sup nerds

Instead, the back door creaked open, and a different man appeared.

He didn't move like someone who belonged behind the bar. A plain gray T-shirt clung to his frame under an unzipped black hoodie, and he had gorgeous auburn curls. He paused in the doorway, hazel eyes sweeping over the truck, then settling on you with quiet calculation.

"Delivery?" His voice came out low, a little gravelly, as if he hadn't used it much yet today.

You lifted the clipboard. "Liquor order. Cases and a couple of crates."

"I can sign."

You glanced at the sheet. "Deran usually signs."

"I'm his brother. He's busy."

You handed over the clipboard. He took it with both hands, signing slower than the task required, the pen scratching in deliberate strokes. When he passed it back, his fingertips grazed yours—warm, calloused, lingering half a second longer than necessary. He went still, then cleared his throat and looked away.

"Where do you want the cases?" you asked.

"I'll help." The words left him too fast; he rubbed the back of his neck like he could erase the eagerness.

"Okay," you smiled, letting the corner of your mouth lift just enough.

You slid the first crate toward the tailgate. He lifted it without effort, muscles shifting under the thin cotton, and carried it inside. The bar's back room smelled of citrus cleaner and old fucking wood; the sound of glass bottles clinking echoed as he set the crate down. He returned for the next one, then the next, never complaining, never rushing, just staying close enough that you caught the faint scent of his shampoo each time he passed.

Inside the dimly lit bar, you caught your reflection in the mirror behind the counter. The hat you always wore on deliveries sat low on your forehead, and you weren't wearing any makeup. You suddenly felt self-conscious, wondering if you looked disgusting after an early start and no time to make yourself look cute. This guy was a fucking stud. You tugged the brim lower.

Pope noticed the gesture. His eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, taking in the way the morning light caught the curve of your jaw, the easy strength in your shoulders as you moved crates. He found you beautiful in a way that made his chest tighten, though he couldn't quite name why.

You caught him looking and decided to test the waters. "Careful, if you keep staring like that, I might actually start to think I look like shit."

He blinked. "Just making sure you don't drop anything."

"Right. Safety first." You slid another crate toward him, letting your fingers brush his forearm on purpose. "With strong arms like that, though, I might have to come back more often."

He cleared his throat again, ears turning faintly pink, but he didn't step away. Instead he lifted the crate, the muscles in his forearms flexing under the weight, and carried it to the storage shelf. When the last crate was stacked, he lingered near the open door, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. The alley was quiet except for the very distant crash of waves and the low hum of a delivery van two streets over.

"Do you always do this route?" he asked finally.

"Thursdays and Saturdays for this bar," you said, wiping your palms on your jeans. "Keeps me busy. And apparently gives me the chance to meet helpful strangers."

He nodded once, filing the information away like it mattered.

"Okay. I'll… be here."

"Good to know. I like having reliable help. Especially when the helper looks like he could bench-press the whole truck," you winked.

Color touched the tips of his ears, but he looked down, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying the shy smile he tried to hide.

"I'm Andrew," he said, stepping closer and extending his hand.

"Nice to meet you," you said, taking his hand, the calluses on his palm rough against your skin. You gave him your name.

He held the handshake a second longer than necessary, his eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. He repeated your name, as if committing it to memory.

"See you soon," you climbed back into the truck. Pope stayed in the alley, watching the taillights until you turned onto the main road. As you pulled away, he finally spoke again, voice carrying just far enough to reach you through the open window: "Yeah," he said. "I’ll see you next Thursday."

He turned and headed back inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. Half an hour later, the front door opened. Deran stepped in, board shorts damp from the ocean, hair still wet from his morning surf. He spotted the neatly stacked crates and raised an eyebrow.

"Delivery already came?"

"Yeah," Pope answered awkwardly, and paused to say your name. "She came through."

Deran grinned. "She's my favorite."

"Uh… why?" Pope stayed where he was, fingers curling into his hoodie pockets, the sudden twist of jealousy sharp and unfamiliar in his chest.

Deran shrugged, already heading for the back. "Just is. She's efficient as hell and fun to shoot the shit with."

Pope began cleaning the bar top, already counting down the hours until next Thursday. As he wiped the counter, his phone buzzed softly in his back pocket, pulling him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen and saw a new message from Smurf sent to the entire family. The text read: "Emergency meeting. Come ASAP."

Deran, already annoyed, came out of the room, rolling his eyes as he pulled out his own phone. He showed the message to Pope, and both of them exchanged a glance that said they weren't exactly fucking thrilled about leaving. Reluctantly, they grabbed their things and headed out the door, knowing whatever was coming wouldn't wait.

Besides, the guy was Dominic Park’s dad. Clearly life had already punished him enough if he’d somehow produced that absolute human dumpster fire. Sure, bestie. She’d gladly take his money. At this point, Abby considered watching August a public service. Somebody had to make sure there was at least one well-adjusted Park boy running around Pittsburgh.

Mrs. Doctor Casey Park, on the other hand? An icon. Legend. An inspiration to women everywhere.

Any woman who openly gave her husband shit just because it made her laugh, routinely won those exchanges, and proudly displayed the blurry, drunken Vegas wedding photos—which she still looked insanely hot in somehow—in the living room next to their giant Catholic wedding ones instead of hiding them in an album somewhere deserved every good thing life had to offer. Abby wanted to be her when she grew up. Minus the marrying Dr. Park part. And the three kids. Absolutely not.

And the perks? Unmatched. She got to bring Rylie with her every day because Rylie and Auggie were basically attached by an invisible bungee cord, which was crazy helpful to Mom now that she’d started her new job. The Parks had a pool. Casey always had the good snacks and made sure there were peach Alanis in the fridge for Abby. August was hilarious. Dr. Park disappeared to work before Abby even got there most mornings, so she only had to survive approximately thirty seconds of awkward adult conversation a day if he came home before she got off.

And then there was the paycheck.

The first Friday she’d gotten paid, her dad had asked—purely out of curiosity—how much they were giving her. She’d shown him her banking app. He’d taken one sip of beer, immediately inhaled it wrong, and spent the next thirty seconds coughing like he was dying.

“Abigail,” he’d wheezed. “They’re paying you that? To babysit?”

She’d looked down at the number again.

“…Yeah?”

Apparently supervising one tiny menace and one slightly tinier menace while they cannonballed into a pool all summer was worth approximately one luxury SUV payment a week. Who was she to argue? If somebody wanted to pay her an irresponsible amount of money to watch her little sister terrorize her best friend until school started again, she was more than willing to be of service.

There was, however, one glaring flaw in Abby’s otherwise perfect summer employment arrangement.

Ollie.

God bless him.

Actually, no.

God help him.

The kid was a menace. Which sounded mean until you met him for literally thirty seconds. Because Ollie was actually fucking insane.

Now, Abby wanted it to be known that she loved Ollie. She did. He was adorable. Hilarious. Had the biggest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Gave the best little hugs. Called her “Abby-gail” whenever he was feeling particularly manipulative. She had a whole stack of sausage people pictures he’d drawn for her of them playing on her desk at home.

He was also, respectfully, fucking feral.

Abby understood that he was three. She wasn’t expecting him to be balancing the federal budget or anything. Three-year-olds were weird little people. They ate crayons. They licked things. They cried because they wanted the blue cup, got the blue cup, and then remembered they’d actually wanted the green one. Ollie somehow made the average three-year-old look emotionally regulated.

If he didn’t look like someone had put Dr. Park in the dryer on high heat and shrunk him down to three feet tall, Abby would’ve assumed Casey found him feral in the woods. Like she’d stumbled across this tiny child swinging from tree branches, eating berries, communicating exclusively through screeches, and gone, “Yeah, he’ll fit right in.”

Because there was simply no other explanation. The kid never stopped moving. Ever. Abby wasn’t convinced he actually slept. She was pretty sure he just powered down for twenty minutes at a time like a Roomba before rebooting with even more energy than before.

He climbed things that weren’t meant to be climbed. Jumped off things that absolutely weren’t meant to be jumped off. Treated every piece of furniture like it was an obstacle course designed specifically for him. One afternoon she’d looked away for maybe four seconds to help Rylie open a juice box, looked back, and somehow Ollie was on top of the swing set.

Not in the swing set.

On top of it. Holding a garden trowel he absolutely did not have a minute ago.

Where did he get it?

Nobody knew.

Least of all Ollie.

She still had no idea how he’d gotten there. The kid had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Which meant Abby had to have enough for the both of them. She was pretty sure she’d developed peripheral vision that rivaled a fucking hawk. Because the second she looked away—

“Ollie, get off the table.”

Three seconds later—

“Ollie, we do not lick pool noodles.”

Five seconds after that—

“Buddy, why are you wet?”

It hadn’t even rained.

By the end of week two, Abby had reached one very important conclusion. If she ever had kids, the second they turned three they were being dropped off at her parents’ house with a backpack, an overnight bag, and a heartfelt “good fucking luck.” Her dad had missed this stage with her and Rylie anyway. Consider it making up for lost time. The man spent his free time playing Army Barbie with the SWAT team kicking in doors and throwing flashbangs or whatever it was they did that made Mom pour her glass of wine all the way to the top before she asked him how his day was. He’d jumped out of helicopters and willingly run toward people with guns. Hence the singular leg. He could handle one tiny menace whose favorite hobby seemed to be finding increasingly creative ways to accidentally die.

Auggie? Auggie was easy. He was sweet. He listened. He colored inside the lines. If Abby asked him to wait a minute, he actually waited a minute. If she told him to put on his shoes, on his shoes went. A literal angel. Surely one sticky little boy with a concussion wishlist wasn’t going to be the thing that broke her.

At least… probably not. Because every single day Abby showed up to the Parks’ house, she mentally crossed her fingers and thought, please don’t let me be the reason Dr. Park gets called down to the ER.

She’d never hear the end of it. Not because he’d yell. Because Casey would. Mostly at her husband for saying, “I told you he’d try to jump off that!”

And somehow, that felt even worse. And Abby really, really wanted to avoid having to explain to one of the most intimidating surgeons in Pittsburgh how his youngest son had managed to fracture something under her watch. Because if anyone was going to give Dr. Park gray hair, it was going to be Ollie. Abby was simply trying not to speed up the process.

Ollie, however, seemed deeply committed to speed-running his way into a pediatric trauma bay.

Case in point—

He was currently hauling absolute ass across the backyard.

The kid had the garden hose cranked all the way on, tucked under one arm like he’d stolen government documents, his little puddle jumper bouncing with every step as he shrieked with laughter. Every few seconds he’d point the nozzle directly at his own face—still set to the shower setting—and enthusiastically waterboard himself before cackling and taking off again.

He was having the time of his life. Why? Abby wasn’t sure. But he was entertained. And that was enough. 

Behind him, the Parks’ two fat little French bulldogs galloped after him with all the determination their tiny, wheezing bodies could muster. They weren’t exactly built for endurance. Or speed. Or breathing, really. They sounded like two asthmatic lawnmowers as they chased him across the grass, snorting and grunting with every step.

Abby watched the whole spectacle over the top of her sunglasses from her spot on the edge of the pool, her feet lazily kicking through the water. She wasn’t worried. Yet. This was just baseline Ollie behavior. Intervene too early, and he’d find something objectively worse to do. 

Also, the pool was heated. Heated. Who heated an outdoor pool? The Parks, apparently. Rich people were so fucking weird. She was obsessed with them. She wanted to move in. Forget her parents’ janky little hot tub. This was objectively better. Plus, she’d made the unfortunate mistake of walking into the backyard one evening and seeing her mom and dad making out in said hot tub. Like aggressively. She’d never recovered. The hot tub had lost all appeal after that. Some things you just couldn’t unknow. Or unsee. Or unhear.

Anyway.

“Ollie!” she called without moving an inch. “If you drown yourself with the hose, your mom is gonna be so annoyed with me.”

“I’M O-TAY!” he yelled back, immediately proving that he was, in fact, not listening to a single word she’d said as he sprayed himself directly in the face again. Baby, you do not look o-tay. You look fucking crazy.

“Ollie!” Abby called, pushing herself up onto her forearms at the edge of the pool.

No response.

Well.

That wasn’t entirely true.

The response was more sprinting.

Ollie just kept hauling ass across the backyard, shrieking with laughter as he blasted himself in the face with the hose for what had to be the fifteenth time. Auggie’s giggles echoed somewhere behind her, cheering him on from his perch on the shark floatie like his own personal hype man while Rylie pulled herself up onto the floatie like a sea lion boarding a wet dock. 

“Abby!” Rylie called, feet kicking as she hauled herself up. “Play mermaids with me!”

“In a second,” Abby said, still watching Ollie’s feet squelch in the wet grass. “Ol-i-ver!”

Tank, at least, knew his limits. The Parks’ chunkier Frenchie abruptly abandoned the chase with a dramatic little snort, waddling toward the nearest patio umbrella before collapsing into the shade like he’d just completed a marathon. Mavis was still giving it hell, tiny legs pumping furiously as she chased Ollie through the grass with all the determination in the world and absolutely none of the athletic ability.

“Oliver!” Abby called again, louder this time. Nothing. The kid either genuinely couldn’t hear her over his own cackling or had reached the age where selective hearing kicked in with Olympic-level efficiency. Good for him, honestly. Live your life, little man. 

And then it happened.

Abby saw it before Ollie did.

His little bare foot hit the strip of grass he’d been spraying nonstop for the last ten minutes.

It slid.

His eyes went wide.

“Oh, shit—”

And down he went.

His feet shot out in front of him, and he landed with a soft little whump on his butt, the hose still spraying wildly beside him as a surprised, “Oof!” escaped his lips. Mavis barreled right past him before the gray Frenchie realized he’d gone down, skidded to a stop with a snort, and then turned to race back to him. 

Abby’s face immediately pinched.

Jesus. That looked like it hurt. Her hands tightened around the edge of the pool so hard her fingernails dug into the concrete.

Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react. 

Dr. Park had made that very, very clear during her first day.

Ollie had been climbing the back of the couch—after being straight up told not to—and before Abby could even open her mouth, he’d flipped clean over it and landed flat on his back. Abby had nearly called 911 while Dr. Park had casually looked over from the kitchen, taken one glance at his son starfished on the floor, and gone back to pouring his coffee.

“If he’s actually hurt,” he’d told her evenly while Abby looked ready to puke, “you’ll know.”

Which was an insane sentiment if you asked her, but Ollie was on his feet and off to his next Jackass stunt before Dr. Park could even call out a halfhearted ‘be careful’, and sigh at the next crash. Kids were weird. So now she stayed exactly where she was, even though every babysitting instinct she had was screaming at her to go check.

Ollie remained sitting in the grass, looking thoroughly offended. He blinked down at his feet. Then at the wet patch underneath him. Then back at his feet. His eyebrows pulled together in genuine confusion, like he was trying to piece together the sequence of events.

“You good?” Abby called.

Nothing. Behind her came the sound of frantic splashing. Auggie abandoned whatever game he and Rylie had been playing, kicking across the pool with surprising urgency before grabbing the edge.

“You okay, Ollie?” he called, concern written all over his little face.

Abby watched him grunt as he hauled himself out of the pool, then dramatically rolled onto the concrete like a flopping fish before scrambling to his feet. His goggles were still over his eyes.

“Abby!” Rylie called, bouncing in her floatie. “Come play!”

“Hang on!”

Her eyes stayed locked on Ollie. He was still sitting in the grass. Mavis trotted over first, immediately licking his face with the enthusiasm of someone who believed every inconvenience could be solved with enough tongue. Ollie barely acknowledged her. Auggie reached him a second later, slowing to a cautious stop beside his brother.

“You okay?”

No answer. Abby’s stomach immediately dropped into her ass. Mm. Didn’t love that. At all. Because Dr. Park had been very clear that if Ollie was fine, he’d just keep being Ollie. The problem was, Ollie wasn’t getting up. Which felt… incorrect. Deeply. In a medically upsetting way.

Great.

Awesome.

Perfect.

She’d killed him.

Not literally.

Probably.

But if she had to walk into the ER and tell Dr. Park she’d somehow managed to break his youngest son while supervising from the edge of a heated pool, she was actually going to throw herself into the Mon. Abby sighed, bracing herself for the worst as she planted her hands on the concrete and pushed herself to her feet.

“Okay, everybody, let’s just—”

“I FELLED DOWN!” 

Ollie threw his head back and absolutely howled with laughter. Not a little giggle. Not a chuckle. Full-body, wheezing, psychotic laughter.

“I FELLED DOWN!” he announced again, like he’d just discovered the funniest joke ever told. “BIG!”

Abby closed her eyes. Of course. Of course. He wasn’t dying. He’d simply been taking a dramatic intermission to process the absolute comedy of gravity! Naturally!

“I KNOW!” Auggie laughed, pointing at the wet patch in the grass. “You went whoop!”

“I WENT WHOOP!” Ollie agreed, dissolving into another fit of hysterics.

God, boys were weird. 

Abby pushed herself up out of the water, turning to sit on the edge of the pool before she gestured Ollie over. “Alright, c’mere, crash test dummy.”

Ollie beamed. Apparently he’d decided that was a compliment. He scampered over, leaving little muddy footprints on the patio, stopping just in front of Abby with the biggest grin on his face.

“You bonk your head?” she asked, crouching in front of him. She gently tipped his chin up, giving him a quick once-over. “Any owies?”

He shook his head hard enough to send little droplets of water flying. “I bonked my bottom.”

“Your butt?”

He nodded solemnly. “My bottom.”

“Does it hurt?”

Without a second of hesitation, Ollie turned around. “I got poops on my butt.”

Abby bit the inside of her cheek. Sure enough, the seat of his little Spider-Man swim trunks was streaked with wet grass and dirt.

“Oh, no,” she deadpanned. “Not the poops.”

He looked over his shoulder, deeply concerned that the impact had caused him to shit himself. Abby laughed lightly and poked his little toddler potbelly with her finger. “It’s mud, goober.”

“Mud?”

“Just mud.” She brushed the worst of it off with her hand before giving his little butt a pat. “Congratulations. You survived.”

“I know,” Ollie said proudly, as if surviving had been entirely intentional.

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. God, this kid was ridiculous. From inside the house, the front door opened, then closed with a sharp slam. Tank’s head immediately popped up from beneath the patio umbrella, though the Frenchie didn’t bother standing. He just threw his head back and let out one long, dramatic howl in the general direction of the house, as if announcing to the entire neighborhood that someone had returned.

Abby glanced over her shoulder while she helped Ollie brush clumps of grass off of himself, then turned back to the boy. It was Casey, probably. She’d had an appointment that morning. Maybe she’d gotten out early. Behind her came an enormous splash. Auggie had apparently decided the medical emergency was officially over and cannonballed back into the pool with absolutely zero warning, sending water splashing all over Abby.

“All better. Just a little dirty,” Abby said, clapping her hands off before readjusting herself on the edge of the pool. “Before you get back in, grab the hose for me so I can rinse you off.”

Ollie’s little head tilted to the side. “So I doesn’t have mud butt no more?”

Abby snorted. “Exactly.”

He nodded, already waddling back across the grass. “O-tay, Abby-gail!”

“Abby!” Rylie called again. “Come play!”

“I am playing.”

“No, you’re watching.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Abby finally relented. “Fine. Just a few more minutes though! It’s almost time for lunch!”

She ducked under the water, kicking toward the middle of the pool where Rylie floated lazily on the giant shark raft. Rylie never even saw her coming. Abby reached up, grabbed her ankle, and yanked. Rylie let out a shriek as she slid right off the float, disappearing beneath the surface before popping back up in a fit of giggles.

“Abby!”

“What?” Abby grinned innocently.

“You cheated!”

“There are no rules in war.”

Rylie splashed her square in the face. Auggie, who had apparently been inspired by the violence, paddled over to the side of the pool.

“Miss Abby!” he called, already climbing out. “Watch me jump!”

“I always watch you jump.”

“Watch me!”

Abby laughed, slicking her hair back as Auggie toddled toward the diving rock. She looked up just as a shadow fell across the water.

“Oh, hey, Cas—”

The words died on her tongue.

No.

That wasn’t Casey. Casey was nearly nine months pregnant and maybe five feet tall on a generous day. Her shadow was tiny. Round. Distinctly adorable and well dressed with great hair. And a little fucking mean, but pop off.

This one had shoulders. And biceps. Abby looked up and immediately wanted to throw up in her mouth. “…Ugh.”

Dominic.

Of fucking course.

He stood on the patio in a cut-off tank top and athletic shorts, and his stupid fucking Pit Vipers. Orange mirrored lenses reflected her own scowl right back at her. Gross. He peeled his backwards SnapBack off, raked a hand through his hair, and tossed the hat onto one of the patio chairs like he belonged there, which unfortunately—he kind of did, with the whole being Dr. Park’s bastard child situation. And what a bastard he was. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Abby blinked at him.

She gestured broadly to the two soaking wet children. “…What does it look like I’m doing?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. His gaze dragged over her for just long enough that Abby already knew she was going to hate whatever came out of it. He jerked his chin toward her.

“Cute bikini.” She stared. He, unfortunately, kept talking. “You look hot.”

Abby rolled her eyes so hard they almost got stuck. God. Spare me.

“I work here, dumbass,” she shot back, treading water as she squinted up at him. “What are you doing here?”

Dom shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Pulled a hammy at practice.” He hooked a thumb toward the ice bath tucked beside the house. “Dad said I could come use the tub.”

“Thrilling,” Abby said flatly. 

He glanced toward the back door. “Where’s Case?”

“She had an OB appointment,” Abby answered, already turning her back on him. Conversation over as far as she was concerned. She lazily kicked herself back toward the pool noodle she’d abandoned earlier, looping her arms over it as it bobbed beneath her chest.

Behind Dom, Tank finally woke up long enough to recognize the newcomer. The chunky Frenchie lumbered over at an impressive two miles an hour before enthusiastically introducing himself to Dom’s shin with a series of aggressive snorts and sloppy little kiss attacks. Dom absently scratched behind the dog’s ears.

“She should be back in about an hour,” Abby finished.

“Huh.” Dom patted Tank firmly on his side. God, why did all white guys pet dogs like that? “She could’ve just called me to watch them.”

Abby snorted. Actually snorted. She looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m sure that’s exactly what your stepmom wants.”

Dom frowned. “What?”

“Your incredibly watchful eye on your brothers.”

He looked offended. “I watch them.”

Abby looked at him over her sunnies. “You do?”

“Yeah.”

Abby glanced meaningfully toward Ollie, who was now attempting to fill a dump truck with mud using his bare hands. “Mm.”

“I do,” Dom repeated defensively. 

“Sure.”

“I’ve babysat them before.”

“And did they survive?”

“…Mostly.”

Abby turned her face back to the sun with a triumphant noise. “There it is.”

Dom sighed. “You’re kind of an asshole.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

“You,” she said flatly. “Repeatedly.”

“Fair.”

“Very.” She settled more comfortably onto the noodle, closing her eyes against the sun.

“Besides,” she added, “Casey pays me. And I’m pretty sure her financial contribution towards you dried up when she had to pay for you to get your ass tat removed before your dad found out.”

That got a laugh out of him. Unfortunately.  A tremendous splash interrupted whatever sarcastic response Dom had been about to make. Auggie popped back to the surface with a dramatic gasp, immediately rubbing at his face.

“I got water up my nose!” he announced, deeply offended by the betrayal.

“That’s rough, buddy,” Abby said sympathetically. “Go blow it on the towel.”

“It burned.” Then Auggie looked toward the patio. His entire face lit up. “DOMINIC!”

He started paddling toward the steps so fast it looked more like he was running through the water than swimming. Dom’s expression softened immediately. “Hey, dude.”

“You came home!”

“I did.”

“I jumped in the pool!”

“I saw. It was a good jump.” Dom assured him, crouching down next to the pool.

“It was a really good jump.” Auggie grinned like he’d just received the highest honor imaginable. “Miss Abby watched.”

“That’s cool, man,” Dom looked around the backyard. “Where’s Ollie?”

Abby frowned.

“…Good question.” She pushed herself up on the noodle, scanning the yard. “Ollie?”

No answer. 

Dom raised his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply like he was calling a dog. “Ollie!”

A second later, the mistakable sound of wet feet pounded across the grass. 

“There he is!” Ollie shouted, like he’d been the one looking for them, hose in hand again.

He came tearing across the yard at full speed, wearing the battered little Spider-Man sunglasses they’d spent half the morning looking for now sporting exactly one lens. Completely barefoot. And, most notably—completely pantsless. Just his stark white booty out for God and the neighbors to see. Puddle jumper? On. Ass? Out. Mavis trotted proudly behind him like she’d personally escorted him there.

Dom pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Jesus Christ.”

“Dude,” Abby said slowly, “where did your shorts go?”

Ollie looked down at himself like this was the first time he’d noticed. Then he shrugged. “They dirty.”

“…Okay.”

Ollie shrugged again, then pointed to his abandoned swim trunks, now fluttering in the breeze on the swing set. “So I take ’em off.”

Abby tilted her head, then shrugged. “…You know what? I can’t actually argue with the logic.”

Dom sighed toward the sky. “I leave for, like, four hours…”

“And somehow,” Abby said, unable to hide her grin, “this is still only, like, the fifth weirdest thing that’s happened today.”

Ollie beamed, blissfully unaware that he was, in fact, the weirdest thing that had happened today.

“Dommy?” Auggie called, feet kicking through the water wildly.

“‘Sup?”

“Can you throw me?” Auggie had already started hauling himself out of the pool before Dom even answered, little feet scrambling against the steps.

“Yep.” Dom bent down with a grunt, hooked two fingers through the strap of Auggie’s puddle jumper, and effortlessly hoisted the giggling five-year-old straight into the air. “Ready?”

“Yeah!”

Without another word, Dom gave him one solid swing and absolutely yeeted the kid back toward the middle of the pool. Auggie hit the water with an enormous splash.

Abby physically jumped. “Oh my God—careful!”

Dom didn’t even bother looking at her. “Relax, Babysitters Club.”

Auggie popped right back to the surface, laughing so hard he could barely keep his mouth above the water.

“Again!” he squealed.

Dom jerked his chin toward the pool. “See?”

“He could’ve landed weird!”

“He didn’t.”

“He could’ve.”

“But he didn’t.”

Abby rolled her eyes and turned back towards Rylie. It wasn’t that Abby disliked Dom—actually, scratch that. Who the fuck was she trying to appease? She disliked Dominic. She disliked Dominic very much. She straight-up couldn’t stand his ass.

Which, okay, was maybe a little unfair considering she barely knew him. He’d graduated two years ahead of her, and sophomore Abby hadn’t exactly spent her free time keeping tabs on the senior class. But he’d dated Kayla for, like, two weeks, and then he’d hurt her feelings, which automatically made him the enemy. Those were the rules. She didn’t make them. Once a girl became your best friend, every guy who had ever made her cry got grandfathered into your personal hater list. Never mind that Kayla had technically been her mortal enemy first. They’d skipped straight past rivals and landed in trauma-bonded best friendship after Abby helped her attempt insurance fraud so she could afford an abortion without her parents finding out after getting knocked up by Abby’s shitty homecoming date, and now they were going to be roommates in two and a half months. Girlhood or whatever.

He didn’t show up at the house often, thank God, but when he did, every girl who’d ever called him Douchebag Dom had been completely justified. The nickname had been all too fitting, and maybe a little too nice. Every sentence out of his mouth somehow sounded like he’d been dared to make himself more insufferable than the last. Loud. Cocky. The kind of guy who high-fived people over things that absolutely did not require high-fives. The whole man was a sentient beer-pong table. 

Which made this whole situation deeply, deeply unfortunate. Because now she knew his dad. And Dr. Park wasn’t even remotely what she’d expected after meeting Dominic. The man was basically a giant teddy bear masquerading as an orthopedic surgeon, equal parts socially awkward wife-guy and reality tv know-it-all wrapped up in the cuntiest resting bitch face she’d ever seen. Meanwhile his son had somehow inherited exactly none of those qualities.

Sure, Dominic was hot. Abby wasn’t blind. As a woman with functioning eyeballs, she could acknowledge that the universe had been unfairly generous there. All of the Park boys had been blessed with their dad’s genetics, which seemed to override their moms’. But if you took a frat lord douchebag and handed him a Division I hockey scholarship at Pitt, all you got was a frat lord douchebag with a Marvel Chris-sized ego and a campus full of girls willing to overlook it because he could skate. Add a healthy dose of Off Campus energy into the mix, and congratulations—you had evolved Douchebag Dom into his final form. Thanks a lot, hockey romance girlies.

How fun for everyone involved. Especially her.

“Dude,” he called to Ollie, peeling his shirt off as he turned back towards the ice bath. Abby immediately looked away, dropping her gaze to the pool. She swished her feet through the water instead, pretending to be fascinated by the ripples as Auggie and Rylie doggy-paddled across the shallow end in what appeared to be the slowest race in recorded history.

“Your whole dick is out, man,” Dominic continued. “Put your pants back on. Or at least hang out on the Stratt’s side of the yard so the Dymkoskis don’t text Mom again.”

Her head whipped around so fast her sunglasses nearly slid off her nose.

“Hey!” she hissed.

Dominic glanced over, matching her glare with one of his own as he threw his hands in the air and yanked the insulated cover off the ice bath. “What?”

“Your dad says we’re not allowed to cuss in front of them,” Abby whisper-shouted, jerking her chin toward the kids without taking her eyes off him.

Dominic followed her gaze to the children splashing happily in the pool before looking back at her with complete indifference.

“You’re not. I don’t work here.” He shrugged. “This is my house.”

Abby let out a dry laugh. “Don’t you technically live with your mom?”

His grin spread immediately.

“Oh,” he cooed, pressing a hand dramatically over the giant, fuckass Bible verse tattoo stretched across his left pec. “You’re keeping tabs on me now, baby? That’s actually really sweet.”

She rolled her eyes so hard they almost hurt. “Don’t flatter yourself, Park.”

“I don’t have to. You just admitted you’ve been thinking about where I sleep, Morgan.”

“I admitted no such thing. And it’s Abbot.”

“With two Bs!” Rylie shouted. “But only one T!”

Abby gave her a thumbs up, already ignoring the next words out of Dominic’s mouth. “You know my living situation.”

“Everybody knows your living situation,” she sighed. “That happens when it rotates between sorority houses.”

“Mm.” He dipped a hand into the ice bath, sucking in a breath before splashing the frigid water against his chest. “Sounds like somebody asks around.”

Abby barked out a humorless laugh. “Trust me, Dominic, if I wanted information about you, I’d ask literally anyone except you. The streets simply talk.”

“Ouch.”

“It was supposed to hurt.”

Dominic opened his mouth, probably to say something equally obnoxious, but whatever comeback he had lined up was immediately interrupted by a small head breaking the surface of the pool beside Abby. Auggie blew water out of his mouth like a tiny disgruntled blowfish, dark curls plastered to his forehead as he hooked his arms over the edge and hauled himself up enough to look directly at Dominic.

“You said a bad word,” he informed him. Auggie held out his hand. “I need a dollar.”

Abby held back a grin as Auggie held out his hand like the world’s cutest tax collector. There was something deeply satisfying about watching Dominic Park—a guy who carried himself like he owned every room he walked into—get financially bullied by a five-year-old in Toy Story swim goggles.

Behind her, Dominic groaned. “C’mon, man. There’s no way you heard me from all the way over there.”

“Yes I did,” Auggie said immediately, still holding his hand out. “You said a bad word. I get a dollar. That’s Daddy’s rule.”

Abby turned her face back toward the sun, letting the warmth hit her cheeks as she hid the smile threatening to break free.

“Yeah, Dom,” she echoed. “That’s the rule.”

“Oh, my God.” She could practically hear the eye roll in his voice. A few seconds later, there was a dramatic amount of grumbling behind her followed by the unmistakable sound of fabric shifting as Dominic dug through his things. Then, with all the resentment of a man being forced to pay a literal first grader for his indiscretions, he slapped a crumpled dollar bill into Auggie’s waiting hand. Auggie’s entire face lit up. 

“Yes! Look, Rylie!” Auggie shouted, holding the dollar above his head like he’d just been handed the keys to a new car. “I have ten now!”

Rylie’s eyes widened behind her own goggles, staring at him with the kind of awe usually reserved for celebrity sightings. “That’s so many.”

“I know,” Auggie said seriously. Because, apparently, ten dollars was the kind of wealth that required a moment of silence.

He paddled back over to Abby, tiny hand still clutching the damp, wrinkled bill he’d accumulated from whatever elaborate financial system he and his brother had apparently created, and pushed the now soggy dollar into her hand. “Can you hold this please, Miss Abby?”

Abby looked down at the wet money sitting in her palm. “You trust me with your life savings?”

Auggie nodded without hesitation. “Yeah.”

“I’d be honored,” she said, unable to keep the smirk off her face.

She folded the bill carefully and tucked it into the top of her bathing suit before leaning back on her hands, letting the sun warm her face as she watched Auggie swim back toward Rylie.

Behind her, Dominic let out a quiet scoff. “You just became his bank?”

Abby didn’t even look at him. “He knows who he can trust. I’m FDIC certified.”

“Wow.”

She opened one eye. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, go ahead,” Abby drawled. “I’m sure that thought took a lot out of you.”

Dominic shook his head, lowering himself onto the edge of the ice bath. “I’m just impressed you’re apparently the responsible adult in this situation.”

Abby smiled. “I’m sure that’s a low bar for you, Alpha Delta Dumbass.”

“Rude.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Before he could respond, Auggie’s voice carried across the pool.

“I used to have twenty of them,” he told Rylie, goggles still suctioned tightly around his eyes. “But then Mommy and I went to Target, and we spend lots of money at Target.”

Rylie gasped. “All twenty?”

Auggie nodded solemnly. “Some of the twenty.”

Abby pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Because there was something about a five-year-old describing a Target trip like he’d survived a financial crisis that was objectively hilarious. Behind her, Dominic lowered himself into the ice bath with a sharp inhale, every muscle in his shoulders tensing against the cold before he exhaled through gritted teeth. Not that she was watching. She had babysitting duties, of course. Like handling the naked toddler who was still very much naked. 

“Ollie, buddy,” Abby called, pointing toward the little pair of swim trunks abandoned on the swings. “Get your shorts and get over here, dude. You can’t be naked outside.”

Ollie adjusted his tiny sunglasses like they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. “Why?”

“Because we have to wear clothes when we go outside.” She pointed at the shorts again. “Go on.”

He frowned. “Why?”

Abby opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. How did her mom answer these questions? There was some kind of magical parent script she clearly hadn’t unlocked yet. Before she could cobble together a better explanation than because I said so, Dominic spoke up from the ice bath.

“Because you can’t have your ass out on a Tuesday afternoon.” He waved a hand toward the shorts. “Get your pants, dude. Listen to Abby.”

“Dollar!”

“Damn it.” Dominic’s head thunked back against the edge of the tub. “Oh, come on.” 

Auggie was already climbing out of the pool, water streaming off his puddle jumper as he trotted across the patio with the confidence of a tiny IRS agent. “You said ‘ass.’”

“I know what I said,” Dom sighed.

“You need to pay.”

“I know how this works.”

Without waiting to be asked, Auggie bent down, grabbed Dominic’s wallet off the towel beside him, and held it out expectantly. Dominic looked between the wallet and his little brother before he flipped it open. 

“You also said—,” Auggie started.

“I know what I said, narc,” he grumbled, pulling out two crumpled bills. 

Auggie accepted both dollars with a grin so big it nearly swallowed his face.

“Thank you!” He immediately scampered over to Abby, holding the damp bills out with complete trust. “My bank.”

She laughed, taking them from him.

“Yes, sir.” Carefully, she tucked the two new dollars with the rest of his growing fortune. “Your balance has been updated.”

Satisfied, Auggie cannonballed back into the pool. Meanwhile, Ollie had finally wandered over carrying his shorts in one hand. He held them out to Abby without a word.

“Thank you,” she said, shaking them out. “All right, step.”

He planted both hands on her shoulders to steady himself, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in fierce concentration as he lifted one foot.

“Why can’t I be nakey?” Ollie asked as she worked the damp shorts over one foot.

“Because there are rules for outside, buddy,” Abby said, trying to tug the wet fabric higher. It was like trying to dress a particularly cooperative seal. “You can’t have your butt out outside. Other one.”

Without complaint, Ollie shifted his weight and lifted his other foot.

“But…” he frowned, watching her wrestle with the clingy fabric. “It’s my house.”

“Because…” Abby paused, trying to come up with an explanation a five-year-old would actually accept. “Just because it’s your house doesn’t mean all the rules disappear.”

He squinted up at her. “They don’t?”

“Nope.”

“What about Daddy?”

“He has to wear pants outside too.”

“What about Dom?”

Abby snorted. “Well… preferably.”

From somewhere behind her, Dominic barked out a laugh. “I am wearing pants.”

“Congratulations.”

“They’re compression shorts.”

“They’re still pants enough for me.”

Ollie seemed satisfied with that answer and obediently stepped through the second leg opening.

“There we go.” Abby pulled the shorts the rest of the way over his hips, tightening the drawstring into a snug little bow before patting the waistband. “Much better.”

“My daddy had his butt out outside one time,” Ollie informed her very seriously, which was not information she had ever needed to possess.

“That’s because you pantsed him, dude,” Dominic called from behind him. 

Water sloshed behind Abby as Dominic dunked himself under the surface of the ice bath one last time. A second later he surfaced with a sharp inhale, shoved his wet hair back, then pushed himself out of the tub with a grunt. He stood for a second, water streaming off his shoulders and down the tattoos scattered across his arms and chest before making a beeline across the patio. Abby instinctively leaned away as he passed, shaking his head like a dog.

“Oh, my—” She flinched as cold droplets sprayed across her. “Seriously?”

“What?” he asked innocently, not even slowing down. 

She rolled her eyes so hard they almost hurt. He ignored her entirely, dropping onto the closest lounge chair with a satisfied groan. Unfortunately, it happened to be the one her towel was spread across. He leaned to one side, finally noticing he’d also sat directly on top of her Kindle. Without an ounce of concern, he fished the now slightly damp e-reader out from underneath himself and casually tossed it onto the completely empty lounge chair beside him, which was honestly grounds for homicide, but she wasn’t entirely in the mood to traumatize a trio of children by drowning a man with her bare hands. 

Rylie paddled over just in time to catch the end of the conversation, pushing her wet curls out of her eyes with one hand while hooking the other over the edge of the pool. Her bright mermaid-scale swimsuit shimmered beneath the water as she tilted her head at Abby. “But you have your butt out.”

Abby’s jaw dropped. Behind her, Dominic made a sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh. “I do not have my butt out!”

“Yes, you do!” Rylie insisted, pointing matter-of-factly toward Abby’s swimsuit. “Your butt’s out right now!”

“It is not!”

“And it was out in Hawaii, too!” Rylie continued. “Daddy got mad, remember?”

Abby felt heat crawl all the way up her neck. “Oh, my God.”

She knew exactly what Rylie was talking about. Her father had spent half of their family vacation acting like the modestly cheeky cut of her swimsuit was one strong gust of wind away from public indecency. Which was completely different than being actually pantsless. And from what she recalled, he had more important shit to focus on frankly, like proposing. 

“My butt was not out,” Abby said, immediately slipping into the same defensive tone she’d used on the beach.

Rylie frowned. “It was a little out.”

“It was covered.”

“Daddy said—”

“I know what Dad said, Rylie.”

“And then Mommy laughed.”

Abby pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes. Mom laughed.”

“Because your bathing suit was too little.”

“It was not too little,” Abby huffed. “My swimsuit fit perfectly fine.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“It did.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“It did! And from what I remember,” Abby continued, “Dad suddenly had no issue with that exact same swimsuit when Mom had to borrow it because hers ripped.”

“Then what about right now?” Rylie asked, pinching the little pink tie on the side of Abby’s swimsuit bottoms. 

“Especially not right now,” Abby answered a little too quickly.

Four pairs of eyes landed on her. She refused to acknowledge Dominic’s.

“Butts don’t belong outside,” she declared, doubling down despite knowing full well she was losing control of the conversation. “End of story. Go play.”

Neither of them moved. Instead, Auggie swam over to join Rylie, apparently deciding she needed reinforcement.

“But there’s butts outside all the time,” he pointed out.

“There are?”

“Yeah.” He nodded confidently. “There’s butts everywhere.”

“They don’t belong showing outside,” she sighed.

Somewhere behind her, Dominic had completely abandoned any attempt at containing his laughter.

She turned slowly. “If you laugh one more time, I’m drowning you.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he managed between laughs.

Before she could think of an appropriately scathing response, Ollie wandered over, completely unconcerned with the existential debate surrounding butts. He walked straight up to Dominic and punched him square in the stomach. 

“Throw me.” He stated, completely straight faced. 

Dominic let out a surprised grunt. “Fuckin’—”

“Dollar,” Auggie called automatically.

Dominic closed his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Rule’s a rule,” Auggie sang.

Still laughing, Dominic pushed himself up from the lounge chair—Abby’s lounge chair, on her towel—and scooped Ollie up under the arms. “Ready?”

“Yes!”

Splash!

Rylie whipped around to face Auggie, her little face scrunched with absolute offense.

“There’s not butts everywhere, Auggie.”

“Yes there are!” Auggie insisted.

Abby, meanwhile, was still mentally stuck on the fact that she’d apparently just been accused of walking around with her ass hanging out. These were a very modest pair of bottoms. The fuck?

A loud splash pulled her attention back to the pool just as Ollie disappeared beneath the surface. A second later he popped back up, Spider-Man sunglasses somehow still clinging to his face despite every law of physics, and took one enormous, theatrical gasp of air.

“Again.” He said it completely deadpan, like a man ordering another whiskey at the end of a long day. Dominic reached down, and hauled him straight back out of the water by the armpits. Behind them, the debate had only escalated.

“No, there aren’t!” Rylie argued.

“Yes there are!”

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

Abby pinched the bridge of her nose. “Guys…”

Neither of them acknowledged her.

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“Guys…”

Still nothing. Rylie punctuated her argument with a dramatic splash directly at Auggie. He sputtered, blinked the water out of his eyes and splashed her right back.

“Hey!” 

“You started it!”

“I did not!”

“Did too!”

What the actual fuck was happening?

“Okay, guys…” Abby sighed, extending both legs to gently push Auggie and Rylie apart before the argument escalated into all-out splash warfare. It was a valiant effort. It failed almost immediately. Because at that exact moment, Dominic launched Ollie into the pool like a human torpedo. The little boy landed directly between them.

Splash.

A wave of cold water washed over Abby’s legs, chest, and face.

“Sorry!” Dominic called, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

Ollie resurfaced in the middle of the two debaters, sucking in a dramatic breath through his nose.

“Again,” he gasped.

Water streamed off his Spider-Man goggles and directly onto Abby’s knees as Dominic reached down and hauled him right back out by the armpits. Abby wiped a hand down her face.

“There’s butts everywhere!” Auggie insisted, completely undeterred by the interruption.

“There are not!”

“There are!”

“No!”

“There are!”

“There’s no butts in space!” Rylie announced triumphantly. She said it with the confidence of someone presenting irrefutable scientific evidence before Congress.

Everything stopped. Auggie blinked. “…What?”

“There’s no butts in space,” Rylie repeated, folding her arms.

Silence settled over the pool. Auggie tilted his head, clearly giving the statement the full weight of his consideration. His chlorine-frizzed curls flopped into his eyes as he thought. Abby watched the gears turning. Finally, he gave a slow, solemn nod.

“There’s no butts in space,” he agreed.

“I told you,” Rylie sighed, sounding every bit like the exhausted victor of a long philosophical debate.

“Wanna do cannonballs?” Auggie asked.

Just like that. No transition. No lingering questions about the apparent absence of butts in outer space. One second they were debating anatomy and astrophysics, the next he’d moved on entirely.

Kids were terrifying.

Rylie didn’t even hesitate. “Okay!”

She kicked off the wall toward the steps, already reaching back for Auggie’s hand. He grabbed it without thinking, and the two of them trudged toward the shallow end to prepare for what they clearly believed would be an Olympic-level cannonball competition.

Abby watched them go, then slowly lifted both hands in the air. “…What?”

No one answered. She let them fall back into her lap. Whatever. This job was paying for Noah Kahan tickets. It was hardly the weirdest thing that was going to happen today.

Beside her, Dominic was already squaring up for yet another toss, lifting Ollie under the arms until the little boy was horizontal in front of him like a tiny battering ram.

“Can we stop?” Dominic asked, shifting his grip. “My arms are getting tired.”

“No.” Ollie didn’t even think about it. “Throw me.”

Dominic sighed the sigh of a man who knew he’d already lost.

“…Yeah, alright.”

So Dom threw.

Ollie sailed through the air with both arms spread wide, laughing before he even hit the water.

Splash.

He surfaced almost immediately. “Again!”

Before Abby could push herself up and announce that it was, in fact, lunchtime and maybe they should all consider consuming food before the children started trying to eat pool toys, the front door slammed open again. Tank immediately unleashed another dramatic howl from where he had taken up residence on—of course—Abby’s towel. Because apparently even the dog had decided her personal belongings were community property today.

Casey didn’t even give the sound time to echo through the house before she was throwing the sliding door open. “Dominic Anthony!”

Abby watched as Dominic froze mid-reach, one hand extended toward Ollie as the little boy waited patiently at the edge of the pool for his next flight.

Casey stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her round belly, somehow looking effortlessly put together despite spending the morning running errands and being prodded at by her OB. The olive green linen set she’d left the house in was still absolutely pristine, dark glossy curls gathered over one shoulder. An icon. Truly. If Abby was ever pregnant, she wanted to look that unbothered.

“Get your car out of the middle of the driveway!” Casey continued. “How do you expect any of us to get in when you park diagonally like that? We’ve talked about this!”

Dominic sputtered, cheeks turning red. “I—”

“You what?”

“I didn’t park—”

“You absolutely did. Move it.”

He looked toward the driveway like maybe his car would suddenly defend him. It did not.

“It’s fine,” he said, turning back toward the pool. “I’ll move it.”

“When?”

“In a minute.”

Wrong move. Abby actually watched the exact second Dominic realized he’d made a mistake. She watched Casey’s eyebrows raise the same way they did when one of the boys started to tantrum, or on the not-so-rare occasion Dr. Park started to catch an attitude with her. 

“Excuse me?”

The tone alone had him snapping upright. Ollie, who had been halfway lifted out of the pool, suddenly found himself no longer the center of attention as Dominic straightened like someone had just called his name during military inspection. Abby had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.

“Nothing,” Dominic called back quickly. Dominic carefully lowered Ollie back onto the pool step. Abby watched him recover with impressive speed, wet feet slapping against the concrete as he made his way toward the house. “Yes, ma’am.”

Abby nearly choked. Yes, ma’am.

God, what a fuckin’ dork.  She looked away before he could catch her laughing. Too late.

His eyes flicked toward her. “Don’t.”

“Ooo,” she said, holding back a snort. “Somebody’s in troubleee.”

“Shut up,” he huffed. 

Casey looked between the two of them, eyes narrowing slightly before her lips twitched. Dom slowed beside her, letting her press a kiss to his cheek before pulling him in for a quick hug. “Hi, honey,” she murmured. “You here for the night?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Dad and I would love that,” she said, then held her own keys out to him. “Move cars and bring groceries in while you’re at it, please. Excited you’re home. I’ll get sheets on your bed in a minute.”

Dominic smiled sheepishly, then disappeared inside before she could say anything else, and Abby had to give him credit—he knew when to retreat. Auggie, meanwhile, had been waiting patiently for his mother’s attention. Which, in Auggie terms, meant bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was physically incapable of containing his excitement.

“Mommy, watch me!”

Casey’s entire expression softened. “Watching, baby! Go ahead!”

Auggie beamed. Then, with the confidence of an Olympic diver and the actual skill level of a five-year-old launching himself three inches forward, he jumped.

It was not impressive. It was barely even a jump. More of a committed step with enthusiasm.

Plop. 

He disappeared into the water.

Casey immediately gave him a thumbs-up. “Wow! Having fun?”

Auggie popped back up, goggles crooked. “Yep!”

“I’m so glad.” Casey clapped once. “Okay, Rylie Girl—your turn. Let me see.”

Rylie immediately scrambled into position. “Watch this!”

Abby sat on the edge of the pool, her feet dangling in the water as she watched Auggie swim back toward the steps. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself, like he’d just completed a dangerous stunt instead of falling vertically into a pool. Rylie jumped next. A slightly bigger splash. A slightly more impressive amount of drama.

“Ten out of ten,” Casey announced.

“Thank you!” Rylie said proudly.

Abby smiled. Because, okay. It was actually kind of sweet. Casey seemed to notice her watching because she glanced over, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

“Have they eaten yet?”

The question snapped Abby back.

“Oh—no.” She looked toward the house, then immediately started pushing herself up from the pool edge. “Actually, we were just about to come in. Sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was.”

Casey waved a hand. “No, no. Sit down. I’m home early. I’ve got it.” Casey gestured toward the pool. “Let them play.”

Abby hesitated. “But—”

“Seriously. They’re having fun.” Casey turned back toward the house, already sliding the door open. “I’ll have lunch ready in a few minutes! Start drying off!”

The dogs immediately took that as their cue. Tank abandoned Abby’s towel without hesitation and barreled inside after her, followed closely by Mavis, who had apparently decided lunch was more important than whatever chaos was happening outside. From the pool, Auggie splashed water toward her.

“Miss Abby!”

She looked back.

“What?”

“Watch!”

He immediately did a dramatic underwater swim that lasted approximately two seconds before he resurfaced three feet away.

Abby applauded anyway. “Very impressive.”

He grinned, then went right back to playing. And for a few blissful moments, everything settled. The pool returned to normal. Well. Normal for this house, at least. The kids giggled and splashed, Rylie and Auggie raced from one side to the other while Ollie played referee. Abby leaned back on her hands, letting herself relax for a minute before she started pulling them out of the pool to dry off.

“Wait.”

Rylie’s voice cut through the peaceful moment.

Abby opened one eye. “What?”

Rylie was staring at something with wide eyes. Then she gasped. Abby sat up so quickly she almost launched herself straight back into the water.

“What?” She looked around immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Rylie stared at her from across the pool, mouth hanging open, eyes wide like she’d just uncovered a massive conspiracy.

“Astronauts have butts!” she announced.

Abby puffed out a breath and slowly lowered her shoulders. Oh, thank God. That was it. That was the emergency.

From where he was floating on his back, Auggie gasped dramatically, arms and legs going still as he processed this groundbreaking information. Then, with the force of a tiny whale breaching the surface, he flipped himself over with a splash.

“There are butts in space!”

“There are!” Rylie confirmed.

They looked at each other, nodding somberly. Both completely serious, like they had just solved a decades-old mystery.

You jog over to the rest of the team standing outside the courts. The team manager, Dennis Whitaker, gives you a weak smile as you pace towards the back of the group of girls. 

“Then we’ll pair off and do some volley drills. Just focusing on small steps today. Let’s do this!” Robby’s voice booms as he claps his hands together above his head. 

Your teammates all disperse, light chatter filling the air. You join them in setting their rackets down and filing onto the courts to start conditioning drills, led by Mel, one of the seniors. 

“Did you hear? We’re getting white and blue outfits this year.” 

“Oh finally. I was so sick of last year’s yellow. They looked hideous on me.” 

You smirk listening in on the conversation between Victoria and Trinity.

“I thought yellow was a good color on you,” you chime in, looking at Victoria. Then you look to Trinity.

She narrows her eyes, waiting for you to say the same to her. 

Your smirk stays. “You… not so much.” 

“Hey!” She yells, shoving you a little. “Yellow looks way better on me than you.” 

“I’m kidding, relax. I think we’ll all look better in blue. The yellow outfits made us look like traffic signs.” 

Dennis, following close behind, laughs. The three of you all turn and glare at him.

He immediately stops in his tracks and his smile vanishes. He raises both hands in the air defensively.

“It wasn’t my idea, guys, I promise! How many times have I told you?” He stammers, taking a step back. 

You shake your head. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You could’ve prevented it, and you know it.” 

His shoulders sag, deflating at your comeback. “I’m trying to make it up to you guys. We’re getting you guys new jackets and backpacks too,” he adds quieter. 

Victoria and Trinity perk up. “Really?” 

Dennis nods excitedly. “We got a bigger budget. And Coach Collins is on maternity leave so all of the merch decisions are made by-” he jabs his two thumbs towards his chest, “yours truly.” 

“Alright, let’s get moving!” Robby shouts, cutting off the conversation. 

“You’re the best, Whitaker,” you whisper loudly to him, then join the rest of the team in lunges. 

He gives you a thumbs up and his face reddens. He was so easy to charm. 

“Stop distracting the girls, Dennis,” Coach Robby warns. 

“Yes sir,” he says, nodding and ducking out of the courts. 

Shortly after conditioning, the team lines up on one side of the court, getting ready for the start. 

Coach Robby climbs up to the top of the umpire chair, whistle wedged between his teeth, aviator sunglasses covering his eyes. 

He gives one chirp of the whistle, and the sprints begin. 

Forward and back. Backpedaling both ways. Side stepping. 

The whole team could fill up an Olympic-sized swimming pool with how much sweat runs off foreheads and down backs. 

You’re halfway up the court when some motion by the exit catches your eye. The fence door swings open and a man steps onto the blue court. 

“Ah up-up- hold up team-” Robby shouts, blowing the whistle once to get the girls’ attention. 

You stop, panting, bracing yourself against your knees with sweaty palms, but keep your eyes trained on the newcomer. 

It’s hard to see his face, baseball cap on with sunglasses. Clearly someone closer to Coach Robby’s age, you spot curly grey hair sticking out from behind his cap. 

Your eyes trace down his fitted black shirt past his khaki shorts and stop. A metal contraption sits under his knee and forces him into a stiffer, but usual walking gait. A prosthetic. Something tugs in your chest, a beat of pity mixed with curiosity. 

“Ladies, I’d like you to meet our new coach for this season,” Robby says, descending the ladder and jogging over to the man. They clasp hands in a firm shake that turns into a quick pull, each thumping the other on the back in an easy, familiar half-hug. 

“This is Coach Jack Abbot, my old doubles partner from my competitive years.” 

He takes off his sunglasses and looks around the team, grinning and gives one acknowledging nod. 

You can’t help but stare. Coach Abbot is muscular from what you can tell, his biceps stretch the fabric of his sleeves, his shorts don’t hide his quad’s well either. He’s got grey facial hair, the day-two, forgot-to-shave scruff. His crows feet are more pronounced as he squints his eyes in the sun, trying to look at everyone’s faces on the team, already trying to memorize them. His skin is slightly tanned, like he’s been doing yard work or goes on runs outside, indicated by the farmer's tan peaking out of his collar. 

His eyes land on you as Robby continues. 

It’s not exactly a passing glance. It lingers. His eyes study you, taking in the way you hold yourself, the way you’ve gone still under his attention. 

Your shoulders pull together instinctively, standing a little taller and dart your eyes back to Coach Robby talking. 

Abbot’s gaze remains. His lips tighten. Something about you interests him. He’s picked out a player he wants to test. 

“He is filling in for Coach Collins, who is on maternity leave. He is one of the best tennis players I know, and I hope you all can learn a lot from him.” 

You can’t help but feel subconscious after the new coach caught you staring. 

Coach Abbot speaks up, turning to the other coach. “Thank you, Robby, it’s good to be back on the courts with you,” he says to him, then faces the group. Thankfully he doesn’t look at you now. “I’ve heard only good things about this team, I’m really looking forward to working with you gals.”

His gaze sweeps across the group again, quicker this time. When it passes over you, it stays, just a fraction. Not because you’re drawing attention to yourself, standing near the front. The opposite. You’ve kept to the back, trying not to be noticed.

Something about that catches on him. Familiar. The instinct to stay out of the spotlight, even when you belong there.

“Alright, back to sprints. He’ll be getting to know you all throughout practice today, probably will do some drills with you guys too. He’s got a killer serve that you’re going to want to learn!”

There’s a bit of a buzz in the air, a few girls make a mention that now there's two male coaches, but most fall back into line for the rest of sprints. 

“What do you think?” 

You turn to Trinity who’s looking at you with a raised brow. 

“He seems chill, Coach seems to like him,” you reply. 

“I heard that he’s ex-military too. He’s probably going to give us the worst drills.” She sprints next to you towards the net. 

You huff to catch your breath. “Did you- you knew he was the replacement?” 

She shrugs. “Dennis told me before practice today. Helps to show up on time, you know.” 

She’s already bolting before you can retort. 

Hmph. You didn’t like being out of the loop, but she’s right. 

You glance to the sidelines where the two coaches are chatting. Coach Abbot laughs, they’re probably catching up on old memories. You nearly trip over your laces when you hear the periodic whistle from Coach Robby, who’s giving the signal lazily as he talks with his friend. 

You’re distracted by the curls that flip up behind Abbot’s cap, and the way his jaw flexes every time he chews down on his gum. 

It’s mesmerizing. 

And without you noticing, he catches you. A lull in their conversation. Long enough to confirm it. 

You, watching him. 

───〃⭑

You whack your racket against the net absentmindedly. Coach Robby’s pulled Victoria off to the side.

“And you see, step forward with your right foot and bam!” He punches his own racket forward, explaining the motion of a sharp volley to her. “Right? Much more power.”

You can’t do much, playing tennis with one person, so you wait for him to finish explaining. 

“Hey kid,” a voice comes from behind. 

It startles you and you whip around quickly, to see the new Coach Abbot approaching you. 

“Oh hey,” you say, holding out a fist to him. He returns the gesture and bumps your knuckles lightly. 

“Tell me more about yourself.” His tone is casual, but he plants his feet a little wider than his shoulders and crosses his arms across his broad chest. Like he cares to listen to you.

He had asked for your name when you were in a big group gathered during a water break, but you didn’t get an actual conversation with him. Too much commotion and not enough time to stop and chat. 

But he wanted to know more about you. Wanted to know if you were shy or if there was something else. 

Were you funny? Kind? Sarcastic? Bossy? Competitive?

Why did he care? He’s been with plenty of tennis players over the years. They’re all similar but have their own quirks and personalities. 

He was just filling in for an absent coach. No need to actually get attached to any of these players. 

But it was for his benefit. In order to coach well, you have to get to know the players well. 

Especially a player like you. 

“Well,” you shift your racket into the crook of your arm and cross the other over your chest, subconsciously mirroring his confidence, “I’m a junior singles player. I won the conference title last season. Ranked top ten in last year’s regions.” 

He tips his head back with a quiet, amused huff. “Wow. Glad to finally meet our champion.” 

It confirms his suspicions. How you seemed to hang out towards the back of groups. Never vying for attention. Stayed in your lane. 

You sigh and shake your head. “I don’t know about this year. We’ve moved up divisions so it’s going to be a lot harder. We’ll see if I even rank this year.” 

“You’ve got this.” Abbott reaches out and gives your tricep a quick tap. “We’ll get you ready for the season.”

The touch comes naturally to him, although he never pins himself as someone who’s touchy. Just felt right, with you. You seemed to open up quickly about your worries for this tennis season, so you must not be too reserved, at least with him. 

You smile weakly.

“Yeah, we’ll see.” 

His eyebrow quirks. “We’ll see? You’re not going to rank with that attitude, come on, let’s drill while Coach Robby takes his sweet sweet time,” he says the last part of his sentence loud enough for Robby to look up from his conversation with Victoria, just to shoot daggers back.

Your new coach chuckles. “He’s good. Robby’s one of the best. Show me what you’ve learned from that old man.” He says taking a step away from you and waving his racket in the air. 

You slide your racket into a loose forearm grip, brows lifting. “Old man?”

He smirks. “I’m younger than him,” he says, jerking his chin toward the opposite baseline. “You, on that side.”

You jog across, shoes squeaking as you plant and turn to face him. “By what? A couple days?”

He gives a small shrug. “But still older than you. Which means I’ve played longer, seen more. Experience counts. Don’t worry, I’m not threatened by you.”

He stays light on his feet near the net, ready for your first volley. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot here,” he adds. “You know we won Wimbledon doubles together, right?”

You serve the ball, hard. He returns it effortlessly. It’s almost like he’s holding back. 

Damn. 

You reach out and miss the ball with how quickly he smacked it back to you. 

“Ugh!” 

He plants two hands on his hips, still gripping his racket in one. You thought for a moment that maybe his prosthetic leg would give him some mobility issues, and now you’re starting to think it’s given him an unfair advantage. 

“You’ve got this. Let’s try again.” 

You pop another tennis ball from your skirt pocket and serve it again at the baseline. You bounce lightly on the balls of your feet as he rallies it back to you. 

You miss again. 

And again. 

He doesn’t step in right away to correct you. He’s letting it happen. Watching how you react instead of how you play. Coach Robby had a tendency to swoop in and fix problems. This was a new strategy, you were definitely not used to. 

In reality, he’s impressed by even how close you’re getting to his rallies. But he can’t show that, not now. He needs to test your limits. The human body is capable of insane feats, but it’s the mind that gets in the way. 

By the third time, you’re frustrated with yourself. You resist the urge to smack your racket against your left shin, an old habit from high school tennis you’ve been trying to break since. Bruises would bloom across your skin, purple and blue, and would be incredibly painful the next day. 

You turn to chase the ball.

“Hey,” Abbot calls, stopping you in your tracks. 

You glance back.

He’s right at the net, beckoning you forward with his index finger. 

“Come here. Quick tip.” His voice drops slightly, quieter since it’s just the two of you. 

Without thinking you walk right up to the net, panting slightly from exertion. You stop closer than you meant to. Close enough to notice details you shouldn’t be. The light freckles that dust his cheeks and forehead. Silver hairs peeking through his dark eyebrows. Even the way the light reflects off of the court unto his eyes. Hints of green and grey noticeable even through his squinting.  

He gives you a second to steady yourself, watching as you pull in a deeper breath and square your shoulders. Almost subconsciously, he matches your rhythm, then tips his head slightly to the side. The moment your eyes meet his, your heartbeat thrums a bit in your chest. 

Probably from the sprint. Or from the thick, humid heat of an eighty five degree summer afternoon.

Definitely not because you can catch the clean mix of sweat and deodorant from where he stands at the net, his forearms faintly glistening in the sun.

“You’re reaching,” he says. “Too late after the ball leaves my racket. Set up earlier. Split step sooner. Trust your gut.” 

He reaches out and taps your shoulder lightly, repositioning you half a step to the left. “Here. This is where you should be returning the ball.” 

You nod. He nods back.

Without another word, you both pace back into your positions. Like coordinated dancers. Already falling into a familiar rhythm. In sync. 

You feed the ball at him, and he gives that same unpredictable whack with his racket. 

This time, your return comes off the strings fast, landing deep near his baseline. He still gets it back, but with a lot more exertion on his half, a grunt leaving his lips as he lunges forward. 

You see a flicker of approval in his expression now. It’s small, but it feels like you’ve earned something. Respect. 

He lowers his racket and lets out a satisfied breath.

“There it is, champ,” he says. You got it.” 

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly. “Thanks.” 

He grins at you. “You’re good. Really good. You keep that up and I might have to start trying.”

A laugh slips out of you as you drop your head, shaking it once, still catching your breath.

You miss it, the way his expression changes. The quick swallow. The tightening along his stubbled jaw before he looks away from you and lifts his racket again.

ᯓ★

Santos was right. Coach Abbot was definitely ex military. 

You lift up your head from your plank to avoid a bead of sweat from dripping into your eye. It slides down your cheek and onto the grass. 

The whole team is outside of the courts, holding planks until failure. 

Including Coach Abbot. 

You were not going to be the first to drop. In your mind, you were determined to outlast all the players, and the coach.  

Trinity is right next to you. You glance over. 

She turns her head to you. 

“What?” She hisses through clenched teeth. 

“Nothing,” you say back in a similar manner, your teeth also grit together. “Just seeing how much longer I have to hold the plank.”

She scoffs and groans, clearly in pain from the effort. 

Coach Robby was gone for the day, leaving the team in the hands of Coach Abbot. And he was going full military-style on the warmup. You were not looking forward to the rest of practice. 

Slowly, one by one, players drop onto the grass, breathing hard. It sounds nice to relax, what you would give to be laying down instead of bracing your core until your body gives out.

“Who’s still up?” Coach Abbot shouts. 

A few girls speak up. You included. “Me!” 

“Good. I’m not even tired.” 

This makes the team laugh, causing some still braced up on their forearms to fall down. 

You bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from laughing. 

In your periphery, Trinity is still holding up. 

Maybe you could push her over. She’d shove you right back. Bad plan. 

You hear clapping and cheering. The rest of the team is rooting for you both.

A quick glance reveals that it’s just you three, Coach, Trinity, and you. 

“Come on!” “You got this!” “Beat him!” 

Your shoulders are on fire. And your legs are shaking so badly. You swear you’re going to vomit. 

Trinity collapses. And so do you. 

Coach Abbot pushes himself up to his feet, wiping his hands off on his shorts. 

He walks up to the two of you. 

“Well done, ladies,” he says. 

Trinity’s already rolled over and taking huge gulps of water from a jug Dennis handed her. He’s been going around, making sure nobody’s actually passed out. 

You look up. Coach Abbot stands by your head, sun glaring behind his figure, his shadow cooling your body for a moment. His baseball cap shields his face from the sun. 

He sticks out a hand to you, and you take it, and he pulls you up to your feet. 

“I’m impressed,” he whispers to you in his proximity. “You almost outlasted me.” 

His voice comes out rougher. Your breath hitches slightly at the sound. 

Without warning, you stumble backward. Stars dance in your vision as the blood rushes to your head from rising up too quickly, and from holding a plank for too long. 

“Woah, easy there,” Coach Abbot says, reaching an arm out to steady you, but he doesn’t need to since you barely manage to catch your balance. 

Dennis appears at your side. “Here.” He hands you a bottle of gatorade, which you immediately gulp down. 

Coach Abbot watches you for a moment, then faces the rest of the team. “Please stay hydrated, we don’t want to lose any of you before the season starts.” 

To your surprise, Dennis pipes up. “Yeah, maybe go easy on em. It’s almost 90 degrees outside.”

Abbot gives him a little bit of a side eye, but his lips pull at the edge. He’s not actually offended. 

“Alright, let’s do some dynamic stretches and then get into real practice.” 

Everyone lines up again and follows the coach through some shoulder stretches, warming those muscles that will be used the most. Then as you move down to stretching your legs, you mimic the moves that Coach Abbot does. 

You follow the deep lunges, forcing your body down to get a deep stretch in. Abbot raises his arms up while still holding a lunge, and the team mimics him. 

Yoga poses. 

Arms reach back down and you all lower yourselves to the ground in chaturanga, pushing up and tilting your chin up to the sky. 

He’s surprisingly flexible. Abbot makes these poses look easy, and you’re struggling to stay balanced. 

His eyes remain closed. “Don’t forget to breathe. Inhale…. And exhale.” 

Maybe he does yoga in his spare time. 

Huh.

───〃⭑

“Okay ladies, I’m gonna pair you all up. We’ll do some doubles alley drilling together. Focus on directional control.” 

Coach Abbot begins pointing to your teammates, sometimes apologetically asking for reminders of names, can’t blame him, there’s twelve players on the team, and he’s only been around for a little less a week.

But, of course, he remembered your name the second he heard it. When Trinity called your name across the court the first day of practice he attended. It never left his head. 

He pairs you up with Joy, a senior you’re not super close with. She mostly plays doubles, but she’s really solid.

Good practice, you reassure yourself. 

The court is a mixture of casual conversation between team players across the net, the sound of tennis balls popping off rackets, and the occasional pipe up from Abbot giving some advice or helping someone out. 

You and the senior decide to take a break, tired out from the drill. Next to you, Trinity is up against a freshman, but since the point of the drill isn’t to win, it’s to get better at control, she’s not getting any glory. In fact, the freshman keeps hitting the ball outside of the alley, forcing Trinity to chase after the shots more than usual. 

“What’s up with you two?”

You finish sipping your water out of the bottle and turn towards the voice. Coach Abbot walks up to you, then leans against the fence where you’re standing, watching the two players on the court adjacent to yours. He braces his freckled forearms against the top of the wire and waits for you to put your water bottle down. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, wiping the water off your top lip with the back of your hand. 

His eyes flick down for a moment to your lips then back up at you. Just noticing the motion. That’s all. 

“You and her,” he nods towards the drill between Trinity and the other player. And you know he’s not talking about the freshman. 

“Oh, she’s cool. We were doubles partners our first year. But we weren’t a great fit, skillwise. We both have a good backhand and hang towards the back. Not an ideal pairing for matches,” you ramble. 

He listens, waiting for more. Abbot’s determined to learn you. Figure out what makes you tick. Find out which teammates you like and which ones you despise. 

You pause, glance over your shoulder, then back to your coach. “It’s better now that we play singles. I prefer it.” 

He shifts his weight a little. This feels familiar to him.“Robby and I were the same. We were paired up for the longest time, and it ended up being sort of a tough relationship. Constantly correcting each other. But after we grew out of our college egos, we were able to team up and win in bigger tournaments together.” 

Abbot nudges your arm with his elbow. “Maybe that’ll be you two one day.” 

You laugh then bite your lip. “I don’t know.” 

He pushes off the fence and turns fully to you. “I was watching you earlier.” 

Your heart skips a beat. You don’t know why. Coach Robby watches you all the time. All the players. That’s normal. That’s what a coach does.

But still. Hearing him say that. 

He lifts his chin. “You’re light on your feet. Not dragging them at all. And you had some great rallies. Your coordination is really on.” 

“Oh, thanks. I think I had some extra caffeine today.” 

“Whatever it is, it’s working. Keep it up.” 

You swallow and force a smile. “Thanks.” 

Your face feels hot. It was good to hear the praise. It really was. 

Coach Abbot turns and walks away to talk to some other players. His work here is done. 

And you sigh, letting your shoulders sag down. 

Heavens, were you that tense? You subtly press two fingers into your wrist. 

Your pulse is rapid, like you’ve just run a mile. 

He’s far away now. But you can’t seem to take your eyes off his black shirt and the way it pulls tighter when he’s demonstrating a racket swing to your teammate. 

───〃⭑

“Take a breather, and let’s regroup to end practice!” 

The sun is almost to the horizon. The air is finally cooling off and allows everyone to breathe a little easier. Robby says it's good to train in the heat. Gets your blood flowing faster and provides a more intense workout. No matter how much the team tried to get him to change practices to later at this hour, he never let up. When it came around to tournaments however, Pitt's team always outperformed the other teams. Probably because they were used to cushy practice indoors or in the evenings. 

There were perks. 

You stop mid-conversation with Emma, a newcomer sophomore on the team. You don’t know her super well, so you were making an effort to talk to her and find out more. Right as she was about to tell you about transferring schools, Coach Abbot’s voice echoes across the courts. 

“Tell me later, I’ve heard good things about Florida, I’m surprised you came here.” You kick a tennis ball to the baseline as you turn away from her towards the rest of the team. 

“Hah. Great weather but my team sucked, they were competitive but they wouldn’t let me play doubles,” she says, following you. 

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, but quickly lose focus on Emma to listen to what Abbot has to say. Coach Robby always gave a little pow-wow speech when practices were over, and I guess the new coach was good at picking up on the rituals. 

The rest of the team was gathered outside the courts on the grass adjacent to the parking lot. 

Coach Abbot holds a clipboard in his calloused hands, drawing a line down the paper with his finger, occasionally stopping to read something. 

He looks up when the team is all gathered. “Great practice today! Lots of improvement, but lots of area to grow.” He lifts the clipboard into the air. “We have our first practice matches of the season.”

You squint at the board, but all you can see is lines from a printed out excel sheet. 

“Coach Robby gave this to me today. You’ll be paired up with another player on our team. We are gonna treat this like a real tournament day, so come prepared. Monday, next week. We’ll put it in the group chat so you don’t miss it. I’m putting it on the fence so you can come up and see.” 

He lowers his arm and then looks around the girls. 

Instinctively, you all mirror him, trying to follow his gaze where he was looking. 

“Whitaker!” He yells.

The team manager pops up behind his beat up truck in the parking lot. “Yeah?” 

Dennis hurriedly pops the back of his truck down, then slides out a large box from the back. He hoists it over his shoulder and walks nearly effortlessly to the group and sets it down on the grass. 

“We’ve got a surprise for you all too,” Coach Abbot says as Dennis sits down on the ground, sending the team into an excited chatter.

The girls eagerly lean closer, and most have already correctly guessed what’s inside. Without a word, Dennis pulls the top flaps open, revealing crisp baby blue tennis uniforms with white detailing. 

Some girls squeal in unison. A few bounce on the balls of their feet, craning their necks to get a better look. Dennis holds out a hand at the noise. “Hold up, I have a list with names and the sizes you wrote down. We’ll make sure everyone gets their right size. Line up!” 

There’s a shuffle of sneakers against pavement as a line falls into place, a hum of chatter settling among the group. Everyone is far more excited about uniforms than the practice matches. Victoria in front of you whispers about how cute the pleats in the skirts are. Some depart from the line for a moment to glance at the clipboard Abbot hangs up on the wire fence before returning.

You’re not really in a rush to get anywhere, so you hang towards the back, noticing the style of the outfits as one teammate holds it up to her figure. 

“Hey, champ.” The deep masculine voice knocks you right out of your thoughts. Low and direct. And you recognize that nickname. 

Coach Abbot stands to your left, following the pace of the line with you. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, leaning towards you ever so slightly. His eyes skim the line before settling on you. Checking to see if anyone else is listening. 

“Hey,” you say, smiling nervously. He looks like he’s about to tell you something serious. His demeanor is more earnest now. Less military but still being deliberate. 

Abbot observes the way you straighten your neck when he approaches. Your quick, polite smile. He’s seen it in players who care too much about getting it right. It’s good for performance, but he knows it can get in the way. 

He then lowers his tone. “Wait around after you get your uniform, ‘kay? Don’t leave practice yet.” 

Your stomach lurches. Did I do something wrong? Flipping through moments of practice, you draw a blank. It makes it worse, you don’t even know what could possibly be needing attention. Your throat goes dry and you swallow to clear the feeling. 

Coach notices that you’ve gone stiff. “Don’t worry, I have a proposition,” he says calmly. 

He follows your reaction closely. There it is again, uncertainty. He exhales quietly through his nose. He forgets that you’re not used to being pushed the way he pushes. He knows that Coach Robby has probably gone soft on a player like you, a winner, who he doesn’t need to focus on to get ready for competition. 

You need someone like Abbot. Someone who can challenge you the way you deserve to be. 

He gives you a firm pat on the shoulder and then leaves you to stand in the line alone. There’s only a few more players in front of you till you reach the end. He’s eager to tell you more, but he knows that you like to keep a low profile, so he doesn’t want to draw more attention to the two of you. 

As you let the last girl walk away with her new uniform, Dennis looks up at you. “Hi!” He reaches into the box and pulls out a top and skirt for you. There’s a few uniforms left, for your teammates that didn’t show up to today’s practice. 

“Here you go! If it doesn’t fit, just let me know and we’ll exchange sizes.” 

“Thanks.” 

Reflexively, you hold it up to yourself like the other girls did and nod to the manager. “I think it’ll work.” You smooth the soft fabric between your fingers, but your mind is still elsewhere, sort of in a half daze. 

Dennis folds up the box and makes his way back to his truck. The tailgate slams shut with a dull thud, the sound carrying across the now quieting court. 

You linger back, watching as slowly the team disperses into the parking lot. Groups peel off in twos and threes, voices fade, cars open and close, engines revving. Energy drains from the space, filling it with background noise from the city of Pittsburg around you. 

When you turn around, Coach Abbot stands there, waiting for you. 

He hasn’t moved much. His weight is shifted slightly on his prosthetic's side. He watches the last car leave the parking lot, then lands on you. 

He beckons you over with his hand. You trot over, intentionally breathing slowly, anticipating the worst. You try to slow your heartbeat, but it feels heavy and loud in your chest, masking everything else around you. 

“What’s up?” You manage, keeping your voice level. You’re not sure why you’re feeling so nervous. You’ve stayed after practice many times. Coach Robby liked to give you tips. Sometimes you stuck around to practice some more. There’s a reason why you were one of the best players on the team. While most left to enjoy their summer nights before school started up, you knew this was the only spare time you had before your classes were fully ramped up and extra time for fine tuning skills was scarce. 

This feels different. Coach Robby was predictable. Easy on you. There’s an intensity to Coach Abbot that you haven’t figured out yet. It makes every interaction feel like there’s something on the line. 

“How are you feeling?” 

The tone of his voice is soft. It catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting a therapy session, or talking about feelings. 

He’s just asking a question. Figuring out where you’re at. 

“I’m fine,” you respond, looking down at your feet. Your shoe nudges at a crack in the pavement. You trace the line absentmindedly. 

“Hey.” 

You look up at him, and he takes a step closer to you, holding eye contact. 

Not invading, but he definitely steps close enough that you can’t avoid him now. His brows scrunch in focus, trying to read you. He’s not trying to intimidate you but it damn well feels like it. 

“You seem nervous. How are you feeling about the upcoming season?”

This is what’s important to him. You can play as well as you want. But if someone’s head is elsewhere, they’ll never handle the pressure. He knows this season is different for you. You might lose the champ title. It’s not guaranteed. 

And it scares you. You fear failure, and even worse, you fear disappointment. 

Disappointment from Coach Robby. 

And now, from Coach Abbot too. 

He’s trying to figure it out. Figure you out. 

But you can’t reveal all that’s on your mind. Because there’s something else invading your mental space. 

And it’s right in front of you. 

You hesitate for a moment, mouth opening, closing, then, “I mean… I’m excited.” Your fingers tighten slightly around the folded uniform in your hands. “Yeah, nervous too. I just want to do well.” 

He nods once, slowly, and smirks. He was expecting that answer. It doesn’t satisfy him. 

“I figured.” He shifts his weight and crosses his arms across his chest. “I’ve been watching you.”

Your hands feel clammy. 

“You’ve got good instincts,” he continues. “Footwork’s solid. You recover fast. And you’re definitely not a quitter,” he says the last part with a chuckle. 

It almost feels like praise and you lift your chin an inch higher. 

“Thanks,” you say, but you’re not sure if that was his intention. 

He studies your body language. You accept it but don’t fully take it in and internalize it. 

“But,” he adds, looking off to the side as if coming up with the right way to say his next line. “You’re playing it safe.” 

There it is. 

There’s always a catch. Your shoulders tense before you can stop it. 

“You hesitate when you’ve got an opening. Second guess shot selection. You’re good at winning points but you don’t control the game. Yet.” 

Abbot takes a step closer, forcing you to crane your neck and look up at him. 

“It's gonna cost you,” he warns. 

You swallow. “Okay.” 

Your mind already replays rallies. Finding moments that confirm what he just said to you. He’s not wrong. It bothers you. 

There. He sees it. That flame igniting behind your eyes. 

“So,” he says, voice leveling out again, his gritty tone leaving. “We’re fixing it.” 

You blink. “We?” 

The corner of his mouth lifts. 

“We,” he repeats. 

He gestures to the courts behind himself, empty, nets still strung, sunset glowing across the sky, casting soft shadows across the surface. 

“You’ve got a practice match coming up. You know that,” he says. 

Your grip tightens on the uniform again. “Yeah, I’m already thinking about it.” 

He lifts a pointed finger to your face and shakes it. “You go in like you played today,” he tilts his head down to look at you more intensely, “you’ll hold your own. You’ll even win.” 

He pauses, letting you tune in more. 

“But you won’t dominate. And you should. You are completely capable.” 

Expectations. Abbot’s holding you to a higher standard. 

“So what do you want me to do?” You huff defensively. 

He doesn’t hesitate, you said exactly what he was laying up for you to say. 

“One-on-one training, you’re staying.” 

It’s not an offer. 

Your eyebrows lift slightly. “You mean, right now?” you stammer when he doesn’t move. 

“Yeah, champ,” he breathes. “Let’s not delay the inevitable.” 

Champ. His champ. 

He nods once towards the court. “Just thirty minutes. Maybe forty.” 

Without another word, he walks towards the fence gate and pushes it open. In a swift movement, he picks up his racket, then turns around to you. 

But you’re already setting your bag down, uniform folded beside it, pulling out your racket you thought you’d finally get to rest this weekend.

Abbot straightens slightly. There’s a quiet satisfaction in it. You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question him. Just stayed like he wanted.

He watches you for a moment longer than necessary. He wasn’t sure you would. Thought you might push back.

But this, this he can work with. The easier you are to guide now, the sharper you’ll be on the court.

And the closer you’ll stay to him.

Once you’re on the court with him, he taps his temple with two fingers. “You don’t get to think your way through this drill. We’re going to run pressure drills. Fast feeds.”

You let out a small breath. Part nerves, part adrenaline kicking in. “Okay.” 

Coach Abbot sees some hesitation in you, but also he sees what he was looking for in you. Drive. 

“I’m not going easy on you.” He warns. 

“I hope you wouldn’t,” you say with a smirk back. 

Maybe, just maybe if you can even feign confidence, you can keep up with him. 

“Good,” he nods and grabs a ball from a small basket near the net, bouncing it once against the ground. The sharp, hollow pop echoes in the dusk air. 

He takes a moment to pop off his baseball cap now that the sun’s gone down. You see the sweat soaked hair underneath, silver tone now darker. He flips it around and places it back on his head backwards, turning back the clock on his appearance. He has more of a frat boy look than your-friend’s-dad-who-coaches-the-team look now. 

You smirk at his new style. 

It gives you a glimmer of what tennis is all about for you again. Fun. Hard work, but fun.

“I’m going to push your pace past what you’re comfortable doing.” With his racket, he points to the other side of the court. 

You follow where he gestures to, but remain closer to the net to hear if he gives any more instructions, or warnings. 

And he does. “You’re gonna hate me for about twenty minutes." 

You suck in your bottom lip, biting it hard, then shrug. “I can take it.” 

“Atta-girl. If you really can, you’ll walk into that match with an edge that no one else has.” 

You lower your chest to the ground, bending your knees slightly, body automatically locking into practice mode. You backpedal towards the baseline. The way you square up, the way your posture settles, Abbot notices and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod to himself.

He dribbles the ball then grips it in his broad hand. He holds it to the strings of his weapon. 

“Let’s see what you do when you don’t have time to think.” 

ᯓ★

For the past two summers, you’ve worked at a coffee shop just down the street from your apartment. It initially started as just a means to pay rent, and now with your new tennis scholarship, you don’t need to work as much. But free coffee and staying busy during the summer months outside of practice kept you around. You worked enough to get the perks and for an extra buck or two for fun expenses. 

It was a slower morning. You were just beginning your shift, wiping condensation rings and crumbs off a table. The way the condensation glitters on the surface reminds you something that’s now becoming familiar. 

Beads of sweat on Coach Abbot’s freckled arms. Dripping down his temple. Glistening on his upper lip, seeping through his stubble. Your mind often wanders back to that first one-on-one practice. To only the sound of your heartbeat, Abbot’s heavy grunts as he returns your forehand shots, and the cicadas waking up in the summer evening. 

The bell on the door chimes.

The sound of feet shuffling in alerts you to incoming customers, snapping you out of your daze. 

As you turn to greet them, you inhale sharply. 

The last two people you’d expect to show up were your coaches.

Coach Robby walks in first, Coach Abbot close behind. They look around the shop for a minute, taking in the clean and light atmosphere, then in unison their gaze lands on you.

“Hi, welcome in!” You chirp almost automatically. Your brain is still in barista mode, and struggling to switch out. 

“Oh hey kid, I forgot you worked here, thought you would’ve quit by now,” your head coach muses, pausing by the entrance, standing still while you sling your damp cleaning towel over your shoulder casually. 

“Yeah, I could’ve quit but I like free coffee too much,” you smile, eyes fixated only on Robby. 

Coach Abbot stares at you, unaccustomed to seeing you in anything but tennis clothes. Something in his chest thrums, the sight of your hair down instead of in a tight braid or slicked back with a hairstyle disarms him. You’re both equally put together and relaxed in this environment. 

You purposely avoid meeting those hazel eyes. And there’s no baseball cap shielding his face either. Just tousled silver curls, scruff, and his penetrating gaze. He’s wearing camouflage pants that hide his prosthetic and a plain black shirt. 

Just as strange as it is for him to see you like this, it throws him off more than he’d ever admit.

Coach Robby clears his throat. “I’ll get my usual,” he says with a smirk. “If you can remember it.” 

You turn back towards the bar. “Black coffee, no sugar, splash of half-and-half, right?” 

Abbot eyes the small of your back where your apron is tied off in a cute bow. So domestic. 

What the - this is a tennis player. Not a piece of work to admire. 

He misses when Robby taps him on the shoulder, a silent indication for him to tell you his order to. 

Abbot gives him a look, and when he sees you raising an eyebrow, he stutters back to reality. “Oh, um- I’ll also get black coffee. Just two sugars, no cream. Thanks.” 

“You got it, coach.” 

Preparing their coffee in the back allows the unexpected adrenaline to power down. You listen as they find a table by the window, lost in chatter about the latest sports updates, hearing the occasional chuckle from both of them. 

Before too long, you wrap around the counter and present them with their drinks, one in each hand. You set them down on the edge of their table. “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Robby gives you a short nod without reaching for his cup, practicing advised patience. 

“Yes, thank you,” Abbot says. You look him in the eye, and give him a polite smile.

“Anytime.” 

Coach Robby glances around the vacant shop. “Wanna sit for a second, kid? We’ll let you go if anyone comes in.” 

You shrug. “Sure, though I will say I can’t tell you the slightest about what’s happening in the golf world.” Pulling a chair over nearby, you sit at the head of their table. 

“You’re up against Mel today, right?” Abbot asks, jumping into the only comfortable conversation topic he can muster between you two. 

He doesn’t know you much outside of practice, admittedly. 

Robby shakes his head. “Give the girl a break, she’s off the clock.”

This gets a rusty sigh from Abbot. “Tennis season is never off the clock.” 

You stifle a laugh from their bickering. “Yes, I’m up against Mel,” you answer Abbot’s question. 

Robby’s not having it. “How’s your upcoming semester coming? Are we going to lose you to any serious exams?” He changes the subject from tennis to something worse. School.  

Come to think of it, Abbot has no idea what you’re majoring in college. He’s forgotten that you even are in school. You’re still a student, not just a tennis player. 

It makes him feel, well, old. It’s been years since he was studying for exams. And you’re in the thick of it. 

“Hopefully not. I’m taking the next level of bio-chem, though. I’ve heard it’s hard,” you mutter. 

“Bio-chem, what are you studying?” Abbot says, squinting his eyes, trying to figure it out for himself. 

“I’m pre-med. With a focus in microbiology.” 

There’s a beat where he just looks at you. A second too long.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “You wanna be a doctor?” 

“Oh, definitely not. I’ve actually liked doing research on the side,” you shift to cross your legs, feeling like you don’t know exactly what to do with your body. “So maybe a clinical research assistant?”

“Huh.” He leans back slightly, still watching you.

Robby picks up his cup, which he decides has cooled sufficiently. “She’s smart. Though she might not have to do a career like that if tennis takes off for her.” 

You shake and drop your head. “I love tennis, not sure if I want it to be my primary source of income.” 

“Hmm, you definitely have the potential for it,” Abbot says quietly. 

Robby gives Abbot a questionable glance. Abbot catches it and shrugs it off. 

“What?” he mutters under his breath, almost defensive.

The bell on the door rings and you jump up to your feet, a little too fast, the chair scraping the floor beneath its legs. 

You greet the incoming customers, then look back at your coaches. 

Robby waves a shooing hand in your direction, giving you permission to attend the newcomers. “Don’t forget to tell us how much.” He holds up his coffee. 

“Don’t worry, it's on the house,” you hum back.

You quickly finish up an order at the kiosk, and just as the new customer sits down, your coaches clear their table and make their way to the exit. You’re not sure why you were eager to get back to your awkward conversation with them. It was never like this with Collins and Robby. But something about Abbot’s new presence threw you off… yet drew you in. 

They stand by the door and wave at you, “See you at practice,” Robby says. 

“See you, champ,” Abbot calls out. 

You give them a quick wave as the door swings behind them. 

…───

“Champ?” 

They’re only a few feet away from the entrance, making their way down the sidewalk. Robby slows his pace now.

“What?” Abbot asks, only now realizing he let your nickname slip in front of the other coach. Something that was pretty much only between you and him. 

Coach Robby now fully stops in his tracks. He holds up a finger. 

“You better have not picked a favorite,” Robby’s tone has turned cold. 

Abbot’s shoulders lift. “What? You have yours.” 

“Oh no, brother, we don’t do that around here.” The head coach takes a step closer. “We treat all the players the same.”

“Well, she’s not the same as the other players, is she?”

The words come out too quickly. Too sure. Like he’s already justified it to himself.

Robby scoffs. “The last thing she needs is pressure. Especially from you.” 

Abbot takes a sharp breath in. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not stupid, Jack. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You might have to stop giving her one-on-one training.” 

Abbot’s throat feels suddenly, very dry, and he nurses his drink to drown the feeling. “She wants to perform better this year. She needs pressure. She needs extra training.” 

“Sure, fine,” Coach Robby huffs. They both continue walking down the street, down through a crosswalk. 

There’s a pause in the conversation while he lets it sink in. 

“Just don’t blur the lines,” Robby adds finally. “You know how fast that gets messy.”

Abbot doesn’t answer right away. He could fight back. “What lines?” But he’s already in too deep. Too invested in you. The truth he refuses to face yet is there, rising to the surface. And he doesn’t need Robby involved in this. 

His gaze drifts back toward the building for a split second, toward where you’re still inside, just out of sight.

Then he looks away first.

He decides to leave it here, at least for Robby to back down. 

“…I’ve got it handled,” he says.

But it doesn’t sound as certain as he wants it to.

───〃⭑

Javadi gives you a passing fist bump. “You got this, girl.” 

Even though this should be the hottest part of the day, an overcast day casts welcoming shadows over the Pitt’s courts. You hate having to play with a visor or cap, so this is all to your advantage now. 

You adjust your headband and step into the court where Mel is already dribbling a ball. 

Trinity has opted to sit in the umpire’s chair. Always watching your every move. And you let her. She’s not your competition anymore, not that she should've been anyways. You play for the same team. 

Coach Robby stands on Mel’s side of the court, holding a clipboard against his hip, smacking gum between his molars. 

Coach Abbot lingers by the fence on your end, legs in a wide stance, eyes shielded by his aviators. But you know he’s honed in on you. 

This was typical for practice tournaments. Coaches helping out the teammates on opposing sides, monitoring the matches. Helped avoid drama and messes when one coach was focused on two or four players at the same time.

Other players gather at the fence line to watch. They could always learn a thing or two by watching. 

“Alright, whenever you’re ready,” Robby hollers, and you stand back behind the baseline, sucking in a deep breath, anticipating Mel’s serve. 

Mel pushes up her glasses once on her face. We gotta get her contacts. “Love all,” she shouts. 

The match starts slowly. You hit a few rallies back and forth. Today, you try to stay close at the net. 

Mel smacks a shot to your left corner, it whizzes by before you can catch it with your racket. 

“Nice shot!” Trinity shouts. You shoot her a glare. She shrugs. 

And that gets your blood rushing. 

Coach Abbot pulls his shoulders back slightly. He witnessed all of that, but he’s not eager to cut in yet. He wants to see if this sets you off or if your behavior stays level. 

Mel resets at the baseline. “Fifteen love!” 

Come on, come on!

She hits a solid serve down. And you slam it back, barely getting over the net. She can’t get over in time, and you get the point. 

“Yes!” You hiss to yourself, hand gripping your racket tighter. 

Abbot grins. Attagirl. Trinity might have set you off, but in a good way.

“Fifteen all!” Mel calls, already stepping back into position at the baseline, a new ball in hand.

“Get up to the net,” Abbot’s low voice comes across the court. 

What?

And you miss the serve. You blink in surprise. 

Before you can process what’s happened- “Thirty fifteen!” 

You shake your head for a moment then bounce lightly on your feet. Trying to get back your focus. 

Now all you can think of is Coach Abbot watching you. You were doing fine till he said something. Your pulse pounds in your ears, blood buzzing through your body. 

You manage to return the serve. There’s a few rallies, and listening to Abbot’s unwelcome advice, you hover by the net. 

Mel’s racket reaches up for a lob, and it comes down fast. You let it bounce on the court, running after it, but the neon ball just falls outside of your reach. And you miss it. 

“Ugh!” You scream, as air meets the strings, not the satisfying pop of the tennis ball. 

With one swoop, you swing your racket, the edge hitting your shin with a dull smack. 

A few girls gasp. Must be the freshmen on the team. Your other teammates were used to your court etiquette and behavior.

“Hold up, let’s take a two minute breather.” 

It’s Robby’s voice this time. You turn around and see Mel already jogging over to Robby, ready to listen to whatever tips he had in store for her. 

Coach Abbot’s already at your side. He places one hand firmly on your shoulder, hand dips his head down to your level. “What was that?” 

You focus on the spot on the ground between your feet. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

He doesn’t let go, and instead gives you a shake.

This startles you and you look up at him. He removes his hand now, and takes off his sunglasses cleanly. 

He's glaring at you. Jaw tight, hazel eyes darker. “You okay, kid?” 

Kid. Not champ. This behavior is childish. 

“I don’t know, I’m just- having trouble-” you say between inhales and exhales. 

Abbot holds up both hands defensively, straightening his posture. “Okay, let’s take some breaths. You are doing good. Just hang in there. Breathe in-” and Abbot takes in his own breath, filling his lungs. 

You inhale. 

In-

“And out,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. 

Okay.

It worked, surprisingly. The breathing, plus your mind latching onto the sound of his husky voice saying “you are doing good”, helps you compose yourself. 

His hand reaches for you again and presses lightly into your shoulder as he leans in, voice dropping softer and more deliberate. “Her forehand’s weak,” he says, breath close against your skin. “Work that side… she won’t last long.”

You turn your head just a hair, eyes locking for a beat. Understood. 

“Yeah. Got it.” You close your eyes and Abbot stands back, giving you breathing room. The heat from the proximity of his body leaves you, and you sidestep away. 

You shift back into position, tapping your toes against the baseline, racket lifting as Mel settles in to serve again.

The noise around you dulls. Trinity, the girls, even Robby’s voice fading into the background.

It’s almost like Abbot’s still there, right beside you. She won’t last long.

Mel tosses the ball high into the air.

You move before you can think. The return comes off your strings straight into her forehand side. It’s sharp, like the taste of blood in the back of your throat from exertion of the match. 

She misjudges it. The ball clips past her racket and bounces out of reach.

A few girls cheer from the sidelines.

You don’t celebrate right away. Just let out a breath, steadying yourself. But a smile tugs at the corner of your lips anyway.

Abbot simply watches. He doesn’t react. It’s all internal.

But in between the pride and satisfaction he feels and doesn’t show, there’s something else. 

Tangled in there is something he shouldn’t be feeling. 

ᯓ★

Hey champ – good work today. You up for a one-on-one tomorrow evening? -J.A.

Who signs their messages? 

You stare at the text, screen glowing in the dark as you lay bunched up in your sheets. 

It’s late at night. The time reads 11:48pm. The text had only come through minutes ago, interrupting your lazy pre-bedtime scroll. 

Your imagination wanders to what your coach was doing up so late. 

Was he in bed like you? Under his sheets, probably a navy or a dark grey color. Was he the type to wear old flannel pants to bed and a comfortable t-shirt? Or maybe he just slept in his boxers, shirtless…

You sit up in bed. 

Your heart is racing. 

Thinking about your who-knows-how-old coach, in bed, shirtless. 

You groan and rub your palm into your face. 

This was bad. 

This was very bad. 

You glance at your phone, hoping that by some miracle the text has disappeared and you can forget everything that just flashed in your mind. 

It hasn’t. 

And worse, you’ve accidentally sent a text. 

All it says is:

lkhg m 

You press and hold the text, hoping you can unsend it, but it’s too late.

“Shit!” You hiss, and watch in horror as the thought bubble pops up on the screen. 

What does that mean? Is it a new abbreviation your generation came up with?

You freeze. “Your generation?” You scoff out loud to yourself. 

Sorry!! I didn’t mean to send that

You hit send. 

Somehow, you can still feel your heart pounding in your chest, but the feeling is different. Fear… has a funny way of turning into excitement. 

You wait for him to respond. Then- Don’t tell me you butt-texted me back. 

The laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your fingers fly across the keyboard. 

Haven’t heard of butt-texting. Is that one of your generation’s abbreviations?

His text comes through at record speed. 

Yeah. It’s new. Get with the program.

Your eyebrow lifts. Sassy.

Across the city of Pittsburg, in a larger apartment than yours, stands Coach Abbot, in front of his mirror, trimming his scruff. This is a ritual for him. Come home after spending some time out at a local bar, getting drinks with other ex-military buds or even Robby, eat some leftover takeout, get out the trimmer, hop in the shower. 

He happened to be thinking of you. 

Maybe he’s had one too many drinks tonight. His head feels a little buzzy, but he’s still conscious, still pretty much there, at least he tells himself. 

But, with a weakened state of mind, his thoughts wandered to you. 

What would you be doing at this hour? Out with friends? Going to a party? Wearing a short dress, couldn’t be shorter than your tennis skirts. Hopefully it would be something sparkly, fun, energetic, like how you were after hitting a winning shot. Arms raised in the air, jumping to obnoxiously loud music, dancing with your whole body-

No, that didn’t seem like you. On a random occasion, maybe. 

Or, you’re more of an introvert and you’re at home, watching TV. A movie you’ve seen a hundred times. The idea feels… cozy to him, he has to admit. Or maybe you’re already asleep. No, there’s not a single college student that should be going to bed before midnight on the weekend in the summer. At least you’d be awake, maybe winding down for the day like him, perhaps you’re wearing one of those silly masks that women always wear that makes them look like a ghost, and maybe you’re wearing comfortable, silky pajamas…

Abbot, flicks his trimmer off, and sets it down under his hand against the sink counter, and it hits the marble with a hard clank. 

He sucks a sharp breath in. 

His reflection in the mirror looks at him with disgust. 

What are you thinkin’? That’s one of your players. Not some woman you’ve taken on a date that you can’t stop fantasizing about. 

He barely knows you. All he knows is that you’re a pre-med student, exceptionally good at tennis, maybe even better than him some days. You’ve got a killer backhand, you knock heads with some of the other players on the team, you work at a coffee shop when you’re not on the courts, and you’re…

Pretty.

Before another second passes, he grabs his phone off the ledge under his mirror, and types a text. 

He hits send, and resumes trimming his grey stubble. He’s almost done, just getting that stubborn area under the jaw. 

The vibration from his phone stops him, and he reaches for his phone faster than he’d like to admit. 

He furrows his brow when he sees your text. 

“Ellll, kah, huhh, guh,” he tries sounding outloud, unsure of what your text meant. 

He asks for clarification, unsure if you’ll even respond. Maybe you fell asleep while texting.

When you respond, he grins to himself. He’s far too pleased that you’re awake, reading his text, responding to him. Even if you were at the club with friends, you’re still on his mind. 

One text turns into a couple. 

And a few more. 

There’s a pause in the conversation over messages when you don’t respond to him. 

He takes this moment to hop in the shower, deciding that now was probably a good time to stop the conversation. 

Abbot, right before getting in, glances once more at his mirror. His cheeks are flushed. 

Oh no.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).

All you really wanted to do after your shift was grab takeout from your favorite restaurant, take a shower, put on your silk pj set, and conk the fuck out. Unfortunately, you had business to attend to. For the past 8 hours of your shift, you had been considering actually meeting Titus at the bar. On one hand, this was a stranger. A client. And the club had very strict rules about clients pursuing contact with you outside of club-sanctioned activities. Though, to be fair, you wouldn’t be the one getting in trouble if you met him. That responsibility would fall squarely on Titus’ shoulders for suggesting a meetup. You weren’t sure what he wanted to talk about. It wasn’t another contract. Bobby would have told you. It could be anything, and you didn’t want to put yourself into a situation that had the opportunity to escalate. But on the other hand, Titus had somehow gotten your private phone number. Not a terribly difficult thing to do, but you knew that if he cared enough to figure out your personal details, he likely knew where you lived. And he seemed like the kind of man who, if he wanted something, he got it. You would be having a conversation with Titus no matter what. The invitation for drinks was simply a courtesy. A performative act that gave you the illusion of choice. He scared you a bit. You knew nothing about him, but he had the aura of a man with skeletons in his walk-in closet. You made a point of not looking up the clients you were assigned. It felt like a breach of their privacy, regardless of the intimate nights you spent with them. They paid for intimacy, emotional and physical, and you did not want to cross the boundary into their personal lives beyond what they were willing to share with you.

Something about Titus made you break that rule. You needed to know more about him. And besides, he had crossed that personal boundary first. So during your break at work, you did some digging. Titus Danforth, son of Chester Danforth. Heir to a massive real estate and resort conglomerate. And yet, there wasn’t much known to the public. There were a few articles in business magazines talking about large mergers. An occasional gala photo. But other than that, Titus didn’t have much of a media presence. Which was both slightly comforting and further unsettling. After reading the articles, and deciding that he hadn’t spoken out of his ass, your mind drifted back to the tattoo on his ribs. It wasn’t massive, about the size of a half-dollar coin, and the passage of time had made it fade into a dark grey color. You might not have seen it if he didn’t stretch at the perfect angle in front of you. It was a small ‘X’ with two half-moons branching from the middle. There were other lines between the top and bottom opening of the X, but they were too faded to identify. It looked too specific to be a random symbol. You searched several different terms to try and deduce what it might be. You thought it might be a sigil of some kind. You looked up various sigils and their meanings. You scrolled and scrolled, until your thumb paused over one of the images. There it was. Crisper as an image that it was on Titus’ body, but the similarities were close enough that you clicked on the link. A page loaded. The Lesser Key of Solomon. A demonology index. The sigil you recognized allegedly belonged to one of the Dukes of Hell. You didn’t click on the button that called for you to read more. Titus potentially had a tattoo of a demonic symbol. That was really none of your business and you didn’t want to poke your nose around in something above your paygrade. Thankfully, your break had ended and you exited out of the tab before going back out to the club.

You stood outside of the hotel and you immediately regretted your decision to take Titus up on his offer. You watched as made-up couples in black suits and floor-length dresses walking through the main lobby. You looked down at yourself. You wore a sweatshirt and baggy faded jeans that covered your work outfit. You tugged the neckline of your sweatshirt up to make sure the glittery red bra strap remained hidden. Your sneakers were scuffed and your makeup had been through an 8-hour service shift. Quite simply, you looked extremely out of place. You felt eyes on you and you quickly made your way through the lobby and to the bar. The host blocked you from entering.

“Excuse me, miss,” he grunted. His tone was even, but you caught a glint of condescending amusement in his eyes. “This lounge is for hotel guests only.” Indignation flared in you.

“I’m meeting someone here.” You said firmly, moving to enter. He stepped in front of you. 

“The strip club is across the street.” He gave a tight smile and nodded at the door of the lobby. Your indignation ignited into fury. You took a sharp inhale and prepared your unsavory words, but a firm hand on your lower back interrupted you.

“Hopefully you don’t treat all our guests like this, Mr. Callahan.” A rumbling voice came from behind you. You looked over your shoulder to see Titus standing there, shoulders back and head high. He wore a small smile, but his eyes were dangerous. The host in front of you shrank under his glare. “She’s with me.”

“O-Of course, Mr. Danforth, sir. My apologies. Your booth is available.” Titus hummed disapprovingly and the man stepped aside. You wanted to give him a sneering grin, but your sudden spike in anxiety removed the weight behind it. Titus’ rescue was appreciated, but his outward claiming of you took you off guard. Usually your clients would never link themselves to you like that. Especially not in a luxury hotel like this.

Titus guided you into the bar. It was dimly lit by small lamps on the tables. Light jazz flitted through the air and tangled with the conversations. Thankfully, none of the other patrons paid you any attention. Titus brought you to the back corner of the bar. It was quiet. You dropped yourself onto the opposite side of him. It wasn’t long before a bartender brought over a glass filled with amber liquid. Titus thanked him and took a sip. The bartender looked at you. If he shared a similar disdain for you like his coworker, he hid it well. 

“Just water, please.” You smiled at him. He left with a nod. You folded your hands together on the booth table.

“I apologize for the way Mr. Callahan spoke to you.” Titus began, sucking his teeth after a sip of his bourbon. “It was inappropriate. He’ll be terminated tomorrow morning.” 

“You mean fired?” Your brow furrowed. “That’s not necessary-”

“It is.” He said with a finality that took the argument from your mind. 

“Can you…do that?”

“‘Course I can.” Titus tilted his head and gave you a smirk. “This is my hotel.” Right. The conglomerate…thing. A glass of water was placed in front of you. 

“It’s very nice, Mr. Danforth.” You took a sip of your water and he clicked his tongue with disapproval.

“I thought I told you to call me Titus.”

“Sorry.” You felt yourself shrink into the booth cushion. You considered yourself to be a confident person. But here? Now? Sitting in a luxury hotel bar with the owner of global 5-star resorts? Yea, you were out of your element. You felt your heartbeat quicken and a bead of sweat roll down the side of your torso. 

“I’ll be honest,” Titus continued, itching behind his ear. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up. I thought I overstepped.”

“By searching for my personal phone number?” You quirked a brow. “How could that be considered overstepping?” Titus’ smile widened at your sarcastic bite. It didn’t assuage your nerves. If anything, your heart pounded harder. You drank more water.

“I’m glad you came.” He allowed. “I wanted to ask you something.” He set his glass down on the coaster. “There’s really…no way to transition into it so I’ll just ask.” A fresh dose of adrenaline surged through your veins. “Will you be my girlfriend?” The breath was punched out of you.

“Wh-What?” Your eyes widened to a painful degree. “M-Mr. Danforth, I-” You lowered your voice and leaned in over the table so the surrounding patrons wouldn’t overhear. “I enjoyed my time last night but-”

“You misunderstand me.” Titus raised a hand and shook his head sharply. “I’m not…” he blinked and his nose twitched up. He was trying to collect the right string of words. “I’m not actually asking you to be in a relationship with me.” He let out a little laugh. “I’m not that pathetic, I understand the confines of our contact last night. But the summer social season is about to start, and I would like to actually have a companion this year. I’m proposing more of a temporary relationship. Basically, I’d pay you to attend events with me throughout the summer and then once it’s over, you can leave.” Your hands unclasped and you held them up in a placating gesture. 

“Listen, I didn’t know Bobby created a new tier. That’s…I’m not-”

“This isn’t through Bobby.” Titus corrected. “This is through me. I’m offering. Personally. I would pay for anything you need, rent, utilities, outfits-” he looked at your hoodie in a way that made you tug up the neckline again “-food. Anything you want. All I ask in return is that you dress up and behave properly at social events. Galas, dinners, a weekend in the Hamptons, nothing crazy.”

“Nothing crazy.” You scoffed, looking at your lap. “Look, Mr. Danforth-”

“Titus.” His voice was clipped and his smile had grown strained.

“Titus. I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t…do stuff outside of the contracts.”

“I’m not asking that of you.” Titus was quick to clarify. “No sex.”

“No sex?”

“Well,” his smirk softened again, cocky. “Not unless you want it.” You took a deep breath.

“So, okay, let me get this straight.” You flattened your palms against the table. “You want to pay me to be on your arm at social events. All I’d have to do is wear luxury brands and make small talk and not throw drinks at people?” Titus made an amused noise, but nodded and shrugged. “What’s the catch?” His smile faltered and he took another sip. The muscle under his eye twitched.

“Well, you’d have to pretend to like me.” He said. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was embarrassed. “You’d have to, y’know, hold my hand, talk to me, maybe a kiss on the cheek if you’re feeling generous.” A small wisp of sympathy tugged at your chest. Titus Danforth, billionaire, had to pay someone to show him affection. 

“So like a sugar baby.” You proposed. “You buy me things and take care of me and I return the favor through companionship. For a few months, anyway.”

“I don’t love the term,” Titus wrinkled his nose. “But conceptually, sure. If that’s what you want to call it.” You hummed in consideration. 

“Interesting.” You said into your water.

“Look, I know it’s a lot to consider. Feel free to text me if you come up with more questions while you make your decision. Do you have anything else on your mind?” Titus ran his finger along the rim of his glass. You noticed there was a golden signet ring on his right ring finger. Before you could stop yourself, the question tumbled from your lips.

“What’s your tattoo of?” Your words were quiet and innocent, but you saw Titus tense immediately. His finger stopped moving. The muscle in his jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to yours briefly before taking a breath and taking a drink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He said. “I don’t have any tattoos.” A simple enough answer, but you caught the underlying bite behind them. Be careful what you ask. He looked at you again, a glimmer of warning in his eyes. You backed down.

“Oh. Right.” You nodded. Titus drained the rest of his drink.

“This is unfortunately a time sensitive matter.” He continued. The dark edge in his voice was gone. “You can have until the end of the week. The answer can be yes or no. But I need one.” Titus took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. He gathered his coat and slipped from the booth. “Goodnight.” He gave a little nod and walked out of the bar. You were left blinking and alone. The bartender cleared his throat and you got the hint, gathering your things and removing yourself from the room. Stepping out into the night air was refreshing. It was still warm, but the air was fresh and it removed the lingering remnants of the heady bar atmosphere. You dug your phone out from your pocket and opened your best friend’s text thread. You pressed the voice memo button and began to talk as you walked to the subway station. 

What was it about summer heat that made everyone insufferable? If someone wants to go clubbing in late May, when the temperatures were only bearable in the dead of night, they must be ready for the sweaty, scorching mass of bodies that involves that. But apparently, that night, the club patrons ignored it. There had already been three fights in the main club. You had heard it from one of the bartenders while he was on break. Beer bottles over heads and teeth being knocked out. And while the VIP area had nowhere near that amount of tension, the irritating heat seemed to seep into the cracks. There was another business conference in the city, which meant a large amount of strange hands were touching you that night. You wore a one-piece that covered your boobs, but the skin down your middle was exposed to the hot air. You felt sticky. You really wanted a shower. 

You had been moving through the past few days in a sort of trance. It had been three days since your meeting with Titus, and his offer consumed your thoughts whenever you had time to think. It really wasn’t that bad of a deal. He was irritatingly attractive and he seemed relatively safe. You couldn’t really put a name to the reasons you were still hesitant. Maybe it was his tattoo, or the fact he denied having it. Maybe it was the indescribable dark edge he seemed to move with- the way that host cowered beneath him. The way the same host was reported missing the next morning. You weren’t sure. But there was something. Yet at the same time, you felt your heart pulling yourself towards him. The curiosity of the situation overpowered most of your reservations. 

A clattering noise pulled your attention to the other side of the club. You gasped with shock when your mind processed the situation in front of you. Two VIP members were grappling on the ground, hands round each other’s throats. They had broken the glass table and rolled around the shards. Without thinking, you rushed over to them. You grabbed the jacket of the top man. He was scrawny and you figured you could theoretically roll him off the other man. You were wrong. The moment you put your hands on him, his head snapped up. He slapped you, hard, across your cheek with the back of his hand. His ring cut across your cheekbone. 

“Get the fuck off me, whore!” He spat. His words held so much vitriol that it hurt more than any flesh wound could. You felt your stomach in your throat. You clutched your face and felt the sting of an open cut. You stumbled backward until your back hit the wall. You sunk to the ground and tried to hold back your tears. Thankfully, the bouncers were on them in a blink, dragging them by the collar and tossing them brutally out of the door.

“Holy shit, hon,” Bobby’s figure cut through your tear-blurred vision. Your chest was heaving and your lip quivered. “Come on.” He helped you to your feet and brought you to the dressing room. He got the first aid kit and sat you down on one of the benches. By the time your cut was cleaned, your tears were dried. But the pit in your chest was still pulsing. A whore. It wasn’t the first time you were called it, but it was, for some reason, the most impactful. You were so much more than that. You suddenly felt woozy. Your skin felt wrong, like it wasn’t yours. You needed to get out of there. “Why don’t you go home. Take tomorrow off, too.” Bobby said softly, resting his hand on your shoulder. The contact made your skin crawl. Wordlessly, you nodded and began packing your bag. Your feet carried you out of the building and to the subway station. The next thing you knew, you were fiddling with the lock to your apartment. You noticed a black car across the street. Too nice for the neighborhood. But you didn’t let yourself think too much about it. When you got inside, you pulled out your phone. On your walk home, you came to a conclusion. You could do better than men in a club berating you for doing a job they paid for. You opened the text thread. You weren’t expecting a response until the morning, but your phone chimed almost instantly.

a/n: now the fun really starts. also, yes, reader's phone will be in military time because i FEEL like it okay

Even though the door to the VIP lounge was practically bomb proof, you could still feel the pounding of the base on the other side. You were glad you worked in the lounge. You pitied the girls who had to serve out in the main portion of the club all night, trying to carry drink platters through the masses of dancing, drugged-up bodies without spilling alcohol on everyone. You had a good gig. While the main nightclub was chaos, behind the black door with ‘VIP’ scrawled in golden text was a sanctuary of sorts. It was a small portion of the building, but by far the most enjoyable. Quieter music played, the bar had higher quality wares, leather couches and tables created a place for conversation and relaxed celebration. Only members were allowed to enter. Membership was a quiet thing, not many people knew about it. Friends of friends and things like that. The men, and occasionally women, went through a thorough vetting process before they gained access to the area behind the door. But once they did, they tended to stay. They were treated so well, after all. You were a VIP Girl, one of the most desired positions in the entire club. Your nights consisted of wearing fancy, tasteful lingerie sets and waiting on the city’s elites while they smoked cigars and shot the shit with their friends. They all knew you by name, thanked you with big smiles, and cooed at you when you agreed to sit on their lap for a few minutes. For the right price, of course. While most of your shifts were just you being a glorified waitress, some nights were a bit more interesting. Bobby, your boss, had created a new tier of membership a few years prior. One that was more under the table and even more exclusive. One that only a small percentage of the customers could afford, and even fewer knew about. 

Bobby had approached you with the idea a little hesitantly, and said that he wouldn’t push it if you didn’t like it. You had been at the club the longest and he trusted your judgement. An option for the men to take you home for the night. He’d do everything in his power to keep you safe, extreme background checks and signed contracts resulting in a member’s expulsion from the club (and maybe a few fingers) if any harm came to you. You didn’t immediately deny him. 

“Isn’t that…illegal?” You had asked. Bobby had laughed.

“Our clients are a bit above that, honey.” You hadn’t really understood what he meant. Not until you had agreed and met with your first client. Then it clicked. They had enough money to make people disappear. Bribing their way out of a potential solicitation charge was light work. Most of the clients were normal-ish. They just got tired of fucking their wives or wanted to explore a new kink of theirs in a safe space. You didn’t mind. Not when your paycheck had two additional zeros added to it. But the additional strain was exhausting.

You had a headache. A dull throbbing right behind your eye socket. You placed three drinks on the low table in front of you, allowing the men to get a good view of your pushed-up tits. You released the glasses with loose fingers grazing against the condensation. You wiped the droplets of water against your thigh, a practiced movement. Your eyes caught the time from the watch on one of the men's wrists. 12:27. Almost time for your break. The men thanked you and one slipped a twenty into the garter of your outfit. You giggled and ran your fingers along the back of his hand before whispering a thank you and giving a wink. The smile disappeared the moment you turned your back. Usually, you were able to keep up a constant appearance of contentment during your shift. But tonight was not your night. You had almost snapped earlier when one of the patrons grabbed you from behind and pulled you into his crotch, murmuring about how he ‘knew about the top tier’ and ‘who does he have to talk to in order to join.’ Thankfully the bouncer took care of him before you threw a punch. 

You returned to the bar and handed off some empty glasses before murmuring that you were going on break. The club was well-ventilated, but the moment you stepped into the dressing room, the heavy heat of the summer air punched you in the throat. It was sweltering, even at midnight, and you turned on the little fan in the corner to help disperse the hot air. It only partially worked. You went to your locker and fiddled through your bag, pulling out the instant noodle dinner you had packed. It was the brand your best friend recommended. You filled it in the sink and popped it in the microwave. While it spun aimlessly, you checked your phone.

a/n: the first chapter of many! this is gonna be a lot of slice of life stuff with some plot points. im already falling in love with this idea so if you wanna be in my inbox talking about it who am i to say nooo

- jack specific facts:

- jack is missing his leg BELOW the knee. around the mid-calf area. his prosthesis is called a transtibial. his specific make/model is unknown. though it looks most like a conventional prosthesis. edit: i’ve been informed his prosthesis is an Enchelon Endolite, not sure what specific model, though it’s a few years old.)

- people with leg prosthetics will often shift their weight on their feet—sometimes almost constantly—to keep their balance. it can also SOMETIMES be called a Trendelenburg gait, and will only worsen over time. but a Trendelenburg gait can also be completely unrelated and different/occurs more at and in the hip area. (thank you to the person who sent in the information about that, it was very helpful !! you can find that here.)

- jack is missing his lower limb which means: he removes it/changes it before bed, showering, swimming, running etc.

- jack/amputees often have a rail or bench specifically made for showering for better accessibility and to keep themselves steady in the shower if they are standing/not wearing a waterproof prosthesis.

- he can sleep with it on, but it’s usually not comfortable & most amputee’s let their limbs air out overnight to reduce swelling, sores/irritation, chafing, etc. it’s feasible that he’d take his limb off right after a shift, and if he doesn’t; be in more pain/uncomfortable with the leg on.

- fluid fluctuates in the limb during the day cause the residual limb to swell/decrease in size, they require the addition or removal of sock “plies” to make sure the limb keeps a snug fit.

- his limb will require daily inspection and massage to check for blisters/keep proper blood flow to the limb.

- also requires daily cleaning of the limb and prosthetic liner to prevent skin breakdown and infection.

- amputation often causes anxiety, depression, and other emotional challenges; it’s reasonable to perceive that jack suffers/has suffered from one or more of these. he goes to therapy canonically.

- phantom pain is a thing !! nerve endings can still fire and cause pain/sensation of a lower limb even after it’s missing. it never goes away. jack has been portrayed with this at the end of pittfest in season 1 !! he absolutely suffers from it, and it’s important to represent !!

facts about prosthetic legs/prosthesis:

- first off; prosthetic vs prosthesis; a prosthetic is the field of study, design, and fitting of the device. a prosthesis is the artificial limb itself.

- the socket is the most critical part; it’s custom molded to fit each person, it connects the prosthesis to to the body.

- the suspension is how the prosthesis is held on; can be put in place by suction, vacuum, or locking pins.

- the pylon in the internal frame or pipe that provides the structural strength.

- modern prosthetic legs feature advanced materials—depending on the amputation level—that’s specialized in knee and ankles.

- temporary prosthetics are given right after amputation, permanent prosthetics are fitted 2-6 months after amputation, when the swelling has gone down.

- all prosthesis are fitted and customized based on each person’s lifestyle and activity level, and physical capabilities; including foot/shoe size.

- a prosthesis and parts usually need replacements over time from wear and tear, even though they are durable. (most last around five years.)

- poor fit can cause blisters, pain, swelling, and skin sores.

- prosthetic weight varies; thermoplastic models often being the lightest.

- amputation often causes anxiety, depression, and other emotional challenges.

- most prosthetics are made of titanium, aluminum, and carbon fiber.

- most regular/everyday prosthetics are not designed to get wet/be submerged and will rust.

- all amputees have to wear a sock or stump shrinker, it prevents swelling in the limb and when the prosthesis is not attached. it’s basically a carbon fiber cup. if the sock does not fit correctly, it can cause restricted blood flow; forcing blood into the distal end and cause more swelling.

- swelling in the residual limb called edema (occurs especially when irritated) can cause the sock and prosthesis to not fit/fit uncomfortably.

- there are special types of prosthesis; including waterproof, adjustable, and microprocessor controlled.

-

different types of below knee prosthesis;

- conventional:

conventional prosthesis are the most traditional prosthetic legs, and are the most common form of below-knee prosthesis. they consist of a plain socket, pylon (the supporting rod), and foot. They are strong and cost-effective, making them a popular option for most users.

a conventional prosthesis is usually constructed from lightweight materials; such as plastic and metal. they are plain with few moving parts, have basic mobility, are ideal for everyday use, and usually cost-effective compared to advanced alternatives.

- endoskeletal prosthetic legs:

endoskeletal prosthetic legs have an internal support-build, usually with a cosmetic outer covering. they are usually made to appear more natural and provide better mobility and comfort.

endoskeletal prosthesis are usually lightweight and flexible, they can be made to look more natural, are usually easier to fit and alter, and are better for individuals who want a more realistic appearance.

- exoskeletal prosthetic legs:

exoskeletal prosthetic legs are usually made of a strong, long-lasting, rigid outer casing, but are not as commonly used today. the prosthesis lacks the internal frame that an endoskeletal prosthetics have. the main structure is instead the rigid outer casing.

exoskeletal prosthesis are usually very hard and long-lasting. they are more damage and wear-resistant. better for those with heavy-duty requirements. are usually less customizable in looks.

- dynamic response prosthetic legs:

also called specialized energy-storing feet, these are created to help more energetic/athletic people move easily. they store energy/movement better when each foot is on the ground release it when each foot is off the ground; making walking and running easier.

a dynamic response prosthesis usually allows for more natural movement, improves walking, can reduce stress on the other leg, and is better for very energetic people; like athletes.

- microprocessor-controlled prosthetic legs:

these legs use more diverse forms of advanced technology to improve mobility and stability within the prosthesis. they usually have sensors that detect movement and can adjust in real-time; they enhance the quality of balance and walking.

microprocessor-controlled prosthesis usually have advanced sensors that respond to changes in movement. they can make you steadier if the ground isn’t flat, put less stress on the joints, are best for active individuals who need movement control, and are rather pricey but still usually efficient.

- waterproof prosthetic legs:

are usually made from materials that are not susceptible to corrosion or wear down. they are intended for people who use their prostheses in aquatic/water filled areas; like pools, or showers.

waterproof prosthesis are made using waterproof materials, can be used in wet conditions, are strong and more resistant to rust, and are best suited for swimmers and water sports athletes.

- adjustable prosthetic legs:

adjustable prosthesis allow a person to change how the socket fits around their limb as needed. they are better for children or those with changing weight/strength.

adjustable prosthesis have an adjustable fit, are a good option for children and people with fluid retention, can provide more support and comfort, and help to prevent discomfort from poor fitting.

- blade prosthetic leg:

a blade prosthesis is a high-performance prosthesis made from carbon fiber, usually designed for running, jumping, and high-intensity sports. similar to a dynamic response prosthesis, but not the same.

blade prosthesis are typically shaped like a “cheetah’s hind leg” to maximize energy return, are lightweight, usually J-shaped, they store energy upon impact and expel to propel the person forward. they act as a type of spring rather than a walking foot. the sole of a running shoe/sneaker can sometimes be glued to the bottom of the blade, as they can be slippery.

- below are pictures of different types of prosthesis:

- conventional prosthesis:

- endoskeletal prosthesis:

- exoskeletal prosthesis:

- dynamic response prosthesis:

- microprocessor-controlled prosthesis:

- waterproof prosthesis:

- adjustable prosthesis:

- blade prosthesis:

- jack’s prosthesis:

if there’s any other questions you have, please let me know and i’ll see if i can figure it out !! i hope this helps some of you and i can’t wait to (hopefully) see more representation of jack’s prosthesis/disability !! i know im going to try my best to include some of this stuff !!

They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:

"In‑laws."

The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."

The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:

Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.

You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.

You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:

"Murder‑suicide."

You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?

You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'

The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.

He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."

"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?

"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."

You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.

A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."

He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.

"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."

Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment maybe. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.

"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"

"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."

He was clearly gauging how much you knew.

"I know enough," you said.

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."

"Then why did she change her mind?"

He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.

"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."

"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"

"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."

"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"

"I would do anything to be with her."

Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."

You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"

"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."

"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"

Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."

You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.

"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.

"It will be a surprise. A good one."

"Ursula hates surprises."

"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."

You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.

"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.

"I'll consider it," you finally said.

Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."

He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.

"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.

"Did they win the seat?"

He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.

Grace MacCaullay.

The Le Domas family.

Massacre.

Murder suicide.

You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.

But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.

MARSEILLE, FRANCE

The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.

Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door.  You had bought it 3 days ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.

What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.

You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:

Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.

You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.

He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.

"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.

"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently

The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.

The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.

"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know

The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.

The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.

"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.

He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (30 euros), and he tipped his hat.

"Merci, madame." 

"Merci."

You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.

As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.

A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.

You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.

And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.

He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.

Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.

Where was Titus?

You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.

"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.

The garden was breathtaking.

The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.

You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents. They walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.

Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.

The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.

"Please stand for the bride."

Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.

She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.

"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.

But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.

It was the man walking beside her.

Titus.

He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.

Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.

Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.

Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression…something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.

The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:

You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.

The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.

You needed a drink.

The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.

Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.

She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.

Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.

"Ursula—"

"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"

"Explain yourself."

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."

She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."

"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."

For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."

Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.

"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"

"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."

Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.

"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.

"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”

She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."

"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.

She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"

"Are you afraid?" you whispered.

"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.

"Of what might happen tonight."

She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.

"How can you know that?"

"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.

"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."

"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."

"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.

You grinned. "I appreciate that."

Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.

"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.

"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."

For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.

The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last 10 minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.

You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.

Then she appeared.

She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.

"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."

"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.

Of course her name was Margot.

You watched her laugh a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.

"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."

"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."

"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"

"I've noticed," Titus said.

Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.

You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.

"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?

What a cunt.

"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison. 

Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.

"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”

Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.

Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.

"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.

You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."

"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"

He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.

You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.

"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"

He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.

"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."

This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"

"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"

"You're being cruel."

He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."

"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"

"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."

"How did you—" you started.

"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.

"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."

Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.

"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."

He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.

"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his other hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."

"That's—you can't mean that."

"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."

Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.

"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.

"Then stop trying to think." 

He stared at you, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.

You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh

"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.

"I don't recall asking what you deserve."

He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.

At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.

You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.

The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.

His room stole your breath.

It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.

Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.

"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.

"Show me," you begged, taking off your panties and heels.

He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"Titus—"

"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves.  He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.

"I missed you," you cried out.

"Me too, Angel."

He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.

"Please—I need—"

"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."

"I want to put my mouth on you."

And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.

"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."

You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud and fucking shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.

The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.

"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."

You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.

Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.

"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.

"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"

"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.

The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop, lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.

He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "But, I do want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when I make you come on my cock." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp. Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.

The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Whose pussy is this?"

"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."

He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.

"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."

His control snapped.

He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex…salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.

"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”

The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.

"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.

"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."

He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.

He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.

You checked your watch and sighed.

"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."

Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."

You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.

"Titus?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"I love you too."

The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.

"Titus?"

"Yes?"

"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."

Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.

"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."

He’d done what?

Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”

Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.

"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.

"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.

"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."

But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for you?

"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."

He didn't say anything.

All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.

You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.

The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.

Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him with his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.

"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.

Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.

After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained (not just Ursula and Titus), but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.

Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.

"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.

He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.

"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."

"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.

Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.

It took 37 moves.

Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.

Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.

"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."

You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.

"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."

His exhale was relief incarnate.

FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.

The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.

"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.

"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."

His son's face crumpled in protest which was a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.

"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."

Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing…the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.

The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.

"Don't," you said flatly.

"I haven't done anything."

"You're about to do something. I can see it on your face."

Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.

"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.

"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."

"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.

He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."

"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."

You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.

Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.

You had chosen him. You were his wife.

His.

And Titus would never forget that.

"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."

"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.

"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."

His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.

"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"

Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.

"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."

"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you teased.

"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.

You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night during a vacation in Mendoza. Your daughter was conceived (accidentally) from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name after a wine-filled dinner.

He continued rubbing your belly, and your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.

"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.

"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."

He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother." From inside, there was another kick against his palm. She loved his voice.

"She says no promises," you translated dryly.

"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."

"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"

Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $1200 per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.

"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.

You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"

"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."

"Titus, you can't just—"

"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."

You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.

So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.

"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."

"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."

"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.

That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"

"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."

You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.

"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part

Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle.

BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.

“Throw in an extra stitch for me, doc!”

Jail. Straight to jail. Men who still made that joke actually deserved prison time.

Izzy was grateful for the mask covering half the expression that crossed her face as her hands stilled over the rather brutal third-degree perineal tear she was stitching. Her eyes dragged slowly upward from blood and sutures to the man responsible. The goofy little fuck stood grinning beside the bed like he’d just delivered the punchline of the century instead of helping create the medical catastrophe currently laid open under fluorescent lighting. His wife looked miserable, face pinched tight with lingering pain and exhaustion, hospital gown slipping off one shoulder while she awkwardly balanced their newborn against her chest. Meanwhile, her husband stood there with two perfectly functional, entirely empty arms.

Useless.

Though honestly, what else had Izzy expected from a man who’d asked one of the nurses—while his wife was actively breathing through contraction pains—where he could set up his Xbox in the room?

She tied off the last stitch, clipped the suture, and finally leaned back with a slow exhale through her nose. Her eyes lifted over the top of her mask toward the new mom who had just spent twenty-nine miserable hours in labor so Seinfeld over here could workshop material beside the bed. The poor thing looked mortified on his behalf. She tried to offer Izzy an apologetic little smile around the baby tucked against her chest, but it dissolved into another sharp wince before it fully formed.

“Sure,” Izzy said flatly, peeling off one glove with a snap. “How small do you need it?”

His grin faltered instantly. Beside him, his wife let out a startled snort that clearly hurt the second it escaped her, face scrunching as she hissed through her teeth. “Oh my God,” she mumbled weakly, somewhere between horrified and delighted.

Izzy shrugged, utterly unrepentant as she dropped the gloves into the bin. “Sorry. Apparently we’re all making inappropriate jokes during active medical procedures today.”

One of the nurses at the warmer choked on a laugh loud enough she had to disguise it as a cough. The husband blinked at her for a long second, like he couldn’t decide whether he’d just been insulted or spiritually humbled. “I— that’s not—”

“No, no,” Izzy cut in, already adjusting the blankets over his wife’s legs with far more gentleness than she’d afforded him. “Don’t let me interrupt. I’m fascinated. Tell me more about the vaginal tailoring package you think we offer here at Sacred Heart?”

The man fell silent, face going impressively red beneath the fluorescent lights. Brutal? Maybe. But she’d had to pull a power cord out of the wall before the first thing this man’s child heard was Halo: Reach, and if Izzy had a dollar for every time she’d heard that joke in a delivery room, she’d be able to put both of the twins through college without putting so much as a dent in her finances.

She softened as she turned back toward his wife, helping guide her shaking legs back together beneath the blankets with practiced care. “All done, babe,” she said gently. “You doing okay?”

The woman nodded immediately, ponytail bobbing against the pillow even as the grimace tightening her face betrayed her. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you, Doctor Collins.”

Izzy snorted softly as she stripped off her gloves. “Honey, you do not have to thank me for coochie repair. That is quite literally what I’m here for.”

That finally earned another tired laugh from the new mom, quieter this time. Izzy tossed the gloves into the trash before glancing back at her.

“You need anything? Water? Juice? Food? The cafeteria makes a dangerously good brownie.” She rubbed absently at the small bump tucked beneath her scrubs and added, “Trust me. I’d know. These two have kept them in business over the last few weeks.”

The woman laughed softly, exhaustion pulling the sound thin around the edges as she looked back down at the tiny baby sleeping against her chest. “That sounds amazing, honestly.”

“Yeah?” Izzy smiled despite herself, sneaking another glance at the squishy little face tucked beneath the striped hospital hat. The baby had the deeply offended expression all newborns seemed born with that Izzy could never get enough of, squishy cheeks mashed against her mother’s skin, tiny mouth hanging open in sleep. “I got you. Brownie, extra ice water, probably enough snacks to concern your nurse.”

“No such thing,” Jenn called from the warmer. The L&D nurse offered the new mom a conspiratorial grin. “I know where they hide the good stuff.”

Izzy smiled and straightened with a quiet groan that came from both pregnancy and crouching over a delivery bed for the better part of an hour. God, if this was fourteen weeks, she didn’t even want to think about what the coming months were going to look like. Then she looked at Dad. He immediately looked wary. She snapped her fingers once and pointed toward the door. “Sounds like you’re up, Dangerfield.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Brownie run. Chop chop.” She made a little shooing motion with both hands. “Your wife just pushed an entire human being out of her body. The least you can do is return with chocolate.”

The woman laughed again, softer this time, while the man pointed at himself like he couldn’t believe he was being medically assigned errands.

“Yes, you,” Izzy said. “Go be useful. Reach will still fall when you return.”

Dad scurried out of the room with the kind of speed usually reserved for medical emergencies and men who realized too late they’d been annoying the obstetrician holding sharp instruments.

Was it her most professional moment? Absolutely not. But Izzy had also found that no new mother particularly minded the bossy OB, especially when that bossiness was aimed exclusively at everyone else in the room—especially mother-in-laws. The second the door shut behind him, the room seemed to settle. Quieter now. Softer. Just the steady monitor beeps, the rustle of blankets, and the tiny sleepy snorts from the baby curled against her mother’s chest.

The woman glanced back up at Izzy, her gaze catching on the curve beneath her scrubs before she smiled faintly. “How far along are you?”

Izzy’s hand drifted instinctively to her stomach again. It felt like the slope of it had appeared overnight, stretching the fabric of her scrubs tighter every morning she put them on. She’d known twins would make her show early—all her multiples patients did—but it still caught her off guard every time she passed a reflective surface. Logically, most of it was probably bloating. Emotionally, however, she already felt enormous.

“A little over three months,” she answered.

“You and your husband must be so excited,” the woman said softly, smiling down at the baby sleeping against her chest.

My baby daddy slash roommate who has another baby on the way with my former patient? Oh yeah. We’re thrilled.

The thought came automatically now, dry and sharp out of habit more than anything else. A few weeks ago it would’ve landed like a bruise pressed hard enough to ache for hours afterward. Instead, something warmer fluttered low in her chest. The same strange little pull she’d felt during that ultrasound when two heartbeats had appeared on the screen instead of one. The same feeling that had crept up on her the other night when she’d half fallen asleep against Sammy on the couch and his hand had found her stomach without thinking, thumb brushing lightly over the curve beneath her shirt like it already belonged there. Like they already belonged there.

The throwing up hadn’t stopped though. Last night, she’d thrown up because of the clicking sound her night retainer made when she put it in. Then Sammy threw up because she threw up. So she threw up again, because he was throwing up. So that was significantly less magical.

Izzy glanced down briefly at her belly before looking back at the woman and smiling faintly.

“We are,” she said quietly.

Her pager went off a second later. Izzy closed her eyes briefly before tugging it off her waistband and glancing down at the screen.

V. Ack — Need u downstairs ASAP

She exhaled through her nose. ER triage. Which usually meant somebody had waited approximately seven business days too long to come to the hospital and was now attempting to have a baby somewhere deeply inconvenient while an attending encouraged a terrified intern to take the reins on a whole ass entrance to the world.

Fantastic.

She clipped the pager back onto her scrubs and turned toward the bed again, expression softening immediately when she looked at the new mom. “I’m gonna get out of your hair and let you get some rest, okay?”

The woman smiled back, already looking half asleep herself now that the adrenaline had started wearing off. The baby shifted faintly against her chest with a tiny squeaky sigh. Izzy adjusted the blanket one last time over her legs before patting her gently on the shin. “You kicked ass, by the way. Seriously. Twenty-nine hours and a third-degree tear? That’s warrior behavior.”

The woman laughed weakly. “I don’t feel very warrior-like.”

“None of you ever do,” Izzy said knowingly. “Congratulations again, mom.”

Izzy smiled softly and reached out with one finger, rubbing gently over the baby’s tiny back. “And happy birthday to you, sweet girl,” she whispered. “Thanks for letting me come to your party.”

The newborn fussed immediately in response, little smushed face twisting up before opening into an enormous yawn that seemed comically too big for her body.

“Oh, big yawn,” Izzy murmured fondly. Then she slipped out of the room, pulling the door shut quietly behind her.

Labor and Delivery was calm for the hour. It usually was in the afternoons, the chaos dipping briefly into something almost peaceful for a few hours until the evening hit and poor over-exhausted parents would start calling for help. The halls stretched long and sterile white beneath fluorescent lights, carrying only the occasional squeak of sneakers, the soft cry of a newborn somewhere down the wing, or grown-up tears, for that matter. Izzy stood there for a second in the quiet, and without thinking, her hand found her stomach again.

She’d been doing that more and more lately. Absentmindedly. Constantly. Violet had noticed the first time almost immediately, of course. One raised eyebrow from across the nurses’ station while Izzy stood reviewing charts with her thumb brushing slowly over the soft little swell beneath her scrubs.

“You’re doing it,” Violet had said.

“Doing what?”

“The pregnant thing.”

Izzy had flipped her off without even looking up. Now she caught herself doing it everywhere. While charting. While driving. While standing in front of the fridge deciding if string cheese counted as dinner. Apparently, she was becoming one of those pregnant women now, because the hand-to-belly contact was nonstop lately. She was practically petting herself like she was a golden retriever.

Especially around Sammy. His hand had started finding her stomach too, almost hesitant every time, like he still wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to touch her there. Usually followed by the same quiet question against her shoulder or temple while they sat together at night under the same blanket in a totally platonic, roommate way.

“When can we feel them?”

And every time, she’d give him the same answer while her thumb brushed lightly over his wrist. “A few more weeks.”

He’d nod seriously like he understood, then five minutes later insist he’d felt something anyway beneath her skin. She never really had the heart to tell him that she was ninety percent sure he was emotionally bonding with trapped gas.

“Maybe this’ll be our room,” she told them softly, thumb brushing over her belly again as she started down the hallway.

The thought hit her suddenly as she passed the recovery rooms she’d walked through a thousand times before. Same whiteboards. Same awful floral artwork someone in administration probably thought looked calming. Same recliners she’d watched exhausted husbands fold themselves into while their wives slept beside bassinets at three in the morning. Only now she caught herself looking at them differently. Trying to picture Sammy there. Trying to picture herself there.

She slipped into the elevator just before the doors closed behind a set of bright-eyed grandparents stepping off with an obnoxiously large bouquet of blue flowers and a matching helium balloon screaming HE’S HERE! in giant glitter letters. One of them nearly tripped in excitement hurrying toward the nurses’ station. Izzy smiled faintly to herself as the doors slid shut. Then she leaned a hip against the wall and rubbed slow circles over the pale blue fabric stretched beneath her gray fleece.

“Or maybe not,” she amended quietly to her stomach. “The recliner in there kind of sucks. Maybe we’ll get the one down the hall and be nice to your dad.”

Oh man, that sounded weird. The word sounded strange to her ears. Not wrong, because biologically speaking, it wasn’t. But something about it panged in her chest in a way she couldn’t quite put a name to. She guessed she was just going to have to get used to hearing it. Not that she really minded. The elevator hummed softly as it descended.

Izzy stared at her reflection in the brushed metal doors for a moment, hand still resting low against the curve only she really noticed yet. It was strange, sometimes, how quickly this had started feeling real. Not in the terrifying abstract way it had at first. Not just lab results and ultrasounds and logistical nightmares. Real in tiny flashes—Sammy reaching for her in his sleep. Two heartbeats echoing through a dark exam room. Talking to them when she was alone without even thinking about it anymore.

The elevator doors slid open, and Izzy barely managed a single step before nearly walking directly into Violet.

She stopped short immediately. Violet was already standing there waiting for her, teeth worrying hard against her bottom lip, one hand clutching a thick envelope tightly enough to wrinkle the edges. She rocked faintly on her heels beneath her pink scrubs, eyes too bright in a way Izzy recognized instantly.

Uh oh. That was Violet’s tell. That little anxious sway usually came right before she said something guaranteed to ruin Izzy’s day.

Izzy narrowed her eyes immediately. “What?”

“What do you mean what?” Violet asked too quickly, innocence so fake it practically had subtitles.

Izzy stared at her flatly. “I mean what.”

The elevator doors started sliding shut behind her again, and Izzy automatically stuck an arm out to bump them back open without looking away from Violet’s face. A horrible realization hit her.

“Ah, fuck,” she groaned immediately. “Do I have to do another ER C-section? Damn it, you know I hate those.” She was already pushing back out of the elevator now, irritation building momentum. “They don’t keep their stuff where I keep my stuff. And Danielson is the day attending today, and I don’t have the patience to listen to him tell everyone how he biked here today. Can’t they get her upstairs first—?”

“No, no, no,” Violet cut in quickly, grabbing her forearm before she could fully launch into the rant. “No emergency surgery.”

Izzy eyed her suspiciously for another long second. “Okay,” she said slowly. “So not an ER section.”

“No.”

“Placenta previa?”

“No.”

“Shoulder dystocia?”

“Nope.”

“Oh god, did someone try to freebirth in the valet line again?”

“That happened one time.”

“And I still think about it. Every day.”

Violet was still clutching the envelope, thumb worrying at the flap now instead of answering her.

Izzy’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Why do you look like you’re about to ask me to help you bury a body?”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.” She pointed at her. “You’ve got guilt posture.”

“I don’t have guilt posture.”

“Then why,” Izzy asked slowly, “are we downstairs right now being downstairs people when we are very obviously upstairs people?” She gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “Our entire ecosystem is up there. Babies. Epidurals. Tiny hats. Why are we in the wild?”

Violet looked at her for a long second before asking carefully, “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Izzy’s eyebrows shot up immediately.

“The fact that there’s both is deeply concerning.” Her eyes dropped to the envelope again. “How bad is the bad news?”

Violet winced. “Well…”

“Violet.”

Violet blurted it out all at once. “Ryan’s here.”

Fuck me. Izzy felt her stomach drop so fast it practically hit her shoes. The fluorescent hallway suddenly felt about ten degrees hotter.

“…Ryan?” she repeated slowly.

“Your Ryan.”

“Nope. Not my Ryan,” Izzy corrected instantly, disgust immediate. “That man is a community problem.”

Before Violet could answer, Izzy looked past her toward the reception desk across the lobby, eyes skimming over the cluster of visitors and patients milling around like one of them wasn’t immediately identifiable from orbit.

There he was. The bitch ass himself. Ryan stood near the sliding front doors holding a cheap bouquet wrapped in crackling plastic while flirting with the receptionist like he was physically incapable of behaving normally in public. Tall enough to tower over everyone around him, broad shoulders squared, chest puffed out with all the subtlety of a bird performing a mating dance on Animal Planet. The receptionist laughed at something he said. Izzy watched him lean casually against the counter like he hadn’t detonated multiple lives in the last year alone.

God. What the hell had she ever seen in that man?

Objectively, she knew the answer. Ryan was charming in the same way fireworks were charming—bright, loud, exciting for a few seconds before something inevitably caught fire and ruined a household. Unfortunately, twenty-four-year-old Izzy had apparently seen that and gone yes, absolutely, let me climb directly into the explosion.

Current Izzy felt significantly less enthusiastic. Current Izzy wanted to throw things at him. Like bombs.

She rolled her eyes so hard it nearly qualified as a medical event before turning back toward Violet. “What the fuck does he want?”

Violet shrugged carefully. “He said he needs to talk to you.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does.” Izzy laughed once, humorless. “Did he finally contract a medieval plague? Is that why we’re in the ER?” Her eyes flicked back toward him suspiciously. “Ooo, wait! Did something large and preferably venomous bite him?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

Across the lobby, Ryan said something else to the receptionist that made her laugh again, his grin widening immediately like he was being rewarded for it.

“He looked nervous,” Violet offered carefully.

“Good.” Izzy watched Ryan lean a little harder against the reception counter, just enough to flex tattooed biceps at the poor receptionist. “I hope it’s terminal.”

“Izzy—”

“I hope he has dysentery,” she continued flatly.

Violet sighed. “Izzy…”

“I don’t care that he’s still friends with your traitor of a husband, Vi. I’m allowed to wish pioneer diseases on him.”

“My husband is not a traitor.”

“He plays poker with Ryan voluntarily. That’s treason.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Please. Aim bigger. Hope for a brain-eating amoeba.”

Izzy snorted. “It would starve.”

Across the lobby, Ryan’s attention finally snagged on them. His whole posture shifted immediately as he straightened away from the desk, grin flickering across his face the second his eyes landed on Izzy.

The idiot waved at her. Actually waved. Like they’d run into each other at a farmer’s market instead of after he’d detonated their relationship like a controlled demolition project.

Violet turned to look too, then scoffed softly. “It would.”

Ryan jerked his chin toward her with that same easy grin that once upon a time would’ve made her stomach flip embarrassingly fast. Back then, it had felt impossible not to get pulled into it. Like when he looked at her, she was the only person in the room worth seeing. Except she hadn’t been. Izzy knew that now. Hell, she didn’t think she’d ever really been anything more than the option standing closest to him at the time.

The realization didn’t hurt the way it used to anymore, but it still left behind something hot and ugly enough to make her want to commit light acts of domestic terrorism. Specifically against his truck. God. She should’ve let her brother put that hornet nest in there when the offer still stood.

Ryan started toward them, the heels of those old worn boots clicking against the polished hospital floors. Boots he’d owned the entire time she’d known him. Boots that usually came with some stupid line about “you can take the man outta Texas…” before he’d grin at her like he’d invented comedy itself. Izzy bit the inside of her cheek hard as she watched him get closer. God, she hated that she still recognized the sound of his footsteps.

“You better give me that good news right now,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth to Violet.

Violet snapped back into motion immediately. “Right—okay. Your free cell results came back,” she said quickly. “Both babies are very low risk for everything. Like, boringly healthy. No concerns, no flags, everything looks great. Yay for sex strangers with good genes!”

That stopped Izzy cold for half a second. “…Oh.”

“Yeah,” Violet said, shoving the envelope into her hands. “Everything’s in there. Full report, sex markers too if you wanna know. Or you can let me have a cake made for you and Sammy! Offer still stands!”

Izzy took it automatically, attention splitting awkwardly between the envelope and the increasingly large ex-husband approaching them from across the lobby. The universe really loved multitasking her emotional crises. Violet, meanwhile, apparently decided this was the perfect moment to become deeply attached to Izzy’s unborn children.

She stepped forward, planted both hands gently on Izzy’s stomach, and chirped, “Hi babies!”

Izzy looked horrified. “Vi—”

“Glad your chromosomes are behaving,” Violet continued warmly to her abdomen.

Ryan was close enough now to definitely hear this.

“Oh my God. Stop.”

“Auntie loves you so much!” Violet grinned, completely unrepentant, then kissed her hands and patted her belly twice before pivoting smoothly toward the elevator. “Okay, bye babies!”

“You coward—”

“Don’t commit a felony!” Violet called as the elevator doors opened behind her.

“Hey, Vi!” Ryan called after her, all dimples and easy familiarity like they were old friends meeting up for brunch instead of whatever the hell this situation was about to become.

Violet pointed at him without even turning around. “Burn in hell, Satan.”

Then she slipped inside and vanished, leaving Izzy standing there clutching prenatal test results while Ryan closed the final few feet between them with flowers in hand and entirely too much confidence for a man she’d once considered releasing hornets onto.

The last few steps felt entirely too close. Ryan stopped in front of her with that same dumb grin stretched across his face, meeting her flat stare like this was some normal little reunion instead of the first time they’d stood this near each other without lawyers present in months.

The last time he’d been remotely within arm’s reach of her had been across a polished conference table in a mediator’s office while two legal representatives pretended not to listen to them argue over assets and betrayal. Now he leaned forward slightly, like he was actually considering trying to hug her. The familiar smoky cologne hit her a second before he did, and Izzy immediately took a step back.

Absolutely the fuck not.

Ryan hesitated, thankfully getting the message before she had to physically fend him off with hospital equipment. Izzy’s gaze dropped instead to the bouquet in his hands. Cheap rainbow-dyed daisies wrapped in loud crackling cellophane. And somehow the idiot hadn’t even bothered to remove the little card still jammed between the flowers.

GET WELL SOON, GRANDMA!

How thoughtful.

She looked back up slowly, expression remaining perfectly flat compared to the grin still pulling at his mouth, a little crooked beneath the dark stubble shadowing his jaw. At one point, she must’ve found him handsome. Objectively, she supposed she understood it. Bright blue eyes. Tanned skin. Broad shoulders. That stupid crooked nose broken too many times from bar fights and training exercises gone wrong and a square jaw. The kind of face people trusted immediately despite every warning sign attached to it.

She guessed she must’ve loved it once, considering the seven years of marriage—and the two years she spent desperately trying to have his baby because some ugly little part of her had hoped a child would finally make him stay still long enough to love her correctly. Her perfect, handsome Ryan.

Now? Now all she saw was a six-foot-three migraine in a Grunt Style T-shirt that her children were having a visceral reaction to, given the bile creeping up her throat.

“Hey there, gorgeous.” He said it easily. Casually. Like he was walking through their kitchen again after rolling in late from a shift, damp hair curling at the ends after showering off the smell of someone else’s perfume in a truck stop bathroom before coming home to her to kiss tears off of her cheeks as she handed him yet another negative pregnancy test.

Izzy rolled her eyes immediately and shoved the envelope into her jacket pocket. Oh, fuck all the way off. So this was the game today, apparently.

“Don’t,” she said flatly. “What do you want?”

Ryan’s grin softened around the edges, leaning into something almost boyish. Manipulatively so. “A man can’t come see his wife just because he misses her?”

“Ex-wife,” Izzy corrected automatically. His mouth twitched.

“And not even legally that unless you finally signed the divorce papers I sent you two months ago.” Her eyes dropped meaningfully to the bouquet in his hands. “Those are some weird-looking documents.”

Ryan glanced down at the flowers like he’d forgotten the stupid things were there. To be fair, judging by the aggressively cheerful GET WELL SOON, GRANDMA! card still poking out between the dyed daisies, he probably had.

“These are actually for you,” he said, lifting the bouquet slightly. “Your favorites, for my favorite girl.”

Ugh, barf. Izzy bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. Her favorites were dahlias. Not that it had ever mattered enough for him to remember. They’d only been in each and every one of their wedding arrangements. Still, she smiled pleasantly—pleasantly enough that Ryan visibly relaxed for half a second—and took the bouquet from his hands with exaggerated grace.

“Oh,” she said lightly. “They’re pretty.”

Then she turned and dropped them directly into the nearby trash can.

Ryan stared at her. “Really, Iz?”

“I’m allergic to daisies. And don’t call me that.”

She started walking away before he could answer, already hearing his boots fall into step behind her almost immediately. “Since when?”

Izzy sighed heavily through her nose without slowing. “Since the entire time you’ve known me, Ryan.”

That shut him up for at least three seconds. A new personal record, as far as she was concerned.

Izzy turned toward the cafeteria without inviting him to follow. At least if she was going to be harassed by her ex-husband before noon, she could maybe get mozzarella sticks out of it. Her stomach lurched painfully at the thought.

Really, you two? No mozzarella sticks? We are going to run out of foods at this rate.

Ryan followed anyway, boots echoing behind her across the tile. Naturally. They stepped into the cafeteria, fluorescent lights humming overhead while a tired cashier restocked chip bags with the energy of someone one minor inconvenience away from quitting publicly. Izzy grabbed a tray from the stack harder than strictly necessary and headed straight for the salad bar before she did something professionally compromising, like claw Ryan’s eyes out in front of witnesses.

“Can we talk?” he asked behind her.

“Unless you’re carrying signed divorce papers in those boots, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Iz—”

“No, seriously.” She picked up a pair of tongs and aggressively moved cucumber slices around without actually taking any. “I already sent the paperwork. Already signed—with flags and highlighted marks to make it even easier on you. You could have saved yourself the drive and just faxed it to my attorney like you were told to do.”

Ryan exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. “You always get meaner when you’re hungry.”

“Then I must live in a state of constant malnourishment.” She snapped. “Get to the part where you tell me what you want so I can tell you to leave.”

He trailed beside her as she moved down the food line, expression softening in that way that used to work on her before she developed self-respect and hypertension. “I already told you why I’m here—I miss you, baby. Can’t that be a good enough reason?”

She finally looked over at him then, expression cool as she tightly gripped the tray to give her hands something to do besides committing felony assault with serving utensils. She was starting to understand Sammy’s little daily shouting match phone calls she could hear him having on the back patio more and more.

“No,” she repeated. “Get to it, Ryan.”

Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking significantly less charming and significantly more like a man realizing he’d walked into the wrong conversation.

“Some lady came by the house this week,” he said. “Put a for sale sign out front.”

Izzy reached into the cooler for a bottle of lemonade without looking at him. “Mmhm. ‘Some lady’ would be Diane—my realtor.”

He stared at her. “What’s that about?”

“Because it’s for sale,” she answered simply. “I’m selling it.”

Ryan blinked. “What? You’re selling the house?”

“That’s what ‘I’m selling it’ usually implies.” She finally looked over at him then, expression flattening further at his confusion. “My attorney informed your attorney a month ago.”

“I haven’t talked to my attorney in like—”

“Yes,” Izzy cut in dryly. “That has become painfully clear.”

Ryan frowned now, following after her while she moved farther down the line. “Why would you sell it? We loved that house.”

That one almost got her. Not enough to hurt anymore, but enough to irritate something deep in her chest.

“I did love that house,” she said finally. “Which is why I bought it. For us. Remember? Big backyard. Extra room we kept pretending would eventually be a nursery. But now I need a new house. Preferably, one that you and your mistress don’t live in.”

His mouth opened slightly.

“And unfortunately,” she added, “HGTV has yet to invent the ‘remove ex-husband from property’ renovation package.”

Ryan exhaled heavily. “Ashley moved out.”

Izzy snorted. Of course that’s all he took away from that. “Smart girl.”

“Okay, then where am I supposed to go?” Ryan asked, finally sounding irritated. “You’re seriously just gonna sell the house out from under me?”

Izzy shrugged lightly, staring down at the little rack of salad dressings like ranch versus balsamic required deep emotional consideration.

“I genuinely don’t give a fuck what you do. Hence the dissolution of our marriage.”

Ryan blinked at her.

“No, seriously,” she continued calmly. “You are a thirty-seven-year-old man with a VA loan, government benefits, and the survival instincts of a cockroach. Figure it out.”

“Izzy—”

“You managed to coordinate multiple affairs while maintaining a full-time career and a marriage. I have complete faith in your ability to locate an apartment, Ryan.”

Ryan rubbed both hands over his face now, visibly losing steam. “Look,” he sighed. “I know I fucked up.”

Izzy looked over immediately. “You’re gonna need to narrow that down dramatically.” His eyes closed briefly. She snorted. “See? That’s the issue right there.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m listening.” She leaned against the counter slightly. “Which apology tour stop is this? Ashley? The bartender? The waitress from Carlsbad? That stripper who really, really liked you? Or are we circling back to the emotional affair with your brother’s wife because you’re feeling nostalgic? Let’s not forget the tech from Salem’s vet!”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh, shut up.” She laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t get to pull the wounded cowboy routine now.”

Ryan stepped closer anyway, reaching for her hand out of instinct more than confidence this time. His rough calloused fingers wrapped around hers briefly.

“Iz,” he said quietly. “Just come home.”

There it was. The same line. The same voice. The same pathetic little tug at her heart he’d used every single time before.

I love you. I’ll do better. Come home.

Say what you would about Sammy’s whole fiasco, but at least he had the self-respect to stay gone the first time.

Ryan squeezed her hand lightly. “I love you. You know that.”

Izzy ripped her hand away from him like he’d burned her.

“I’d rather shit in my own hands and clap,” Izzy said plainly, already turning away from him with her tray balanced against her hip. “I have a patient at eight centimeters, so if we could wrap this up before somebody starts crowning, that’d be fantastic.”

“Izzy, come on.”

She kept walking. Ryan followed.

“I just—” He let out a frustrated breath behind her. “I don’t understand why you can’t forgive me.”

Izzy stopped so abruptly he nearly walked into her. Slowly, she turned back around. Heat climbed up her throat, so hot and immediate and intense that she almost laughed at the audacity of it.

This motherfucker.

For a second she just stared at him, genuinely speechless that those words had managed to leave his mouth with confidence. Like he’d been unfairly denied customer service instead of detonating nearly a decade of marriage through repeated, deliberate choices.

“You don’t understand,” she repeated slowly.

Ryan spread his hands helplessly. “I said I was sorry.”

“Oh, well, shit,” Izzy snapped. “Why didn’t you lead with that? Somebody call the courts. Pack it up, everybody! Ryan said sorry!”

Heads turned briefly from nearby tables.

“You cheated on me for years,” she continued, voice low and shaking now. “Not once. Not some drunken mistake. Years. Repeatedly. Creatively, honestly.”

“I know I fucked up—”

“Fucked up? You looked me in my face while I was tracking ovulation cycles trying to have your baby and still went out and slept with other women.” That finally shut him up. Izzy laughed once, sharp and furious. “And now you’re standing here asking why I can’t forgive you?” She pointed at him with the hand not gripping her tray. “You should honestly be grateful I haven’t poisoned you.”

Ryan exhaled through his nose like he was trying very hard to stay calm. “Do you think that might be a little dramatic?”

For half a second, the cafeteria noise kept going—plates clinking, coffee machine hissing, someone laughing near the drink station like nothing in the world was on fire. She slammed her tray down against the counter hard enough that the plastic rattled.

“You gave me fucking chlamydia, Ryan!” Izzy hissed, her eyes darting over his shoulder, scanning the cafeteria for any hint of attention. A couple of nurses lingered by the coffee station, laughing over something trivial, blissfully unaware. Good. The last thing she needed was to become the cautionary tale of the week. She snapped her gaze back to him, dropping her voice to a razor-edged whisper. “After fucking your teammate’s wife on my goddamn couch!”

“So?” he shot back, hands flying up in exasperation like she was the one being unreasonable. “I told you! You got the antibiotics! You’re fine now!”

Oh, she was going to fucking kill him. She was actually going to kill him. She was going to rip this LEGO person of a man apart with her bare hands in the middle of the hospital cafeteria. But noooo. Her therapist would tell her that line of thinking was unproductive. So instead, she just stood there in the cafeteria noise, looking vaguely homicidal. Her jaw tightened so hard it ached.

“That’s not the fucking point, dipshit, and you fucking know it!” The whisper came out sharp and vicious, her composure slipping just enough that she had to drag it back in with a breath through her nose. Great—now she was whisper-screaming in front of a salad bar. She wasn’t sure where this ranked on her list of personal lows, but it was somewhere between “humiliating” and “rock bottom,” she decided. Not dead last, but close enough to still earn a trophy.

Ryan scoffed, shaking his head like she was overreacting, like this was all just another argument he could brush off and wait out. That, more than anything, snapped the last thread of her patience. God, hadn’t that been how he treated everything in their fucking marriage? Like if he just stood there and stared at it long enough, it would just magically undo itself before he had to deal with it?

“So excuse me for not signing over the house that I fucking paid for just so you can keep playing house for free,” she continued, jabbing a finger into his chest. His expression shifted then, irritation flickering into something tighter, more calculating, but she didn’t let up. There he is, she thought. “The agent’s bringing her photographer by on Friday. Listing goes up Monday.”

“Izzy—”

“Don’t,” She cut him off clean, no room left for negotiation, for charm, for whatever half-assed excuse he’d been about to spin. “You need to be out by Thursday. End of story. And if you need it explained to you again, call my attorney. At least then someone’s getting paid to deal with you.”

She snapped up her plate before she could reconsider and stepped around him, dumping it onto the cashier’s scale with a sharp, irritated huff. The girl behind the register didn’t even blink, just tapped a few buttons like this was any other lunch rush transaction. For a fleeting second, Izzy thought maybe something she’d said had finally cracked through that thick, elephant-hide skull of his and he would crawl back into whatever crack in the Earth’s mantle he’d clawed his way out of.

She got about five blissful seconds of that illusion. Then his footsteps fell right in behind her as she swiped her card.

Izzy closed her eyes for half a second, her grip tightening around the thin strip of plastic before she yanked it back out of the reader. Jesus Christ. She wanted to throw something at him. Not a tray, not a fork—something with a little more… pizzazz. Explosives, preferably. Something that would leave a perfectly Ryan-shaped scorch mark on the tile like a cartoon character blasted away by dynamite.

“I just don’t understand why you have to sell it,” he said from behind her, like the concept itself was deeply confusing, like the words I need to sell this house so I can buy a house hadn’t been said in plain English multiple times.

Slowly, she turned to face him, leveling him with a stare that was usually reserved for… well, him. And Sammy last week when he’d scoffed and confidently informed her she was wrong about IUD implantation, because that stood for improvised explosive device, and they don’t put bombs up there—obviously. But that had more just made her pause to set down the fork she’d been holding to rub her face and sigh than consider if she could pull off wearing orange for the rest of her life.

“I’m going to say this one more time,” she said slowly, like she was explaining it to a very small, very dumb child. “Because clearly repetition is the only language you understand. I am selling my house so I can buy a new one. Without you in it.”

Preferably with the father of the babies cooking inside of her in it, but that part felt strictly on a need-to-know basis. Ryan blinked at her like that was somehow new information. He opened his mouth, which she immediately stuck a hand out in front of, making a noise like she was redirecting a dog.

“Ah! You don’t get to cheat on me, give me an STD, and then stay in the house I paid for like it’s some kind of extended vacation rental,” she continued. “That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.”

His jaw shifted, like he was gearing up to argue again, to twist it, to minimize it—but she was already shaking her head.

“No,” she cut in, holding up a finger before he could get a word out. “We are past the part where you get to talk.”

Behind her, the cashier awkwardly slid her receipt across the counter. Izzy grabbed it without looking, her attention locked entirely on him.

“Thursday,” she reminded him. “Pack your shit. Be gone.”

She turned away from him, plate still in hand, only to immediately regret it. The sharp, acidic smell of the vinaigrette she’d chosen specifically because she hadn’t gagged at the sight of it hit her wrong this time—too strong, too sour—and her stomach lurched in protest. Izzy swallowed hard, lowering the plate away from her face, breathing carefully through her mouth as she scanned the cafeteria for a trash can. Cool. Great. Perfect. She could have just thrown five bucks directly into the trash and saved herself the headache.

“Fine,” she muttered under her breath as she started walking. A hand hovered briefly over her stomach, more instinct than thought. “You win. In-N-Out for the third day in a row it is, you little monsters.”

She’d barely made it three steps.

“Is this because of that cop you’re fucking?”

Izzy slowed mid-stride, the words hitting like a slap she refused to react to. Her teeth sank into the side of her tongue, hard enough to taste blood, and she closed her eyes for a second.

Oh, this is fun. This is exactly how I wanted today to go.

She turned back around slowly, dragging her tongue across her teeth before she spoke, her expression smoothing into something dangerously calm.

“Excuse me?”

“James told me,” Ryan snarled, like he’d just unveiled some grand betrayal. Izzy closed her eyes again. Thank you, Violet’s husband. Orange was starting to look better and better.

Izzy took a slow breath. Frankly, she was one more sentence away from either professionalism or violence, and everyone present should pray for professionalism.

“Okay,” she said evenly, “here’s what’s going to happen.”

Ryan frowned slightly. “Iz—”

“Nope.” She lifted a finger. “No interrupting. You used up your interrupt budget during the chlamydia section.”

That shut his mouth for half a second.

Good.

She kept going.

“What I do,” she said, “and who I spend my time with, is none of your business.”

Ryan scoffed quietly. “That’s not—”

“It is now,” she cut in. “Congratulations. You’ve been demoted.”

His jaw tightened. Izzy didn’t care. She was more focused on getting upstairs to get her keys so she could go eat her weight in fast food in the silence of her car.

“It hasn’t been your business for a while,” she continued. “I am not coming back. I am not reconsidering. I am not having a ‘big emotional talk in the rain’ moment where I suddenly remember the good times and forget you detonated our marriage like you had orders to do so. The house is being sold. If you somehow missed the twenty-seven emails, texts, and legal notices about that, I admire your commitment to selective literacy.”

Ryan’s expression shifted. “You can’t just—”

“Oh, I can,” she said lightly. “And I did. If you have questions, you can ask Alan Carmichael at Winger & Associates. Eight to five. He gets paid by the hour to explain reality to you.”

Ryan stared at her like he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or impressed. Izzy turned toward the elevator.

“And if you show up here again,” she said over her shoulder, tone almost conversational as she stabbed at the call button, “I will have you trespassed.”

Ryan kept walking after her. That, more than anything, made something in Izzy’s brain short-circuit.

“So you are fucking him?” he asked again, like he needed confirmation for a case he was building in his head.

Izzy stopped so abruptly she almost spun on her heel. Then she laughed. A bright, incredulous little sound that had zero warmth in it whatsoever. Fine! Fine. Let’s be crazy then. Her capacity for maturity was only dwindling in each waking moment she had to be near this stupid, stupid man.

“Oh my God,” she said, bouncing once on the balls of her feet like she physically couldn’t decide between laughing and committing a felony. “You are unbelievable.”

Ryan frowned. “Just answer the question.”

“Oh, I’m going to.” She turned fully to face him, eyes bright in a way that promised consequences. “Yes. Yes. I’ve been fucking him for weeks,” she continued, hands starting to move now, gesturing like she was presenting evidence in court. “We fucked last night. We fucked this morning. Honestly, I’m impressed I even have time for hobbies anymore.”

Ryan’s jaw ticked. “Izzy—”

“Oh, no! You asked!” she said, holding up a finger. “And you know what, Ryan? It’s great. You know why? Because I don’t have to beg him to pay attention to me like it’s a chore. I don’t have to fake orgasms, or convince him to go down on me. I don’t have to pretend I’m asleep to get out of mediocre sex that I don’t even want.”

Well, that part—unfortunately—wasn’t entirely accurate. She’d done exactly that at least twice this week. Granted, she had a good excuse, with the whole crippling first trimester lethargy thing. She’d immediately felt guilty afterward and gone to find Sammy anyway like a disaster with legs, but that was between her and her poor life choices. Details-schmetails, though. Izzy straightened again, exhaling sharply through her nose.

“So unless you are going to finally sign the papers,” she called over her shoulder, “or you’re wearing a little paper hat and about to ask if I want my fries animal-style, go the fuck away and do not contact me again.”

Behind her, Ryan stopped.

“Fine,” he snapped.

And because she was, first and foremost, a grown up, she responded with, “Fine.”

Nothing more mature than a matching set of mutual fuck yous dressed up as language, right?

“I’m leaving,” he spat, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Fucking great!” She hissed. “Go!”

“Last chance, Iz,” he called, turning away.

“Leave, Ryan!” She practically growled.

Ryan held her stare like he expected it to turn into something else. Then, he turned and walked off. Izzy watched him go for exactly one second too long, like her brain was still waiting for the argument to continue out of habit.

Then she kicked at the empty space he’d been occupying, cursing under her breath. You know—like a grown up. She straightened up, turning back towards the elevator doors, unclenching and clenching her fingers as she tried to take deep breaths. Sammy just got phone calls. And texts. Noooo, she got the ex that just showed up.

“Unreal,” she muttered, turning on her heel.

She was still muttering by the time she made it to the elevator.

“Unbelievable. Actual clinical insanity. I should qualify for worker’s comp after that conversation—”

The doors slid shut. Izzy stabbed the button for the fourteenth floor hard enough that her nail bent backward slightly.

“Fuck—”

That did not improve her mood. The muttering continued all the way past floor three.

Past five.

Past eight.

Then she froze mid-rant, and slowly looked down.

Her keys were clipped to her waistband. Had been clipped to her waistband the entire fucking time. Izzy stared at them in silence for one long beat before leaning her forehead against the elevator wall with a dull thunk.

“You know what,” she whispered to herself, “maybe I am being punished by God specifically.”

The elevator dinged cheerfully and began changing direction. Her muttering did not cease. It continued through floor six. Through five.

It continued when the elevator stopped again and the cute orthopedic surgeon from two weeks ago stepped inside—the one who had asked her to dinner and had smiled at her like she wasn’t visibly one inconvenience away from becoming folklore. He glanced over.

Izzy was still quietly hissing, “I hope his dick falls off. I hope it just detaches.”

The surgeon blinked once.

“…Rough day?”

Izzy pointed at him vaguely without lifting her head from the wall. “Don’t get married.”

He laughed nervously.

The muttering continued. It continued as she stomped across the parking garage toward her car, shoes squeaking aggressively against concrete. Continued while she unlocked the door. Continued while she hauled herself into the driver’s seat hard enough to rock the suspension slightly. And it absolutely continued when she slammed the car door behind her and finally screamed, paying no mind to the Honda idling in the spot next to hers.

Just one loud, furious—

“AAAAAAAAAUGH!”

—into the privacy of her vehicle before she stopped, raked her hands through her hair, took a breath, threw up her hands and muttered, “I’m fine.”

Izzy took another long breath through her nose, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make her knuckles ache.

Okay.

Fine.

Whatever.

Ryan was gone. She was going to get fries. Maybe a milkshake, if Ducky and Bee were feeling generous, and pretend this entire interaction hadn’t shaved six months off her life expectancy. Maybe she’d even call Sammy and share the life-changing news printed on the paper still shoved into her pocket. Or maybe just because hearing his voice might make her feel a tiny bit less horrendous.

She shoved the car into reverse, and backed out of the parking spot. Her tires hadn’t even fully cleared the white lines before her pager shrieked. Izzy slammed on the brakes hard enough to make the tires squeak against the concrete.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

She snatched the pager off her waistband.

L&D CHARGE: patient in A-12 is in transition

Izzy stared at it for one long, exhausted second. Then let her head fall forward onto the steering wheel with a dull thunk.

Of course.

Of course.

The tires squeaked again as she threw the car back into park and jerked the wheel hard enough to slide herself back into the spot crooked. She killed the engine and shoved the door open again in one violent motion, muttering under her breath the entire time as she stomped back toward the hospital entrance.

Fucking, Ryan.

Maybe she had been a little hangry.

In her defense, though, pregnancy had turned hunger into a full-contact sport.

At any given moment, Izzy was either experiencing the most aggressive starvation of her natural life or staring at a food she’d eaten happily twelve hours earlier like it was a biohazard scraped out of a drain pipe. There was no middle ground anymore. Just violent, unpredictable oscillation between feed me immediately or I’ll die and if that yogurt comes one inch closer to me I will burst into tears.

Honestly, it was probably alarming for the people around her. Especially Sammy. Poor guy had completely stopped trying to guess what she wanted after the grilled cheese incident last week. Now whenever she complained about being hungry, he just quietly started sliding different foods toward her across the counter like he was approaching a stressed zoo animal until something finally stuck.

Crackers? No.

Apple slices? Tasted too much like apples, but not in a good way.

Mac and cheese? Too wet. Will cry.

Chicken nuggets? Maybe.

String cheese? Suddenly life-saving. They were buying it in bulk.

And every single time, he accepted the verdict with the exhausted patience of a man defusing bombs professionally. That man deserved patience in return, even if he was technically half the reason she currently lived in a constant state of nutritional instability.

Ryan, however, did not.

Had she maybe been a little harsh? Sure. Maybe. Whatever. Who cared? Certainly not Izzy. She had cheese fries now.

The rest of the day dragged by in one long, exhausted crawl toward a Double-Double. Her patient in transition had barely made it through Izzy snapping gloves onto her hands before baby boy decided he had places to be and launched himself into the world like he’d personally paid for expedited shipping. Twenty minutes later, everyone was crying except Izzy, who had long since developed emotional immunity to delivery room tears unless someone actively coded in front of her.

The couple from that morning monopolized the lactation consultant for nearly two straight hours afterward. And honestly? Good for them. It wasn’t Izzy’s turn to become a dairy cow yet, but get that support for your tits, girlfriend. She fully intended to terrorize every lactation consultant in the building when her time came.

Violet, meanwhile, had spent nearly thirty minutes absolutely chewing her husband’s ass out over the phone for telling Ryan anything at all, which had personally healed several parts of Izzy’s nervous system.

At least until a giant bouquet and takeout from that little Thai place Violet liked showed up at the nurses’ station. Then suddenly Violet was smiling at her phone again like a woman experiencing the horrors of heterosexuality voluntarily. Though, to her credit, Izzy did watch her happily eat James’ peace treaty crab rangoons before immediately texting him that it changed nothing—he was still sleeping on the couch. Respect, honestly.

By the time night shift started filtering in with fresh coffees and suspiciously functional energy levels, Izzy was Done. Capital D. Frankly, she assumed that was how she’d ended up in her current situation to begin with.

Whatever.

Not her problem right now.

Right now, the only thing calling her name—or, technically, Ducky and Bee’s—was the In-N-Out she was absolutely demolishing one-handed behind the wheel.

Well.

That and the envelope currently burning a hole through her passenger seat.

Izzy glanced at it again at the next red light, immediately regretted it, and shoved half a fry into her mouth like carbohydrates could physically suppress curiosity. It wasn’t working.

When Violet had handed it to her downstairs, her brain had still been too flooded with fight-or-flight and homicidal ideation to fully process what was actually inside it. She’d just taken it automatically, tucked it under her arm, and moved on to surviving Ryan without catching a charge and embarrassing the cop living in her house.

But once the adrenaline wore off—and after a very long text message to her attorney detailing exactly why she wanted Ryan removed from the house by Thursday or launched directly into the sun—it had started creeping back in.

Twins.

Low risk.

Sex markers included.

The thought had haunted every quiet second of her day since. Between deliveries. While charting. While pretending to listen during shift change. Even while Violet dramatically ate crab rangoons and announced she was “still mad, but isn’t he just the sweetest?”

Every idle thought eventually circled back to the envelope.

To the fact that two tiny little people were currently floating around inside of her causing psychological warfare and cheese fry dependency. And apparently they already had names she didn’t know yet. Faces she couldn’t picture. Futures she couldn’t fully wrap her head around. Izzy tightened her grip on the steering wheel slightly, chewing slower now. The idea still felt strange in a way she couldn’t explain. Not bad. Just… huge.

Real.

Terrifyingly real.

Because finding out meant they stopped being abstract little gummy bear shapes on a grainy ultrasound screen and started becoming actual people she’d someday know. People who would eventually walk and talk and slam doors and maybe inherit Sammy’s inability to fold a towel correctly.

Or worse.

Her personality.

She and Sammy had talked about it. A lot, actually.

The sex of the babies had become a recurring topic over the last four weeks Sammy had been living in her house, eating her food, and sleeping in her bed on all the nights she conveniently forgot to remind him about their very official Tuesdays-and-Thursdays-only arrangement. Which, in her defense, was hard to enforce when he looked warm and sleepy and kept absentmindedly reaching for her in the middle of the night like she belonged there.

Names had been thrown around too. Most of them died immediate, horrible deaths. Every boy name she suggested apparently belonged to either a guy Sammy’s arrested or someone he’d once had to tase. Every girl name Sammy suggested somehow ended with, “Oh, no, absolutely not. I had a patient named that once.”

Her brothers were identical twins, too, which meant there was a very real possibility they could end up with a matching set of their own. And despite all her sarcasm and bitching and emotional support cheeseburgers, some soft little part of her found itself wondering every single time her hand drifted across her stomach who exactly they were becoming in there. Who they’d look like. Who they’d laugh like. If one of them would inherit Sammy’s stupid dimples. Or her temper. God help society if it was both.

The answer sat less than two feet away now in a grease-stained envelope on the passenger seat. And she couldn’t open it. Because she’d promised they’d do it together like an idiot. And of course, Sammy wasn’t back until late tonight, because he was busy dragging Nate to Castaic to get the rest of his shit.

So now she was stuck driving home beside the single most psychologically devastating envelope in the continental United States. Izzy glanced at it again at a stoplight, and then immediately looked back at the road.

Are you there, God. It’s me—Izzy. Can you cut a bitch a break?

But God would not, in fact, cut a bitch a break. Instead, her gas light flicked on. Izzy stared at the dashboard for a long second in exhausted disbelief before sighing so hard it fogged the windshield slightly.

“Of course,” she muttered.

She scraped a smear of sauce off the front of her scrub top with a fry and immediately ate the evidence, one hand steering while the other searched the road ahead for a gas station that didn’t look like the opening scene of a true crime documentary.

The sun was starting to sink behind the skyline now, bleeding foggy orange and bruised reds across the late November sky. More importantly, it meant her window for getting gas at a decent station before dark was rapidly shrinking before this became a wake up early and deal with it tomorrow problem.

Traffic crawled around her in miserable little bursts. And there was a Honda directly on her ass. Izzy changed lanes. The Honda changed lanes. She frowned slightly, glancing in the mirror.

“Okay,” she muttered around another fry. “Maybe back the fuck up before we both meet God today.”

The Honda lingered stubbornly behind her anyway, headlights bright in her mirrors. Izzy swallowed down the string of curses trying to climb their way out of her throat and adjusted her grip on the steering wheel instead.

Whatever. Fifteen more minutes. Then she’d be home. Back to her cat. A hot shower. And hopefully the untouched pint of Cherry Garcia she knew she had buried in the back of the freezer unless Sammy had gotten into it. And then eventually Sammy would stumble through the front door, late and exhausted, smelling faintly like cold air and soap and whatever godforsaken coffee sludge cops drank at this hour, and she’d make him open the envelope because she wasn’t sure she could do so without throwing up.

Izzy glanced down at the phone abandoned on her center console. Then back at the Honda in her mirror. Then at the gas gauge. Then back at the phone.

“…You know what,” she muttered, snatching it up. “Let’s get an ETA on your late arrival, shall we?”

She punched Sammy’s contact and switched lanes again, thumb tapping impatiently against the steering wheel while it rang. Once. Twice. Then—

“What?!” he barked into the phone. Izzy jerked slightly at the volume blasting through the speakers.

“Woah!” she said immediately. “Jesus Christ. Relax. It’s just me.”

A heavy sigh crackled through the line. She heard fabric rustling faintly, like he was dragging a hand down his face.

“Sorry,” he said after a second, voice rougher now. “I thought you were—doesn’t matter. It’s been… it’s been a long fuckin’ day.”

Izzy snorted softly at that, stealing another fry from the rapidly dwindling carton in her lap. “You and me both.”

Her eyes landed on the glowing Circle K sign a few blocks ahead and she debated whether the risk of gas station roulette outweighed the increasingly aggressive fumes currently powering her vehicle.

“You headed back from Casstank yet?” she asked.

“Yep,” Sammy answered tightly.

Izzy frowned slightly, eyes flicking briefly toward the dashboard display before back to the road.

“You alright?” she asked finally, the irritation drained out of her voice almost automatically when it came to him, despite her best efforts to maintain some semblance of emotional self-preservation.

“Yeah,” Sammy said. But the word came wrapped in a loud exhale that told her the exact opposite. Izzy’s frown deepened slightly.

“Okay…” she said slowly, not pushing it. The Honda behind her swerved into the next lane again, riding so close to her bumper in the process that Izzy threw a hand up instinctively.

“What the fuck is your problem?” she snapped at the mirror before looking back toward the road.

Then, because she was trying very hard to redirect this conversation somewhere less tense—

“Did your TV fit in the car?” she asked, reaching for another fry. “I can get the living room ready and get everything unplugged before you get ba—”

“No,” Sammy cut in sharply. The word cracked through the speakers hard enough to make her sit up straighter. “No, I didn’t. You wanna know why? Because she changed the fucking locks. On my fucking house, Izzy.” His breathing sounded heavier now, anger bleeding through every syllable. “I tried to get in and my own fucking key didn’t even fucking work.”

Izzy’s brows shot up. She straightened fully in her seat now, fries forgotten in her lap.

“Oh,” she said carefully.

The Honda was still there. Still hovering too close, but her attention had shifted completely now.

“She changed the locks?” she repeated slowly.

“Yep.”

“While you were gone?”

“Apparently.”

The laugh that left him then wasn’t really a laugh at all. Just sharp disbelief wrapped around fury. “Neighbors got to watch me stand on my own porch like a goddamn burglar, and of course, one of them called the fucking cops after I threw a rock through the window—.”

“You threw a rock through the window?”

“It’s technically my fucking window, Iz!”

She tipped her head, listening to him bitch under his breath as she flicked on the blinker, and shrugged. Honestly, she could understand the impulse. The first six months after she moved out, she used to call and have the power randomly shut off at the house just to inconvenience Ryan. Changed the security code every week too—usually to the phone numbers of girls she found in his phone. Divorce made you weird.

“Okay, crazy,” she said, turning into the gas station parking lot.

The Honda followed her in. It slid into a spot in front of the food mart, angled just slightly too intentional for her liking, while Izzy rolled up to a pump and slowed the car to a stop. She unbuckled, killed the engine, and let the sudden quiet settle.

“I’m gonna text my attorney,” she said into the phone, already reaching for her bag. “There has to be a rule against that. You can’t just change locks on someone’s house… right?”

Sammy made a low, exhausted sound on the other end but didn’t interrupt. Izzy paused, gaze still half on the Honda.

“…Anyway,” she added, “I’ve got a surprise for you when you get home too.”

On the other end of the line, Nate groaned loudly.

“C’mon, man,” he said immediately. “It’s on speaker.”

“Not like that,” she said, lowering her voice automatically, fingers brushing over the envelope sitting on the passenger seat like it had its own gravity. Izzy swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud the gas station felt even through glass and steel.

“I got our test results back,” she said.

The phone rustled on the other end—fabric shifting, a muffled curse, then Sammy’s voice changed, like he’d finally pulled it off speaker.

“Wait—both of them?” he asked, breathless in a way that didn’t match the earlier anger at all.

Izzy’s mouth softened despite herself.

“Both of them,” she confirmed.

“You—have you looked yet?”

She glanced down at the envelope again, still sitting there like it had been quietly ruining her entire day from a distance.

“Nope,” she said, almost gently. “Waiting for you.”

There was a pause on the line—something like a breath caught halfway between relief and panic.

“Okay,” Sammy said quickly. “Okay. I’m thirty minutes out. Just—wait for me, alright?”

Izzy leaned back in her seat, watching the gas pump flicker faintly in the reflection of her windshield.

“Yeah,” she said. “I will.”

“Are you home yet?”

She shook her head automatically before remembering he couldn’t see her.

“No,” she said. “Stopped for gas.”

“No,” Sammy said, firmer now. “Go home. I’ll take your car tonight.”

Izzy huffed a small laugh through her nose. She tugged her purse into her lap, digging through it for her wallet with one hand, the other tugging at the door handle. She lifted the hand holding her wallet slightly, eyebrows knitting together.

“I’m already here,” she said, glancing out through the windshield. “Besides, I’m like five miles from our place—”

“Don’t care,” Sammy cut in immediately.

“That whole area turns to shit the second the sun goes down,” he said, voice tight. “And you’re pregnant. Go home. I’ll go out tonight.”

“So it’s safe for you,” she said flatly, leaning back in her seat, “but not for me?”

“I’m the one with a gun, aren’t I?” he replied.

“…Touché,” she muttered. She reached over, tugged her door shut, and started the car again. The engine turned over with a low rumble.

“Fine, detective,” she said into the phone, shifting into gear. “I’m going home.”

There was a faint exhale on the other end—something like relief, still edged with leftover tension.

“Good,” Sammy said.

Izzy rolled her eyes, easing out of the pump lane. “I’ll see you in a bit, alright?”

“Alright,” he echoed. “See you at home.”

Before the call could fully end, Izzy caught Nate’s voice again in the background—amused, too loud. “Not your girlfriend, huh?”

“Shut up,” Sammy snapped immediately.

The line clicked dead. Izzy stared at her phone for half a second longer than necessary, then huffed out a quiet laugh through her nose.

“Idiots,” she muttered. She eased the car back out onto the main road. Too focused now on the envelope sitting like a weight in the passenger seat to notice the Honda slipping into traffic behind her.

By the time she turned onto their street, the sun had fully given up. Dusk settled over cracked asphalt and sun-bleached bungalows, porch lights flicking on one by one like reluctant participation trophies for surviving another day. Izzy pulled into the driveway and rolled forward until she hit her usual stop point at the end, leaving space behind her for Sammy’s truck.

Her door thunked shut behind her as she stepped out, the cool air hitting her face immediately. Somewhere down the street, a car pulled into a spot and cut its headlights, the brief flash reflecting off her windshield before disappearing. Izzy gathered her things from the passenger seat—bag, keys, a crumpled In-N-Out bag, and the half-finished vanilla milkshake she fully intended to destroy before Sammy got home. Then she shut the door with her hip and headed inside.

The house was dark when she stepped in, juggling her things under one arm, keys gripped in the other hand. Heavy paws thudded against the hardwood, collar bell chiming in the dark like the world’s most useless security system.

“Salem, if you start screaming at me I swear to—”

She didn’t finish. Because Salem immediately launched himself into her ankles like a furry missile and did exactly that.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered, nudging the door shut with her hip as Salem continued to aggressively remind her of her obligations as a pet owner. She kicked her sneakers off mid-step, not bothering to untie them like a civilized person, and followed the cat into the dark house.

“Relax, drama queen,” she told him as he wound between her ankles again. “You act like I abandoned you in the wilderness.”

She dropped her things onto the kitchen table. Salem immediately launched himself onto it with surprising determination for something that weighed approximately twelve pounds, and let out another offended yowl like he was issuing a formal complaint.

“Yeah, yeah,” Izzy said, already opening the cabinet. “I’m doing it, I’m doing it.”

She poured kibble into his bowl. The second it hit ceramic, Salem went silent. Immediately. Like someone had flipped a switch. He started batting individual fish-shaped pieces out of the bowl one by one before dramatically crunching them like he was performing quality control on each bite.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, watching him. “You were just starving to death five seconds ago.”

Salem did not respond. He was busy.

Izzy exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back until something in her spine popped. Her eyes drifted without permission to the fridge. To the ultrasound photos held under the Stanford magnet she’d had since med school. To the small, grainy shapes frozen mid-becoming that Violet had happily labeled with arrows pointing to each fetus, announcing them as Ducky! <3 and Bee! <3, respectively. She stared at them for a moment longer than she meant to.

The envelope hit the counter with a soft, final tap. She didn’t open it. Instead, she stood there for a second, fingers hovering near it like it might bite.

“…Okay,” she breathed quietly to herself. She touched her belly, drawing small circles over her skin.

Izzy turned down the hallway on autopilot, already halfway into the mental checklist of scrubs off, shower, ice cream, pretend today didn’t happen.

She made it three steps before stopping in front of Sammy’s half open door. Inside, the bed was exactly what she expected: crumpled sheets, pillow shoved sideways, the general chaos of a man who could function in crisis but apparently lost all domestic competence the second he stopped actively using his brainpower to solve gang crimes.

She pushed into the room and grabbed the sheets in one practiced motion, stripping the bed clean and yanking everything into a tangled heap. It was Thursday, after all. Not like he was sleeping in here anyway. Her eyes snagged on a T-shirt draped over the end of the bed. She hesitated just long enough to regret noticing it, then shrugged. She stripped her scrub top off in the same irritated motion she used for everything lately and tossed it in. Bra followed. Scrub pants followed. She then snagged a pair of boxers that were probably clean and tugged them on.

Good enough, she figured.

Arms full, Izzy shifted the laundry against her chest and backed out of the room. In the living room, Salem let out a long, irritated yowl—low at first, like a warning, then climbing into something sharper before tapering off into a hiss.

“Yeah, I hear you,” Izzy called without looking up, shouldering the laundry room door open. She dumped the whole bundle into the machine.

“Whatcha see, bud?” she called over her shoulder, already fishing a pod out of the plastic container. “Another kitty intruder? You got beef with the neighbor cat again?”

She tossed the pod in, and hit start. The machine hummed to life. Salem answered with another hiss. She wiped her hands on her borrowed shirt and turned—

Something outside crashed. The sound made her spine go instantly alert before her brain even caught up. Izzy jolted. A second bang followed, sharper.

Salem exploded into motion. Black fur streaked down the hallway like a panicked shadow as he bolted straight for her bedroom and vanished underneath the bed with zero hesitation, zero dignity, and maximum survival instinct.

“What the fuck?” Izzy muttered.

She slammed the lid shut hard enough that the machine rattled, then was already moving. Bare feet slapped against the floor as she jogged toward the living room, already running through a mental checklist without permission—trauma bag in the trunk, airway kit, gloves, she still had a fresh pack of gauze—it had been a while since her ED rotation, but she still knew the basics.

People sped down this street all the time. Drunk drivers, teenagers, delivery trucks cutting corners like physics didn’t apply to them. It was only a matter of time before she ended up playing doctor in her own front yard.

Izzy’s hand was already on her phone, 911 half-dialed, thumb hovering over call like muscle memory had taken over before her brain had fully caught up. Then she shoved the curtains aside, expecting to find metal twisted around metal. Smoke. A mess of broken physics and bad decisions.

Instead, a Honda was parked on the street, perfectly intact, the back door wide open. Izzy’s fingers stilled over her phone.

“…What the fuck,” she breathed.

Another crash echoed from the driveway. Her eyes snapped toward it, and she felt her body go stiff.

“Oh, fuck no.”

She was moving before the thought fully finished forming. Through the front door. Down the steps. Bare feet hitting cold concrete.

And there she was.

A familiar blonde pixie cut, shoulders squared in a way that was almost comical given the weapon in her hands. Tammi stood with her back turned to her, fully focused, like this was a task she had scheduled and intended to complete with efficiency.

“Hey!” Izzy shouted, taking quick steps across the small yard. Broken glass blanketed the driveway, the porch light catching on the shards littering the grass. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

Tammi raised the baseball bat again, and it came down hard on the passenger window. Glass spiderwebbed instantly. Tammi let out a sharp, frustrated shriek, then swung again.

“Stop!” Izzy shouted, already picking her way forward, careful not to step on the glittering scatter of glass across the driveway.

Too late. Tammi yanked the bat back like she was winding up for another pitch and swung again. This time straight into the windshield. The impact landed with a heavy, ugly THUNK.

The glass didn’t fully collapse—but it buckled inward, a deep, spreading crater blooming across the spiderweb fractures like the car had been punched in the face. Izzy’s stomach dropped clean through her ribs.

“Tammi!” she shouted again, sharper now. Her hand was already moving before she even finished saying it. Phone out. Thumb stabbing at the top contact in her recent calls.

Sammy.

Call.

Ring.

She didn’t even get the first tone before Tammi finally turned.

Her blonde pixie cut stuck slightly to her face, breath coming too fast, eyes too wide. Then her gaze dropped—locked onto Izzy—and something in her expression shifted instantly. Recognition. Then fury. Then something uglier than both. Her shirt stretched tight over her belly, the fabric thin enough that it was impossible to miss now. Tammi’s mouth twisted.

“You!” Tammi spat, pointing the bat straight at her like it was a weapon and an accusation all at once. Her chest heaved under the thin fabric of her shirt, the baby bump shifting as she moved. “You—you bitch!”

“Are you fucking nuts?!” Izzy shrieked back, taking in the full damage in one sweeping glance—shattered glass, crumpled windshield, one headlight already hanging at an angle like it had given up on life. Tammi let out another raw scream before she whipped around and brought the bat down again.

This time the windshield gave.

A loud, violent crack split the air as glass finally collapsed inward, shards cascading across the hood and driveway like a glittering, dangerous rain. Izzy made a choked sound—half disbelief, half rage—eyes wide as Tammi immediately turned her attention to the headlights.

“No—hey—you’re going to hurt yourself! This is bad for the baby! Stop! “Izzy surged forward, phone still in her hand, dropping it onto the concrete as she reached out. “Tammi, stop!”

Her fingers closed in on the bat just as Tammi jerked it back.

The bathroom door creaked open down the hall. David was in there, as he stepped to the trash can, peeling off the used rubber with a wet snap. You heard the faucet run, him rinsing his hands, splashing water on his face. He was intelligent, attractive, and most importantly… he seemed like a normal guy. The date last week had been fine with witty banter over wine, and his fingers tracing your palm. You said yes to the date because after bolting from Newport, you buried yourself in work and your research… anything to forget about Titus and the chaos of the Danforth’s.

He padded back into the bedroom and smiled that easy, post-fuck grin.

"You okay? Want me to grab you some more water? I can stay a bit?" He sat on the bed's edge, hand grazing your knee, eyes hopeful.

Your stomach knotted. You usually didn't fuck on date two—scratch that, this was barely date two—but nothing felt right since Newport. You sat up, clutching the sheet to your breasts, nipples still pebbled from the cool air.

"Uh, this was fun," you said, voice cracking awkwardly. Your cheeks burned. "But I actually needed to work tonight. Need to do some grading."

His brow furrowed, but he nodded slowly.

"Yeah? Tonight?" he murmured, fingers trailing up your thigh, testing.

"Yeah," you replied, slipping out of your bed and grabbing your discarded panties from the floor. You tugged them on, then snatched a loose t-shirt from the chair, pulling it over your head. It hung to your thighs, and David's gaze followed every move, lingering on the curve of your ass as you bent over. He stood and stepped into his boxers, then his jeans.

"Maybe we'll do this again," he said, voice tentative, zipping up while watching you closely.

"Maybe," you echoed, the word souring on your tongue.

"Did I—" he paused, shirt half-buttoned, expression shifting to uncertainty,  "misread this?"

"No," you said quickly, meeting his eyes. "I had a nice time. I just really need to grade some papers tonight. I’m behind."

David nodded, a small smile returning as he finished dressing. "Then, I’ll see you around, beautiful," he murmured, leaning in to kiss you, lips soft and lingering on yours before he pulled back. He grabbed his rain jacket from the hook by the door, gave you one last hopeful glance, then slipped out into the night.

The door clicked shut. Alone, you flopped back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. What the hell was wrong with you? David seemed solid with no red flags. Plus, he had fucked you to completion and left you sore in the best way.

You rolled over, and grabbed your laptop, but your mind drifted back to those intense hazel eyes. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the screen blurred, dissolving into that night. The conversation replayed like a wound you kept picking at, the memory still raw and bleeding.

"That's not possible," you whispered, shaking your head. "My mother wouldn't—she couldn't—"

Titus didn't flinch. He stood by the mantel, one hand resting on the carved wood, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as scalpels.

"She was protecting you," he said.

"Protecting me?" Your voice cracked, splintered. "I woke up with a concussion and spent years thinking I was losing my mind.”

Titus pushed off from the mantel, taking a step closer.  "Your mother saw you with Celia and noticed the confusion on your face. She then saw Eleanor getting ready with her crossbow. And she knew—she knew—that if you saw what happened next, if you witnessed Celia die, you would never be allowed to leave this property alive."

"So she fucking hit me?" you said flatly, the words tasting like ash.

"She saved your life."

"No… she decided I didn’t deserve the truth."

"If that’s the narrative you prefer, because it makes you the victim… then that’s the fiction you can cling to."

"She stole years of it! You all did!" The shout tore from your throat. Your hands were shaking, fists clenched at your sides. "Do you understand what that did to me? The therapy. The nightmares. The way I couldn't trust my own memories."

Titus watched you with that patient, predatory stillness that made you want to scream. "She made a choice."

A bitter laugh escaped you. "A choice?"

"Yes."

You turned away from him, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes until stars burst behind your lids. "And I was just… what? Something to manage? Something to keep quiet." You dropped your hands, spinning back to face him. "My mother was part of whatever this is. Why?"

Titus hesitated. "Because she was aware of the High Council."

"The High Council?" you repeated, incredulous. "What is that?"

"I can’t tell you," he said. "It’s not information you’re meant to have."

"But my mother was?"

"She was the housekeeper," he said. "Our staff knows our family better than most. That’s why we choose them so carefully." His hand lifted, fingers brushing your jaw, and you flinched away—but his grip was gentle, almost reverent. "You were safer not knowing. You are safer not knowing."

"Safer?" A hysterical edge crept into your laughter. "Nothing about this is safe. Nothing about your family is safe. And I'm tired of being treated like a fucking child."

His eyes darkened, something flickering there—frustration, maybe, or fury he was barely containing. "You’re letting your emotions make a spectacle of you."

"Oh, really? Well, I think you just see me as a fucking liability. Someone who might crack, might spill, and might ruin the carefully constructed lies you've all built."

"You're not a liability." His voice was low, rough, scraping against something raw in your chest. "You're the only person I've ever wanted to tell the truth to."

The words hung between you, heavy and impossible.

"But you still haven’t," you whispered.

He didn't deny it.

The silence stretched, filling with the crackle of flames and the pounding of your heart. You stared at the sharp lines of his face and felt something inside you harden.

"So," you said, your voice suddenly flat, hollow, "is this the part where you kill me?"

Titus's expression cracked. Shock flickered across his features, raw and unmistakable. "What?"

"I know about Celia. I'm a loose end, aren't I?" You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "That's how this works. Witnesses get silenced. People who know too much probably disappear…right?"

He stared at you as if you'd slapped him. "You think I would hurt you?”

"I don't know what to think, Titus. You've lied. You've hidden things. You've let me drown in my own confusion while you, your family, and my fucking own mother stood by, playing chess with my life." Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. "So tell me. Am I leaving this room alive?"

"Of course you are." His voice was barely a whisper, rough and wounded. "I would never—"

"Then I'd like to leave now."

You moved toward the door, past him, your shoulder brushing his chest. His hand caught your wrist, warm and calloused, halting you.

"Wait."

"Why?" You didn't turn around. "So you can explain more reasons I shouldn't trust you? So you can tell me how this was all for my own good?"

"Because I don't want you to walk away thinking I’m the reason you don’t feel safe.”

"I don't feel safe, Titus," you said honestly, finally turning to meet his eyes.

His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers trailing down until they caught your hand, held it like something fragile. "Stay. Let me—"

You gently pulled your hand free. "Goodbye, Titus.”

You walked out and didn't look back.

And now, you were lying in a bed that smelled of a man who had fucked you while you imagined someone else, the weight of that goodbye pressed against your ribs like a blade. You closed the laptop, the screen clicking shut in the dim bedroom. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, casting shadows across the walls. Your throat burned with unshed tears.

Titus's face swam behind your eyelids.

Fuck.

You tried to crush the image, but it only sharpened. The way he looked when you pulled your hand free. The broken silence as the door clicked shut behind you.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. David's name lit up the screen: "Made it home safe. Hope you get your grading done. Let me know when you're free again."

You stared at the message. He was so uncomplicated, and yet your thumb hovered uselessly over the keyboard, no words forming at all.

Because how the hell could you explain that the only man occupying your thoughts wasn't the one who had just made you come?

You were deep into your reply to Dr. Adams in your office at Columbia, fingers moving quickly as you tried to finish the paragraph before you lost your train of thought. His latest email had been a goldmine. The scanned folios he’d attached, the annotated translations, even notes written in the margins of a manuscript from his own fieldwork on the ritual life of the Carolingian court. All of it had pushed your research forward in ways you hadn’t expected. You and he had been communicating for weeks, and he had provided you with several items useful to your work—particularly the liturgical diagrams (visuals) from the Aachen manuscripts and the comparative notes on royal procession protocols. You were just about to add a line thanking him for the digitized fragments of the ordo coronationis (formal script for how a king was crowned in the Carolingian world) when your office door slammed open.

The sudden burst of the office door swung open with a force that echoed off the walls, making you jump back in your chair.

"What the fu—" you began, and looked up to find Ursula looking you up and down, a smirk creeping across her lips.

"Wow," she said, surveying the room with a too‑wide smile. "Cozy little cave you’ve got here. Very… hostage‑chic."

Your pulse spiked. "Ursula, you can’t just—"

"Oh, but I can." She shut the door behind her with a soft click that felt louder than the slam. "You’ve been ignoring my calls. And my texts."

"I blocked you."

Her smile sharpened. "I noticed."

She took a step closer.

"I’m calling security," you said, reaching for your phone with shaking hands.

Ursula’s laugh was soft, delighted, and absolutely chilling. "Go right ahead." She tilted her head, watching you with predatory amusement. "You really think anyone in this building is going to drag me out by the elbow? Please. I’d love to see them try."

Your fingers hovered uselessly over your phone.

"You blocked me?" she repeated, "That hurts my feelings."

"Bullshit."

"You’re right. But…" she continued, smile returning, "I’m willing to forgive you. Because we have things to discuss. Important things."

"I don’t want to talk to you."

"That’s adorable," she said. "But irrelevant."

"Get the fuck out of my office," you yelled.

"No. I’m not fucking leaving," she growled. "Because you clearly don’t understand the situation, and Titus is too… Titus to explain it to you because he’s in love with you."

Love?

Your mind rejected it instantly, the comment was so absurd and transparently manipulative that it felt like she might as well have told you the sky was green.

"You really want to know what the High Council really is?" Ursula leaned in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial purr.

You felt a chill crawling up your spine, with a sense of dread that was hard to shake—but you still nodded.

"It’s six families—ours included bound by a pact older than this country. The pacts were made ages ago, with a being they call Mr. Le Bail. Satan, if you want to get biblical about it." She slid into the chair across from you, crossing her legs with casual elegance. "Years ago, one of our Danforth ancestors made a choice. He pledged his soul to Mr. Le Bail in exchange for power. Not just for riches or influence, but control over the very fabric of the world."

"Power in exchange for doing what for Mr. Le Bail?"

Ursula gave you a slow, knowing, almost pitying look. The kind someone gives when the answer is so horrific, so obvious, that saying it out loud would be redundant.

Your breath caught, the words sticking in your throat as your mind snapped back to that night—Celia’s shaking hands, her wild eyes, the way she’d whispered this fucking insane family is going to kill me, they’re hunting me. And suddenly it all aligned with a clarity that made you sick. Everything you’d ever studied, every theory you’d dismissed as too extreme, every instinct you’d had about the Danforths—it was all true. They weren’t just eccentric or secretive. They were part of a ritualistic cult bound by blood. And the exchange wasn’t symbolic. It was sacrifice.

A cold, hollow "Oh" slipped out before you could stop it.

Ursula’s smile was thin, brittle, and edged with something like sympathy. "Yeah," she murmured. "Oh."

You stared at her, trying to process the revelation. "So, all this time…these families, their rituals, the whole high society…it's all part of some ancient pact?"

"Exactly. And now, every generation of our family has to keep that deal alive," Ursula sighed, almost fondly, as if she were explaining something obvious.

"Religious indoctrination is a powerful thing, indeed," you muttered, trying to make sense of everything she’d just told you.

"Oh, spare me the dissertation tone," she snapped, clearly offended. "This isn’t one of your little philosophy debates where everything is a metaphor or a social construct. Don’t reduce this to belief or brainwashing. The pact is a fucking fact."

You opened your mouth, but she steamrolled right over you.

"Titus and I grew up watching what happens when someone breaks the rules. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. People die. The consequences are real." Her expression hardened, daring you to argue. "So don’t pretend this is just some fucking bedtime narrative… because trust me, the price for disobedience is blood."

The idea that their ancestor had willingly or unwittingly signed their lives away to a malevolent force was fucking crazy. The questions swirled in your mind—how much of what they did was out of their control? Were they just pawns, victims of their own history? Or were they complicit, knowingly or not? Because if they were just victims, then what did that say about free will? About morality? About the very nature of good and evil?

Ursula’s voice sliced through your thoughts. "Titus and I didn’t ask to be born into this mess, you know. We just were. It’s not like we chose this dark family legacy." She paused, then gave a small, humorless laugh. "But here we are, and we’ve got to live with it. Sometimes, doing bad things is the only way to survive. We’re just playing a game we didn’t choose." Her eyes locked onto yours, intense and unflinching. "So next time you think about the high‑and‑mighty Danforth’s, remember this: we’re just as trapped as everyone else. The difference is, I’ve stopped fighting it. I’ve accepted what we are. I’ve embraced it. Because we’ve been told our whole lives that it’s divine. That it’s destiny. And I’d rather rule my cage than pretend it isn’t there."

"So that’s it? You’ve decided to wear the chains because pretending they’re jewelry is easier? That’s not destiny, Ursula. That’s surrender."

"I’m not going to be judged by someone who lectures about philosophy and ethics from behind a desk that was essentially bought with Danforth money."

"Fuck you," you growled.

"You want to talk about chains? You grew up cushioned by privilege you didn’t even realize you had. Elite schools, elite circles, elite academia—courtesy of the very family you love to moralize about. So don’t pretend you’re above any of this."

The words hit harder than you expected... because they weren’t entirely wrong. Ursula rose from her chair in one smooth, decisive motion.

"Get up," she said. "You’re coming with me."

"I’m not going anywhere with you," you spat, heat rising in your chest.

"Father is sick."

"What do you mean, sick?"

"When he got back from his last trip, he started complaining about abdominal pain. Bad enough that even he couldn’t ignore it." She folded her arms, her voice flattening into something grim. "He finally saw a doctor. Then a specialist. Then another. Turns out it’s stage 4 pancreatic cancer."

Chester. Concern punched through you before you could stop it, and you hated yourself for it. But the truth was undeniable: he was the closest thing to a father you’d ever had. And the thought of him really being sick made your eyes water.

"Father would like to see you," Ursula said, already turning toward the door. You stood up despite yourself, and Ursula paused in the doorway, glancing back with a peculiar look.

"And you know…. he really is," she added softly.

You frowned. "He is what?"

Her smile curved, sharp and knowing. "In love with you."

It took a beat (one long… and stunned heartbeat) before you realized she was talking about Titus.

Titus lingered, watching you. He was caught off guard because he hadn’t even known Ursula was going to New York to bring you back to the Estate. And now here you were, standing in front of him in a soft cream blouse tucked neatly into high‑waisted charcoal trousers, the sleeves slightly rumpled, and a worn leather satchel still hanging from one hand like you’d forgotten it was there. You looked… hollowed out. Shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes that didn't quite land on anything for more than a second. You were here, but you weren't. And you damn sure weren't looking at him.

"Chester's been asking for you," Titus said, his voice bouncing off the vaulted ceilings, a little too sharp. "Which is surprising. Usually, he just asks for morphine and the remote."

You didn't answer. Just gave a tight nod and followed Ursula down the hall. Titus trailed after you, feeling like a stray dog hoping for a scrap of attention. Pacing himself. Trying to be cool and failing miserably. When you all reached Chester's room, the air was thick with the smell of old wood and medicinal ointment. He was propped up against his pillows, looking like a skeleton that had decided to outlive its flesh. But the moment you saw him, a genuine spark lit up your face.

Jesus Christ. Even dying, Chester was getting the look Titus was starving for.

"Child," he rasped, his voice a dry rustle. "You're here.”

Titus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look casual while you crossed the room. You didn't spare him a glance. Just walked straight to his father’s bedside and took his gnarled hand in yours.

"Chester," you said, and the softness in a voice that hit Titus like a punch to the gut.

His fingers curled around yours. "I'm happy to see you."

You sat on the edge of his bed, and Titus watched your shoulders drop, just a fraction. Meanwhile, he was standing there like an idiot, waiting for a crumb of your attention.

"So, what did I miss?" you asked, trying to inject some levity. "Did one of the maids finally run off with the chef?"

Chester chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. "Always with the jokes."

"If one of the maids ever ran off with the chef, Ursula would drag them back by their hair. Both of them." Titus said. You finally looked at him. Just a flicker. A flash of something before you turned back to Chester. It was enough to make his chest ache.

God, he was fucking pathetic.

"If they ran off, I’d simply replace them before dinner. Some of us plan ahead," Ursula said, standing near Chester, hands clasped loosely behind her back. Then, Chester's phone buzzed on the nightstand. A low, insistent hum against the wood. He looked at it, his thin fingers trembling as he picked it up. The screen lit up, and he saw the group chat name: High Council.

Chester tapped the screen. And then, in a voice that had suddenly regained some of its old authority, he read aloud:

"Bride survived." He paused. "Le Domas family gone. The ball is in play."

The room went silent. The kind of silence that went under your skin and burrowed in. Titus looked at Ursula. She looked at Chester.

"No," Titus said, the word ripping out of him. "No, that's not fair. That's ours. The seat—it belongs to us."

"It doesn't matter," Chester said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "It's in the rules."

Titus felt the walls closing in. "Dad, please."

"Be a fucking man. You’re a Danforth. You know what you have to do, Titus," Chester hissed.

You pushed yourself to your feet so quickly that the mattress sank behind you. "Wait—what’s going on?" The words felt thin and unsteady, and you looked genuinely nervous (almost frightened), your fingers curling into fists as if you needed something to hold onto. Titus turned toward you, startled, as he realized you weren’t supposed to be involved in this or hear any of it. The look on your face, which was filled with confusion blending with fear and a slow dawning realization, made Titus feel bad. You didn’t fully understand what Chester was asking, not yet.

He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of this moment. He’d imagined it countless times—dreaded it, denied it, shoved it to the back of his mind. But seeing your reaction…your eyes darting between him and Chester, as if trying to piece together something he never wanted you to see. It made it all feel suddenly real in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

"You must win the seat back." Chester's voice cracked, but the command was iron.

Ursula stepped forward, her hand landing on Chester's shoulder. "We will. You have our word."

Chester nodded, a final, solemn gesture. "Then get on with it." He turned his face toward you, a faint, tired smile tugging at his mouth. "You and your mother never looked at us the way others do. You saw the human parts. Thank you. You’ve done right by us. Remember that, no matter what comes next."

Ursula’s hand clamped around your arm before you even realized she’d moved. One sharp tug and you were stumbling backward, away from Chester’s bedside, away from Titus.