midwest princess

By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.

Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.

Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.

The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.

You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.

The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.

“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.

“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.

You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.

You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.

“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”

A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.

The machine beeped.

Approved.

You froze.

Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.

“Bag?” the cashier asked.

“No,” Jack said.

You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you.

Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.

“What?” he said.

You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my lunch.”

“Looked like it.”

“You paid for it.”

“Sharp today.”

You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”

That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.

“Eat the sandwich,” he said.

“I was going to.”

“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”

You opened your mouth.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

You closed it again.

Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.

“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”

Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”

“I don’t faint,” Santos said.

“You got lightheaded during central line training.”

“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”

Jack looked at her.

Santos looked back.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.

“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”

Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”

Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”

Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”

Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”

Your face was still hot.

The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.

Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.

“I can pay you back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“That’s not how money works.”

“It is when I decide I don’t care.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You should’ve let it go.

You really should’ve.

But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.

“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”

Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.

Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”

He walked away before you could answer.

You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.

Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.

“Oh, that was not nothing.”

“It was lunch,” you said.

Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”

You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.

Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”

Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”

“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”

You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.

It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.

But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.

He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.

Jack was worse.

Jack was practical.

He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.

Robby noticed before you did.

Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.

It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.

“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.

You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”

Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.

“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”

“He bought me lunch once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe pasta.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”

That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.

Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.

Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.

“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”

You swallowed. “I know that too.”

Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”

You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.

Across the department, Jack glanced up.

For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

That was becoming the problem.

Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.

You wished he’d be less good at it.

You wished you liked it less.

The car thing happened on a Thursday.

You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.

Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.

Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.

The expensive one.

A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.

You shut the engine off immediately.

“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”

The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.

You tried again.

The sound came back worse.

A knock hit your window.

You screamed.

Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.

You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”

“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.

“That’s not a fine sound.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“It shouldn’t do that ever.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”

“You’re not driving it until then.”

A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

Your stomach dipped.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Something else.

Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“Pop the hood.”

There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.

You popped the hood.

The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.

It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.

He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.

“Do not drive this,” he said.

You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Jack.”

He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”

You did not.

You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.

“I can call someone,” you said.

“Who?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.

You looked away first.

Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you fixing everything.”

“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”

You didn’t move.

Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”

That was how he won.

Not with softness. Not with a speech.

Heat.

You grabbed your bag and got out.

Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.

He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”

“Your leg?”

“I said yeah.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His jaw worked.

Then, quieter, “Long day.”

That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.

At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”

You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”

“I’ll call someone.”

“No.”

“You don’t know who yet.”

“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”

The light turned green.

Jack drove.

You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”

“Jack.”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you know a guy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.

“No?”

“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.

“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.

The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.

Not brave.

Not independent.

Just exhausting.

He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.

You didn’t reach for the door handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”

“No.”

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop noticing.”

“No.”

Your eyes opened.

Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.

That made it worse.

You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”

The joke landed differently in the dark.

You felt it. So did he.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.

“You should go inside,” he said.

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.

You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.

“Night, Jack.”

His hand tightened once around the phone.

“Lock your door.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes lifted.

There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.

“Don’t start,” he said.

You got out before your face could betray you.

The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.

Jack didn't tell you this.

The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.

Handled.

Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.

You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.

Squared it away.

You were going to kill him.

Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.

You had to wait.

That made you angrier.

By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.

Jack stopped.

Robby, behind him, stopped too.

Dana looked up from the desk.

Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.

Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”

“Oh, no, definitely here.”

Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.

“Coward,” Dana muttered.

“Experienced,” Robby corrected.

Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”

“You paid the mechanic.”

“Yeah.”

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”

“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”

“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.

“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”

Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”

Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”

Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”

You barely heard them.

Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.

“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it done.”

You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

“Doing what?”

The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.

“You know what,” you said.

For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.

Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.

“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.

Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.

He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.

“Friday,” he said under his breath.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Pick up your car Friday.”

Then he was gone.

Santos waited exactly three seconds.

“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”

Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”

Santos deflated. “Damn it.”

You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.

By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.

Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.

Your old ones were unsafe.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.

The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.

At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.

PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.

You hadn’t planned to go.

Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”

You’d said yes before checking your closet.

That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack:

Car still running?

You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.

You:

yes, dad

Jack:

Don’t.

You smiled despite yourself.

You:

thank you, by the way for the shoes too even though you’re insane

Jack:

You going tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.

You:

maybe

Jack:

That means yes.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:

You:

it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident

The reply took longer than usual.

Jack:

Show me.

You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.

You:

the dress?

Jack:

What else would I mean?

Your face went hot.

You:

don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Jack:

You have tomorrow off?

You stared.

Then stared harder.

You:

why

Jack:

Answer the question.

There were several smart things you could’ve said.

You said none of them.

You:

yes

Jack:

I’ll pick you up at 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You:

jack

Jack:

10:30 if you’re going to argue.

You:

you don’t even know what i was going to say

Jack:

I’m learning patterns.

You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.

The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.

Of course he did.

He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.

“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.

“You haven’t gone in yet.”

“That’s why I still have hope.”

He gave you a look.

You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was too easy.”

“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”

You stared at him.

He headed for the shop.

“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.

“It’s exactly a loophole.”

Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.

You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.

He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.

That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.

The saleswoman brought options.

You rejected the first three.

Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.

“No,” he said through the door.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw the sleeve.”

“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”

“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”

You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.

Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.

His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.

“No,” he repeated.

The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”

You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”

The fifth dress was the problem.

You knew it before you opened the curtain.

The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.

Confidence, maybe.

Or danger.

“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.

“You’re bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that way too easily.”

“I’m old.”

You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.

This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.

That was the bad idea.

You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.

His jaw shifted.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain.

“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.

Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.

“No,” he said.

Your face fell before you could stop it.

Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”

The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.

“It fits.”

It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.

You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.

“It’s probably expensive.”

“Probably.”

“Jack.”

“You like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.

“I can do what I want.”

“You sound like a nightmare.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.

The thought went through you too sharply.

You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”

Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”

There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.

Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”

Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.

So you made it worse on purpose.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.

“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”

You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.

The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.

Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.

Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.

“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”

“That’s never a good opener.”

“You look hot.”

“Santos.”

“What? I said don’t make it weird.”

Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”

Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”

You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one. It’s being right.”

You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“Nothing.”

Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”

“There’s not a thing.”

“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.

Dana smirked and walked away.

Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.

It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.

Robby said something to him at the entrance.

Jack answered without smiling.

Then his eyes found you.

Everything else blurred.

Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.

He walked over slowly.

“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.

“Hi.”

You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”

“I was going to say that.”

“You can still say it.”

“No.”

“Too generous?”

“Too easy.”

His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

You stared. “What is that?”

“Receipt.”

“For the dress?”

“For the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”

“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”

You looked down.

Paid.

Your throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.

“I still owe you.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”

You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.

Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.

“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”

“That makes it worse.”

“I agree.”

Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”

Jack gave him a look.

Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”

Jack didn’t move immediately.

His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

Your pulse kicked.

“I’m working.”

“After.”

Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.

You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.

For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.

Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.

You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.

And Jack kept finding you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.

At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”

He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”

“I was.”

“Bad idea.”

“Because violence is wrong?”

“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”

You laughed into your glass.

Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.

You saw him catch it.

That was the dangerous part.

Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.

You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.

“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”

Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”

The man’s eyes shifted to you.

You felt it like cold water.

“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”

Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.

“This is—” Jack began.

The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”

His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.

Your fingers tightened around the place cards.

Jack went still.

The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”

“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”

The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.

“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.

Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”

The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.

The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”

“I’m not interested in what you meant.”

Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”

The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.

“No offense intended.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught.

People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.

You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.

You set the place cards down.

“I need some air,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”

But you were already moving.

You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.

You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.

You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.

Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”

You turned on him. “Made it worse.”

“They made it worse.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”

His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.

“They don’t know what you are.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And what am I?”

The question came out too vulnerable to take back.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.

He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.

You hated that you wanted him to say it.

You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.

Instead, he said, “Not that.”

A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Great.”

Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.

You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

“You bought the dress,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You fixed my car.”

“Yes.”

“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”

Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

“What do you think people are going to call that?”

“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you call it.”

The words took the air out of the terrace.

You looked at him.

Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.

Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.

All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.

Now Jack was standing there asking.

Tell me what you call it.

Your mouth felt dry.

“I call it confusing,” you said.

His expression shifted.

You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.

You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”

His voice dropped. “Like what?”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”

The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.

Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”

The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.

His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.

“But I’ve thought about it.”

The terrace went silent.

Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.

“What was I going to say?”

His eyes lifted.

“That we shouldn’t.”

The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.

You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.

Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”

His eyes sharpened.

You took one more step.

“But it’s not what I want.”

For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.

Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.

“Say that again,” he said.

The words nearly undid you.

You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.

“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No?”

“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”

The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic at first.

That would’ve been easier.

It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

That was what broke it.

Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.

You grabbed his jacket.

He made a low sound, almost a warning.

You pulled him closer anyway.

The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.

His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.

“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”

Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

His eyes held yours.

“My car.”

The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.

Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.

Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.

Jack ignored all of them.

You loved and hated him for it.

The elevator ride down was worse.

Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.

In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.

Jack unlocked the car.

You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.

He saw the hesitation immediately.

Of course he did.

“You can change your mind,” he said.

The words loosened something in you.

Not because you wanted to.

Because he meant it.

You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”

His face shifted.

“Do I what?”

“Know what I want.”

The garage seemed to hold its breath.

Jack opened the back door.

“Get in,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just low enough to go through you like a match.

You got in.

The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.

Then the opposite door opened.

He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.

“You still think this is about money?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“What’s it about?”

You could’ve said care.

You could’ve said want.

You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.

Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”

Jack’s eyes flashed.

Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.

"Jack—"

"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"

You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."

He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”

Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.

"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."

You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.

"Jack—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.

"Get on top of me."

It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.

He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"

He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."

You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."

He didn't.

His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"

He pushed inside you.

The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"

He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.

Then you moved.

Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."

You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.

"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"

"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.

"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."

You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."

He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."

You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.

"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."

"Jack—I'm close—"

"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"

"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."

He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.

Then he laughed.

A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.

"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"

"Stupid," you supplied.

"Reckless."

"A really bad idea."

His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.

"We should probably—" you started.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.

"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.

"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."

He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.

You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.

He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”

That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”

“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”

“He sounds unbearable.”

“He is.”

The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”

Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.

“Jack,” you said softly.

He waited.

You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”

For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.

“You get breakfast.”

“That’s it?”

“And your car.”

“Already got that.”

“And the shoes.”

“Also already got those.”

“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”

The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.

But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.

He was looking at you like something worth keeping.

You’re both on the running track, doing your morning runs at the same time.

“On your right,” Simon grunts, just loud enough for you to hear. He pivots just a bit to your right so he can pass.

But then you also slide a bit to your right, speeding up on the way so that you’re still in front and blocking his way. When he tries going to the other way, you zig zag with him. Left, right, left, left, more left, right.

In the end, you stop when he stops. You turn towards him, eyeing him like a moldy meal you forgot to throw out.

“Oh. Hi, Lt.,” you say. “Didn’t see you there.”

“I told you to move, Sergeant,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Lt., what was that?” You cup your ears. “Couldn’t hear you over my music.”

You’re not even wearing any earbuds.

He turns on his heels and leaves with his fists clenched tight.

It’s been like this since you first joined. He remembers it as clear as day-- a younger, somehow more stubborn-looking you. 

Plucked fresh from whatever unit you were in before them, you had greeted them— Price, Garrick, Johnny— with respect: a salute, a handshake, and a smile to boot.

But then you hear his name, see his mask, and it’s like hell freezes over on your face.

Lieutenant Riley, nice to meet you– like it was the exact opposite, like it caused you physical pain to even say his name.

Johnny makes fun of him for it. Dae ye know 'em? Face looked like ye curbstomped a bairn or something.

You drop the filter entirely once you settle into the team months later. Tongue gets looser, no pulled punches, thinly veiled contempt slipping into pure snark.

He needs to grab something from a cabinet you’re in front of? Your hand shoots out, waggling your fingers. Five quid and I’ll move, Lt.

Helping him bandage up on an op? He grunts when your fingers dig just a tad too deep into his skin and wrap the wound just a tad too tight. Maybe if you didn’t get hit in the first place, Lt.

It’s infuriating.

But you don’t stop because there are never any consequences. 

No matter how many looks Price shoots him when the old man overhears the blatant disrespect.

No matter how many times other soldiers stare at you like you’re out of your goddamn mind (you are) for saying the shit you do.

Why?

Because the reason Simon never writes you up for insubordination is the same reason he's fisting his leaking cock in bed like some horny fucking teenager.

It's the same reason he lets you snark in his ear over comms, quietly grinding his rock-hard erection into cold dirt, and grunts to hide the pleasure that shoot down his spine when your nails dig into bloody skin.

It's the only thing he can think about when he's like this— your nails tracing the muscle of his back and gripping his cock until his spunk gets all over you.

Simon doesn't remember when it started. Doesn’t remember when the want became a need.

Maybe it was the time you sassed him in front of the others, or maybe it was when you looked him straight in the eye and told him 'you look like a cosplayer, Lt.' Or maybe it was since the beginning, on your very first day.

The one thing he is sure about is how much he wants to fuck you.

Simon wants to fuck you until you're all babbles and wails— bend you over in his bed until you can't think straight and all you can muster is how you want more of his stupid, stupid cock.

He wants you to want him as much as he wants you. But he doesn't want to fuck the fight out of you though, no.

Yeah, a part of him still wonders why you hate him so much, but he doesn't mind you sticking to whatever fucked-up preconceived notions you have of him.

Your fire is what makes it fun, and Simon loves to burn.

He cums like that, mind flush with the thought of you fucking yourself on his cock while telling him how much you can't fucking stand him.

When the haze of pleasure finally recedes, he's stuck with one goal in his mind,

—getting you in his bed.

Your lieutenant's acting strange.

Ever since he walked away from you on the track, Ghost has been... accommodating. Moreso than before.

It's suspicious as fuck.

You're not an idiot. You know your behavior should've gotten you sacked ages ago. Even though Ghost might let it slide for whatever reason, it's still highly disrespectful to your CO. (But you have your reason, as petty as it is. He deserves it.)

So it's strange when he starts acting almost-nice to you.

Exhibit A.

Standing up for you.

The 141 is respected amongst operators and soldiers alike; this is fact. But there's always bound to be a green recruit who thinks, I can do it, I'm special, why not me?

These are the ones you encounter most as the most recent and youngest addition to the 141. It's something you had to grow new skin for, but that doesn't mean it isn't fucking annoying to deal with.

"I bet I could take them in a fight. They don't even look that tough," the recruit prattles. "Do you think the captain will let me into 141 if I beat them?"

The group of soldiers he’s posturing to snicker and laugh. They don’t seem to care that you’re standing ten feet away, or that you can very visibly hear their conversation.

You're about to tell them to drop and give you fifty when a big hulking man steps towards the group.

"Think you got what it takes, corporal?" Your lieutenant drawls, staring down at the recruits who look like they're all going to piss their fatigues.

"L-lieutenant! No--yes, I mean, I--"

Ghost jerks his head towards the training mats.

"Let's see how good you are then."

The recruit gets dropped within ten seconds.

Your lieutenant mutters something to him before barking at the rest of the group. Get your asses on the field. You lot are runnin' laps until you know what it means to respect your betters.

Does he even know how hypocritical he’s being?

Later on during dinner, the recruit who insulted you walks up to 141's table, still ruffled from the nasty takedown and sweaty from running around base. He barely manages to squeak out an apology to you, shooting the smallest glance at your lieutenant before running away with his tail tucked.

(How do you grapple with the way your heart turns?)

Ghost doesn't react, doesn't even look up. Only sips his tea like nothing ever happened.

Exhibit B.

Since when did Ghost start talking back to you on comms?

"If you let me die tonight, I'm going to haunt you and your bloodline forever, Lt."

An undercover mission. Infiltrating some invite-only bourgeoisie gala that's an alleged meeting place for many, many VIPs. Coincidentally, 141's newest target happens to be invited and you are the one who's thrown into the lions' pit.

"My bloodline? Not happening."

He's somewhere out there, watching. On the roof of a nearby building probably.

There’s a sense of comfort in that. You may not like his guts, but you’ve never doubted him on overwatch.

"Why? Got no game, Lt.?"

"Got plenty," he says.

The soft rumble of his voice tickles your ear. It's unusual-- weird-- to hear him banter with you over comms like this. He usually only ever does it with Soap.

"Well, make it happen then," you mumble.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. You smile politely, shaking your head ‘no’.

It’s not the highest risk mission, but the amount of armed guards you’re seeing is a bit annoying. That, and your target is still nowhere to be found.

If you have to send another flirty smile to another grimy man while waiting, you're telling Ghost to aim the crosshair at you instead. And then you're going to haunt him.

"You volunteerin'?"

Your brain short-circuits.

What?

Your mouth bobs open, then shut, and then open again. Hoping to whatever deity out there that your lieutenant's scope isn't actively trained on you right now.

Shit hits the fan faster than you can gather your thoughts.

Screams ring out through the ballroom as windows shatter and gunfire fills the air. Chaos quickly spreads through the masses as people run for cover. Ghost's voice flickers in over the noise.

"Sergeant, take cover, now! Go!"

You don't need to be told twice.

There'll be time to think about what he said later, when you aren't actively in danger of being hole-punched.

And then, Exhibit C.

This is how it culminates.

Outside, on the fields with your fellow sergeants and Ghost. The four of you toss sticks to decide sparring partners; it's sheer dumb misfortune that you end up pairing with Ghost.

You've sparred with him before. He's relentless. There's always a bruise or two on your body when he's done with you. Never once have you won against him; you don't expect this time to be any different.

“Let’s see if you’ve improved, Sergeant,” Ghost taunts.

“I swear I won’t accidentally kick your balls, Lt.,” you reply.

The two of you grapple at each other, swiping and pushing, body on body. Ghost is wearing a tight compression shirt today. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't somewhat distracting with the way it hugged the planes of his muscles— no! Keep focusing! It's never easy to wrestle a man as big as him. But you have to try.

Your hands can barely wrap around his biceps, but you use what you have to your advantage. Nails nearly break skin as you dig deep. He grunts, grip tightening on your arms.

A man's strength can sometimes be his undoing.

You let your weight shift, using his hold on you as an anchor. Tilting back, you let your legs swing forward, grappling around his waist. The momentum has Ghost stumbling back, and you make your final move.

Ghost lets out a surprised grunt as you let go of his arms and force your way through his grip. You push through, pressing your forearms against his throat until his whole body tilts and falls back onto the mat.

Oh, you're gasping out breaths. Holy shit.

You did it.

Ghost is, like you, breathing hard through his nose, eyes lidded. His hands no longer wrap around your arms. Instead, they're settled on your hips, holding you firmly in place.

It occurs to you then the position you're in.

Legs spread over his waist, sitting right on his belly. You're bent forward, hands splayed across his chest and next to his head. Practically laying on top of him.

He's so warm.

An involuntary jolt rolls through your body as you jerk backwards, an attempt to get some distance from his face.

Big mistake.

Holy fuck, this is not happening right now.

You feel it beneath your ass. Unmistakably big, undeniably hard.

A shiver makes it's way down your spine. Your legs clench tight, squishing his abdomen and grinding deeper against him. With the way Ghost's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, you know he feels it too.

There's a fog closing in on your mind. The sight of your lieutenant under you shouldn't turn you on like this— and yet, the growing dampness between your legs tells you otherwise.

Panicked, you rip yourself off of him and get on your feet. A look over at Soap and Gaz, but they're still in a grapple of their own. It's only a temporary relief that runs over you when you realize they hadn't seen what happened.

"Sergeant," your lieutenant calls out. He's propped up on his arm; you look anywhere but him.

"Sorry, Lt. Feeling a little sick," you say, licking your lips. "Going to freshen up a bit."

You don't wait for him to dismiss you before you're jogging back to your quarters.

Standing in front of your little bathroom sink, you splash cold water onto your burning face. It barely helps.

How did you end up here?

Was it when he started being nice to you, even though you were never anything but rude? Was it when he defended you against egotistic recruits?

Or has it been doomed since the start, when he first looked at you through his stupidly long lashes, like he was trying flip you inside out with his stare?

You weren't lying when you told him you felt sick.

It's a creeping feeling in your gut that's been burning low for a while now. Don't want to call it denial, but what else could it be?

(Betrayal, maybe. You shouldn't feel anything else. Shouldn’t be feeling anything but spite for your lieutenant. It isn't fair to your friend who—)

Knock knock.

The sound breaks you away from thought. A part of you dreads opening it, because you know who stands behind the heavy door. The other part of you is who turns the knob.

Ghost stands there, towering over you.

"Alright, Sergeant?"

His composure is unfair. It's like before never happened. You take a deep breath before replying.

"Yes, sir," you say. It comes out all crackly and rough. "Nothing to worry about."

The silence that falls between you is unsettling.

“If that’s all.” You start to close the door, but his hand catches it.

“Need to talk to you ‘bout something,” he says.

You feel your heart drop somewhere into hell. “Sir, there’s nothing—”

He pushes the door back, pressing into your room. “D’you have a problem with me, Sergeant?”

Eyebrows scrunched, you back up into the wall behind you. “What?”

“I repeat, do you have a problem with me?”

Ghost tilts your chin up. His hand feel like a brand on your skin. Your gaze moves back and forth from his eyes to where his lips shift under the mask, all of a sudden taken back to the picture of him lying beneath your legs. He follows your stare, searching.

“Yes or no, Sergeant?”

His voice is all guttural and deep, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“…N-no, I—”

“Good,” he hums. “Won’t have a problem with this then.”

He moves faster than you can process. Hand slipping his balaclava up, just enough to expose thin scarred lips and a crooked nose. You blink, and suddenly they’re pressing against yours.

Any semblance of self-control melts away after that.

He kisses you like a man deprived of oxygen. Feels more like he's eating you up rather than kissing you. Like he's trying to drink up the air you breathe and more.

But after all he's been doing these past few weeks, the contact feels like a deep reprieve in your bones— a relief you don't want to admit to needing.

You chase him when he pulls back.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, thumb tracing your swollen lips.

"I just let you kiss me," you say, breathless and incredulous. "And you're asking me if I hate you?"

He smirks-- it's stupidly attractive seeing a real expression on him.

"Can't be sure when it comes to you, Sergeant."

You furrow your brows, annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean— mmph!"

Ghost cuts you off with another kiss, hands moving down to your hips. You yelp when he pulls your legs up to wrap around his waist, hauling you up by your ass.

"Arms around me, love," he grunts between pecks.

Once your arms wrap around his shoulders, he pushes off the wall and carries you over to the bed. With surprising care, he drops you on the mattress and settles on top of you.

"Tell me to stop," Ghost growls against your neck. "And I will."

You should say no. No to fraternization, no to betraying your morals.

Stand strong in the face of evil temptation!

"More," you plead instead, because the devil lives inside you. "Want more, Lt."

He groans into your skin. It excites you infinitely more. Leaning back, he pulls his shirt off, revealing firm muscles and a soft belly.

Fuck, he’s so stupidly hot. Your own top and pants comes off a moment later, left forgotten on the floor.

The two of you are a mess of tangled limbs in your little bed made for one.

Ghost kisses down your body, latching onto your soft skin and sucking bruises down your chest. He says things that make you burn a fever pitch— fuckin’ gorgeous, sergeant, knew you needed me, isn't tha' right?

It’s unbearable how turned on you are.

Whines bleed through clenched teeth as you paw at his body. He bites, eliciting a sharp flinch from you.

Always pissin’ me off with tha’ smart mouth of yours, he mutters. Makin' me go wank off like a fuckin' teen.

Your mind is blur— everything is happening too fast, too hot, to process what he's saying to you.

Ghost moves down your body, giving your chest a rough fondle before settling in between your shaky legs.

When he drags your underwear down, your pussy is glistening with how utterly wet you are.

"All f' me?" He asks, pupils blown at the sight of his prize. "Fuckin' drippin'."

You squirm, cheeks searing hot. "Shut up—"

He doesn't let you finish, burying his face between your thighs in one smooth motion.

If Ghost kisses like a man starved, then he eats pussy like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

He pulls you close in his arms and drinks you up like the slick dripping from your pussy is his own personal ambrosia. Moans and groans like it's some divine providence to have his mouth on your cunt.

Your hands claw at his neck and shoulders, but it only spurs him on with more fervor. You feel it simmering into a boil in your belly; the telling signs of your orgasm building.

"Hah—Fuck, Lt., I'm gonna—," you moan, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation.

But then he stills.

Just stops completely as his mouth leaves your pussy cold and shaking. You lift your head to look down at him, eyes in a frenzy from a ruined climax.

"W-why'd you stop—,"

"Never answered my question, love." He blows cold air on your clit, teasing.

"Huh?"

"Tell me why you hate me," Ghost says, staring at you through soft lashes. "Tell me why you act like such a fuckin' brat, and I'll let you come."

Your breath hitches. “You’re such a fucking asshole—“

You try to kick your leg at him, but he's strong and there's nothing you can do with them pinned down. He nips at your clit, making you yelp out in shock.

"Answer the question, Sergeant."

Ghost shifts his arm, bringing his hand over while still holding your leg down. It's sinful to watch it happen-- his tongue flicking out, licking two of his fingers until they're shimmering with saliva, petting your pussy from the clit down to your pulsing hole.

"Mmhh—"

The stretch of his fingers in your pussy makes you tremble with anticipation. But he doesn't move them the way you want. Only teases you slowly and gently.

"Please, Lt.—"

"Not fuckin' you 'til you tell me, pet."

And isn't that simply the most aggravating thing to hear?

You let out a frustrated whimper. Mind running back and forth over what you could possibly say so that he'll make you come. A shock of pleasure flickers through you when he suddenly crooks his fingers inside you.

"C'mon, pet," Ghost encourages you. "Know y'want it."

Keeping your gaze, he flicks his tongue out and drags it slowly, tracing a line from where his fingers fuck into you, all the way up to your clit.

"Promise I'll fuck you right if you tell me."

The words bubble up your throat before you can stop them.

"...myfriendaskedyououtbutyourejectedthemsoI'mobligatedtohateyou— please, let me come, Lt.," you half-beg, half-sob.

It’s embarrassing. Borderline humiliating to say it aloud.

The real reason for why you treat him like trash— how you only really hate him by proxy.

Truthfully, there's never been any real ill intent. Only a sorry moral obligation to be as spiteful as possible for an old teammate who had confided in you after being coldly shot down by the masked lieutenant of 141— the very one that's currently knuckles deep in your throbbing cunt and covered in your juices.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it, love?” Ghost purrs, fingers still slowly pumping in and out of you.

He's still smirking, that fucking asshole. You wriggle your hips, but he keeps you still with an arm and it’s just not enough.

“Fuck you,” you cry out in frustration.

“I will," he hums. "All tha’ sass for what, hm? Someone I don’t even remember?”

He presses his nose into the plush of your thigh and takes a deep inhale.

"Jerk— hngh!"

Broken moans escape you as his lips find your clit once more. This time, he eats you up without mercy, thick fingers curving wickedly into that one spot inside you. A familiar spark beginning its ascent from where it first fell.

You want to tell him that he's mean, a straight jerk for not remembering someone confessing to them. That this was your friend he was dismissing like a nobody.

(Oh, but what would your friend say if they find out you're in bed with the man who rejected them?

It was so long ago though, your mind whispers. Surely, they've moved on by now, right?)

His tongue laps with just the right pressure on your bud, full broad strokes that make you see stars. His fingers work your pussy with focused precision, sinking into the spot that keeps making you cry out in pleasure.

It's all too much for you to take.

When he finally wraps his lips around your sensitive clit and sucks— you come with blinding lights in your vision, hips grinding up into his face uncontrollably.

"Tha's it, just like that, Sergeant," Ghost coos against your clit, sending another jolt through your legs.

He slips his fingers out of you and pulls himself up back towards your neck, nipping and nestling at your throat. His still-clothed cock grinds gently against your pulsating core.

With the crash comes some of your rationality.

"They liked you, you asshole," you accuse softly, boneless.

"Like me?" Ghost says bluntly against your skin. "They don't even know me."

You roll your eyes. "What, like I know you?"

He pulls back, both arms braced at the sides of your head. Something indecipherable in his gaze.

"Don't you?"

Don't you?

Your breath catches in your chest.

And what would it mean to know someone like Ghost?

His name? His face?

Is it to know the same ten jokes he tells on the field? Or how he always makes sure to give his soldiers a once-over before heading out, and is always the last to exfil?

Or maybe it's to know the sound of his voice in your ears, to be able to pick him out from a crowd of blurry faces. To be able to recognize the scarred curve of his lips, the rough callouses on his palms against your skin.

You sink into the deep end when you realize how close the proximity between you and the man-you-tried-to-hate has become.

"You with me, pet?"

Ghost pulls you out of your thoughts with a nibble on your throat.

"Worryin' too much," he nuzzles into your neck, suckling a sensitive spot that makes you whine. "Couldn't care less 'bout your friend."

You frown, opening your mouth to berate him again, but he beats you with a deep kiss.

“Don't care f'anyone else," Ghost utters between kisses. "Copy?"

The thought makes your head go fuzzy. You nod.

"Good, 'cause 'm gonna fuck you now."

Like a switch, Ghost goes back to teasing you. He kisses you hard, still as desperate and hungry as it was before. Your hands slip down his muscly frame, tugging at the hem of his pants.

"—off," you manage to say between breaths.

Ghost obliges, breaking free from you to tug off his pants. You salivate at the sight; you'd felt it before, on the training grounds— knew it would be big.

His cock is fat and heavy on your cunt when he settles back in between your legs. Even against the size of his bulk, he's fucking huge.

"Scared?" He teases.

You break eye contact with his cock to look up at him. The stupid smirk is back on his lips, irritating you in all the right ways. His eyes stare down you, as heavy as his cock feels.

"I've had bigger," you lie.

He tilts his head. "S'that right?"

Grabbing your hand, he pulls it down towards his cock. His own hands guide yours as he drags them up and down his length.

Holy shit, you can barely wrap your hands around him.

He makes you press his cock against your pussy. It squelches with how wet you are, as his cock slides against your lips. Your breath hitches when his fat tip catches on your slick entrance.

"So fuckin' wet f'me," Ghost groans. "Want my cock inside you tha' bad, pet?"

You whine, needy pussy fluttering every time his nudges his cock at your hole. "Please, please—."

"Please what? Use your words." He presses his tip in, just a bit.

"Need you to fuck me, Lt.—," you plead, grinding your hips down in attempt to fuck yourself on his cock.

"Say my name, pet. I know you know it."

Fucking. Asshole!

Frustrated, you dig your nails deep into his arms, earning a pained grunt from him.

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Simon."

You're not ready for the way Ghost absolutely buries his cock deep inside you with a pathetic whimper.

Your own breath is knocked out of you with how fucking big he feels, legs shaking at the sudden intrusion.

"Fuck— so fuckin' tight," Simon grunts out.

His hips shift back just a bit before plunging back into your ruined pussy, drawing a choked moan from you. The stretch is euphoric— combined with the way his tip rubs up against that spot in your pussy, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling into the haze.

“D'you know—,” he says, sinking again and again into your cunt. “—how much I thought ‘bout this?”

"'Bout fuckin' this pretty cunt—" Thrust.

"Bending you over in my bed—" Thrust.

"Makin' you come over and over—" Thrust.

It's no use; you lose yourself in the pleasure of his cock, eyes rolling back as he repeatedly pounds you further into the bed. His hands squeeze tight around the curves of your ass, pulling you flush against him and stuffing you full with each thrust.

Simon doesn't stop teasing you.

"What's wrong, love? Got nothin' to say?" He taunts you, lifting both your legs over his shoulders and somehow fucking into you impossibly deeper.

"Cock's got your tongue?"

"F-fu-ungh—"

Tears trail down your cheeks as the simmer in your belly grows overwhelming.

He slips a hand between your legs and starts rubbing circles on your clit, coaxing a string of debauched sounds out of you.

"Sound so fuckin' good like this," Simon groans, eyes hazy and looking just as wrecked as you. "Should jus' keep y'here and fuck you forever."

"—mngh, f-fuck... you," you finally managed to choke out, voice raw and scratchy.

It doesn't distract from the way your cunt clenches tighter than before, not with the way you watch his eyes flicker dark.

He bottoms out with a particularly hard thrust at your words, leaving you a sobbing mess as he fucks you relentlessly.

You grasp away at him as your pleasure begins to overwhelm you— now threatening to boil over. Simon, Simon, Simon is all you can muster, but it's enough.

His cock ruts into you with no reprieve, fingers still flittering over your aching clit.

"Come f'me, pet."

And for once in your life, you obey your lieutenant.

Euphoria burns through your nerves as a second orgasm crashes over you from down under. Your cunt pulses in unrelenting waves, the pleasure borderlining too much. Squeezing his cock even deeper as Simon chases his own climax.

When he finally unravels, it's chaotic and frantic. Simon bends you over, covering you with his body and pulling you close as if to keep you under him. His eyes are squeezed shut, panting as sweat drips into the fabric of his mask.

Your pussy flutters one more time— milking his cock dry at the idea of knowing what Simon Riley looks like when he comes balls deep in your pussy.

“I still hate you,” you whisper, once the electricity fizzles out of the air, leaving only faint static remnants.

But there’s no real venom in your voice.

Simon huffs on top of you. You feel it in the way his chest jumps against yours.

“Right.” He relaxes his body onto you, weight squishing the air out of your lungs with a small ‘oof’. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, love.”

You can't describe the silence that falls over the both of you as comfortable, but... it's not bad, either. There's still a lingering sense of guilt in the back of your mind— but it's no longer screaming at you like before.

Simon's head shifts, the mask pulling on your sheets as he turns and mutters into your temple.

"Still plannin' on hauntin' me now that it's gonna be our bloodline?"

You slap his side as best as you can with your pinned arm.

His quiet chuckle rumbles deep in your ear.

Fucking prick.

You roll your eyes.

“I could report you. For sexual harassment at the workplace,” you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. You would never, of course, actually report him. Hell. You’ve had worse conversations with the man than just sharing the name of the last person you had sex with. 

The only thing stopping you now, is that person– who’s eyeing you as he swirls his whisky around in the bottom of his glass. And that the hook-up was only… 23 hours prior, when you and Ghost arrived on base for the mission briefing. 

“Alright, fine,” Soap grumbles. “At least tell us something, c’mon. If you won’t give us a name, how ‘bout… a rating? One to ten, how good was the person.”

You roll your eyes, again. “This is highly inappropriate.”

“Hey, now! You’re the one who went all in on the details last time! That… Luke guy… y’know the one you said didn’t give good hea-“

“Ugh! Do not bring him up. You know how that situationship ended, Soap. Plus, I told you that in confidence!” you swat his arm. “But, fine! If it will get you off my ass…”

You trail, eyes meeting Ghost’s from across the table. His head tilts. 

“An 8,” you hum. One point for every inch, but Soap doesn’t need to know that. “However, there is still room for improvement. He knows I like it a little… rougher than what he gave me.”

“Wow, jeez. What the hell did I miss?” Gaz asks as he returns to the table, sliding a fresh cocktail in front of you. 

You see Ghost’s eyes narrow just a bit before returning to their normal, relaxed state. 

Soap gives you a rough pat on the back while laughing. “Aye, lass, that alcohol finally starting to settle in?”

You laugh slightly and peel your eyes away from Ghost’s. The conversation continues, with Soap sharing his most-recent threesome story while he was back home, and Gaz teasing him saying “sounds like the girls did all the work, mate, you sure you’re not the pillow princess?”

“What about you, L.T.? Who’s your most recent?” Soap prods. 

Ghost never feeds into these conversations. Just brushes it off with a gruff “that’s none of your business”. The group of you thought, for a while, that he was celibate… or maybe just wasn’t into sex. You, of course, know that’s not true. Yesterday’s hook-up wasn’t the first between you. Not even the second. In fact, it became… a sort of ritual. Before every mission, you’d have sex. After you got back, if neither of you were sent to the med bay, you’d have some… mind-boggling blow-off-some-steam sex. 

The last three weeks of leave you both had, he spent a majority of it at your apartment, gathering up all sorts of noise complaints from neighbors. 

So his usual response of “leave me out of this, MacTavish” won’t be surprising. 

“Wolf.” 

What. The. Fuck. 

Gaz sets his pint down with a thud, and stares at Ghost for a moment before looking at you with a confused expression. You stare at the masked man, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you can’t seem to wipe the bewildered expression from your face. 

Next to you, Soap nearly chokes on his beer before letting out one of the loudest laughs you heard from him in a while. Gaz joins in. Then you do too. 

“Wolf? You mean, our Wolfie? This Wolf, here?” Soap fights out through his laughter, pointing between Ghost and you as he does. “You’re outta your mind, L.T.!”

Ghost just stares at you, then shrugs. He lifts his mask just enough to down the rest of his whiskey, then sets the glass down as he slides out of the booth. 

Soap finally manages to calm down his laughter to bid the man a goodnight. 

You drown out the conversation between Soap and Gaz as they continue to talk about women, and the other shenanigans they got up to while on the brief leave. A buzz in your back pocket pulls you to reality. You carefully check the text message, making sure to angle the phone away from Soap and Gaz when you see the name pop-up on your screen. 

Simon: My room. Ten minutes. 

Shit. Fuck. Shit. 

You quickly shoot back the rest of your cocktail and nudge Soap to let you out of the booth. 

“I’m calling it a night, boys,” you stretch your back as you stand. “Oh, and, blondie behind the bar has been eyeing you all night, Soapy.”

The blonde bartender averts her gaze as you motion towards her and Soap follows your point. He smirks slightly, and Gaz rolls his eyes. 

“Goodnight, don’t stay up too late with our Ghost,” Soap teases with another laugh. You scoff then walk away. 

You don’t think you have a choice. 

Outside of Ghost’s door,  you’ve barely raised a fist to knock before you’re pulled inside the room and pushed back against the door. A small bedside lamp illuminates the room, and gives you a clear look at Ghost’s blown pupils. 

“An 8, hmm?” His hands push underneath the skin tight tank top you elected to wear out that night, pushing up the fabric to expose your bare breasts. “That’s not what it sounded like last night.”

You suck in a breath. “You’re lucky they thought you were joking, Simon.”

“Ah. No. No ‘Simon’ tonight, sweetheart.”

The fabric of his mask rubs against your neck as he leans down to whisper in your ear. His hands leave your torso and grab both of your wrists, bringing them above your head and pinning them against the door with just one of his hands. 

“It’s Ghost. I want this whole fucking base to know who you belong to. Don’t forget, Johnny’s sleeping next door. When he gets back, I want him to hear that you know I’m much better than an 8. Got it?”

“Y’all have some sort of big dick contest going on?” You tease, pushing your hips forward to grind against him. “Might as well call him in here so he can watch.”

Ghost pulls back, his eyes narrowing at you. “You’d like that, huh? To show off for him? Show him how your pretty body reacts to me?”

You suck in a breath as his free hand curls around your neck, not tight, just enough to hold you in place. 

“Too bad, I don’t like sharing. You’re mine. Mine to see, mine to fuck. Got it?” 

His words send a chill down your spine, and a heat between your legs. He’s never said anything like this before. 

“Careful,” you muse. “I might think you actually want a relationship with me.”

Ghost’s shoulders tense. You watch as his chest rises slowly, then falls with an audible exhale. His hands drop back to your waist and hoist you up. You wrap your legs around his waist and reach for the edge of his mask.  Before you can grab it, he jerks his head away. 

“Mask stays on, sweetheart,” he mumbles. 

You give him a quizzical look, but don’t push it. Is the mask a turn on? Yes. But, he’s never actually worn it during sex. In fact, he’s very adamant about separating work-him, from the stuff he has with you. Behind closed doors, he’s not Ghost. Usually. 

Ghost sits on the bed, pushed into the left corner of the room, with you in his lap. You lean forward, pressing a kiss into his cheek through his mask. You trail down, ghosting your lips over his neck. You feel him shudder underneath you. 

“You gonna let me kiss you properly,” you pause, leaning in close to his ear. “Ghost?”

A noise reverberates in his chest. One second you’re sitting in his lap, the next, you’re flat on your back with him kneeling on the floor between your legs. His eyes are on you as he places both of your legs on either side of his head, so the bend of your knees rest on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge, Wolf,” he says in a low tone. A warning. You’d never thought the stupid call sign that you’ve carried with you since your days in the Navy could sound so hot. But in this moment, it sends a wave through you, and makes your thighs tense. 

His hands wrap around the tops of your thighs and pull until your ass is dangling off of the bed, and your—still clothed—cunt is mere centimeters away from his face. You wiggle slightly. Testing. His grip tightens, his blunt nails digging into the exposed skin of your legs. 

Ghost’s eyes flick down between your legs. You know he can see the red lace of your panties peeking out from beneath your too-short denim shorts. Maybe he can even see the small wet patch you can guess is forming from the way you feel it drip out of you. You sit up enough to pull your tank top fully off, throwing it to the floor somewhere— you’ll have to search for it later. 

You arch your back slightly, your hands finding Ghost’s head and trying to push him closer. One of his hands engulfs both of your wrists, pulling them off of him. 

“Ghost,” you plea softly. The ache between your legs is growing. Your wrists twist where he holds them pressed against your stomach. 

“Keep them there,” he presses your wrists gently down. “Or I stop.”

You huff, but nod. 

Slowly, his hand leaves your wrists. You do as you’re told. Both of his hands hook under the waist band of your shorts. 

“Wait they’re kind of tight, you’ll have to unbutt-“

The sound following his tug makes you gasp. A jagged, tearing, as the shorts rip at the seams, turning into nothing but a wad of fabric on the floor. 

“Those were my favorite shorts,” you say. You can’t deny the action made your pussy twitch, however. 

“Shorts,” you can hear the slight grin in his voice. “I wouldn’t have called them that, baby.”

You almost jump as his masked lips press into the center of your panties. He exhales slowly through his nose at the contact. God you want to rip off that stupid balaclava. Your fingers twitch slightly, and you mimic his breath. 

“Can feel how wet you are through all of this,” Ghost murmurs. The slight friction from his lips, making you squirm slightly. 

“Ghost,” you breathe out, pressing your pussy harder against him. The tip of his nose brushes your clit. “Please.”

“Hmm,” his head pulls away. In place of his face, his thumb presses your clit softly. Not moving. Just a tiny amount of pressure. “‘Fraid that begging won’t work.”

His thumb circles once. Just barely brushing against your sensitive nerves. Even still, it’s enough to make you take in a sharp breath and clench your toes slightly. You lift your head to watch, and meet his eyes. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely catch the light color of his irises. He presses his thumb a bit harsher, making your mouth fall open softly. 

“There she is,” he sweet-talks. “My pretty girl.” 

You bite your bottom lip, bringing your elbows to rest beside you so you can hold yourself up and watch him. Your right knee wraps around his head, pulling him closer again. 

“C’mon, Ghost,” you hum. “I know you want a taste.”

His eyes roll back and flutter just slightly.

“Fuck,” the swear comes out sharp. His free hand fumbles a bit to lift the bottom edge of his mask up until it rests on his nose, exposing those perfect lips you’ve seen wrapped around your clit multiple times before. His tongue swipes across his lips to wet them before he leans in, kissing at the fabric. You pull your leg tighter, and he grunts. 

Ghost is putty in your hands at this point. He likes to put on this tough-guy “you listen to me” act. But you know how to break that down pretty quickly. His tongue presses against the wet spot pooling in your lace. The warmth of it in contrast to the cool air of his room makes your toes curl. 

Ghost circles his thumb faster as he sucks at the fabric, the addicting bitter taste of your pussy coats his tongue. He groans again, his arms tensing around your thighs, trying to pull you impossibly closer to his mouth. His eyes flicker up at you, and you can see the center of his brows quirk upwards as your eyes meet. 

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper. He huffs against you, hooking a finger under the crotch of your panties and pulling until they too resemble nothing but a strand of ribbon. 

“Those were my favorite,” Ghost nips at the inside of your thigh. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

You giggle and wiggle your hips, taunting him. He takes the bait and leans back in. His tongue presses against your perineum, gathering the wetness that dripped down. He flattens it, then slowly drags upward to your clit. He hums as he wraps his lips around the bud, sucking softly and using his tongue to rub circles against it. 

Your head lulls back and you pant out a swear. He repeats his last motion for a while; sucking your clit and rubbing his tongue against it. You pant out, grinding your hips slowly on his face. He breaks away with a gasp for air, then kisses your hole that flutters from the loss of contact. His tongue prods at it, gathering more of you. His finger replaces his tongue as he returns to your clit.

No matter how many times you fuck him, you will never get over how he feels. He watches your face as he slowly slides his middle finger into you, curling it gently upwards at his second knuckle, hitting that one spot inside of you he knows will make you a mess. You moan at the feeling, arching your back just slightly. 

Ghost breathes heavily against you. “Fuck, you taste so good. You like that? My mouth on you feels good, huh, baby?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” your breath catches. 

He pushes a second finger in, continuing the curling motion and stretching you out. His tongue doesn’t stop its assault on your clit, either. You bite your lip. The hand that’s still gripping the top of your thigh, squeezes at the flesh, then lifts and gives it a gentle slap. 

“Don’t hold back those moans,” he licks his lips. “Want them to hear, remember?”

“Okay,” you nod with a gulp. “Okay, okay. Just please, Ghost, keep going.”

You might consider it embarrassing that he can make you come too quickly with just his mouth and fingers, if you were in a less hazy, less horny, state of mind. But in all honesty, he is just that good.  

Ghost obliges your plea, groaning into your pussy as you begin to twitch around him. His fingers pick up their pace a little, now curling into that spot with precision. It makes you see stars. 

“Holy– fuck, Ghost!” You nearly scream. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Tell them who makes you feel this good. Come on my face for me. C’mon, you can do it,” Ghost laps at your clit like a starved man. 

“M’close,” you whimper, your leg still wrapped around the back of his head, tenses harder and forces him to stay focused on your clit. 

“So, so, close,” he teases. 

You feel the coil in your belly buzz. It’s teetering over the edge. Sweat beads on your brow as you squeeze your abs, letting the white hot euphoria take over your body. 

“There you go,” Ghost coos as you fall over the cliff. Your body convulses as you come around his fingers. The leg around his head falls away, and your arms collapse, sending you falling onto your back, as you pant out his call sign in broken moans. 

“That’s it, keep going, baby,” he continues talking you through it. “You feel so fucking good twitching on my fingers like that. Jus’ like that.” 

He lets out a soft, pleased, hum at the sight of you coating his fingers. It’s practically dripping onto the floor. Carefully, he repositions you so you're laying fully on the bed. He stands, then kneels on the bed with his knees on either side of your hips. 

You watch as he leans over, sticking his middle finger coated with your cum into his mouth and sucking it clean. 

“Want a taste?” He offers his ring finger to you. You giggle and open your mouth, letting your tongue fall out. He mimics you while rubbing his finger across your tongue and towards the back of your throat. You wrap your lips around it, gently bobbing your head and swirling your tongue to clean it. 

“So fuckin’ filthy,” he groans as he pulls his hand away. You swallow thickly, and can’t fight against the heat that rises in your cheeks and at your core. 

Ghost leans back, expertly undoing his belt and pulling it out of its loops with one hand. He stands, and motions for you to put your wrists out in front of you. Really, all it is now is a curl of his fingers, since you’ve done it so many times now. Tying your hands up is one of his favorite things to do. There was probably one other time when he didn’t, and it was your first hook-up, before you had discussed what you were into with him. You hold your hands in front of you, with your wrists touching. Ghost seems to hesitate for a moment. Then gently grabs your hands, kisses your knuckles, and tosses the belt to the floor. Something flutters in your heart at that. But before you can ask about it, his lips are pressed against yours. 

You lace your fingers around the back of his neck. The hand not holding himself up above you works to unbutton and remove his jeans. You hear a soft shuffle as he kicks them away. 

Outside of his room, there is a slight jingle of keys, and a hushed “g’night, Gaz” from a familiar Scot. You break away from Ghost and he pauses, turning his head slightly towards the door. A shadow passes under the door. More jingling of keys. A door opening. A door shutting. Then a thud as Soap flops onto his bed on the other side of the wall. 

“Sounds like Johnny’s home,” Ghost hums, gently brushing your hair from your sweat slicked forehead. You take a moment to admire his biceps, which are squeezed in the sleeves of his t-shirt. You push the shirt up, running your hands along his muscles. 

Ghost reconnects his lips with yours. You part your lips to bite gently on his bottom lip. Using one hand to hike your left leg up to rest on his hip, he nudges his way between your hips. Between your legs, pressing into your cunt, you can feel his stiff cock, and you can feel a small patch of precum as it leaks through them. You whine into his mouth as his tongue runs against yours. 

“Shhh,” Ghost hushes as he pulls away. “I know, I know. You need me so bad, hm?”

“Yes, please,” you whisper. 

“I can’t hear you,” he snickers. “Please, what?”

You whine, rolling your hips up to grind against his cock. “Please, Ghost. Need your cock.”

Just as easily as you can make him give up control, he can get it back. 

“One more time, whose cock do you need?”

“Yours! Ghost, pleasepleaseplease, fuck me,” it comes out a little too loud for your own liking. Soap will be teasing you for months after this. If he can even bring himself to believe it. 

“Look at you, you needy little thing. Begging for it. You’ll get it, baby,” he brushes a hand down the side of your face before leaning up and swiftly taking off his shirt. You watch as he slowly pushes his boxers down. His cock springs free, slapping him on his stomach. You nearly drool at the sight of it. The tip is flushed pink, and leaking precum, which threatens to drip down his shaft. 

If he doesn’t slide it in to you in the next two seconds, you might lose the rest of your composure. Thank god, Ghost seems to be able to read minds tonight, because he quickly spits into his hand, pumps himself a few times, and lines himself up. His free hand lifts your leg until your ankle rests against his shoulder. With the same hand, still holding your leg close to him by the crook of the elbow, he pulls the mask over his chin. You pout slightly. 

“Don’t give me that look,” he pushes into your cunt slowly. “You know you like it.”

A sharp moan leaves your throat as he fills you completely. He groans, his head lulling back for a moment as he sets an agonizingly slow pace with his hips. You use the wall behind your head as leverage, with one hand planted firmly against it, you roll your hips in time with him. 

“You feel so good,” Ghost moans, his hand squeezing your ankle tightly as he pressed a masked kiss to the inside of it. “Takin’ my dick so well. Like it was made for you–fuck, keep squeezing me like that–like you were made for me.”

You clench around him as he pulls his hips back. He leans forward, using his left arm to brace himself against the wall as he starts to pick up his pace. You reach up, running your nails down his tattoos. He groans, rutting his hips forward harshly. You keen at the pressure against your cervix. 

“Feels t’good,” you whine, arching your back. “Feels s’good, Ghost.”

“Fuck, yes, sweetheart.”

Both of his hands are against the wall now, his hips setting a near brutal pace. Sharp noises are forced out of your lungs and ascend in a staccato in time with his thrusts. 

Thunk. Thunk. Thu– 

If Soap didn’t hear your moans, he definitely hears the bed knocking into the wall. Ghost’s arms flex as he pushes the bed further from the wall to make it quit. You look up at him through your lashes, meeting his ecstasy filled gaze through his mask. You can feel the coil in your stomach start building again, and lower a hand to rub circles into your clit. 

“Good girl,” Ghost breathes out. “Come on my cock, f’me.”

You nod quickly. At this point, your mouth is hanging open and you can’t even try to cut back your moans that fill the room, and probably bleed out into the hallway. Ghost grabs your hand at your clit, and replaces your fingers with his own. 

“But, you come with me, when I say, got it?” He punctuates the sentence with a grunt. 

You whine loudly, your hand grasping onto his wrist between your legs. You’re so fucking close. 

“Can’t–can’t hold back, Ghost.”

“You can, and you will, sweetheart. You want my cum in you, yeah? Want me to fill you up?”

You babble out a string of pleas and begs, interlaced with his call sign. He’s never come in you before. Always preferring to make a mess of your face, ass, or tummy. But, god, does the thought of it flip something in your brain. 

“Please, please, come in me,” you beg, arching your back and trying so hard to hold back your orgasm. You swear you start seeing stars when his moans pitch up. He’s close too. 

“Look at that fuckin’ body,” he bears his weight on his knees again as his hand pressed against the wall drops to your right breast, giving it a gentle knead while pinching your nipple. Goosebumps erupt on your skin in the wake of his fingers as they dance across your stomach. His palm flattens on your lower tummy, pressing lightly so he can feel his cock prodding you through the flesh. 

Heat pools under his hand, and you have to bite your lip to distract yourself from coming. You squirm slightly, gasping for air. 

“Let me come,” you beg. “Please, Ghost, let me come. Come with me. Come in me–fuck!” 

The pressure in you is slowly becoming unbearable, you don’t know how much longer you can hold back. Ghost whines, his hand on your ankle falling to cup your knee and pull you closer. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts. “Okay, baby, come on my cock. C’mon, come with me.”

At his word, the coil in your belly snaps impossibly hard. You arch your back, mouth falling open in a silent wail as stars form in your eyes and your whole lower body nearly goes numb. The pressure in your lower tummy releases as Ghost’s hips stutter against yours. 

“Fuck, yeah,” he groans, pushing himself fully inside of you. “Just like that, love. No one’s ever made you feel like this, hmm?”

A loud whine tears through your throat. “No one makes me feel this good, Ghost.”

Ghost chuckles looking down at you. “And no one else will, hmm? Are you mine?”

“Fuckin’, yes. I’m yours, all yours,” you babble, still reeling from your orgasm. 

His hand on your tummy rubs small circles. He slowly pulls his hips back, watching as his softening cock pulls out, and your pussy flutters around nothing. His thick, white, cum threatens to drip out, but he catches it with a single finger and pushes it back into you. 

“Don’t spill any of that, I want you to feel it drip out of you as we head out in the morning.”

You whine as he fucks his cum deeper into you with two fingers, already overstimulated. His lower stomach, groin, and sheets are soaked with your cum. Ghost gently sets your left leg onto the bed and steps back. You pant, trying to catch your breath, as he looks for a towel. 

He comes back after wetting a rag in the small bathroom connected to his room. He runs it along your inner thighs, and across your stomach where you, well, splashed on yourself. Then uses the same rag to wipe himself down.

You manage to push yourself up, scooting to the edge of the bed to try and stand. 

“Stay here tonight,” Ghost takes off his mask as he speaks, laying it on his bedside table. 

You look over at him. “Really?”

You’re a little shocked. Most of the time, apart from when he stayed at your apartment for a few days, it was sex, then sleep in your own beds. 

“Yes,” Simon says almost matter of factly, like he can’t believe you’re questioning it. He extends a hand holding his shirt from earlier. 

“But, they're going to see me leave your room in the morning,” you protest, taking the shirt from him and slipping it over your head. 

“Yeah,” he smirks. “I think they already know that.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Okay. I’ll stay, but I get the dry side of the bed.”

“Bed’s too small, you’ll end up sleeping on me anyway,” Simon sits on the bed as you scoot over. He flicks off the lamp before going under the sheet, folding an arm under his head and placing the other on his chest. You scoot closer, trying to make room between you and the wall so the rough plaster isn’t digging into your back. You place your head on his left pec, wrapping your arm around his torso underneath his arm. He lets out a long exhale. 

“Simon?” you whisper. 

He hums, already half asleep. 

“I think we need to talk about this when we get back from this mission,” you trace small circles on his stomach, watching as he flexes slightly under your touch.

“Yeah,” he pauses. “We’ll sort it out.”

Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.

This was the second kind.

He knew because your breathing changed.

Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.

He knew you read smut.

That was not new information.

You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.

What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.

You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.

The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to be suspicious.

Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.

You turned a page.

Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.

Jack’s thumb paused.

You bit your lip.

Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.

You did not notice.

Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.

Jack had seen the tabs before.

He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.

You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.

He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.

He was about to find out that he was right.

Just not in the way he thought.

You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.

Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”

Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”

Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.

His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”

You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”

You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”

Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”

Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.

“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.

Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”

You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”

You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”

Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”

You did not hesitate. “Smut.”

Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”

You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”

Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”

You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”

Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”

You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”

You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”

Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”

Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”

Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”

You gave him a look. “Obviously.”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”

You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.

You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.

Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”

You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”

Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”

You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”

Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”

You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”

Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”

Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”

You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.

You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”

Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”

You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”

Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”

You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”

Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”

You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.

Jack waited.

He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.

Jack looked at the book.

The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.

He reached for it.

Not because he was snooping.

Snooping implied shame.

Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.

This was clinical curiosity.

Marital clinical curiosity.

He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.

Jack glanced toward the hallway.

The kettle hummed.

He opened the book where your finger had been.

He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.

Jack muttered, “Christ.”

You had not been kidding about the smut.

He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.

Red.

Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.

Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.

At first, he smiled.

Then he stopped smiling.

His eyes moved over the page once.

Then again, slower.

A throne.

A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.

A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.

Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.

At the end of that hallway sat his home office.

His chair.

His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.

The one with lumbar support.

The one with the locked wheels.

The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.

Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.

Jack said softly, “Well.”

The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.

He should have stopped there.

He did not.

The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.

Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.

He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.

His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.

Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.

Jack murmured, “Fuck.”

You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.

You stopped in the bedroom doorway.

Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.

Not casually.

Not idly.

Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.

Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.

You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”

Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”

You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”

Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”

You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”

Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”

You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.

That was the first thing that got him.

Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.

It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.

Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.

Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”

You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”

Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.

The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter. 

“That’s what you wanted?”

You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”

Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”

You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”

His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”

“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.

He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”

You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”

Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”

You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”

You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”

Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”

The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.

Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“He’s twenty-two?”

You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”

Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”

You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”

Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”

You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”

He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”

Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”

Jack paused. “That was vague.”

You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”

Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”

You blinked. “Worried?”

Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”

You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”

You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”

His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”

You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”

His hand stilled on the book.

You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”

Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”

You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”

Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”

You laughed softly. “Noted.”

His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”

You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”

Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.

You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.

In the way his eyes came back to yours.

In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.

You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”

His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”

“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”

Jack went still.

You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”

His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.

You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.

“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”

His jaw shifted.

“That’s part of it too.”

Jack did not blink.

“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”

His thumb moved once at your waist.

You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”

Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.

You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”

His voice came out lower. “No?”

You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Because I trust you,” you said.

His hand stilled at your waist.

You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.

“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”

Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.

Then they came back to yours.

“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”

Jack was silent for a long moment.

Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.

“It’s the trust,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”

You laughed under your breath.

His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”

You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”

Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”

Jack looked toward the book.

His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”

You laughed.

He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”

Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.

His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”

You blinked. “How many what?”

Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”

You laughed softly. “Your problem?”

Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”

You smiled.

He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”

You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.

Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.

You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.

“You really want to know?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.

Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.

You tapped the page. “Start there.”

Jack glanced down at the red tab.

Then back at you.

His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”

You nodded. “The throne.”

Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.

He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.

You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”

You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”

Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”

“We covered the chair,” you agreed.

His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”

The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.

“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.

Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about worship.”

Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.

But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.

“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”

Jack did not interrupt.

You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”

The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.

His voice had gone lower. “What?”

You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.

“I want to try something.”

Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”

Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.

“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”

Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”

You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”

Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.

You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”

Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.

You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”

Jack had taken one slow breath.

Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.

“Close the door.”

You had.

By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.

“Here?” he had asked.

You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.

Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.

Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.

“You want my full attention?” he had asked.

You had nodded, throat tight.

His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”

And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet. 

The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.

But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.

“Look at me,” he had murmured.

You had tried. God, you had tried.

Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.

“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”

And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.

It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.

Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”

You nodded. “That was the idea.”

His thumb moved once. “The worship.”

You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”

For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.

“Okay,” he said.

You smiled a little. “Okay?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”

Your chest softened.

You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”

You nodded. “Not the first.”

His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”

You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”

Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”

You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”

His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”

You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”

Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”

Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”

You glanced back at him. “Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.

Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”

You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”

Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”

You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”

Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”

You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”

You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.

Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”

You added it to the stack. “That one too.”

His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.

You followed his eyes and smiled.

Jack sat forward. “No.”

You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”

Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”

You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”

His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”

You smiled. “It was.”

Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”

You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”

Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.

The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.

Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”

You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”

Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”

You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”

Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”

His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.

Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”

Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”

Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”

You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”

You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”

The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His mouth had curved. “You need something?”

You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you. 

You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”

Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.

Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”

You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”

Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”

He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.

Jack had checked once. “Like this?”

Your breath had caught. “Yes.”

Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.

His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”

You had tried.

Jack had noticed every second you failed.

Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”

Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”

You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”

You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”

Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”

You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”

His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”

You nodded. “The night it snowed.”

Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”

Your pulse kicked once.

You held his eyes. “Yes.”

The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.

He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.

Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”

You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”

Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”

You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”

Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.

You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”

His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”

You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”

You had nodded. 

Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”

And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.

In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.

His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”

Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”

You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”

Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”

You smiled wider. “A lot.”

Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.

Then his eyes returned to yours. 

“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.

You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”

Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”

You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”

Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.

“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”

You laughed softly. “Mixed?”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”

You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”

You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”

Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.

His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”

You smiled. “The sundress.”

Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”

You held his gaze. “No underwear.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.

His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”

You smiled. “That was for you.”

The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.

Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”

Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”

You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”

Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.

Jack had asked, “You sure?”

You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.

“Bathroom,” he had said.

You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”

His hand had found the small of your back.

Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”

In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.

His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.

“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”

Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.

Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.

You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”

Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”

You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”

You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”

You laughed. “This is not a court.”

Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”

Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.

Jack watched your hand move to it.

His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”

You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”

Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”

You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”

His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.

You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”

Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.

You nodded. “After the double.”

Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”

Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”

The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.

“What?” he had asked.

Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.

His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.

You had nodded.

The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.

“Tell me what you need,” he had said.

You had swallowed.

You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”

Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”

Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”

Jack had gone very still. 

Then his mouth had softened against your temple.

“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.

Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.

Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.

His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”

In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.

You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”

Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”

You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”

Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”

You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”

Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”

You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”

Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.

His voice softened. “There.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”

You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”

Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”

You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”

Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”

The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.

“Begging,” you said.

Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”

You nodded. “After your shower.”

The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.

His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.

You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.

Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.

“Ask for what?” he had asked.

Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.

His thumb had moved once over your skin.

“Then tell me.” Jack had said.

You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”

Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle. 

“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”

Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.

“That one mattered,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”

You breathed out. “Because I asked.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”

Your throat tightened.

You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”

Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”

You tilted your head. “The begging?”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”

You laughed once.

Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”

Your smile softened.

His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”

The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.

You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”

Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.

Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”

You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.

Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”

You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”

You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.

“Green dress,” he said.

You nodded. “Green dress.”

The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.

You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.

Completely.

His eyes moved over you once.

Then again, like the first look had not been enough.

“Jack,” you had said.

He had crossed the room without saying anything.

You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy. 

Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.

“I want you to help me see it.”

Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.

Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.

For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.

“Look,” Jack had said.

You had started to glance away.

His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”

Your breath had caught.

His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.

You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.

“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.

Your throat had tightened.

His fingers had spread over your waist.

“Beautiful,” he had said.

You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him. 

The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.

You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”

Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”

Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.

You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”

Jack covered your hand with his.

You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”

Your smile wobbled. “I know.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.

You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”

Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”

The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.

“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”

You nodded. “Mostly.”

Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”

You smiled. “Pool house.”

His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”

“Fireplace.”

He tapped the third. “Risk.”

“Bar bathroom.”

His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”

“Supply closet.”

His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”

“Bedroom.”

Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”

You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.

Then his eyes returned to yours.

“And worship.”

Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”

Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”

You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”

His eyes darkened.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled. 

He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.

“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”

You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.

“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”

You laughed, startled and bright.

Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.

You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”

You smiled. “Every single one.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”

You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”

You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”

Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”

Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”

You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”

Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”

Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”

You laughed. “Obscene.”

Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.

“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”

Your breath caught.

His smile deepened.

“There,” he murmured. “That look.”

Later That Night…

The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.

Face-down.

Spine bent.

One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.

You were going to complain about that eventually.

Probably.

When your lungs worked again.

For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.

Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.

Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.

He had conducted research.

Thoroughly.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.

Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound. 

“That was incredible.”

You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.

His eyes were still on the ceiling.

You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”

Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”

Your smile widened. “I heard you.”

Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”

You waited.

His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.

Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”

A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.

Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.

You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”

Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously. 

“Yeah.”

Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”

His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.

“Just need a minute.”

You smiled. “Take your time.”

Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.

His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”

Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”

That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”

Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.

“You’re very pretty,” he said.

You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”

Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.

“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”

You raised your eyebrows. “No?”

“Wrong word.”

You waited, biting back a smile.

Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.

“Beautiful,” he decided.

Your throat warmed.

Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”

Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”

You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.

His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”

You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”

You pressed your lips together. “The process?”

He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”

You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”

Jack looked back at you.

His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.

“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”

You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.

Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.

You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.

His heartbeat was still too fast.

You smiled against his skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.

Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.

“That was incredible.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”

His eyes shifted to yours.

He looked almost offended by your amusement.

“What?”

“You’ve said that four times.”

Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”

Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”

Jack’s eyes held yours.

For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.

“I liked that you showed me.”

Your chest tightened.

His thumb moved against your back.

“I liked that you asked,” he said.

You swallowed.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”

The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.

When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.

Then he exhaled.

“That was also incredible.”

You burst out laughing.

Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”

His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.

“I’m enlightened.”

You laughed against him. “By smut?”

Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.

“By my wife.”

That stole the breath from your chest.

You lifted your head.

Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.

Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered.

Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.

His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”

Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.

“Too late.”

You stared at him.

He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”

You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.

Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.

You hit him with it.

He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.

Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.

After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”

You smiled against his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It was.”

You reached for the nearest document before he could recover enough to protest, unfolding the parchment with exaggerated seriousness and holding it up toward the light from the window.

“Grain inventories from Maidenpool?” You let it drop with theatrical disappointment. “Seven hells, no wonder you look miserable.”

“My love.” His voice was already roughening at the edges. “I truly must finish this, if you please.” Yet his chest remained a solid press against your back, making no effort to shift you anywhere.

You smiled to yourself and leaned forward to reach another stack near the edge of the desk. The movement was idle enough on the surface, except that it forced your back into a slow arch and dragged your weight across his lap in one long pull.

The sound he made was low and involuntary. Those large hands spread wider against your hips, no longer steadying but properly holding. Against your back, his exhale came out longer than it went in, the warmth of it pressing through the silk at your shoulder.

“Who is Lord Melcolm?” you continued pleasantly, inspecting a new letter with the grave attention of someone reading a royal decree. “He writes as though someone is actively chasing him through the halls.”

“My dear wife.” His voice dropped low. “If anyone finds us in this position again—”

“Oh, this seal is lovely.” You cut him off without turning, already reaching for a letter in dark green wax and waving it carelessly over your shoulder. The arc of your arm rolled your hips against him, and his fingers pressed into you hard enough that heat flickered low in your stomach.

“Whose house uses a heron? I cannot place it.”

A beat of silence followed, and when you glanced back at him, his jaw was set and his gaze had moved entirely away from the desk.

You shifted a bit to your left, feeling the answering hardness beneath his breeches grow more insistent with every passing moment. The fabric pulled taut in a way that made your thoughts briefly and inconveniently blank.

The movement ground your weight against him, and whatever sound he had been holding back came out quieter, pressed thin through his teeth.

Those big, veiny hands started to move their way to the curve of your hip, firm enough to leave a memory in the skin. His thumb drawing one slow stroke against the silk there before stilling. But he did not move it away. A wise instinct.

You could have turned around and devoured him. The want of it was embarrassingly persistent, pulsing low and inconvenient, and you had been sitting with it for some time. Instead you kept rummaging through the scatter of his desk, tilting one letter after another.

“Mm.” You frowned at the letter, tilting it one way and then the other. “I cannot make sense of this one at all. What does it say, my love?”

Under the guise of needing his assistance, you twisted slightly in his lap to face him, letting one knee rest atop his growing bulge. The motion felt far too deliberate to be accidental.

A silence stretched whilst he gathered whatever remained of himself. He reached to take the letter from your fingers and turned it once. His mismatched eyes settled on your face.

“That,” he said quietly, “is because you are holding it upside down.”

The mask had worn thin now. A flush had crept along the strong line of his throat, high colour against tanned skin, vivid enough that you wanted to press your mouth to it.

“Oh!” A soft, guileless giggle escaped you, and you watched the muscle jump in his jaw at the sound of it. “How foolish of me, husband.”

You set the letter aside and reached for a completely blank sheet instead. “Ah! What about this one?”

You held it up, eyes squinted, pretending to read at obviously nothing.

“It says,” you murmured, “an invitation requesting the Heir to the Iron Throne join his wife in bed, as she has grown terribly cold and increasingly impatient.”

You leaned over and pushed the page beneath his nose, close enough for your breast to press against his doublet. You tapped the blank paper like a mother teaching her son to read. “See? It says right here.”

The distance between your bodies had reduced to almost nothing now, every slow breath shifting heat between you. His eyes had gone very dark. The weight of them settling on your face with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

His mismatched gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then to your chest, lingering a beat too long before he dragged it back up to meet yours. A small, unguarded thing he clearly had not intended to give you.

"I believe it would be terribly unwise for the Crown Prince to deny such an urgent summons," you said, just above a whisper.

He said nothing, but the silence that followed was not empty. It sat between you thick and airless, his eyes not leaving yours for even a moment. His expression holding an answer he had no intention of saying out loud, so you gave him one in return.

You let the knee resting against him begin to move. A long, slow stroke directly against the hardness straining at his breeches. The heat of him consumed you even through all the layers in between. You felt him tense, the strong lines of his body drawing tight all at once like a bowstring pulled to its limit.

Whatever he had been holding back finally slipped through. The sound that escaped him was small and brief. His hand at your hip flexed and tightened in its wake. Then, slowly, something else moved across his face. Amusement creeping in, mixing with hunger. Like he could not quite decide whether to laugh or pull you closer. Knowing him, he would do both.

With nothing left to pretend, he set the blank parchment very carefully on the desk, smoothed it flat with one broad palm, and reached for you instead.

One strong arm closed around your waist, the solid breadth of his chest leaving very little room for pretending you had not wanted exactly this from the moment you walked through the door. The other hand curved around the back of your neck, fingers reaching into your hair, drawing you closer until your lips hovered at the edge of his.

He took your mouth at once, pressing hard at first before softening into something slower and wetter, his tongue sliding against yours until a moan slipped out before you could catch it.

Without loosening his grip, he began to grind his hardened, clothed cock against your hips. You shifted instinctively until his bulge pressed firm between your thighs. You moaned deeper into his mouth, fingers tightening in his collar, and felt him exhale hard against your lips.

The last of whatever restraint he had been clinging to all evening finally burning through. He broke the kiss to catch his breath, still holding you close, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Baelor…” you breathed, your teeth grazing his lower lip, yearning for more.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dropping to drink you in. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

Left A Mark On My Heart | @thefictionalmanswhxre

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵

VERY Happily Married | @/thefictionalmanswhxre

𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦

Kitten and the Shark | @tumbleweedstillhaspanic

Dr. Brendon Park has well earned the nickname Park the Shark around PTMC. He’s no stranger to making the medical staff around him cower in fear and shed a tear or two. However, when his favorite nurse from the ED finds herself crying hidden away in the hallway, Dr. Park takes it upon himself to find the source of her sorrow and fix it for her. Y/N has earned her reputation as the sacrifice sent to go into any exam room anytime Park the Shark comes down to the ED for a consult. She’s not thrilled she seems to have earned his respect and she’d less thrilled when she overhears gossip his feeling for her go beyond professional respect. When he comes to her aid it hits her that maybe there’s more to Park the Shark than she’s previously assumed.

broken bones | @jadeittic

ending up in the hospital on her rare day off, arm in a cast after a student accident. what surprises everyone isn’t her injury, it’s the shark lingering, visibly concerned. around her, he isn’t intimidating. just tense, watchful, and oddly careful. why?

Affair? | @/jadeittic

the ER knows you’re married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone’s convinced you’re having an affair.

Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park Masterlist | @rr-after-dark

Care Without Cruelty | @antisirkbitch

After a bad fall lands her in the ER, she comes face-to-face with the ex who shattered her self-worth during the darkest part of his addiction. But this time, she’s not alone—and when Park the Shark steps in, protective and unexpectedly soft, she finally gets to see what care without cruelty looks like.

Doctors, Depositions, & Desire | @novemberaster

The PTMC’s legal team hired you to represent several medical professionals, including Park, for a fraught med-mal case. You and Park were both stubborn, smart, and had to have the last word. And yet, the two of you were like magnets. 

dad!Park the Shark | @moonjellin

Protective!Park x Wife!Reader | @medusasfics

Idiots | @chiefdirector

You are such a good dad! | @/chiefdirector

Fairies | @/chiefdirector

Bite Me | @/chiefdirector

MELTING | @seewhoyouwanttosee

Whenever Brendon Park is pulled out of surgery for an emergency consult, the ER always holds its breath– only this time, he doesn’t wreak havoc. Could it be that you, the new, bright-eyed resident, has somehow managed to soften the shark’s bite?

imagine | @livfastdieyoung69

flirty!reader lays her eyes on park the shark for the first time

Drabble | @/livfastdieyoung69

flirty!reader continues her mission in trying to reel in park the shark. 

All Teeth. | @unigirl-writez

A new young talent comes to the PMTC and is almost immediately poached by ortho. Blunt, outspoken, overachieving, and stubborn she immediately catches the eye of the hospitals 'shark'.

Drabble | @uwulyn

brendon smells weird? pregnant with your fourth seems different from the last three. enjoying this?

his shark bait | @choasthriver12

ONE FISH, TWO FISH | @buffalokill

Look After you | @gemstone-roses

nurse reader ends up in the Pitt on her day off after urgent care can’t help. Park surprises everyone with his softness toward her.

And if your homesick | @/gemstone-roses

when reader is brought into the Pitt. Robby makes assumptions. Park is pissed