending as he rolled his tongue over it.

It made your whole body convulse, your knuckles threatening to tear through your skin as you gripped the sheets underneath you, the gasps getting caught in your throat. When he closed his lips around the exposed nub and suckled, you were done for.  Your stomach exploded, and you were cumming right into his mouth, covering his chin, his lips and his facial hair in your juices.

He didn’t ease up, and this time you brought your hands to his head to push him away, but he wouldn’t budge. You moaned out his name, begged him to stop, pushed on his forehead, clawed at his scalp and even tried to twist away, but he was too strong, too persistent. Eventually, he pulled away before you could cum again.

He let you think for exactly four seconds that he’d leave your overstimulated pussy alone, and then he was flipping you over and sliding his thigh under your stomach, propping up your ass on his leg as he inserted his thumb into you and quickly pulled another orgasm out of you by driving his thumb into you and rubbing your clit with the rest of his fingers.

His free hand was squeezing the flesh at your hip, his forearm against your back to hold your squirming body down. Your arms flailed around, trying to reach behind you and pry his fingers away from your waist, but that was futile, so you just held onto him, as he worked you through it, fluids spurting out of you like a fountain, wetting his hand and watch as well as the sheets, soaking everything through. Your screams, muffled by the mattress, didn’t stop until Boyd removed his hand.

You sere slumped over him, completely pliant as your chest heaved and stomach still twitched from the consuming orgasm. Fuck. You should have brought a towel. Boyd withdrew his thigh from underneath your body, and you extended your legs, laying yourself flat down on your stomach. He traced lines onto your back, letting you catch a breath.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled and turned your head to face him. “Just need a minute.”

Boyd brought his hand to your legs then, massaging them while avoiding touching the bruised skin. Half of his face was wet, mustache soaked, and his hair was a mess. You let your eyelids fall in appreciation of his digits working the knots out of your calves. He couldn’t resit though, bringing his finger to your quivering pussy and with the lightest touch swiping over the length of your puffy folds. You twitched away, of course, whimpering. He removed his finger but kept his eyes on your cunt.

“You know,” you murmured. “Jordan didn’t have a will. We’re sort of rich, now.”

He snorted. “That’s what you’re fuckin’ thinkin’ about right now?”

When he decided you got enough rest, he rolled you over onto your back and fucked you messily to sleep, pulling out just to lay you on your side and situating himself behind you before pushing his cock back inside you, using you to warm himself. You fell asleep like that, filled to the brim, cum leaking out of you the whole night.

Cassandra noticed you staring and chuckled. “That’s Grant Reilly. He’s the head chef and co-owner.” 

“He’s…” you couldn’t even find words to describe him as you stared at him. Your eyes gazed at his salt and pepper curls, the white t-shirt that strained against his muscles, his veiny arms, his thick fingers, and his hazel eyes. Fuck, he was hands down one of the hottest men you’d ever seen.  

“Yeah, he has that effect on people but just a warning, he’s very professional. Dozens of servers, customers, and line cooks have tried and failed to get with him. That man does not fuck staff. It’s a shame because- well you have eyes,” Cassandra explained. 

“That is a shame,” you sighed, greedily taking in every inch of him with your eyes. 

“Chef, do you have a second?” Cassandra called out. 

Grant turned his head to look at Cassandra and he did a double take when he noticed you standing beside her. 

Unbeknownst to you, this wasn’t the first time Grant saw you. He had walked past Marcus’s office during your interview. All it took was one look at you and he was hooked. Grant spent the rest of that day thinking of you, your smile, the way you nervously twiddled your thumbs, and your perfect face. He spent that night convincing Marcus to hire you, even with your lack of experience in the food industry. Now that you were here, standing in front of him, he regretted it immediately. There was no way he would be able to focus with you in his restaurant. You were just his type with your pretty smile, innocent doe-eyed look, and your body was downright sinful. His mind immediately wandered off to a dark and dirty place, thinking of all the things he’d want to do to you. 

“Sure,” he nodded in a slightly strained voice. As he walked over to you, he let out a deep breath, trying to push away all the lustful thoughts that entered his mind at the sight of you. In all the years he spent building up North & Vine into a renowned restaurant, he had always remained professional with his staff. He was resolved not to let you be his exception. 

“Grant, meet our newest team member.” 

“So this is the backwaiter with no experience that Marcus hired without consulting me,” he lied, staring at you with a raised eyebrow. His tone came off harsher than he intended but he made a conscious effort not to sound nicer. He figured being a little stern with you would be better; establishing some distance would help keep you at bay. 

You felt heat spread across your cheeks and you faltered slightly under his intense gaze. “That’s me,” you smiled awkwardly. There was a clear hint of annoyance in his voice and you suddenly felt unwelcome. 

“She’s a fast learner,” Cassandra spoke up, winking at you. 

You gave her a grateful smile and nodded at Grant. “I’m so thankful for the opportunity to work here. I’ll try my best not to let you down.” 

Fuck. 

Not only were you gorgeous, you were sweet too. That would make things all the more difficult for Grant. He nodded, only glancing at you before turning to Cassandra, “Do you think she can handle dinner service? She doesn’t have any experience.”

Cassandra gave him a confused look. It wasn’t like Grant to be so cold. “Yeah, she’ll be ready.” 

“She better be. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” Grant said. He turned around and started talking to some of the cooks on the line. 

“Sorry, he’s not usually like that,” Cassandra whispered.

“Oh, it’s okay,” you shrugged. 

“Some influencer called our food ‘classic’ and that sent Marcus spiraling. He’s been pushing Grant to revamp the menu, hence the tension. He’s probably just stressed,” she explained as she guided you back to the dining area. 

“That must be difficult for him,” you nodded sympathetically. You looked over and caught Grant staring at you. As soon as your eyes met his, he blushed slightly before quickly turning his attention back to the kitchen. 

In the few seconds his hazel eyes held your gaze, you felt heat spread across your body. He stared at you with a passionate intensity you’d never been on the receiving end of before. 

“Alright, we’ve got four hours to prepare you for service!” Cassandra said, clapping her hands together. 

You thought that your experience working in retail would have prepared you to work in the food industry but you were wrong. Six hours into your shift and the food industry had proved itself to be a different beast altogether. Your feet hurt, your arms ached, and you were convinced that you were developing tendinitis in your left wrist. It also didn’t help that every time you walked into the kitchen, you could feel Grant’s eyes following you, watching your every move. His intense gaze made you even more nervous than you already were on your first day. From the second dinner service started, you were on your feet, carrying plates to tables, refilling water, and fetching ice for the bar. 

“Refill water for 24.” 

“Bread 12.”

“Bar needs ice.”

“Table 27 needs a soup spoon.”

“Restock Sancerre.” 

As you walked into the kitchen to help Cassandra bring dishes to table 12, you spotted Grant. God, he looked good in his white t-shirt and brown apron with a white tea towel slung over his right shoulder. His eyebrows were furrowed as he watched the sous chef plate up food. Amongst the chaos of the dinner rush, he remained calm, totally in his element as he guided his chefs through the storm. You watched intently as he yelled out orders, tasted sauces, and gave feedback. 

“Add a pinch of salt to that, Beans,” Grant said. He froze for a second and as if he could feel your gaze on him, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. Fuck, you looked good in that button up white long sleeve, black tie, and black trousers. The uniform was supposed to look polished and professional but he couldn’t help thinking of grabbing you by your tie and pushing you into his body so he could kiss you. He found himself getting lost in your pretty eyes. The way you stared at him, eyes wide and entranced as if he was the only person in the room, the only one who mattered. 

“Chef, can you taste this?” Beans asked. “Chef?” 

Grant broke eye contact with you and turned back to Beans. “What?” he asked, slightly disoriented. 

“I added more salt. Can you try it now?”

“Oh, sure,” Grant nodded absentmindedly, glancing over at you again. He practically had to peel his eyes away from you as he took a spoon and tried the sauce. “Yeah, it’s good now.” 

“Alright, Cassandra, pick up table 12,” Beans said, putting the plates on the counter. 

“Great, let’s move,” Cassandra said, motioning for you to follow her. 

Grant tried his best not to let his eyes wander or linger on you for too long as you stood in front of him picking up plates but he couldn’t help it. You were hard to look away from and even worse, he didn’t want to look away from you. 

“This is a six top. Can you handle a three-plate carry?” Cassandra asked. 

You watched as she expertly took a plate in her hand, balanced another on her forearm, and then grabbed the third plate with her free hand. “Yeah, I think so,” you nodded. 

“Great, take those,” she said as she walked past the double doors into the dining area. 

You quickly tried to follow suit, taking a plate in your hand and grabbing another to place on your forearm. As soon as the plate touched your forearm, you felt a sharp burning sensation from the heat. “Fuck!” you cursed, dropping both plates as you clutched your forearm. The plates fell with a loud crash, the sound of glass shattering as the fresh food landed on the kitchen floor. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Beans sighed in an exasperated tone. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Grant asked, rushing towards you. He moved with urgency, completely forgetting his earlier determination to keep his distance from you. His expression softened as he placed his hand on your back, looking at you with his concern-filled hazel eyes. 

“I’m so sorry. It burned me,” you muttered, rubbing your tingling forearm. 

“Re-fire strip steak, medium rare and two halibut,” Grant called out to Beans. . 

“I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. I just- I didn’t expect the plate to be so-” you stuttered. 

“Let’s take a break, yeah? You’ve been on your feet all day,” he said, leading you into the staff room. With his hand still on your lower back, he sat down beside you, tracing soothing circles with his hand. He didn’t even realize he was doing it, it just felt like second nature for his hand to be on your body. 

You let out a deep breath, finally relaxing in the silence until you realized you were alone in a room with Grant and he was touching you. Heat surged through your entire body and you tensed at the contact. The warmth coming off of his large hand was both comforting and titillating. “I’m really sorry about breaking those plates,” you finally said, trying to break the palpable tension encasing the room. 

“Don’t worry about it. Breaking plates comes with the territory,” he smiled. 

You felt heat spread across your cheeks. The faint wrinkles and creases around his eyes as he smiled at you made him look even more perfect. “Thanks for being so nice,” you said softly. You weren’t sure where you stood with him. He had been cold to you in the morning but now, he was soft, caring, and gentle. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry about earlier. You’re new to the team and it’s my job as the head chef to make you feel welcome. I was just…I had a lot of things on my mind,” Grant explained. He didn’t mention that you were the main thing on his mind. 

“It’s okay. Cassandra mentioned you were stressed about some stuff with Marcus,” you smiled sympathetically. 

“He wants North & Vine to be trendy and hip. He keeps acting like being classic is a bad thing but it’s all I know. Most head chefs at Michelin-starred restaurants trained in Europe while I learned to cook in army kitchens…and they don’t really cover fine dining in the army.” Grant was surprised by how easy it was to talk to you; he didn’t really open up to anyone, especially when it came to doubts he had about his cooking. There was something disarming about you, he wanted to let you in, tell you everything. 

“I’m kind of in the same boat- I mean, I’m the farthest thing from a chef but about the whole fine dining thing, I’m pretty clueless,” you confessed.  

“Guests giving you a hard time?” 

“A guest asked me what wine paired best with the risotto and I had no idea what to say. When I was refilling water for table 26, the couple there asked me what region our Riesling is from. The closest I’ve ever gotten to fine dining is the Cheesecake Factory…I guess I’m starting to realize why you didn’t want me here,” you confessed. 

“It’s not that I don’t want you here,” Grant shook his head. 

“Really?” you asked, looking at him with a surprised expression. “I got the impression that I wasn’t really wanted. Aside from Cassandra, most people seem annoyed to have someone as clueless as me working here.” 

He was silent for a few seconds, wondering what to say next. Part of him wanted to confess that the problem was he wanted you too much but the other more logical part of him wanted to stay quiet and continue being cold to you. But before he could stop himself, the illogical part of him took over and he found himself saying, “You’re wanted here.” 

“I am?”

He turned to look at you and nodded. This time saying it with more conviction because that man really did mean it, even if it was for the wrong reasons, “You’re wanted here.” 

“Thank you. That means a lot, especially coming from you.” 

You sat beside him in silence for a few moments, suddenly feeling more sure of your place at North & Vine when you felt him move his leg just an inch closer to yours, his thigh now touching yours. “I could uhh…give you lessons, if you want,” he offered. His cheeks blushed a faint pink colour as he rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Lessons?” 

“Yeah, it’s important for you to know how the food is supposed to taste and what wines pair best with our dishes.” 

“Like lessons in taste?” you asked in a soft voice that came out more seductive than you intended it to sound. 

Grant inhaled sharply and looked up at the ceiling for a second, trying to remind himself who you were and who he was. He told himself he would do the lessons to benefit the restaurant, he couldn’t have a backwaiter working at North & Vine who didn’t know the first thing about food. “Yeah, something like that,” he shrugged casually, pretending like his heart wasn’t practically thumping out of his chest at the feeling of your leg touching his. 

“Can we start tonight- if you’re not busy?” you asked. You couldn’t help but feel a little giddy knowing you were about to spend the rest of the night alone with Grant. 

He was pleasantly surprised by your eagerness. “Okay, sure. Just hang around here after service is over.” 

“Pick up table 12!” Beans called out from the kitchen. 

“I should get back out there,” you said, standing up and straightening out your apron. 

Grant nodded and watched you walk away as he wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into. He knew it was a bad- no, it was a terrible idea for him to be alone with you when he was thinking of you in ways no boss should be thinking about their employee. But there was something intoxicating about your presence. You made him want to push all the boundaries and break all his rules just to be alone with you. He wanted to lose himself in you. 

The remaining hours of service seemed to drag on for Grant. Each minute passed excruciatingly slowly because all he could think of was being alone with you. Once dinner service was finally over and customers emptied out of the restaurant, leaving behind staff, Grant walked out of the kitchen and into the dining area to watch you. 

He stood at the bar, under the guise of taking inventory of what type of alcohol he needed Marcus to reorder just so he could watch you. There you were, standing in the dining room with Cassandra bundling up silverware. Your black tie had been loosened and your white shirt was unbuttoned. His eyes flitted to your lips, so plump and full that he couldn’t help wondering what they would look like wrapped around his thick cock. Then he noticed your fingernails, perfectly manicured, which naturally brought the thought of what your fingernails would feel like digging into his chest. When you leaned down to pick up a fallen napkin off of the floor, Grant caught a glimpse of the bra you were wearing. His breath hitched as he took in the sight of your cleavage, perfect round breasts being held up by that delicate pink lace bra. Grant made a fist and brought it to his mouth, biting his knuckles to suppress a groan. All it took was one look at your chest and he could feel a tent forming in his pants, his cock straining tightly against the fabric. 

“Goodnight, chef. See you tomorrow!” Beans waved as he walked out the door. 

“Goodnight,” Grant said in a strained voice. Thank god he was wearing an apron that somewhat managed to hide his erection. More staff members were filtering out of the restaurant and he knew he needed to act fast. He was about to spend the next hour or so alone with you, teaching you how to taste. Grant knew that he needed to do something to curb his insatiable appetite for you or he’d be stuck with a boner all night. 

While you were finishing the silverware, Grant quickly rushed to Marcus’s empty office, locked the door, and pulled out his aching cock. Pre-cum leaked from the tip and he closed his eyes as he slowly wrapped his fingers around his length. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, inhaling a sharp breath as his thumb swiped over his sensitive tip. 

He spat in his hand and with his eyes closed, pretending his hand was you, he started stroking his cock. It was thick and heavy, pulsing in his hand. His chest heaved up and down, thinking of how good it would feel to be inside you. Your tight, wet, and warm pussy; walls clenching tightly around him. His movements started speeding up, stroking his length with urgency. 

“Yeah, yeah, just like that,” he gasped. His eyes were closed and he had to put his free hand over his mouth to cover all the whimpers and moans that were threatening to spill out of him. With a few more strokes and a couple squeezes around his cock, hot ropes of cum were spurting out of his tip, spilling all over his hand. 

Embarrassment, guilt, and another emotion he couldn’t quite decipher- shame or maybe perverted arousal swept over him. You were younger than him, much younger, not to mention the fact that you were his employee and he was your boss. In all his years as a chef, back in the army and at North & Vine, he had never pleasured himself at work. Grant liked to think of himself as a disciplined man but for whatever reason, you had him fucking his fist like a horny teenager in his partner’s office. 

Then he heard you call out his name, “Grant?” followed by footsteps heading towards the office. 

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He frantically grabbed a bunch of tissues and wiped the cum off of his hands and the floor before opening the door. 

“Oh hi,” you smiled when he walked out of the office. “Everyone else has headed home so…” 

“Yeah, great. Let’s go back to the kitchen,” Grant said, slightly breathless. He placed his hand- the hand he just used to stroke his cock and cum, on your lower back and led you into the kitchen. 

“So, what’s on the agenda for tonight’s lesson, chef?” you asked in a playful tone, leaning against the counter. 

Grant turned his back to you as he grabbed a few things from the walk-in and closed his eyes, surprising a groan. Hearing you call him chef turned him on much more than it should. Fuck, you weren’t making this easy for him. 

“Let’s start with wine tasting,” he said, pulling out a bottle of wine. 

“Wow, getting me drunk?” you laughed softly. You looked at him, hoping he would be laughing but his entire body was tense and rigid. His lips were pressed together in a straight line. You stopped laughing immediately and said, “Shit, sorry, that was inappropriate.” 

“No, don’t apologize,” Grant shook his head. He knew he was probably giving you whiplash with his constantly changing emotions but he was losing his restraint by the second. Hearing your laugh, being alone in a room with you, it was all becoming too much for him. 

“Okay.” 

Grant pulled up a stool and motioned for you to sit down. “Here, try this,” he said, pouring a glass of white wine and handing the glass to you. His fingers grazed yours, sending shivers down your body at the feeling of his thick calloused fingers against your hand. 

You took the glass in your hand and sniffed the wine because that was something you had seen people do in movies before drinking it. 

“Slow down. Just take a few sips, let it sit on your tongue,” he said. 

You paused for a second and then nodded, trying to ignore the heat growing between your thighs at the sound of his voice. 

“That’s it. Good,” he nodded approvingly. “Now what do you taste?” 

The wine swirled around in your mouth, coating your tongue before you swallowed. “It’s quite sweet…a little sour,” you replied, looking at him. 

“You taste the sweetness on the tip of your tongue and the sour near the back, right?” he leaned in towards you and took the glass from your hand, taking a sip right where your lips had touched the glass. 

Your eyes widened, surprised by his action and how much it turned you on. You exhaled a shaky breath as you felt your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah. How’d you know?” 

“Every taste has its corresponding area. You taste sweet on the front of the tongue, then salt on the side, umami in the middle, sour on the back ends, and finally, bitter at the back of your tongue.” 

“Wow, I never noticed that before,” you remarked. “Can we try another one?” 

Grant smiled and nodded. For a moment, he forgot about all his lustful thoughts, relishing in how good it felt to teach you. He liked how eager you were to learn and as a chef, he loved passing on his culinary knowledge. “Here, taste this,” he said, holding a spoon with the ice cream he had used for tonight’s dessert to your lips. 

You leaned forward, letting him feed you. You kept your eyes locked on his as your lips wrapped around the spoon and tasted the ice cream. Closing your eyes for a second, you let it coat your tongue, feeling the cool sweet creamy flavour on your tastebuds. You tasted the sweet vanilla on the tip of your tongue, the slight acidity from the lemon, and the bitterness from the bourbon hitting the back of your tongue. 

“What do you taste?” he asked. This time his voice was low and when you looked into his hazel eyes, his pupils were dilated. 

Without giving yourself a moment to hesitate, you leaned in closer to him, glancing down at his lips then back at his eyes before you kissed him. Grant was frozen for a few seconds, he couldn’t believe that you had kissed him. “Oh my god. I…shit, I can’t believe I just did that,” you stuttered. You felt heat spread across your cheeks as panic washed over you. 

“Wait,” Grant said. Deep down, he knew that it would be better for both of you if you walked out that door but fuck, he couldn’t let you go. 

“No, I should go,” you shook your head and started walking towards the doors. 

Grant called out your name, grabbed you by your black tie and pulled you back into him. He pressed his warm lips against yours and rested his large hands on your hips, kissing you with all the passion and intensity he had been fighting from the second you walked into his restaurant. Kissing you like this crossed a line that there was no going back from. But truthfully, that line had been crossed the second he put his personal feelings before his professional feelings and hired you instead of the dozens of other more qualified candidates. That line was crossed again when he fucked his fist thinking of you. 

You gasped softly as his hand found your lower back and pressed you against him. “Grant,” you moaned softly into his mouth. You felt his tongue slip into your mouth, dancing against yours. The taste of his spit in his mouth, mixing with your saliva had you clenching around nothing. 

“You tell me what you want,” he whispered into your ear as he kissed your neck.  “Can I touch you here? Do you like that?”’

You pulled away from him for a second, looked into his eyes and said, “I like it all.” 

That gave him the confidence he needed. With his unsteady hands, he unbuttoned your shirt and found your nipple, lightly pinching it through your bra. “Does that feel good?” 

The friction of the lace rubbing your nipple and his finger pinched the nub had you moaning, “Fuck, Grant, feels so good.” 

“God, I want you so badly,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. His chest moving up and down as he stared into your eyes. He placed your hand over the rock hard bulge in his pants. “You feel that?” 

Your mouth started salivating as you felt the outline of his thick cock. “Yeah,” you nodded, biting your lower lip. 

“This is why I didn’t want you here. You’ve been on my mind all day…I can’t focus on anything else but you,” he confessed. His calloused hands stroked your soft cheek and he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Can I taste you?” 

Grant was surprised by your request. Kissing you was one thing, but letting you suck his cock was something different altogether. But his cock twitched at the way you asked, so politely, so eager to touch him. “You want to?”

“Yes, I really want to,” you said, licking your lips. 

“Fuck, okay, get on your knees,” he nodded. 

You obediently dropped down to your knees, unbuckled his belt, and pulled his past down. You started off by teasing him, rubbing his throbbing cock against his boxers before you pulled them down. When you took out his cock, you paused for a second, taking it in. It was so girthy that your fingers didn’t meet as you held it in your hands. You swiped your thumb over the slit, spreading around the pre-cum that was dripping from his top. Then with both hands, you started stroking up and down his length. His hips jerked forward when you tightened your grip around him.

“Yeah, just let me make you feel good,” you whispered softly, pressing a gentle kiss on the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth. 

“Fuck,” Grant hissed. His head fell back as he started moaning your name. The warmth from your mouth surrounding his cock, the feeling of your plump lips wrapped around him felt so good. 

Your eyes started watering as you felt him hit the back of your throat but you kept going, you wanted to take all of him. His fingers were tangled in your hair, wrapping around your ponytail as he jerked his hips forward, losing himself in pleasure and coming undone in front of you. 

“Yeah, just like that. Fuck. You look so pretty sucking my cock,” he moaned. His chest moved up and down, his breaths growing quicker and unsteady. His grip on your ponytail tightened and his cock twitched in your mouth. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” 

“Mmm,” you nodded. His cum spurted into your mouth, filling you up. You kept bobbing your head up and down, working him through his orgasm as more hot ropes of cum flooded your mouth. 

When you pulled off of his cock, you looked up at him. Your cheeks were stained with tears, lips were swollen, saliva smeared around your mouth, and his cum dripped down your chin. “Tell me what you taste,” he said. 

You closed your eyes, letting his cum swish around your mouth, coating your tongue. “Salty, a little sour and sweet.” 

“Good girl,” Grant nodded approvingly. He leaned down to wipe your tears with his thumb and then he put his thumb towards his mouth and licked it, tasting your salty tears. 

“What’s the next lesson?” you asked, 

Grant chuckled, amused at how keen you were. “Since you’re doing so well. You deserve a reward.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded. With his big strong hands, he lifted you up by your hips, tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing and carried you into the staff room. He placed you down on the table.

“Grant,” you whined, tilting your head back as you felt his calloused hands all over your body. He quickly took off your bra, followed by your pants and lace panties until you were completely naked on the table. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Grant groaned. His eyes wandered all over your body, drinking in your curves, stomach, and breasts before landing between your legs at your soaking pussy. 

He leaned in and started kissing you, one hand wrapped around your neck while the other moved down your body, squeezing your breasts and twisting your sensitive nipples. He could feel the heat radiating off of your body as his tongue was in your mouth. 

“Grant, I need you,” you whimpered, pulling back from the kiss to look at him. 

“Lean back for me, sweetheart,” he commanded, using the same authoritative voice he used while working in the kitchen. 

You obliged, leaning back and spreading your legs for him. You propped yourself up on your elbows so you could watch as he dropped to his knees. He gripped your hips and pulled you forward all the way to the edge of the table. 

Grant buried his face in your pussy, eating you like a starved man. His tongue licked up and down your folds. His nose bumped against your clit and you buried your fingers into his hair. His tongue went deep inside you, moving around your gummy walls as your pussy clenched around him. “You taste so good,” he moaned. A low groan escaped his lips at the taste of your sweetness that vibrated into your pussy. 

“Oh fuck, Grant!” you cried out. You bucked your hips up, thrusting into his face, needy for more. 

The sound of Grant licking your pussy and your moans filling the staff room were obscene. If anyone walked in, you would lose your job but you were too blissed out to care. You had entered a mindless state of pleasure. The only thing on your mind was how good it felt having Grant’s mouth on your pussy. Your vision went blurry and white hot pleasure surged through your entire body. 

He pulled his mouth away from you and you squirmed at the loss of contact until he slapped your pussy a few times, his palm hitting your clit. The sound of his hand against your sopping wet pussy filled the room. The pressure from his slaps felt so fucking good that you could feel tightness building up in your lower abdomen. Then he slid two thick fingers into your pussy. “That’s it, keep your eyes on me. Good girl,” he said, looking up at you. Your juices dripped down your chin, his pupils were dilated, and his hair was disheveled but fuck, he never looked better. 

Grant’s fingers pumped in and out of you, starting with slow, languid movements before speeding up. All it took was his two fingers and he was hitting all the spots your fingers were never able to reach. He rubbed your clit, moving his thumb on the sensitive bundle of nerves with hard, slow circles. His free hand reached up to your breasts, twisting each nipple. 

“Yeah, fuck, right there,” you moaned when his fingers curled inside of you and hit that deep spongy spot. Your legs started shaking and your entire body trembled. Your walls pulsed and clenched tightly around his fingers. 

“Cum for me,” Grant said, watching intently as you fell apart for him. 

“Oh my god, Grant I’m cumming!” you cried out, arching your back and rocking your hips up. The tightness in your abdomen snapped, sending your entire body convulsing. Your mouth fell open as moans spilled out. 

Grant fingered you through the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. When you propped yourself up on your elbows again to look at him, he was watching you with adoration. The corners of his eyes were slightly crinkled as he smiled at you. His hand traced soothing circles on your shaking thighs while he brought his other hand to your mouth. “Taste yourself.” 

You opened your mouth and sucked on his thick fingers, your tongue licking up every bit of your arousal that clung to his skin. “Tastes sweet,” you hummed. 

“That’s right,” he nodded. “You did so good today, sweetheart.” 

You scooted closer to him, leaning your head against his chest as you looked up into his eyes. “Can we do this again?” you asked in a hopeful voice. 

Grant ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, a chuckle coming out of his lips when he looked down at you. 

“What?” you asked, furrowing your eyebrows. 

“All it took was one shift,” he laughed softly.

“What do you mean?”

“When you walked into the kitchen with Cassandra, I was determined to keep you at a distance, to stay professional. And I didn’t even last a fucking day,” he gently tilted your chin up to look into his eyes.  “That’s the effect you have on me.” 

“Being professional is overrated,” you smirked, kissing his bicep. 

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your temple. “Now that I’ve had a taste of you, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself from having you every night.”

“Why can’t you do it?” You asked as you pushed the eggs around on your plate. You had been driving the 101 for a few days, coming back home to Oceanside after working a few robberies along the coast. You and your sister had a good gig. You were ‘hostages for hire,’ actresses who would be involved with heists to prevent the criminals from getting caught. You’d sob, snotty and ugly, begging and pleading for the bank managers to just do whatever the bad men said so they wouldn’t unload their gun into your head. And you’d leave the bank with them, collateral so that no one would follow you. Then, they’d drop you off on a corner somewhere with a wad of cash and a professional nod. And your mother always said those acting lessons were a waste of money.

“Jerry has a scheduling conflict.” Your sister explained.

“Fucking Jerry.” You scoffed around your bite of breakfast. You watched a car drive past the diner window and switched which hand held the phone to your ear.

“Hey,” She warned, “It’s not a bad job, alright? Simple jewelry store robbery.”

“When has a Cody job ever been simple?” Never. 

“Just do it..please? We need to stay in their employment.” You drank from your coffee mug. 

“They don’t like me.” You said softly. It wasn’t untrue. You had worked with the Codys once several years prior. The job went fine, you did your duty, but one of the sons just kept looking at you during the planning and the meetings and even during the getaway drive. Pope, you learned, had a staring problem. After that, they only called your sister for their needs. You had conflicting feelings about it. On one hand, you felt a bit jilted. Your sister made good money working for them, and you were cut out because…well, that was the thing- you had no idea what you did wrong. You had asked her once, why they preferred her. She said something about them not trusting you around Pope. Which you took to mean that they didn’t trust you. Pope always made you a little uncomfortable with his intensity, and you were sure he wasn’t exactly fond of you. He always treated you as an outsider. That was the other thing. You weren’t going to force yourself into a space that you clearly were not welcome in. And you didn’t mind not being next to that creep. 

“That’s not true.” Your sister countered. But it was weak. You heard her sigh on the other end of the phone. “Dude, please. I’m asking this as a favor, okay? Officially.” Your eyebrows raised with interest. A favor from your sister was valuable. She was the kind of person who did not offer those lightly. She would literally do anything. So, after draining the rest of your coffee, you sighed. 

“Yea, alright. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

---------

“We don’t bring in outsiders.” Pope’s mouth was in a hard line, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. His brow was heavy over his eyes and his nostrils were flared. Craig ran a hand through his hair before leaning closer to his brother. You could tell he was getting irritated.

“They’re our only option, okay?” Craig hissed, jaw clenched. “We need drivers.” “Why can’t I drive?” Pope tilted his head and Craig took a deep breath. 

“You know why.” His voice dropped a few notches. And they exchanged a look, the true meaning of which was lost on you. But you gathered that, the last time Pope had been the getaway driver, something had happened. After a few moments of silence, Craig huffed and pushed himself up from the table. The chair screeched on the concrete patio. “I’ll get them caught up on details.” With that, he stomped away, leaving just you and Pope at the iron outdoor table. You could feel the design of the chair digging into your thighs. When you stood up, you’d have an imprint of flowers splashing across your legs. Pope’s gaze landed heavy on you. Searing. Intrusive. 

“Why are you here? Where’s your sister?” He bit out, gravelly voice catching on each syllable. You pushed down the annoyed scoff that threatened to spill from your mouth.

“Scheduling conflict.” You tried to make your tone amicable, but you weren’t sure if you succeeded. Pope just blinked in acknowledgment. “Do you-” But Pope didn’t hear the rest of your question. He was already walking back to the house. You rolled your eyes and shook your head.

---------

The job began as normal. You walked in thirty minutes before the planned time, scanning the jewelry display cases. One of the workers came over after a few moments, asking if he could help you. You told your story, how you were looking to get your mom a necklace for her birthday. A realistic story that was forgettable. He was about to take out a cushion of golden pendants when the door slammed open. Craig, Pope, and Deran stormed into the shop, guns up and shouting demands. You let adrenaline crash over your nerves and your legs began to shake. You gave a scared look to the counter clerk, who looked on the verge of tears. You moved to escape, but a strong arm curled around your stomach. It pulled you back into a broad chest. You flinched with the force of it. His grip was a little tighter than you were expecting and you wriggled against him, but he didn’t budge. His thumb brushed the underside of your breast. Fucking Craig and his handsy-

“You press that panic button, I’ll kill ‘er.” The rough voice was right next to your ear. That…wasn’t Craig. It was Pope. Genuine confusion made your performance more believable. The plan was for Craig to take the lead with you as hostage. They changed it without consulting you. But you didn’t have time to think too hard about it. You had a job. The tears came easily. 

“P-Please,” You begged the clerk, whose gaze snapped from the gun Pope held, to your wet eyes. “Please don’t let him hurt me.” The clerk nodded frantically and stepped back from the counter. Pope jerked his head to the side, motioning for the man to join the rest of the people in the store lying on their bellies. Pope watched as he moved, pulling you in a semi-circle so that you could both survey the scene. Craig was circling the pile of patrons on the ground while Deran supervised the manager filling up the bag with the diamonds. Your breathing was uneven. Not just because of the performance you were putting on, but because of Pope’s hand, which was starting to slide further down your stomach. An innocent repositioning. So you hoped, anyway. You shifted against him and he huffed in your ear, just low enough that only you could hear. 

“Stop squirmin’.” Just to spite him, you thrashed again. Your ass glided against his thigh and a sound purged from Pope’s throat. An annoyed grunt, perhaps. You couldn’t decipher it. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw one of the patrons squirm on the ground. You sneakily dug your fingers into Pope’s arm, gesturing with your eyes to where he was slowly moving his hand to his ankle. And then people started to scream.

It all happened so fast. The man pulled a gun from his boot and jumped to his feet, aiming for Craig. Pope called out to his brother, who whirled around and shot the guy before he could fire. Unfortunately, the man was standing right in front of you and the gunshot splattered blood all over you and Pope. Horrified shrieks cut through the atmosphere. Deran ripped the bag from the manager and called for everyone to go. Pope dragged him along with you, kicking and screaming. He paused for a moment before exiting the building, turning to face the crowd. His thumb pulled back the hammer. The click sent a shiver down your spine that settled in your belly. Not all of it was fear. But you weren’t going to unpack that. “Anyone follows us, you know what happens.” He threatened. And then, the thick back door closed behind him. 

Craig should have listened to Pope. He should not have brought in outside drivers. Because the car was already driving away with Craig and Deran in the back seat. You and Pope had to just stand there, watching the van tear away into the street. 

“Oh, fuck.” You gasped. Pope still had a grip on you, but he tucked the gun into his waistband. From inside the building, you heard the alarm. Great. You looked to Pope, whose eyes were trained on where the van turned onto a different street. His jaw twitched and his eyes flicked around, calculating the next best move. He huffed and grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a jog. “Where are we going?” You asked, struggling to keep up with his pace. Pope didn’t answer, just kept moving. 

---------

The motel was run-down. With maybe three cars in the parking lot and leaves floating in the pool. Pope had deposited you on the curb while he went in to talk to the owner. You watched a pair of crows fight over a moldy bagel. The sky was getting darker with each passing moment. The door behind you jingled and Pope emerged, room key closed tightly in their fist. 

“He said we could stay the night.” He said plainly, gesturing for you to stand.

“Why do we have to stay? Can’t we just find a way home?”

“I don’t have a phone on me, and it’s best to lie low. We can get home tomorrow. Come on.” You rolled your eyes but followed. You figured he had a better grasp on the necessities of this kind of situation than you did. When Pope unlocked the door to the room, you genuinely let out a laugh. 

“You cannot be serious.” The room was dingy, peeling wallpaper and green carpet lit by a half-dead lamp. But the worst part about it was there was a single queen bed in the center. “One bed?” You looked at him with disdain. He just shrugged, but you noticed the vein in his neck pulsing harder. 

“It’s all he had.”

“Really?” You sneered, pointing to the empty parking lot. “You believed that?” Pope grumbled and roughly shoved you inside the room before shutting the door and locking it. You stood there for a moment as Pope slid past you, hurrying to the sink to immediately wash his hands. You flopped onto the bed, but Pope snapped his fingers at you.

“Get up.” He ordered. You were on your feet instantly, arms behind you, and looking with horror at the comforter.

“Why?” You gasped, trying to see what the issue was. “What’s wrong?” When you looked back up, Pope had shed his sweatshirt and was pushing his jeans down to the ground. “Uh….” you couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not when there was a big, bulky man (that you always found a little attractive) in his underwear standing in front of you.

“Take off your clothes.” He said it clinically, like he was telling you to put away the dishes.

“I’m sorry, what?” You scoffed. “No, I’m…no, Pope, I’m not undressing in front of you.” Pope rolled his eyes as if you were being unreasonably difficult.

“We have to ditch our clothes.” He gestured at you. “They have blood on them.” You looked down at your outfit. Sure enough, the man’s blood was splashed across your abdomen and thighs. Heat rose to your cheeks. Fuck. He was right. You knew he was. “I’ll look away,” he promised, and turned to face the wall. You just stood there for a few moments, staring at his curled head. “Are you done?” “No!” You almost laughed. “I’m not doing it! I…I don’t have anything to change into.” Your words were soft. Without hesitating, Pope pulled his shirt over his head. You ignored the way your heart kicked when his bare torso was revealed. Freckled skin pulled taught over hard muscle. He held out the shirt to you.

“We’ll get you some new clothes when we get back tomorrow,” He rasped, nodding at you to take the shirt. “You can wear this. It doesn’t have blood on it.” When you tentatively grabbed the fabric, he found a trashbag and shoved his jeans and sweatshirt into it. You sighed in resignation and began to undress. You took off your shoes, unbuckled your pants, and replaced your shirt with Pope’s. 

“Alright,” You told him, balling up the clothing and putting it in the bag when he held it out to you. Pope’s eyes flicked down for only a moment. His gaze moved from the sliver of underwear visible by your hips down to your socks. Both articles were covered in little strawberries.

“You’re matching.” Pope said simply. In that stupid monotone voice you could never decipher. Your nose wrinkled in annoyance.

“Shut up,” You bit back, but the heat in your cheeks spread even further with each passing moment. You hurried to one side of the bed and crawled under the covers. Not only because you were ready to sleep, but because you didn’t want to spend another moment under Pope’s assessing gaze.

You patted the side of the bed that was still made, gesturing for Pope to sit. Instead, he looked at the chair in the corner of the room. His fist clenched and unclenched, fingers twitching nervously as his eyes flicked from the torn upholstery to the dark stain that covered half the cushion. He sighed and walked to the wall, pressing his back against it and sliding to sit on the carpet. He pulled his knees tight against his chest. Your gaze lowered. 

“Listen,” You sighed, “I know you don’t like me or trust me, or whatever, but-”

“Who said that?” Pope asked, brow furrowed and mouth pinched. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Craig. He said they didn’t trust me around you.” Pope’s nostrils flared with a deep breath and his gaze lifted to look out the window.

“I’m sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I’m dangerous. I would never hurt you.” In fact, you doubted you could hurt him even if you tried. You knew his reputation.

“I know.”

“So will you please just get in the bed? It’s a queen. It’ll be fine. And cleaner than sitting all night on a carpet that hasn’t been cleaned in…who knows how long. At least the sheets are fresh-ish.” Pope’s lips quirked to the side. It took a few heartbeats, but he cautiously climbed into the bed, on top of the covers, and sat with his back straight against the headboard. He pressed his hands together and rested them in his lap. His bare chest rose and fell calmly. He forced his eyes to stare at the wall across the room. 

The exhaustion of the day settled over you and it was officially night outside. You shimmied down into the bed further and pulled the covers over your shoulders. You muttered a g’night and closed your eyes. Several minutes passed, filled with the steady hum of the air conditioning and the occasional whoosh of a passing car.

“It’s not that they don’t trust you.” His voice was quiet and you were so close to sleep you almost didn’t hear it. 

“What?” You murmured groggily.

“Before,” He continued, watching you as you pushed yourself up to look at him. “You said Craig didn’t trust you around me.” You nodded. “But that’s not true.” “What are you talking about, Pope?” You were tired, just wanted to sleep. You didn’t have the energy for his little games. 

“They don’t trust me around you.” His eyes darkened and it made your throat go dry. 

“W…Why not?” You squeaked out. The beginning traces of panic began to pump your heart. Pope remained still, heavy gaze becoming a touch more sinister.

“Because I’d do this.” He leaned forward, pressing his mouth against yours. You inhaled sharply with surprise. The kiss wasn’t rough. In fact, it was little more than his lips simply resting on yours. Pope pulled back after a few heartbeats. He just looked at you. You blinked at him, jaw slack. He worked the muscle in his jaw as he waited for your response, fingers neatly intertwined with each other and resting on his stomach. And just before his face fell with disappointment, you grabbed his cheeks and pulled him back to you. The second kiss was sloppier, clashes of teeth and tongue as you tried to find a rhythm. But it wasn’t long before Pope was resting his weight on top of you, licking into your mouth and only parting for breath and to take off your shirt. You shimmied off your underwear and tossed them to the side. You were so lost in the kiss, you didn’t realize he had taken off his boxers until you felt the hot skin of his head poking at your entrance. 

“Is this okay?” He breathed, nose slotted beside yours. 

“Please,” You nodded eagerly. “So wet for you. Need you so bad.”

The first roll of his hips punched the air out of your lungs with a breathy moan. The thick length of him pressed against each and every one of your nerve endings, flooding your body with searing pleasure. Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders as Pope paused to give you time to adjust. 

“F-Fuck!” You gasped, eyes wide, “You’re…You’re so big.”

“I know, m’sorry,” He apologized between kisses along your jaw line. “Let me know if it’s too much.” After a few moments and several deep breaths, Pope began to move again. Each thrust sent sparks up your spine. Your toes went numb every time his cock found the most sensitive spot inside you. You were mewling, whimpering, begging for something you couldn't verbalize. And the entire time, Pope held himself up, hands planted on either side of your head, and just stared at you unblinking with his bottom lip caught in his teeth. His abdomen rolled, pulling his cock out of you and then pressing back in with a rhythm that made you see stars. Your arousal matted both of your pubic hair and you saw sweat began to slip down the inside of Pope’s arms from his exertion. One of Pope’s fingers came up to nudge your clit. “Cu…Please cum f’me.” He whispered, rubbing tight circles that had your walls fluttering around him. It didn’t take long for the hot band to snap in your abdomen. You arched into him, cumming with a cry of his name. As you spasmed around him, the lock of his eyes began to falter. His lids fluttered as you gripped him impossibly hard, short breaths pitching upwards into moans. When you rode out your orgasm, he abruptly pulled out, tugging on his dick twice before ropes of cum splashed onto your chest. Pope watched each twitch of his spent cock with half-lidded eyes and a heaving chest. Your head fell back and your eyes closed, trying to regulate your breathing. But you gasped when you felt Pope’s wet tongue drag across your breasts. Your eyes opened, watching as he lapped his spend from your smooth skin. He paused every now and again to suck on your still-hardened nipples, earning a quiet whimper of overstimulation in return. When you were deemed sufficiently clean, Pope pressed a kiss to your sweaty forehead and climbed off you. He tucked one arm beneath the crook of your knees and one around your back. He carried you into the bathroom and started the shower. As the warm water kissed your skin, he murmured in your ear.

You swung open the door that led to an empty stairwell, immediately taking a seat on one of the steps and letting your head fall into your hands, finally allowing your tears to pour freely and loosen the pressure in your throat.

Though your shift was merely halfway done, you felt as though you had been in the throes of the Pitt's typical chaos for far too long.

It was only a matter of time before someone came looking for you.

You knew that.

But you just couldn't stand to be surrounded by your coworkers anymore.

Not when it felt like every move you made took up too much space and every laugh you let out used too much air.

In the hallway of the ED, Robby seemed to notice your absence almost immediately.

"Hey Langdon, you seen my wife anywhere?" He asked Frank, who was rushing around, seemingly in the middle of something.

"No, sorry man, she came through here a little while ago though." He said, immediately splitting off to whatever important task was awaiting him.

Robby sighed and ran a hand through his hair before Mel spoke up from where she was sitting and completing charts, "I think I saw her go over there." She pointed a finger towards the end of the hallway with a soft smile.

Robby knew that your choice of isolation could only mean one thing, "Shit, okay. Thanks, King." He said with a sigh, rushing in your direction.

The door swung open in a clamor behind you, causing your head to immediately whip around to the sound, disregarding your own current state.

"Jesus, Robby. You scared me." You said, placing a hand on your chest in an attempt to control your startled heartbeat.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Just wanted to make sure you were in here." He sighed, finally allowing his body to loosen up as he took a seat next to you on the step.

It was only then that you remembered the tears staining your cheeks, so you turned your face away from your worried husband in embarrassment.

"Hey, no, don't do that." He said, placing a hand under your chin and turning your face towards his, "What's goin' on, beautiful?"

You felt your face heat up at his words, though you were unable to form your own due to your ever-growing unease.

"It's nothing." You said bashfully, letting your eyes wander anywhere but his own.

"It's definitely not nothing." He replied sternly.

You knew that you couldn't hide from Robby for long. You never could. He always found a way to soothe you even in your worst diffidence.

And so you told him everything.

You rambled on about how you felt like your scrubs didn't fit right and how every word you said felt misplaced. You told him about the way everyone's glance seemed to follow you around all day, and how your brain felt like a conglomeration of every negative word ever muttered in your general direction.

Your voice broke with sobs between nearly every word and all Robby did was listen with his eyebrows furrowed together, lightly nodding at every new discomfort you described.

Eventually, you took a long, shaky breath and finished with, "So today just really sucked."

To you, he looked sad about how upset you were, as any loving husband would be.

But to Robby, he felt the pang of his heart breaking into a million pieces as he listened to you speak so negatively about yourself.

He didn't understand how such a beautiful, smart woman could ever feel so unwelcome in a place that would not be half of what it was without her.

And worst of all, he didn't know how to put it into words to make you change your mind.

But in true Micheal Robinavitch fashion, he did his best.

Before he managed to say anything, he firmly wrapped his arms around your torso and pulled you into him.

Your face found its place buried in his neck, while his arms wrapped tightly around you and for the first time all day, everything seemed to quiet.

Neither of you spoke for a long period of time.

He sat there with his arms caged protectively around you, as your salty tears slowly dried on your cheeks, but not before leaving a few damp spots on the sweater Robby wore over his scrubs.

As you sat in his arms, you allowed your mind to drift from your woes. You took deep breaths into Robby’s neck, smelling his cologne and feeling his hands spread across your back.

Once you gained your composure, you lightly pulled away from Robby to look at his face.

“I'm so sorry, my sweet girl.” He said slowly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

There were very few people who had the privilege to witness Robby taking time to slow down. Between his job keeping him on his toes and his driven personality, he seemed to never take a breath.

However, whenever he was with you, he seemed to find time to let the rigidity go.

"It's okay. I just wish I could y'know... be invisible sometimes."

His lips pulled into a frown as he nodded in understanding.

Taking your hands in his own, he let out a sigh and looked down at his fingers wrapped around your own. "I just want you to know that I love you, okay?"

"I know."

"And I always will." He looked back into your eyes.

"I know."

He nodded and leaned in to press a firm kiss against your forehead.

“You never have to hide from me, sweetheart.”

Then another kiss to your cheek.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Then your other cheek.

“And I’m so lucky that you’re my gorgeous girl.”

And finally, your lips.

For the first time since you left the house that morning, you felt covered.

Not hidden, not secret.

But secure.

It didn't matter whether you were already drowning or not, because Robby would always be there to build a roof below the rain and hold you through the storm.

His mouth melded to yours, warm and fervent, as you breathed him in and allowed him to occupy all of the space in your lungs.

You didn't pull away until you felt him take a shaky breath against your lips. As you opened your eyes to see him, you noticed the slight shift in his demeanor.

"Are you okay?" You questioned in concern.

"I'm so fucking proud of you, baby." He stated without a second thought, his gruff voice gently breaking in admiration.

You let out a quiet "Oh?" at the explanation... or lack thereof.

Then he lent back into you.

And you let it all wash away onto his lips.

Though the storm was insistent, Robby was your home and you knew he always would be.

No matter how often you felt that your beams were unstable, he would always be there; sturdy, devoted, and yours.

When you pulled away again, you rested your forehead against his and he let out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding.

You could hear the commotion coming from inside the ED, but you both chose to ignore it for one moment longer.

“I know you don’t feel like it, but you are so beautiful. And so worthy. Of everything.” He said, his forehead still pressed against your own.

“Thank you, baby.” You responded.

“I mean it, okay?”

“Okay.” You gave in.

It was then that a bang on the doorway broke the two of you apart.

“Hey uh, Dr. Robby now would be a great time to get in here.” Said a panicked Whitaker, peeking in through the cracked door in caution of interrupting.

Robby groaned and stroked a hand through his beard, “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

Once Whitaker closed the door, he leaned in to press another kiss to your lips.

“Don’t you ever feel like you need to hide from me. No matter what it is.” He said sternly.

“Okay.” You said and he gave a firm nod, before standing up and reaching his hand out to you.

Once he pulled you up, he went to open the door.

“Wait!” You said before he turned the handle.

He raised an eyebrow in confusion but it quickly faded as you wrapped your arms around him one more time, breathing him in.

He let his hand fall into your hair, cradling your head against his chest.

“Are you ready?” He said, referring to the rest of the shift that awaited you outside of the stairwell.

anger, however was the only feeling you felt yourself feeling in the moment. of course, everyone had bad days. your bad days were never enough to anger you though. you had arrived at the gym that day for your normal afternoon workout, parking in the same spot you always did. it was the same routine every day. pull in, tie your hair up, put your headphones on, put your shoes on, and go. it was when you were mid pulling your hair up that you noticed the truck pull in, overly large tires and music blaring. all you could do was chuckle at the obnoxious sight of it, your chuckle quickly disappearing as the driver was obviously not paying attention and drove right into the back of your car. it wasn't a hard enough hit to hurt you, just hard enough to make your car bounce and your blood boil.

you immediately jumped out, shoes not even on as you threw your arms up at the driver. you watched as the driver climbed out, your stereotypical gym douchebag just giving you a cheesy smile. "i'm sorry, i didn't see you there," was all he could see, eyeing you up and down. you were suddenly so aware of everything, your shoes being off, the hot summer air hitting your face, your gym set squeezing you tightly. "you didn't see me because you were too busy on your phone," you snapped quickly, walking to the back of your car to assess the damage he had caused. you knew it was going to be an expensive fix, something that you weren't going to be easy to afford.

"i wasn't on my phone. your car is parked crooked," he immediately shot back, arms crossing his chest. you laughed a bitter laugh, turning to look at him with raised eyebrows. "crooked? i am crooked because you just hit my car crooked!" you said in disbelief, people starting to crowd around you both.

sammy and nate had been on patrol that afternoon, a quiet and peaceful afternoon which was abnormal for a summer day like this. it wasn't until the dispatcher had come over the radio to interrupt their peacefulness. something about a dispute in a parking lot, man hit woman's car and now they are in a screaming match. it was enough to make the two men roll their eyes as they headed towards the address.

it wasn't until they pulled up that sammy realized it was your gym, and not until they stepped out of their cars and heard the screaming that he realized it was you. he had never seen you like this. in the much taller, much larger man's face, finger pointing and yelling like you had no care in the world. sammy immediately ran up to you both, pulling you back as nate went to push the other guy away. "what the hell is going on?" he asked, you not even realizing it was him till you heard his voice. "where are your shoes?" he asked again with a small smile on your face, smile immediately disappearing as he saw the anger in your eyes as you turned to face him now.

"that fucking dick is trying to say its my fault! look what he did to my car, sammy! look!" you spoke loudly, gesturing towards your car that looked sad and pitiful compared to the giant truck. he glanced back to his partner who was getting the other man's story before looking back at you, his hand moving to rub your arm. "just breathe for a minute, okay? we can fix it. do not get yourself in trouble by fighting with him," he spoke to you, in somewhat shock of the curses leaving your mouth.

sammy couldn't help but find himself slightly horny at the sight of you angry. your gym set that he bought you hugging you in all the right places, cheeks red with anger, and a slight sheen of sweat covering you from the hot summer air. "fix it? this is an expensive fix that IM not paying for. he is!" you yelled at your boyfriend, turning your anger back to the guy who was talking to nate, the man only laughing at your anger which only pissed you off even more. you were about to lunge at him, sammy wrapping his arms around your waist immediately to pull you back into him. "stop. you are going to get yourself arrested," he mumbled in your ear as he continued to hold you tightly against him, your chest heaving up and down from your heavy breathing. you simply closed your eyes, trying to control yourself as nate wrote the guy his ticket.

it felt like forever for the tow truck to come and get your car, the guy easily being able to move his truck that only a had a scratch on it. you were sat in the back of the patrol car, arms crossed tightly as you stared out the window as sammy and nate talked to the workers at the gym. you had managed to calm yourself down from your little screaming tantrum, still mad about the damage to your car however. sammy turned away from the conversation, making his way to the cruiser before opening the door where you sat.

"never seen you so angry. was hot," was all he could say, reaching down to cup your cheek gently. all you could do was pout up at him, arms still crossed. "don't pout sweetheart. i will take your car to get fixed," he spoke gently, squatting down now so you didn't have to look up at him. all you could do was nod a little, puckering your lips up for a kiss. he only chuckled, leaning forward to press his lips to yours. "we don't kiss on the inmates, bryant," nate interrupted, getting with a laugh. you just rolled your eyes, sammy reaching to buckle you up. "we will drop you off at home, just take a bath, lay down, and i will be home after while," your boyfriend spoke, pressing another kiss to your lips before shutting the door.

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.