olive

“W-well, st-statistically speaking,” You smirked at the sound of his voice being a little higher than usual as you set another deliberately sensuous pace. “H-Human male anatomy follows a no-normal distribution curve---!” Ryland nearly yelped at the sensation of your walls tightening around his hard cock, pressing into places he wanted to memorize. You can’t help but smile breathlessly as his hands come to rest on your hips, helping ease you into a more leveraged position, feeling the tangled entrapment of your thigh muscles spasming. 

“T-technically, someone has-has to occupy the upper percentiles… It’s just…” He drew a deep breath in and fluttered his eyelids open to make eye contact with you when you swirled your hips once again, the friction almost too much for him to handle. “Probability, really.”

Ryland managed to growl out those last two words as his hands loosened enough to allow you to continue bouncing as you scientific compliment came rushing in and out of his brain, trying to cope as it mixed tediously with the pleasure running through his entire body. “B-but um…” He added, fingers digging into the fleshy skin that rested right above your hipbones and helped lead you into a better rhythm.

“T-thank you. I-I think?” He was not thinking, in fact. How was he supposed to when you were… Well, doing what you were doing?!

A gasp escaped your mouth as Ryland’s hips came to meet yours half way, the head of his cock pressing against the spongy part inside of you that made stars blister momentarily behind your eyes as you tossed your head back with a moan that sounded suspiciously like his name. “J-Just making an observation.”

“Yo-you’d be a great scientist.” The blonde man let out a shaky laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you captivated his gaze, hands daring enough now to come up along the scape of your curves to grasp your chest. “I-I suppose it’s one variable th-that’s working in my favor.”

“I think i-it’s working more in mine.” Your voice was nothing more than a low purr.  

Something about that caused Ryland to snap, and within moments, your back was against the bed and he was perfectly slotted between your open legs, your feet tucking into the fleshier nature of his lower back. He guided himself, eyes locked between your bodies and watching the stretch his cock gave you. The analytical scientist gave way to the man who was clearly pleased by your compliment even if he didn't know quite how to handle it. You lifted your hips up slightly to give way to a different angle, the slow drag of Ryland’s cock against your inner walls making you both gasp as he sunk back into you to the hilt. 

The room was nothing more than a hazy mess with cigarette smoke clinging to the open air and the dim glow of a single lamp on your lover’s bedside table. He was above you, his usually clumsy grace replaced by a focused intensity as he shoved your leg up, relishing in the sensation of your other wrapped lazily around his narrow waist. Holland’s hand grasped at the muscle of your calf, pulling you infinitely closer with each thrust of his hips, his breathing coming in ragged pants as his pink lips planted a heated, saliva stricken kiss to your leg.

You were completely lost in the sensation of his cock relentlessly pounding into you until you felt him shift, the mattress rippling as a new angle was introduced, the head of his shaft now hitting a spot that made you thrash your head back. 

“Fuck, Holland!” You moaned, one of your hands coming to grasp at his wrist, fingernails digging slightly into the skin there. He hissed into the moan that left his smirked mouth. “R-right there.”

“You like that, baby?” He responded with a guttural sound, picking up the pace and driving into you with what felt like a renewed purpose. You were getting close, your entire body was shouting at you. The tension in your stomach, your leg tensing around his waist and urging him even closer, your walls tightening around him to the point where Holland had the feeling you were going to milk him for all he was worth. More than okay in his book. “O-Oh, you r-really like that.”

“G-God, you’re so deep.” You squeezed your eyes shut and chomped onto your bottom lip, but that was pointless as another groan tore through the air. Irrationality was winning, as it so often did in the throes of pleasure. “You’re so fucking big, Holland.”

The blonde above you seemed to catch for a moment at that, a slower reluctance being placed into his thrusts as his breath caught in the hollow of his throat in a sickeningly sensual way for your eyes to feast on. You can feel his cock twitch inside if you, he must have been replaying your words again and again as a stuttery laugh escaped his lips, his upper half careening down so he could place a messy kiss to your mouth. 

“Jesus,” He murmured against your lips, tongue pressing against yours for a moment. “Y-You can’t just say…. Shit like that when I’m trying to concentrate.”

Holland let your leg go, instinct taking over and within moments, it joined your other around his slim hips, his forearms coming to trap you to the bed as his cock grinded into you. You moaned, “W-why not…? It’s true.”

His rhythm faltered the second you tightened around him intentionally, bringing your hips up to meet his before Holland found the willpower in himself to proceed. Deeper, harder this time. He needed you to cum on his cock. “B-because it makes me want to…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into nothingness as you clenched around him again. 

“To what?” You teased despite your tone being incredibly breathless. 

“T…To fuck you until you can’t walk straight.” Holland forced himself to finish a coherent statement, dark, pupil blow eyes meeting yours in a heated frenzy. “Make you feel every,” He deliberately grinded his cock as hard as he could inside of you, “Inch.” He did it again, the compliment clearly going to his head and there was now a set pace as Holland was determined to prove your words right, over and over again.

Lars was always so careful with you, as if you were something too precious for this world that might break if he wasn’t paying enough attention. And as he shifted his hips, pressing into your warmth, earning himself a soft gasp from your lips, nothing screamed as aggressive or overdone. It was just you and your boyfriend, the evening light filtering through the curtains of his bedroom to cast warm glows to juxtapose against the Winter air outside as his cock stretched you in an almost overwhelmingly absurd way.

Your inner walls fluttered, spasming around his girth as he settled a bit more between your legs, letting them case around his larger body and easing his chest against yours as the dark blonde let a whimper leave his parted lips.

“L-Lars.” You whispered, your hand coming up to cup the side of his face, his eyes squeezed shut in focus as he himself was in an adjustment period. Common for him, you let Lars work it out the way he needed as you traced your thumb along his cheekbone. He couldn’t handle those dual sensations and a moment later, his head collapsed into the crevice of your neck as he gave an exploratory shuffle of his hips a few centimeters out before plunging back into you. 

“T-That feels really good.” You moaned softly into his ear causing a shiver to blister down his spine. 

“I like… I like when you ma-make those sounds…” He admitted, his voice strained and barely a notch above rationality. “It’s… It’s really nice…”

A smile tugs onto your face slowly as you tuck your fingers into his thick hair, seeking to motivate and calm him down from the prospect of overstimulation. “I like making those sounds for you…”

Lars’s cock twitched at that, the motion so minute but you could feel it inside of you as you shifted just a bit beneath him, readjusting on the pillow so you could look up at him properly when he pulled his head back. “A-And I like the way you feel around me…” His blue eyes drifted along your expression before they locked onto your lips as a sole point of concentration. “It’s… Tight but in a good way… A really… Good way…”

Your boyfriend's words made you clench around his heavy cock, causing him to gasp out, his eyes widening at the new sensation. “Oh-oh, that’s… That’s something…”

You nod in agreement as a blush overcomes your entire being, urging him down so you could place a gentle kiss to his lips. He had been asking silently by staring at your mouth, a whisperless thanks being given as his moustache tickled you as you muttered, “Y-you’re bigger than I expected.” There was that breathless laugh of yours that Lars thought was so cute. “Y-You feel so good in me.”

And for a moment, the man above you didn't respond. There was no motion from him until you felt the sting of a very deliberate drag of his cock against your walls that made you tremble. He pulled back from your neck, your skin immediately missing the heated sensation of his breath against it, Lars’s brows furrowed in minor confusion. 

“R-really?” He asked, and there’s something so genuinely surprised in his tone that it made your heart ache a little as you brushed your fingers through his hair as your words settled into the air and into his mind. Something shifted in Lars’s expression. The shock of your compliment slowly melted into something warmer, more confident. A shy smile tugged at the corner of his plush lips, his mustache lifting with it.

"I-I’ve never really… thought about it like… that…” Lars trailed off, his cheeks flushing a deep red against his pale skin, only minorly disrupted by his facial stubble as he inched out of you before sinking back in as far as he could reach.

Your back arched off the bed slightly, pressing your taut chest against his as you let a low moan out. “Is… Is this okay?” Lars asked after a few moments, repeating his thrusting motion that sprinkled the best sensation along your core. “I do-don’t want to hurt you…” His voice was straining to keep itself contained and not delve too far into the pleasure. Yet. He would once he knew you were good to go. 

You nodded wordlessly, your mouth slightly agape as you sucked a breath in as Lars shuffled his hips against yours. “Y-You’re perfect, Lars.”

The cheap mattress of Colt’s trailer bed dipped beneath your knees, the worn sheets cool and contrasted against your palms, stark compared to the heat of the desert outside. Being on all fours was common now, it’s what the blonde stuntman liked as you arched your back to display the fleshy bounce of your ass for his hungry eyes.

His cock was so hard it felt like one little bit of attention made to it was going to make him cum as he positioned himself at your entrance, a small hiss leaving his mouth as he gripped his needy hard-on with one calloused hand, the other grasping with a possessive strength at your hip to get you in the most optimal angle. You were surely going to have bruises there in the morning, but it was all worth it. “Ready?” Colt asked, his voice low and rough, incredibly different from the charming demeanor he showed the film crew when performing stunts. 

You could only nod, your breath catching in your throat aggressively as he pushed in, painfully slow. The head of his cock disappeared as you were given time to adjust to the stretch. Even after all this time, the initial penetration was enough to make you go crazy, your head dipping as you urged your body not to shake prematurely as your toes curled. Colt watched his cock bury itself so deep inside of you that he couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than that point of primal contact.

“Fuuuuckkkk.” You gasped as air finally met your lungs again, his cock filling you up completely, his taut hips pressing against your ass and conforming against him like a puzzle piece. “Y-you're so big.”

“What was that?” His hands tightened on your hips, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Your cock.” You clarified with a huff, pushing back against him and causing the large man to stumble a bit before he regained composure. “It f-feels even bigger in this position. Like I-I’m being split in half.”

What a visual. Colt responded with a low chuckle as he began to move. It was slow at first, too slow for your liking as you grasped at the sheets with a tiny moan before it increased into a set rhythm. Enough to get you both going for now, but not enough to cause anything to be over too soon. If there was one thing Colt was good at, it was teetering on that very line.

“Yeah?” He grunted, a hand coming down to grasp at your ass and urge you to grind into him as the other wrapped delicately around your neck to keep you arched instead of letting your body falter. “Tell me more, baby.”

“So thick.” You moaned hoarsely as Colt picked up pace, jutting his cock into you as best he could, the sound of skin slapping skin seeping into the air of the small trailer, the controlled movements he was known for giving way to something far more urgent. The bed groaned loud under your combined weights as Colt drove into you, your body reacting as best it could as you met him thrust for thrust, pushing back to take him deeper as his long fingers exploded against your neck and held you. You needed every inch of him, and he had to know.

“I-I’m going to cum a-all over y-your big cock, Colt. Fuc… Fuck… don’t stop.”

Colt's rhythm faltered for a moment as he processed your words. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice strained. "You say things like that and I'm not going to last."

"Don't last then," you challenged, looking back at him over your shoulder. "Just fill me up and show me what a stuntman can really do."

Lazy mornings seemed rare with your lover. Even more so when he came home at the early hours of the morning, unexplained but always willing to tug himself into your bed with the favor of stress release. And this early Tuesday morning was no different, the predawn light filtering through the small blinds of your apartment, casting faint, gray stripes across the rumble sheets that were close to being discarded.

The air was cool on your exposed skin, raising goosebumps and hardening your nipples only to be soothed by the solid wall of heat pressed against your back. Driver was behind you, his chest a firm plane against your shoulder blades, one arm curled possessively around your waist and keeping you against him. His other hand was holding onto the base of his cock, teasing your entrance, urging you to prop your leg up so he could enter.

Not like it was even a question as you did just that, sleep still tugging on your movements as the blonde pushed into you with an inch by inch stroke that made a shudder explode down your spine, felt in Driver’s sternum as he pressed his chest more ardently to your back, lips barely ghosting against the shell of your ear as a silent moan cased there. Driver’s movements were always economical and precise, somewhat tearing more into the idea of performing a function rather than fucking but that’s just how it was.

There was an intensity to him that both thrilled you and unnerved some part of your rationality, but it made you only want him more as he focused behind you, shifting his hips against your ass and pressing deeper. You gasped softly, the hand around your waist dripping between your semi-open legs. 

Driver’s rhythm didn't change at your sound, but his blue eyes which has been closed, fixed on some obscure thought of his nice it was to be with someone like this, opened and slowly came to focus on your face. He watched you, his expression unreadable in the dim light but there was a crack in the facade as you moaned again, his mouth twitching. 

“Mmmmm… Y-You’re always so much bi-bigger than I remember, Driver.” You panted into the air, your voice barely a tangible whisper for him. But, he heard it. And for a moment, nothing changed. He continued his steady, measured pace of railing into you as if he didn't hear your compliment at all. “You feel incredible.” 

That was the nail he needed. You felt it - a subtle shift in his fingertips, the way he moved behind you before giving you a slightly deeper thrust forward. You groaned at that, feeling him stretch you like it was the first time, head tilting to the side. Driver’s gaze met yours immediately and you’re both frantically searching for something. 

“Y-You’re being awfully quiet.” You observed, your hand reaching up to cup the side of his face as he thrusted deeper into you, his free hand coming up to grasp your thigh to keep your leg from rebounding and clamping shut. Driver didn't bother responding verbally, but you were in for a treat as he leaned his face in to capture your lips in a tired kiss, languid and bustling with the affection he so often chose to ignore because it was easier in his line of work. His lips brushed against yours before captivating down your jaw to your ear. 

“I’d rather listen to you than listen to me.” He moved behind you once again, the bed frame creaking a bit with that as his cock hit that spot inside of you that made you grasp at the side of his face in desperation, his thrusts becoming that much more purposeful, more attune to your reactions.

The compliment that had gone vaguely unnoticed, at least in your perspective, was driving him crazy to the point where Driver became irrationally focused on your pleasure, determined not to understand every nuance and sensation. He needed this more than he could tell you, so he was going to show you.

The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily. 

The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up. 

The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted. 

The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation. 

You hated it. 

Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount of everything put you especially at unease. 

Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing. 

Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand. 

Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed. 

This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault. 

Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work. 

So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around. 

By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nurses’ station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.

You immediately regretted coming up here. 

Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine. 

You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.

Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip. 

Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders. 

The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.

You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation. 

Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment. 

His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot. 

Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the word sorry from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers. 

You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place. 

You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice. 

Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my god—"

"Morning, Morgie." 

You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."

"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye. 

"Trying to," you answered honestly. 

Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing. 

You had known people like Trinity your entire life. Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her. 

If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people. 

Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion. 

"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are like a thing, right?" 

You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question. 

Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."

You blinked at her. 

You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life. 

But apparently none of that really mattered. 

Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."

Your brain stalled completely. 

Packing? Walks like it, what? Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"

Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to. 

"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."

For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long. 

Concern immediately sparked in your chest. Was his leg hurting him?

"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."

"What?" she asked. "I've been catching print for the last hour. I'm curious!"

Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean, catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances. 

"Catching what?" you asked.

She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked. 

"Should I?"

In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."

Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion. 

"I'm confus—"

"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted. 

Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips. 

Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered. 

Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline of him beneath. 

It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were. Was it getting hot in here?

It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes. 

You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough. 

This was different. This was public. 

This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick. 

Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.

And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense. 

Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh. 

You couldn't speak. 

You couldn't breath. 

Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you. 

"There it is." 

Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory. Dear God. 

Had it always been that noticeable?

You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder. 

"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER. 

You almost didn't answer the door. 

The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear. 

Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem. 

The problem was you. 

It was how Jack made you feel. 

Jack was thoughtful and kind. 

The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you. 

The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole. 

You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned. 

The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."

The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of the sickness you had told him you'd suddenly come down with. 

"Can I come in?"

You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I did," he muttered. 

He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items. 

The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it. 

"You look better than I expected."

You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly say I knew you were lying when you said you were sick. 

So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained. 

"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin. 

You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm. 

"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."

You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed. 

"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."

"Jack, thats too much."

"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."

Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people. 

You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you. 

"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward. 

Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing. 

He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere. 

"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary. 

"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued. 

You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable. 

He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. Very Jack Abbot of him and very much the bane of your existence. 

You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."

"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."

The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator. 

"Honey?"

"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.

"Tell me what's going on."

You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations. 

Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere." 

You blinked, confused, "What?"

"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered. 

"I don't think—"

"Sit."

His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling. 

"Oh my god."

"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation. 

But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in. 

"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"

You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."

You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."

"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."

"Exactly my point. It's you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."

You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable. 

"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she said—"

Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."

"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That would definitely not help."

"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"

You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."

Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"

"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."

Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"

And there it was.

This was the moment. The point of no return. 

You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"

The silence that followed was immediate.

"What?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she said—and I quote—'he walks like it's heavy.'"

For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.

It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."

"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."

"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing. 

"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.

"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"

Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"

"You don't understand."

"No. I do."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what if you noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."

"Jack."

"What?"

His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."

"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."

"I'm trying." He absolutely was not. The smile gave him away. 

"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."

"It is terrible."

"Why?"

"You weren't there."

"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked. 

You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. “I just—" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay? Obviously. But that's private."

Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."

For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind of pervert."

"Oh."

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean oh?”

The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"

"No!"

You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."

Your mouth dropped open.

"I do not."

One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.

His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."

"Jack, that's not helping."

"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"

Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."

"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."

"Please stop talking."

"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."

Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.

The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.

"There she is."

You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.

And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.

"yeah." he swallows hard. "yeah, okay." his voice comes out rough, unsteady. his warm brown eyes are fixed on you, wide, intense. focused entirely on your mouth like he's trying to memorize whatever you're about to show him.

you lean in to give him a small peck first, soft, barely there then look at him. he looks back at you before he copies you, leaning back in, and this time his lips aren't so stiff.

progress.

then you part your lips carefully, slanting your mouth over his until they're molding together, until his warm breath seeps into yours.

you swipe your tongue slow along his bottom lip and he sighs, low, shaky, his fingers dig harder into your thighs.

"you like that?" you pull back just enough to ask, breathless.

he stares at you. eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slightly parted, breathing ragged. "yeah."

so you do it again. and again. slow and patient, until he catches the rhythm, until his jaw unclenches and he stops thinking so damn hard about it, until his mouth finally moves with yours instead of against it. his hands skate over your thighs higher, trembling, squeezing the soft of them harder.

"andrew, stick out your tongue for me." he does it. listens to you without a second thought, without an ounce of shame, just pure, raw trust. "yeah, just like that, such a good boy."

you watch his pupils blow wide at the praise, his cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears. cute.

you lean in again and lave your tongue over his, slow and hot. tasting him, him tasting you, and he lets out this broken, pleased groan that vibrates deep in his chest and against your body. his hands spasm on your thighs, trying to tug you closer.

you push him back immediately and he actually chases your mouth for a second before yoy press a finger over his lips. "uh-uh. slower, baby. follow my lead."

"sorry." he mumbles, a little shy.

then, when you give him the go ahead, he leans back in, kisses you exactly as you showed him, setting the pace real slow. he breathes through his nose while he does it, groaning all ragged and needy, as your tongues swirl together, like you've been edging him for hours instead of kissing him for minutes.

and then pulls back just a fraction, his eyes desperately searching your face for approval. "am i doing good?" his face is trying so hard to stay flat, face blank, but the dark flush blotching down his neck like a fever and wrecked voice gives him away completely.

"mhm," your pussy pulses at the sight of him so desperate, so utterly helpless beneath you.

your fingers scratch fondly at his scalp, nails dragging through the auburn strands and he whimpers. "doing really good, popey."

he gets all twitchy when you call him that and his hips jerk up as he starts rutting against you like a dog in heat. and, oh, you can feel him. the growing bulge through the rough denim, pressing right against the damp seam of your thin panties.

he's so huge that the thick, heavy outline of him drags deliciously between your folds through the clothes, catching right on your puffy clit, and a embaressingly loud moan slips out of you before you can stop it.

the sound flips a switch in him and he moves before you can blink.

his hands clamp down on your waist, and suddenly you're the one being flipped down into his mattress, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs. the sheer strength of him makes something warm and desperate pool low in your belly.

his heavy body settles on top of yours, all solid muscle and desperate heat. the new angle has him pressing right against your pussy, the rough seam of his jeans dragging over your soaked panties, and you both groan at the friction.

"ah—popey, wait—" but he just kisses you again, muffling your protests, arms wrapping tight around your torso.

the air gets thicker, heavier and you realize not only is your boyfriend a fast learner but he's terrifyingly observant too—those sharp, dark eyes of his catching every micro-expression, filing away exactly what makes you whimper, what makes your spine arch, what makes you grind up harder into him. you can feel him learning your body in real-time, using your own reactions against you.

you’re whimpering against his tongue now, making pathetic, wet sounds you didn’t know you could make, melting into the mattress and rolling your hips up, chasing the friction against your aching clit, completely at his mercy.

and the sounds only spur him on.

"'taste too good." he whines as he sinks his tongue deeper into your mouth. turning the kiss sloppy and wet as he laps at you, licking into the roof of your mouth like he's starving, swallowing every needy moan he pulls from your chest.

he sucks at your bottom lip until it throbs, biting down just hard enough to sting. you let out a high, reedy whine before he licks over the hurt, obsessive and soothing.

"mmnh—'s too much, popey—"

he can't hear you or either he does and just doesn't care. his hands just slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, rolling them down slowly, too slowly, all the way to your ankles. and you hear the rustle of him unzipping his pants, the metal teeth parting loud in the quiet room before he presses his still clothed bulge against your bare pussy.

"oh."

so much for him being a bad kisser. huh?

but it's overwhelming, all too much, and you can hardly breathe. so you pull at his curls, hard, weakly pushing at his shoulders but he only groans low pleased at the feeling and presses you deeper into the mattress instead, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you exactly where he wants you.

he continues to tongue-fuck you stupid, devouring you until your eyes are rolling back and your lungs are burning, swallowing all your protests.

and his hips won't stay still either.

he's basically rutting against the slick folds of your pussy now, grinding down in these desperate, clumsy thrusts that bump against your clit every few seconds, making you jolt and whine each time. you can feel how wet you're making him, the fabric of his briefs damp where you're leaking through, and the filthy thought of it—of him wearing your slick, of marking him that way—makes you clench so hard your thighs shake.

only after what seems like hours, just when you're dizzy, about to black out from lack of oxygen, he finally pulls back. a thick string of spit connects your swollen, ruined mouths. he immediately leans in to lick it from the corner of your lips, greedy and hungry, panting heavily against your cheek.

"did– did i do good?" he asks all needy for praise, chin slick, those pretty brown eyes wide and utterly wrecked above you, his curls stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"mhm." is all you manage. a breathless sigh. your brain is mush, entirely fucked out from just the kiss.

he grins, a little too proud of himself. then he grinds into you. once.

"so can we fuck now?"

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

The first time it happens it's an accident.

There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.

The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.

He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.

But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.

He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?

It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.

Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.

The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.

You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.

You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—

And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.

An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.

He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.

If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.

That’s when he moves.

It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.

He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.

You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.

“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.

It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.

You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.

It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.

“You’re welcome.”

Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.

His stomach does another flip.

Who the fuck are you?

Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.

He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—

“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.

You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.

“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”

You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.

“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.

“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.

Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.

But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.

No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.

“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”

Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.

It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.

You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.

His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?

“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.

He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.

And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity. 

His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.

Fuck.

The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.

You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.

You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.

Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.

“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.

Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.

But then Craig has to go and ruin it.

“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.

Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.

Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.

But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.

It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.

He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?

Unless…you’re not actually together, together.

Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?

You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.

“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”

Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.

Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”

“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”

Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief. 

“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.

Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.

The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.

Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.

He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.

Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?

Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.

“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.

He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.

His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.

You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.

Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.

You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—

Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.

You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.

Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.

But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.

You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.

You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.

You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.

Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.

It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.

You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.

After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.

He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.

“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.

He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.

He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.

You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.

Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.

Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.

It’s…nice.

Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.

“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”

You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.

But to Pope it’s…euphoric.

He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.

Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that. 

But is it real? Do you actually mean it?

It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.

“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”

You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding. 

“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”

He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.

You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.

A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath. 

“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.

You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—

Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.

You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed. 

He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.

You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.

And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.

He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.

He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.

“Uncle Pope!”

Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.

She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.

It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.

You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.

“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.

“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”

Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?

“Ended early.”

You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.

“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”

You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.

“That’s up to him, sweetie.”

And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”

He nods. “Okay.”

Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.

You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.

Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.

“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.

Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.

But what does he know about ice cream.

So he does, he tries something new.

You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.

But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.

You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.

“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.

The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.

“You’re welcome.”

You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.

Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.

He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.

Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is. 

Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.

She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough. 

The house is uncharacteristically quiet.

He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.

It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.

Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.

He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.

No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.

He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.

It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.

He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.

“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.

Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?

A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.

He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.

You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.

You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.

He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.

You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.

You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.

And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.

He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over? 

“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.

His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.

He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—

He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.

He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.

Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.

It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.

You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.

Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.

For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.

He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.

The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.

“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“My pleasure, Andy.”

Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.

For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.

He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.

His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.

He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?

Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.

Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.

The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.

He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.

His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?

His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—

A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.

You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.

Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.

Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.

He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.

The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.

He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.

“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.

He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.

“Were you hiding from me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.

“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.

Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head.

“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”

He opens his mouth to answer.

I didn’t have your number.

I didn’t know I had to.

Why didn’t you call?

But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t anything.

Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily. 

He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.

Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.

It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.

He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.

“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”

 He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.

“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.

He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.

If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.

He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.

He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.

You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.

You want him.

Desperately.

Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.

“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”

He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.

“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.

You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.

“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.

“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.

He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.

“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.

You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.

He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.

All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.

But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.

You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.

He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.

But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.

Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.

You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.

You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.

Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.

You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.

“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.

He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.

“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.

He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.

Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.

Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.

And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—

“All of it.” You answer for him.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”

And who is he to deny you now?

In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.

He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.

Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.

At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.

You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.

“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”

He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself. 

There’s just one more thing to do.

So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.

It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.

He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.

He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”

You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.

“May I move?”

You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.

You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.

A desire to long for someone.

An allowance to feel.

A chance to love again.

“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”

He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.

“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”

You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.

You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.

“In me please, Andy, need you—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.

He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.

You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.

“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.

He chuckles lovingly. “It’s perfect, angel.”

“Good,” you hum.

“Good.”

to make matters worse, you're together all shift on a difficult case, and he keeps having to ask you to run tests for him. each time, jack has to concentrate really hard on your face, because from where he's stood, he has a perfect view down into your bra. god, is he hallucinating, or can he see your nipples?

after you debrief him on a change in the patient's condition, one that he agrees warrants sending them up to the icu, you just have to ask. "um, dr abbot? did i do something to upset you?"

his brows knit together. "no, not at all. why?"

"you've just... been staring at me..." you reply, your voice unsure.

he exhales, his words coming through gritted teeth. "listen, i think you should just go to the lost and found, and grab a t-shirt." you look shocked, so he clarifies: "it's nothing personal. you just... you're... there are a lot of creeps running around here at night, okay? drunk assholes who get handsy when they've got a young woman that looks the way you do takin' care of em. you should cover up."

you straighten up at that. "my tits?" you reply, tone unusually sharp. "you want me to cover up my tits in case a perv comes in? cause i think it's a little late for that."

he can't even argue, really, he is a perv. he'd spent hours fisting his cock looking at those pictures of you, his younger colleague. his muscles tense up as remembers the way his hips had jerked into his hand just that morning, how he'd spilled cum onto his ipad's screen. "i-i- uh..."

"dr abbot, you're so hard right now, your dick could probably break glass," you deadpan. and you're right. jack looks down, and for the first time in his life curses the fact that his cock is so big, because there's no hiding it.

and because you're a kind, sweet girl, you take pity on jack and jerk him off in the abandoned wing. he's so exhausted that he can't even carry out any of those fantasies he'd had of pinning you down and fucking you until you begged him to stop. his only solace is that you've finally taken off that stupid scrub top.

all he can do is whimper into the curve of your breast, squeezing your tits as you work him over good, while he admits that he'd found your old modelling pictures. "y'looked so good, baby, i-fuck, just like that, yeah— i couldn't help it, made my cock so hard..."

your hand is so much softer than his, he thinks. then he starts imagining what your pussy would feel like...

his tip leaks into your fist as his lips drag lower so he can mouth and suck at your nipples. "god, you're beautiful, wanna spoil you... yeah, faster- jesus, these fuckin' tits, baby..."

he nuzzles his nose into the soft valley between your breasts, inhaling the sweet scent of your perfume as his hands squish the flesh against his stubbly cheeks.

"could fuckin' fall asleep on these things, so soft... even prettier than they look in those pictures, n your skin... tastes even sweeter than i- oh, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum, baby, please don't stop strokin' me..."

he releases into your palm with a choked groan, his whole body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. "fuck... thank you... thank you, sweetheart, i'm sorry," he pants, rubbing at his eyes.

a/n : TYSM FOR 100 FOLLOWERS ! Here’s a little FLUFF one shot for you, it’s all cute and kind for you <33

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ MASTERLIST ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The apartment was still half asleep.

Outside, Pittsburgh slowly shifted from deep blue night into the pale gold of early morning, the first traces of sunlight slipping between buildings and filtering softly through the kitchen windows. The city sounded quieter at this hour—muted traffic in the distance, the occasional rumble of a bus, the cold winter air still clinging to the streets below.

Inside, though, warmth had already settled everywhere. The stove crackled softly beneath a pan of butter, the smell rich and comforting as you moved around the kitchen in thick socks and one of your oldest hoodies, sleeves pushed messily to your elbows. The clock on the microwave blinked 7:13 AM in pale green numbers.

Normally, nobody should be making dinner-sized breakfasts at seven in the morning. But then again, most people weren’t dating an emergency doctor whose sense of time had been completely destroyed by twelve-hour shifts. Especially not Jack Abbott.

You flipped the eggs carefully, watching the edges crisp slightly in the pan before reaching for the toast already stacked beside plates warming near the stove. Bacon rested on paper towels nearby, alongside hash browns you’d probably put too much effort into.

There was also coffee. A dangerous amount of coffee.

Strong enough that Jack once jokingly told you:

“I think this could restart a heart in the ER.”

And then, the weird part. Sitting slightly off to the side on a smaller plate was the thing that absolutely nobody but Jack would request at breakfast: toasted cinnamon raisin bread with peanut butter spread over it while it was still warm.

The first time you saw him eat it, you’d stared at him in genuine horror. He’d defended himself immediately.

“Don’t judge it before trying it.”

You tried it. Unfortunately, he’d been right. Now you made it automatically whenever his shifts got particularly bad.

The smell of breakfast filled the apartment completely now—butter, coffee, toast, syrup warming slowly on the stove—and combined with the soft amber light beginning to stretch across the kitchen floor, the whole apartment felt impossibly warm compared to the frozen world outside.

You glanced toward the clock again. 7:18 AM. He should be home soon. Probably exhausted. Probably pretending he wasn’t exhausted. The thought alone softened something in your chest as you reached for another plate, quietly arranging everything the way you knew he liked it without even needing to think anymore.

And somewhere between the sunlight creeping across the counter and the smell of coffee settling into the apartment, it suddenly felt dangerously close to domestic.

Nine months ago, if someone had told you that you’d be standing in a shared kitchen at seven in the morning making heart-attack-level breakfasts for Jack, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

Mostly because nine months ago, you met him under deeply humiliating circumstances. Not romantic ones. Humiliating ones. You’d been carrying two coffees and trying to answer a work email on your phone while rushing out of a small café downtown during one of Pittsburgh’s first icy mornings of winter. Which naturally resulted in you slipping immediately on black ice.

Directly in front of him. Not a graceful stumble either. A full, catastrophic collapse. Coffee everywhere. Phone gone. Dignity deceased. And somehow, somehow, the first thing you said while laying on the frozen sidewalk staring at the sky was:

“Please tell me nobody attractive saw that.”

A voice above you answered almost instantly:

“Depends how attractive you think I am.”

You still remembered the absolute horror of turning your head and seeing him standing there holding one surviving coffee cup with the calmest expression imaginable.

You wanted to die. He helped you up anyway. Bought you another coffee too. Then somehow the conversation lasted almost an hour. After that, you kept seeing each other accidentally. Then intentionally.

And before you realized it, late-night dinners, exhausted conversations after shifts, and quiet moments on couches had slowly become something constant. Something important.

Officially, you’d been together for seven months now. Though even the way he asked you to be his girlfriend had been painfully, unmistakably Jack. No grand speech. No dramatic setup.

You’d both been sitting on his couch after one of his night shifts, half asleep under the same blanket while some terrible reality TV show played in the background. And completely out of nowhere, he’d looked over at you and said:

“So… are we doing this officially?”

You blinked at him.

“Doing what officially?”

He looked almost annoyed at having to explain himself.

“This.”

One hand vaguely gesturing between the two of you.

“The sleeping in my apartment four nights a week. Stealing my hoodies. Knowing my coffee order. Acting like you live here already.”

You stared at him for a second before laughing.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

A pause. Then, with complete seriousness:

“I thought I just did.”

You kissed him before he could get embarrassed about it. And now, somehow, seven months later, you actually did live here. Officially for only a month. Unofficially… much longer.

Your toothbrush sat beside his in the bathroom. Your clothes had slowly invaded his closet. The fridge now contained actual food instead of energy drinks and hospital leftovers. The apartment itself felt softer these days. Warmer. More alive.

You knew Jack still struggled after difficult shifts. Sometimes he came home so exhausted he barely spoke before collapsing into bed. Sometimes he carried the hospital home with him in silence, tension still locked in his shoulders hours later.

And even though your schedules rarely aligned perfectly—you working during the day while he survived endless nights at the hospital—you still tried. Small things mostly. Warm food waiting for him. Coffee ready. Clean clothes folded. Your hand in his hair when he looked especially tired. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet reminders that when he came home, he didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

The sound comes right on time. Keys against the front door. A faint metallic jingle followed by the quiet scrape of the lock turning.

You immediately glance toward the hallway as the door opens slowly, cold winter air slipping briefly into the apartment before disappearing again. He’s home. Without even realizing it, you hurry a little faster. You reach for the last plate near the stove, adjusting the toast quickly before carrying everything to the table while listening to him move through the apartment without actually seeing him yet.

The familiar sounds unfold one after another. The soft thud of the door closing. Shoes being kicked off near the entrance with the kind of exhaustion that means he probably stopped feeling his feet three hours ago. Keys dropped onto the little entry shelf. Then the heavier sound of his coat landing somewhere near the couch instead of the coat rack you specifically bought because:

“Normal people hang their coats up, Jack.” He still ignored it completely. You can practically picture him already, slightly slouched posture, tired eyes, hospital fatigue still clinging to him like a second skin.

The apartment stays quiet for another second. Then you hear him inhale. A pause. Long enough that you know exactly what happened. He smelled the food. And somehow that thought alone makes you smile to yourself as you place the final plate onto the table just as slow footsteps finally start making their way toward the kitchen.

You’re still adjusting the plates when he finally appears in the kitchen doorway. Slowly. Like he used the last of his remaining energy just getting here.

Jack leans lightly against the doorframe for a second, still in dark scrubs, hair slightly messy from a shift that clearly lasted too long. There are faint marks beneath his eyes, exhaustion written into every part of him now that he’s no longer forcing himself to stay in “work mode.”

And yet the second he looks up, he stops. His eyes move across the kitchen table.The food. The coffee. The warm light spilling through the apartment. Then finally to you.

You straighten immediately, taking a small dramatic step backward before presenting the whole thing with both arms. “Ta-da.”

The word comes out brighter than the sleepy quiet of the apartment, and for the first time since walking through the door, something visibly softens in him. A smile. Small at first. Then real. You can’t help smiling back immediately, proud despite yourself as you gesture toward the table like some sort of exhausted breakfast waitress.

But then you really look at him. And the pride in your expression softens around the edges. Because he looks tired. Not ordinary tired. The kind of tired that settles deep into someone after too many hours under fluorescent hospital lights, too many decisions, too many people needing pieces of him all night long.

His shoulders look heavy. His eyes slower. And suddenly your chest aches a little with affection and compassion all at once.

Your smile fades into something gentler. Softer. “Rough shift?” you ask quietly. For a second he just looks at you. Then at the food again. And the smallest breath leaves him, almost disbelieving. “You made all this?”

You smile a little at his reaction, suddenly feeling shy about the whole thing now that he’s actually standing there looking at it. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I asked for today off.”

That catches his attention immediately. His tired eyes lift back to yours. “You did?” You nod, already walking toward him before you even finish speaking. “I figured,” you murmur, “you’d probably come home exhausted, and we never really get actual time together unless one of us is half dead.” That earns the faintest huff of laughter from him. Tiny. Sleepy. Real.

“And technically,” you continue with mock seriousness as you finally reach him, “we do have the whole day together now.” Your arms slide naturally around his waist. “Even if we’re probably going to spend most of it unconscious.”

That finally pulls a proper smile from him. Not huge. But enough that you visibly watch the exhaustion crack for a second beneath it. His hands settle instinctively at your sides, warm and heavy, like touching you allows his body to finally understand the shift is over.

And god, up close he looks even more tired. There’s still that distant look lingering in his eyes doctors get after difficult nights, like part of him is mentally still under fluorescent hospital lights somewhere. But slowly, as he looks down at you standing there in oversized clothes smelling like coffee and butter and home, he starts coming back. “You did all this just so we could sleep all day?” he asks quietly.

You grin. “Exactly.” A pause. Then, “I’m incredibly romantic.” His head lowers slightly, and suddenly you feel his forehead rest briefly against yours. Not dramatic. Just instinctive. Like he needed one second to breathe. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You’re gonna ruin me doing things like this.”

He just stays there. Forehead against yours. Hands resting heavily at your waist. And slowly, almost unconsciously, you feel him sag a little more into you. Like the simple act of being home is finally allowing his body to stop holding itself together.

Your expression softens immediately. Without thinking about it, your arms slide higher around his shoulders, fingers brushing lightly against the back of his neck as you pull him closer.

And this time, he lets you. Completely. Jack lowers his head until it rests against your neck, his breath warm against your skin as his arms tighten around your waist in something quieter than a hug.

Something more exhausted. You go still instantly. Because now you understand. This isn’t just physical tiredness. It’s deeper than that. Mental exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion. The kind that builds slowly over weeks of impossible shifts and fluorescent lights and carrying too much for too long.

And suddenly the way he walked through the door makes sense. The silence. The heavy shoulders. The way he melted into you the second you touched him.

Your heart aches softly. So you don’t speak. You don’t ask questions yet. You simply hold him. Warmly. Patiently. One hand moves slowly through his hair while the other rests steady between his shoulders, grounding him gently while the smell of breakfast and coffee still fills the apartment around you. The morning sunlight continues creeping quietly across the kitchen floor, brushing gold against the walls as the city slowly wakes outside.

But here, everything feels still. Safe. You feel him exhale against your neck after a long moment, deeper this time, like his body is finally remembering how to rest now that someone else is carrying a little of the weight with him. And you stay exactly like that, holding him in the middle of the kitchen while the food slowly gets cold, because right now, he clearly needs this more.

After a long moment, you finally pull back just enough to look at him properly. His face is still close to yours, exhaustion written softly into every detail now that he’s stopped trying to hide it. You brush your thumb lightly near his jaw before speaking gently.

“Go take a warm shower before eating.” Your voice stays quiet, careful. “It’ll help you relax a little more.”

For a second, Jack just looks at you. Really looks at you. His tired eyes move slowly across your face like he’s trying to absorb the sight of you completely, the messy morning hair, the oversized hoodie, the concern you’re trying not to show too obviously. Then, almost invisibly, something softens at the corner of his mouth. A tiny smile. Small enough most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you do. Always.

“Yeah,” he murmurs quietly. A pause. Then, even softer, “Thank you.” The words themselves are simple. But the way he says them isn’t. There’s something heavier underneath them. Something full of everything he’s too exhausted to explain out loud right now. Before you can answer, he leans down and kisses you gently.

Slowly. Not hungry. Not rushed. Just warm. His hand briefly cups the side of your face while the kiss lingers for a few quiet seconds, carrying entire conversations inside it, gratitude, relief, affection, exhaustion. Things he doesn’t always know how to say directly.

Then he pulls away reluctantly. You watch him disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom, his movements visibly heavier now that he’s home and no longer forcing himself to stay upright for everyone else.

And suddenly, seeing him like this from behind, the limp slightly more pronounced today, the exhaustion impossible to miss, something tightens painfully in your chest.

The apartment falls quiet except for distant pipes shifting somewhere in the building. You stay standing alone in the kitchen for another second before slowly letting out a deep breath. And just like that, the worry creeps back in. Quiet. Persistent.

Because no matter how many times he says he’s “fine” after shifts like these, you’re starting to realize that sometimes fine simply means…still standing.

You try to busy your hands on the dishes. Hot water, soap, clinking plates—anything to keep your thoughts from spiraling too far. But it doesn’t really work. Because your mind keeps replaying the way he looked when he walked in. The weight in his shoulders. The silence behind his eyes.

You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you hear him again. Soft footsteps. Then the familiar presence of someone finally out of “hospital mode.”

When you glance up, Jack is standing in the kitchen doorway again, but this time in loose pyjamas, hair slightly damp, looking… better. Not fully rested. Not magically cured of exhaustion. But softer. Less sharp around the edges. Like the shower washed off just enough of the night to let him breathe again.

Your chest loosens a little without you meaning it to. You quickly wipe your hands on a towel and force a smile. “There he is,” you say lightly. “I was starting to think you went back to the hospital.”

That earns you a faint look—half amused, half tired—but he actually walks over this time instead of just standing there. You both end up at the table again, like gravity naturally pulls you back together. He sits down slowly, stretching his shoulders out with a quiet exhale while you take the seat across from him.

For a second, it’s quiet. Then you tilt your head. “So,” you continue, trying to keep your tone playful, “how was your glamorous night of saving lives and making questionable decisions?”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s not exactly what it was.”

“Ouch,” you gasp. “No glamour? No dramatic hospital slow-motion hallway walk?” That actually gets a real, low laugh out of him. Small. Raspy. But real.

And something in your chest unclenches a little at the sound.

He leans back in his chair slightly, watching you now instead of the table. “You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

You blink. “What thing?”

“Trying to distract me.” You pause. Caught. Then you shrug, leaning forward on your elbows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His eyes narrow slightly—but there’s no real accusation in it. Just understanding. You sigh dramatically. “Fine. Maybe I am. But only because I prefer my boyfriend in a semi-functioning state, thank you very much.”

That gets another small smile out of him. This one softer. Longer-lasting. And for the first time since he walked through the door, he looks properly present again—sitting here with you, coffee still waiting on the table, the morning light warming the edges of the room. Not gone. Just slowly coming back.

You both finally start eating. The kind of eating that feels slow and overdue, like neither of you is in a hurry anymore now that the morning has properly caught up with you.

The clink of cutlery fills the kitchen, mixing with the soft light pouring in through the windows. Then, after his first bite, he just stops. Fully. Jack leans back in his chair like his entire nervous system just gave up trying to function properly. His eyes close for half a second.

And when he opens them again, there’s a faint, almost offended expression on his face. “…Okay,” he says slowly.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

He gestures vaguely at the plate in front of him. “This is unfair.”

That makes you laugh immediately. “Unfair?”

He nods once, still clearly processing the fact that he is, in fact, eating something that doesn’t taste like hospital vending machine regret. “I leave for twelve hours,” he continues, “and you come back with culinary warfare.” You snort. “Culinary warfare?”

“Yes,” he says seriously, pointing his fork at you. “This is strategic emotional manipulation.” That sends you fully into laughter now, shaking your head as you set your fork down. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

“Not dramatic,” he corrects, taking another bite like he’s confirming evidence in a case. “Just accurate.” But despite the sarcasm, there’s something noticeably lighter in him now. Less tension in his shoulders. Less distance in his eyes. He actually looks like he’s enjoying this. And that does something warm and quiet to your chest.

You take a sip of your coffee, watching him for a second before speaking again. “I’m glad you like it,” you say softer, more honest now. He glances up at you briefly, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Then, a small nod. “I do.”

And just like that, the conversation drifts. Not into anything heavy. Not into hospitals or exhaustion or anything that might pull him back into the night he just survived.

Instead you complain about something mildly stupid from work, he tells you about a patient story that somehow becomes funny in hindsight, you argue about whether pineapple belongs on anything ever, he calls you “impossible” at least twice, affectionately.

The kitchen slowly fills with something different again. Not urgency.Not fatigue. Just life. And every so often, when you look at him between sentences, you’re reminded of the same thing : he’s still tired. But he’s here, with you.

The conversation naturally tapers off after that, like neither of you wants to force it when the moment already feels full enough. Cutlery slows. The kitchen quiets again.

You’re picking at the last few bites on your plate when you notice him go a little still across from you.

Jack is looking down at his food now, movements smaller, more automatic again, like the warmth from earlier is starting to settle into something heavier. Not bad. Just… tired again. The kind that returns once the talking stops.

You watch him for a few seconds longer than you mean to. The worry you’ve been trying to tuck away all morning slowly starts to push back up again. His shoulders. The way he’s holding himself. The silence creeping in around him.

Eventually, you set your fork down. “Hey,” you say softly. He looks up at you. You hesitate—just for a second—then your voice comes out a little more certain. “Maybe we should leave.”

A pause. His brows knit slightly. “Leave?” His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to catch up with your thought before it slips away. “Where?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what you mean, but because saying it out loud makes it feel real in a different way. You glance down at the table for a second, then back up at him. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. A small breath. “Far.”

That gets his attention fully now. Not alarmed, just focused. You push your chair back slightly, fingers resting on the edge of the table. “Far from Pittsburgh,” you continue. “Far from the hospital. From shifts and alarms and…” your voice softens, “…everything that keeps you half somewhere else even when you’re here.”

His expression shifts subtly at that. Not defensive. Just quieter. You swallow once, then add: “Just for a while. A few weeks… maybe months. Just you and me.”

The words hang in the kitchen like warm air after steam. For a second, he doesn’t respond. He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. But you’re not. His eyes drop briefly to the table, then back to you. “…You mean like a vacation,” he says slowly.

“Like… disappearing,” you correct softly, almost wry. “In a healthy way.” You stop then add, “I don’t know, let’s go to Paris, or Italy, why not Mexico ?”

That earns the faintest huff of disbelief from him. He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, clearly processing it. “You do realize I have a job,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know,” you answer immediately.

“And patients.”

“I know.” A beat.

“And people who will probably call me every twenty minutes if I disappear for ‘a few months.’” That makes you tilt your head slightly. “Let them panic,” you say lightly. “We’ll be busy not answering phones.”

That actually gets a real reaction out of him, something between a laugh and exhaustion. He looks at you more directly now, studying your face again. “And this idea of yours,” he says carefully, “came from where exactly?”

You shrug. “From watching you come home like this,” you admit, softer now. “From realizing you don’t really stop. You just… switch locations.”

The room quiets again. No joking now. Just honesty sitting between you. Then you add, gently, “I just want you somewhere where you can actually rest. Just…think about it…” you say lightly, like you didn’t just suggest upending both your lives for a while.

His expression changes at that. Subtle. But real. And for the first time in a while, he doesn’t respond right away—not because he’s dismissing it, but because he’s actually considering it.

There’s a short silence after you finish speaking. Not heavy. Just thoughtful. You can almost see it in the way Jack sits there, still, eyes slightly unfocused, like your words have settled somewhere deeper than conversation usually reaches him.

Then you grab the plates. One by one. Stacking them carefully, avoiding his gaze as you move toward the sink, trying very hard to act normal. Trying very hard not to let your worry show too clearly in your hands.

Water runs. Ceramic clinks. The kitchen fills with small, busy sounds again. But behind you, you hear him move. Chair shifting. Footsteps. He’s standing too now. You don’t turn around fast enough.

Because the next thing you know, he’s right there—gathering the remaining plates and cups, silent but steady, automatically slipping into “helping mode” even when he clearly should not be in “doing anything” mode.

Your chest tightens a little. “No,” you say immediately, turning around. He pauses. You step forward and gently—but firmly—take the dishes out of his hands. “I’ve got it,” you insist softly. His brows lift slightly. “It’s just plates.” “I know,” you answer, a little sharper than intended, then soften immediately. “It’s not about the plates.”

A beat. You look up at him properly now. “You need to go sleep.” He exhales through his nose, like he’s already preparing a counterargument. But you don’t let him get there.

“You’re exhausted,” you continue, quieter again. “Like… actually exhausted. Not ‘doctor exhausted.’ The other kind.” For a second, he just looks at you.

And you can tell he’s weighing it, the instinct to stay useful versus the fact that his body is very clearly done negotiating today. Finally, his shoulders drop a fraction. “…You’re bossy in the mornings,” he mutters. Despite everything, your lips twitch. “I know.” A pause. Then, softer, “Go.” You nod slightly toward the hallway. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for another second, like he’s making sure you’re actually okay with this idea of him stopping. Then, finally, he turns. Slowly.

Heading toward the bedroom with heavier steps than before, while you stay in the kitchen a moment longer, hands still wet, heart still a little tight. Because even when he listens…it still feels like teaching someone how to rest.

A few minutes later, the apartment has shifted again. The kitchen is quiet now, dishes left half-finished in the sink, sunlight growing stronger as it rises higher over Pittsburgh. The morning has properly arrived, bright and gold and almost too gentle for how tired everything still feels inside you.

You stand in the doorway of the bedroom for a second. The curtains are half open, letting in soft light that cuts across the room in warm stripes. The bed is slightly messy from where he’d pulled the covers down earlier.

And there he is. Jack is already lying on his side, facing away from the door, one arm tucked loosely under the pillow. Even now, even in rest, there’s still a trace of exhaustion in the way his body has settled, like he only just allowed himself to stop holding tension.

For a moment, you just watch him. Then you step inside. Quietly. The floor doesn’t creak. The room feels softer than before, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment to finally exhale.

You don’t say anything. You simply climb into bed behind him, careful not to disturb him too much, slipping under the covers until you’re close enough that there’s no space left for cold air between you.

Slowly, instinctively, you shift forward. Your arm wraps around his waist. Your forehead comes to rest gently against the back of his neck.

And just like that, he responds. Not with words. But with a small, unconscious movement. His shoulders ease further into the mattress. His breathing changes slightly, deepening, slowing, like his body recognizes you even in sleep and decides it’s safe enough to finally let go completely.

The sunlight spills across the room while you stay like that—held against him, holding him back—both of you suspended somewhere between exhaustion and peace.

He stays like that for a moment.

Breathing still uneven, like he’s trying to hold himself together just a little longer. Then, quietly, “Okay.”

A pause. His voice comes softer the second time. “Let’s leave somewhere.” You don’t move at first. Not because you don’t want to. Because something in the way he says it feels heavier than just a plan. Like it’s been sitting inside him for a while, waiting for the right moment to finally come out.

Slowly, he turn around and you shift back just enough to look at him. And that’s when your chest tightens. His eyes are wet. Not tears falling—he’s holding them back, stubbornly, instinctively—but they’re there. Shimmering at the edges of exhaustion and something deeper he’s clearly been carrying for too long.

He doesn’t look away. He forces himself not to. “I mean it,” he says quietly. “Wherever you go… I go.” The words hit you harder than you expect. Because it’s not dramatic. It’s not impulsive. It’s just… honest. Bare. Unarmored.

And seeing him like this—so controlled and still somehow cracking at the edges—makes something in you break softly right along with him.

But it also makes you certain. Certain that this isn’t wrong. That this isn’t “too much.” That maybe this is exactly the moment where things are supposed to shift. Your throat tightens.

You don’t try to fix it with words. You just nod. Once. Enough for him to see. And that’s all it takes. You open your arms, and he leans in immediately, like the decision alone loosened something in him he didn’t even realize he was holding.

His face presses into your neck. And you hold him. Both arms around him now, steady and warm, anchoring him there as he finally lets his weight fully fall into you without hesitation. The room stays quiet around you. Sunlight slowly filling the edges of the bed. And for a long moment, neither of you moves.

Because sometimes love doesn’t feel like a declaration. Sometimes it feels like this :

“Dada’s lying with his hair?”

Okay. How can you not give her a chuckle at that?

“No, baby. He didn’t lie. Hair color changes when people get older. I’ll go grey like him one day.”

Chubby’s brow furrows in a way that is so cartoonishly Jack. She looks offended by the concept of aging. Jack’s offended by the concept of aging. Like father, like daughter. 

“He was red like me?”

You nod. 

“Exactly like you.”

And that will be what will kill you, you’re sure. Wonderfully. You’d have it no other way. 

The betrayal of her father’s haircolor change gives way to wonder, you think, but she’s studying the photo the best way a six-year-old can. Her thumb traces his hair, then his for-the-camera grin. 

…Like she’s trying to find herself hidden in him. 

She whispers.

“Dada and me was matching before he was grey.”

…Whatever need you had to laugh, if there still was, dies. Yep. Why wouldn’t it? That is a child’s sentence. Everything Jack’s tender n’ terrified about. Time, age, mortality, how much of Chubby he’ll get to see. The future is his cross to bear just as much as the past is. And the present. He's a triple-threat.

And here’s the sweet girl you gave him, making it sweet as pie. The pie's gonna poison the hell out of you, but the comparison still stands.

“Yeah, you and Dada were matching.” 

Still are, in a way. You’re sure that’ll only be more obvious as she grow—

“What are you two doing?”

Jack surprises you at the doorway to the closet. You wonder how emotionally prepared he is for the answer to his question. His reading glasses are shoved up into his hair. 

Chubby holds up the photo with the spring of her arms. 

You manage to find a laugh to stifle again, because the whiplash on his face is beautiful. Basic incomprehension, then comprehension, then death in his eyes. 

Maybe something flustered, but it’s buried underneath his scowl. You'll let it slide.

“Where the hell’d you get that?”

Chubby stands, clutching the photo to her chest. 

“You had red hair like me! We MATCH! You lost yours, but you was so ginger!”

You ‘oop’ when you catch Jack’s scowl faltering. There was no way that wasn’t inevitable. You knew it from the minute he walked into the closet, because if his irritation is going to lose its footing, it’ll be with his perfect little girl. 

But…he takes to glaring at your shit-eating grin.

“I wasn’t…I didn’t…sweetheart, I wasn’t as ginger as you—”

Nope. Absolutely not. You’re not allowing that!

You rise from the floor to interrupt whatever Jack’s pathetic excuse was going to be. You put your lips to his ear and whisper. 

“Jack, you cannot break her heart n’ claim you had brown hair with ‘warm undertones’  like you did with me when I found out. You’re just gonna have to continue feeling like you’re being split open. She’s six. You’ve had enough time to practice handling it. Kay?”

Jack makes a face that looks unwilling and pained.

 “...M’kay.”

His voice is just as pained, like you have a gun to his head. You might as well, because he is not ruining this. 

You kiss him on the cheek as a reward. He steps closer to Chubby. 

“Yeah, pretty. I had red hair like you.” 

And you can’t regret the threat, even as your heart swells to the point of a beautiful burn at the sigh of Chubby grabbing onto him, as if the discovery has made her and her dad secret twins. Jack looks down at her red head pressed against his thigh. Her proud face tipped up at him. 

“You lost yours, but it’s okay, Dada. I still love you. Pick me up.”

Jack’s throat bobs. You can hear the swallow. And because you know he’s not going to, you remind her of manners. 

“What do we say, Chubs?”

“...Please.”

Jack picks her up without any hesitation. He stopped pretending he wasn’t trained to her commands by the time she turned two. He bends and settles her on his arms, even though you know it makes his shoulder complain, because she’s getting big enough now. He’ll probably let his arm fall off before he admits it. 

Oh God. She presses the photo next to his face, comparing. 

She kills you as much as she kills Jack. Is killing him. 

“But I wish you could be ginger again. You can?”

Jack shakes his head, mouth twitching. Face betraying him by telling you how he’s keeping himself from being overwhelmed by the moment. “No, I can’t.”

“Whyyyyyy, Dada?”

“Time.”

Chubby frowns. “Time is a meanie.”

Jack’s mouth twitches again. 

“Yeah. It is.”

Yeah. Time is fucking cruel. Time reminds him there are pictures of a younger, easier version of himself who had more time left. The version of him he didn’t want his baby to know because he needs her, very badly, to love him as he is now. Silver makes him look like what he’s become, least. Old enough to be useful. The ginger punk in the photo looks too unguarded. He doesn’t deserve to have a little girl with the same color in her hair someday. 

He doesn’t now. 

“It’s okay, Dada. I keep it for you!”

Yeah. Jack’s lungs stop working right. 

“...Good. You do that. You wear it better than I did.”

He thinks he’s dying, probably. Could be, but it looks like you know better. He wonders what you see in his eyes. Whatever it is, he tries hard to fight it gone. 

…He didn’t even think of her ginger hair as something from him, cause how could something from him be so…so damn perfect? 

Besides, since she was born, he has looked at her to see you first. Your nose. Your eyes n' complexion. Your stubborn pout. Your loud-as-hell joy. He didn’t think it mattered. This trait he thought time had taken from him. For better or worse. But…fuck.

It shows up bright and alive in the daughter you gave him. So yeah. It matters. It’s reminding him to take his heart medication. 

“Maybe you still have some.”

Chubby touches his hair, much different than how you do when you’re trying to melt him on purpose. She does it with serious intention but clumsy fingers. She parts the grey at his temple as if she’s gonna find a few strands of red hiding somewhere. 

“Your dad doesn’t have any of that ginger hair of yours left. It’s all gone.”

Chubby shakes her head before poking his chest. 

“You have it inside. In your heart. Hearts are red.”

…His kid’s perfect. She doesn’t notice the way she’s just boiled both of her parents’ emotional stability with her revelation that must make sense to her in that little head. 

And because you warned him, Sleepy, he gets to warn you with his eyes. 

Don’t start crying, kiddo. Or he’ll die. Don’t want that to happen, do you? 

Chubby simply takes to rubbing Jack’s chest. 

“You’re still ginger inside. So we still match. Okay?”

The stoicism on Jack’s face dies by an inch. It feels like a sinkhole to him. He kisses her forehead, quick and rough. 

“Alright, Chubs.”

“No, say it.”

“Say what?”

“...Say you’re ginger inside and you and me match. Say it, Dada.”

Fuck. Again. He’s stopped pretending he doesn’t follow her every word, his little red-haired girl. The living proof that the past has made its way back to him in something bossy and half of you. 

When could he even deserve the pain his girls make him feel?

Jack sighs. 

“I’m ginger inside. We still match.”

Chubby beams. He allows that. He tries not to allow smarm-laced giggle you let out with a look he gives you. It usually means trouble for you, but it feels like it just means his outnumbered by two girls he’d brutalize someone to keep happy. 

“Ginger twinsssss!”

“...Sure, baby. Ginger twins.”

❅ lars sat very still, quietly listening to you moving boxes in your house for about forty minutes instead of offering help like a normal person. he’s was mentally grappling with the fact that he was going to start seeing a new face—a very pretty one—around town often. yet another pair of eyes were going to be on him.

❅ he avoids you like the likes of plague for the first two weeks. from home to work, work to home, and church every week. he didn’t want you to pop up out of nowhere and watch him embarrass himself.

❅ he was still watching you though, not spying! just.. observing. he had memorised your schedule, 8 am your bedroom lights come on, 8:45 you leave for work and you’re back sometime before 4:37. good, now he knew when to avoid you, now he just had to figure out where to avoid you.

❅ the first time you see him fully, you’re both outside on a saturday. he was getting some mail, and as he’s rummaging through the mail box, he hears a cheerful “good morning!” he looks back for one second, and it’s you. and you watch the poor man quickly waddle back into his house, while a couple of letters fall out of the box with a small “oh…? uhm, okay…”

❅ after that, you notice him everywhere. a tall figure behind frost covered windows, his curtains slightly shuffling when your cars pulls out of your driveway. catching him through your window once, but he moves to quick you thought you genuinely imagined him.

❅ the second time you see him, it’s at a record store that recently opened. he was so excited to go buy some new albums after gus introduced him to a band that made ambient jazz, but when he walked in, his heart might as well have fell out his ass. there you were, the pretty girl next door, placing down vinyls and cds on the display shelves. he wanted to run away again, but he genuinely froze.

“hi! are you looking for a new album to buy?”

“…yeah… a… jazz band…”

❅ he stood there, internally panicking as you told him about what albums you had. he was sweating, even though it was freezing cold outside. you pick up the album he was looking for, but he couldn’t bring himself to say that it’s what he wants, instead blurting out a quick “i left my keys at home, sorry.”

❅ he locked himself inside his house for the rest of the day, but when he was about to leave for work the next morning, that same album was waiting outside his door with a small note on it. sorry about your keys! enjoy -y/n

❅ now he had a name to the face, and later that day, he told gus and karin about the gifted record, and karin tried to get him to talk to you. “i’ll bake you some cookies, why don’t you bring them to her?” but lars didn’t know the difference between seeing you again and being held at gun point. he insisted on the fact that you probably wanted privacy.

❅ on your way out to work the next day, your driveway was shovelled and freshly salted. and when you looked across the street, he was standing by the his window, yet again. but this time, when you waved at him and smiled, he nodded and stood there for one second, before quickly walking away.

❅ something in him relaxed just a little bit when he realised that you didn’t find him to be a complete freak weirdo. you kept waving at him every time you saw him, you would flash him that gorgeous smile, even left a couple more records from the band just because you wanted to. well, now he obviously had to pay you back, right?

❅ your rubbish bin would be dragged back up your driveway after collection day, your porch light would mysteriously be fixed after flickering for a whole week. you had no proof, but you knew it was him.

❅ he became obsessed with the sounds of your routine. the sound of music through your open window when he’s chopping wood in the evening. the sound of you struggling to open your car frozen car door in the morning.

❅ there’s this one horrible moment where you knock on his door (knowing damn well that boy is not opening up) unexpectedly to introduce yourself after months of silently watching each other from a distance. lars completely panics and freezes, he can see you through the window and he stupidly decides to pretend that he’s not home, despite the fact that you can literally see him standing there.

❅ but afterwards, he felt so guilty, he literally couldn’t sleep. but you had walked away quietly giggling because this man looked absolutely petrified of you.

❅ your first actual conversation lasts less than a minute. it happens when you catch him outside while he’s shovelling snow, thanking him for clearing your driveway. he muttered “it was in the way,” despite the fact that it objectively was not. that’s when you finally get his name.

❅ you start lingering outside longer after that. taking your time to open your front door, watering plants that the freezing weather had killed weeks ago, anything to see him appear near by again.

❅ and he somehow always does.

❅ there was an odd chemistry between you at this stage, and it’s unbearable because it’s built on restraint. longing looks through windows, tiny acts of care neither of you acknowledged. you feel his eyes on you before you you see him, and he spends everyday convincing himself that he needs to stay away while unconsciously orbiting you like a planet.

❅ lars grew very obsessed with this chemistry because it was only interesting thing going on for him. between small talks in the morning, you would mention minor inconveniences because seeing him so focused to get something done just because you mentioned it in passing was kind hot. it was clear that he was a very attentive man.

❅ a loose cabinet hinge? he’s on it. snow shovelled before dawn. your heater is making a weird noise? he’s outside your house before he’s even fully put on his gloves.

❅ it was ridiculous because after a while, it was you watching him from afar. maybe you had a massive little crush on your shy neighbour. watching him chop wood and shovel snow just because seeing him breathing hard would get to you a little. you would ask him to pick up a heavy box just to hear him groan or whimper a bit.

❅ you quickly figure out that he likes routine, so you’d appear in predictable ways to see him relax, maybe even give you that adorable awkward smile of his. same time everyday at the mailbox, same overly sweet wave through the window.

❅ you couldn’t tell if it was the proximity, or the fact that he always seemed to be there when you had an issue with your house (no matter how small it was), but you had your eyes on him now.

❅ you’d lean against the doorframe, gently teasing him while he’s red-faced, gripping a mug of tea so tightly it might break, looking like he’s seconds away from going into cardiac arrest.

❅ lars hadn’t even realised that you’ve been flirting with him until karin pointed it out. because “what do you mean she asked you to change her bedroom lightbulb three times this week?”

❅ oh? is this what intentional flirting was like? when you’d call his hair perfect, while brushing snowflakes off of his sweater even though touching him felt like it needed medical approval? looking at him with that hypnotic gaze while he accidentally rambled about carpentry? oh.

❅ this poor baby would go back to hiding for days in his house, but he’d always have his eyes on you. he didn’t want to be outside unless he looked perfect, he’d put on his best sweater just to look good for you. combing his hair in different sides to hear you say which side you liked better, showing up to the record store just to say hi and buy nothing.

❅ one night the power goes out after a particularly violent snowstorm, and you show up at his door, wrapped in a blanket asking if you can stay with him because your house kept making scary creaky noises. you sit together in candle light, drinking terrible hot cocoa. one point you fall asleep next to him with your thighs touching, and he terrified of moving because he doesn’t want to wake you up.

❅ lars tells gus and karin, and they’re immediately invested. thank goodness, it’s a human girl this time! gus trying not to laugh every time lars “just happens to be” outside your front door again, and karin watching you to talk to lars even though he’s one touch away from falling to his knees.

❅ he’s hyper focused on everything you say. when you mentioned that you had a favourite candy that you used to eat as a child, he’s suddenly giving them to you with a quiet “i saw these in the store and they reminded me of you…”, even though he ordered them from a different city. you genuinely had to look away because it had affected you so badly.

❅ and the tension gets so unbearable because you want to touch him so bad, but you feel like you need government clearance for that. and it was almost a year to the day you moved in when you finally caught him looking at you with that soft, helpless expression he didn’t even realise he was making. just pure affection, like he couldn’t believe you were living next to him. and that was the exact moment he realised, you both are definitely having the same thoughts about each other.

You hesitated, then took the pouch. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would help you forget. Or remember. Or stop feeling anything at all.

You’d been crying for over an hour. Your head hurt, your chest hurt, and watching Grace pace frantically around the ship was doing absolutely nothing for your mental state.

A tube stuck out from the pouch. Grace shoved it into his mouth, took a long pull, swallowed and immediately grimaced.

“Wow,” he muttered. “That tastes like industrial cleaner and regret.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched.

“You know,” he continued after a moment, “they actually put a therapy room on this ship. Because apparently maintaining psychological well-being is important during a one-way trip to probable death.” He gave you a crooked smile. “Come on. Let’s go see what humanity thinks counts as emotional support.”

You looked down at the pouch in your hands. What else did you have to do?

You didn’t remember boarding the Hail Mary. Neither did Ryland. The only thing either of you knew for certain was that you were among the fifty percent of the crew who survived.

“Optimistic statistics,” Ryland had said earlier. “Terrible mission outcome, though.”

You got drunk that day. Very drunk.

+++++

“I don’t know if trusting me with scissors is a good idea.”

Ryland sat down on the stool in front of you and pressed the scissors into your hand anyway.

“I’m not letting the robot arms near my head again,” he said. “Besides, it’s just hair.”

“I could literally ruin your life.”

“At worst, I’ll avoid mirrors until it grows back.”

You snorted quietly behind him, and a small smile tugged at his mouth. It was the first genuine laugh either of you had shared since waking up on the ship. Ryland flinched slightly when your fingers brushed through his hair, pushing it away from his face.

“Okay,” you said. “But don’t blame me if this haircut destroys your chances with women.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He sighed dramatically. “Statistically speaking, my dating prospects were already pretty limited. Long-term relationships seem unlikely.”

You laughed again, softer this time, while adjusting the scissors in your grip. The first blond strand drifted to the floor.

+++++

“Grace have mate, question?”

You pulled your attention away from the projected display and looked toward the xenonite sphere where Rocky sat, then at Ryland.

He blinked. “Uh. No.I mean, I did,.” His expression shifted faintly. “But she thought I had my head in the clouds and I didn’t really want to live in the real world. She was right. Anyway, now she’s with Mark.”

“Rocky hates Mark.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Ryland looked over at you, and although he was smiling too, there was still something sad lingering behind it. The memory clearly hurt more than he wanted to admit. You opened your mouth to say something, but Rocky spoke first.

“You? You have mate, question?”

“Ummm.” You pressed your lips together and glanced down for a second. “No, Rocky. I don’t.”

“Mark took yours too?”

You burst out laughing this time. When you looked back at Ryland, you found him watching you with something warm and understanding in his eyes, like he knew exactly how badly you needed that laugh.

“No,” you said, still smiling faintly. “I think I’m just... a little too much.”

Rocky shifted on his five legs. “Do not understand.”

You rubbed your temple, thinking of how to explain it. “People expect certain things from other people,” you said slowly. “Specific behaviors. Specific reactions. They want you to fit what they imagined.” You let out a quiet breath. “And I’m not very good at that. I try, but...”

Rocky tilted slightly to one side, the movement thoughtful rather than confused this time. “You try to become expected shape,” he said carefully. “But shape is wrong for you?”

“Something like that.”

“That is stupid problem.”

Ryland snorted from beside you. “Wow. Straight to the point.”

You leaned back, shaking your head. “Humans usually make relationships more complicated than ‘wrong shape.’”

“Yes,” Rocky agreed immediately. “Humans enjoy making simple things painful.”

“Okay, rude.”

“True, though,” Ryland added.

You shot him an offended look. “Whose side are you on?”

Ryland grinned. “Rocky’s. Obviously.”

Rocky swayed happily. “Grace is intelligent today.”

“Today?” Ryland repeated.

“Yes.”

You laughed again, properly this time, and the sound filled the control room so suddenly it startled you. For a second, nobody spoke. Then Rocky’s sphere rotated toward you again.

“You are sad less now.”

“I’m not sad,” you protested weakly.

Rocky clicked thoughtfully. Then, very seriously, he announced: “You should fist Grace bump.”

Silence. Ryland froze so completely he looked medically deceased.

You blinked. “I’m sorry? W-What?”

Rocky lifted one claw enthusiastically. “Fist Grace bump. Human comfort ritual.”

A strangled sound escaped Ryland as he immediately buried his face in his hands. “Oh my God,” he groaned. “Rocky, buddy. The phrasing.”

“I phrased correctly.”

“No,” Ryland said instantly. “No, you did not.”

Your lips trembled violently as you tried not to laugh. Rocky shifted slightly in confusion. “Humans strike fists together when emotionally attached. I observed this behavior.”

“Yes, that part is right,” Ryland said. “It’s the word order that’s killing me.”

Rocky went still for a moment. Then : “Grace fist your bump?”

That destroyed you completely. You doubled over laughing so hard your stomach hurt while Ryland made the sound of a man experiencing true spiritual exhaustion.

Rocky’s lights flickered rapidly. “I continue not understanding.”

Ryland looked over at you helplessly, red-faced and visibly trying not to laugh himself. And seeing him like that—awkward, embarrassed, alive—made something warm ache inside your chest. Still giggling, you finally held your fist out toward him. Ryland eyed it suspiciously. 

“Come on, Grace,” you said. “Human comfort ritual.”

A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth before he bumped his fist gently against yours. Rocky chirped happily through the translator.

“Success. Emotional support achieved.”

+++++++

When Rocky said you could go home, it felt as though the gravity on the Hail Mary had suddenly stopped working. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you sank to the floor before you even realized what was happening, the tablet slipping silently from your lap.

“Grace...” you whispered.

You sensed movement beside you. You didn’t need to look at him to know what Rocky’s words had done to him. Hope and relief. The impossible suddenly within reach. Ryland lowered himself to the floor next to you, his forearms resting on his knees.

“Grace, go home,” Rocky repeated.

“Okay.” Ryland’s voice trembled.

When you placed your hand on his arm, he didn’t pull away. Neither did he move when you leaned your head against his shoulder. Tears burned behind your eyes. Rocky couldn’t possibly understand what he had just given you.

A future. A life. Hope.

You had both accepted the verdict long ago or at least convinced yourselves that you had.

“We’ll go home,” Ryland said softly.

He turned toward you, burying his face in your hair as his eyes slipped shut. Your body shook with silent sobs. He didn’t try to comfort you; there was no need for empty reassurances now. Ryland felt it too — the same overwhelming relief, the same fragile disbelief, the same desperate hope you were clinging to.

+++++

Rocky was asleep or at least as close to asleep as an Eridian could get. His xenonite sphere sat motionless near the far wall of the lab, silent for once. Without his constant musical chirping, the Hail Mary felt strangely empty. Only the low hum of the engines and the occasional click of cooling metal filled the room.

You sat at the laboratory table, slowly spinning a marker between your fingers while pretending to read the same line of data for the tenth time. Across the room, Ryland had gone unusually quiet. No muttering. No nervous jokes. No pacing. And that was unusual for him.

You glanced up and saw that he was staring at nothing. It was as if his soul and mind had left the deck of the Hail Mary and flown somewhere into space.

“Grace?” you asked softly.

He blinked and looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. “Hm?”

“You okay?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he rubbed a hand over his face and let out a tired breath. “I remembered something.”

Your stomach tightened instantly. The memories had been returning more often lately—small fragments breaking through the chemical fog left behind by the coma drugs. Sometimes they were harmless. Sometimes they left one of you shaken for hours.

You straightened slightly in your chair. “What kind of memory?”

Ryland leaned back against the console behind him, crossing his arms loosely. “It was before launch,” he said quietly. “With Stratt.”

You waited, then his eyes lowered briefly to the floor.

“I was fighting with her. Actually, mostly I was panicking. I kept telling her she couldn’t force me onto the ship. That I wasn’t qualified, that I wasn’t brave enough, that astronauts are supposed to be…” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Functional under pressure. I was terrified. Like, really terrified.”

The honesty in his voice made your chest ache a little.

“And then you walked in.”

You stopped breathing for a second. Ryland looked over at you now, his expression distant with memory.

“Stratt told you what was happening. She explained that if I refused, they’d probably sedate me and throw me on board anyway.” He shook his head slightly. “And before either of us could say anything else, you just looked at her and said…” He swallowed once. “‘Then I’ll go with Grace.’”

The marker slipped slightly in your fingers. “I said that?” you whispered.

Ryland nodded slowly. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

You stared down at the table, trying desperately to find some trace of the memory yourself, but there was nothing there. Just emptiness. Is that possible? Why didn't you remember it? And why did Ryland do it?

“I don’t remember,” you admitted quietly. The voice was barely audible.

“I know.”

Silence settled between you. Then Ryland pushed himself away from the console and walked toward you slowly. You watched him stop in front of your chair. There was something fragile in his expression now. Confusion, disbelief and maybe even anger.

“Do you know what the weirdest part is?” he asked softly.

You shook your head.

“I don’t think you did it because you loved me or something like that.” A small smile pulled weakly at one corner of his mouth. “Honestly, I don’t even think we knew each other that well.”

Your eyes lifted to his. Tears pressed painfully to the corners of your eyes.

“I think…” He exhaled quietly. “I think you just saw someone who was scared out of his mind and decided he shouldn’t have to be alone.”

The tears hit unexpectedly hard after that. You looked away quickly, embarrassed, but Ryland noticed immediately.

“Oh, hey—” His voice softened at once.

Before you could wipe them away, he crouched slightly in front of you and gently took your face in his hands. He was so careful. His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes instinctively.

“Why would you do something like that?” he murmured, looking at you like he genuinely couldn’t understand it. “That’s such a ridiculously dangerous thing to do.”

You replied, your voice trembling. “You seem angry.”

“I am mad about it,” he said quietly. “You threw your whole life away because your first instinct was to protect someone.” His forehead tightened slightly. “Who does that?”

You couldn’t answer. Because maybe he was right. Maybe there hadn’t been some grand romantic reason. Maybe you’d simply seen another terrified human being and thought: No one should face this alone. And somehow, that almost hurt more.

Ryland looked at you for another long moment before sighing softly through his nose.

“God,” he muttered, voice thick with emotion. “You’re either the bravest person I’ve ever met or the dumbest.”

“Probably both.”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Probably both.”

And then, seeing you so shaken and broken, his arms carefully wrapped around you. He wasn't sure he could do it, but you instinctively slid down, clinging to him with all your being. Your arms wrapped around his neck, burying your tear-stained face in his neck. And even though he knew you so well, he felt like you were at your most vulnerable now, and Ryland wanted to protect you even more.

+++++

The Hail Mary was dark and silent. Emergency lighting was working as you shifted in bed. Something was beeping rhythmically next to you. You opened your eyes.

"Thank God, you're alive."

Ryland's voice came from beside you, and you slowly turned your head. He was lying on the bed next to you, his eyelids heavy as he tried to move.

"What happened?" you asked quietly. "I remember the ship started shaking a lot."

"Gravity," Grace replied simply. "We were too close. How... What are you doing?"

The machine let out a strange squeal as you pulled the IV from your hand and tried to sit up. You hissed in pain. Your side ached terribly, and when you touched it, you felt bandages there. Pain shot through your entire body.

"Rocky..." you said. "Stay here, Grace, I..."

"I'm coming with you."

You wouldn't have stopped him, and he wouldn't have stopped you either. You both clumsily stepped onto the floor, then slowly moved forward. Charred remains littered the floor. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you unconsciously reached for Grace's hand. He didn't pull it away, gripping you tighter.

The sight of Rocky curled up in the xenonite dome was terrifying. He lay still, as if burned. Your knees buckled beneath you.

“He wanted to save us,” you said, a burning pain in your throat.

“And he did,” Grace replied. “He saved you and me. And now…” He hesitated, unsure what to say. Finally, he added, “Rocky needs sleep. It will help him. He’ll be fine.”

You nodded. “I’ll stay with him. You lie down.”

Grace sat down next to you. "No, we'll both stay here. We have to watch him, right?"

Even though everything still hurt, he didn't want to leave his friend. He didn't want to leave you either. He also didn't want to think about how this would end.

Your fingers found his hand; you were his anchor in this chaos.

+++++

The Hail Mary drifted quietly through space. Too quietly.

No musical notes echoed through the ship anymore. No clicking claws. No Rocky excitedly announcing impossible engineering ideas at three in the morning.

Just you and Ryland. And the awful emptiness Rocky had left behind.

The calculations glowed across the monitor in front of you while the ship hummed softly around you. Ryland had been staring at the same screen for nearly ten minutes without moving. Taumoeba evolved, able to escape from xenonite containers. The ones Rocky made. The same ones that were also on his ship too.

You felt sick. Slowly, you looked toward Ryland.

He was sitting hunched forward in the pilot chair, elbows braced against his knees, one hand pressed hard against his mouth. Thinking. You knew that look.

“You’re doing it again,” you said quietly. He didn’t respond. “Ryland.”

Still nothing. You stood and crossed the room toward him. “Grace.”

This time he finally looked up. God, he looked exhausted. You were too. And underneath it—heartbroken.

“I can’t do it,” he said hoarsely before you could speak.

Your chest tightened. There it was. The thing both of you had been circling around for the last hour.

You stepped closer slowly. “Then say it.”

His expression immediately pained. “Don’t.”

“Say it.”

“I can’t ask you.” you heard helplessness in his voice.

“Ryland...”

He stood abruptly, running both hands through his hair in frustration before turning away from you entirely. “I can’t make that decision for you!” he snapped.

The words echoed sharply through the empty control room. Silence followed. Then, quieter: “I can’t take Earth away from you.”

Your throat burned instantly. He still wasn’t looking at you.

“I know what I’m asking,” he whispered. “You think I don’t want to turn this ship around? God, of course I do.”

Finally, he looked back at you. And the sheer guilt in his expression almost hurt to see.

"But if we go any further..." his voice cracked. "Rocky will die. Maybe he's already dying."

The words settled heavily between you. Simple and horrible, but true.

Ryland swallowed hard. “And I can’t be the reason you lose your home.”

For a second, all you could do was stare at him. Then slowly, you moved closer until barely any space remained between you.

“You really still don’t understand, do you?” you asked softly.

Confusion flickered across his face. Your eyes stung suddenly.

“Years ago,” you whispered, “I stood in front of Stratt and chose to go with you into space.” Your voice trembled now. “I already made this decision, Ryland.”

His face fell apart a little at that.

“You were terrified,” you continued quietly. “And I was terrified too. But I looked at you and knew I couldn’t let you do it alone.”

“Don’t,” he whispered weakly.

“And if I had to choose again?” Your breath shook. “I’d still choose you. Every time.”

Ryland looked genuinely wrecked now. Like hearing those words physically hurt him.

“You’d give up Earth for me?” he asked softly.

You shook your head once.

“For Rocky,” you whispered. “For you. For the family we somehow found out here.” A tiny, tearful smile appeared on your lips. “And honestly? Earth stopped feeling like home a long time ago.”

Something in his expression cracked completely after that. Before he could say another word, you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him. Hard. Immediate.

Your fingers tangled into his hair as you pulled him against you, and Ryland made a startled sound before kissing you back with equal force, like he’d been barely holding himself together for hours. Maybe he had.

His hands found your waist instantly, careful even now, even while emotionally falling apart in front of you. The kiss tasted like fear and relief and grief all at once. Like two people standing at the edge of another impossible decision. 

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard. Ryland rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed tightly.

“You make unbelievably reckless choices,” he whispered shakily.

You brushed your fingers through his hair again.

“And yet,” you murmured, lips still barely against his, “you’re always worth making them for.”

+++++

Sunlight filled every room, warm and golden against the pale walls of the house. Another beautiful day on Erid. You were finishing your coffee when strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind. Ryland pressed his face against your back, still half asleep, and kissed the side of your neck softly.

“Good morning,” he murmured. “You’re up early again.”

“No,” you corrected gently, smiling into your cup. “You slept in late again.”

A sleepy groan vibrated against your shoulder. You reached back automatically, threading your fingers through his soft hair. It had gotten longer again recently, curling slightly near the ends in the warmth.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” you promised quietly. “I’ll stay in bed longer with you.”

Ryland lifted his head just enough to look at you suspiciously. “I’m holding you to that.”

“You say that every week.”

“Because every week you abandon me for coffee and productivity.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds serious.”

“It is serious. I wake up and my favorite person is gone.”

Warmth spread quietly through your chest. Years ago, Ryland would’ve hidden words like that behind a joke. Now he said them easily, like he trusted them to exist between you. Like he trusted you to stay.

You turned slightly in his arms, just enough to brush your nose against his. “You’re very clingy for a former middle-school teacher.”

“I worked with children for years. Physical affection is how humans avoid psychological collapse.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s science.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Because science explains everything.” He paused thoughtfully. “Except why you still tolerate me before breakfast.”

You smiled and kissed him softly before he could continue rambling. Ryland immediately melted against you, one hand sliding lazily along your waist while the other settled at the small of your back, pulling you closer.

Slow mornings suited him. No rushing. No panic. No mission hanging over his head. Just warmth and sunlight and the quiet comfort of knowing the other person would still be there tomorrow.

When you finally pulled away, Ryland rested his forehead against yours with a quiet sigh. “You know,” he murmured, eyes still closed, “I was supposed to teach a few young Eridians orbital mechanics in twenty minutes.”

“And?”

“And currently I’m considering becoming unemployed.”

You laughed again, and the sound made him smile immediately.

Home.

You’ve let Holland in more than anticipated, and he’s pleased with it. You can tell that much from the way Holland’s eyebrows jerk up and his mouth tugs into a grin. He doesn’t seem to question it at all, even if he clearly wants to know more. Instead, he settles for, “Maybe, I could slip you a twenty for your troubles.”

“That’s too much, and I’m not babysitting.” The trope is practically writing itself, you think. “It’s a neighborly favor,” you tell Holland, “And, if you want to know so badly, I would’ve just watched Wheel of Fortune over a TV dinner. Not so clubby on the weekends.” What are you, eighty?

But, Holland insists, “I’ll slip you fifteen and you can use it to buy takeout for the both of you. Would’ve spent the same amount if I wasn’t working tonight.” God, it’s terribly perfect the way he scrambles to find his wallet on his person. He pats his hands from the  front of his trousers to the back, before finally retrieving the folded brown-leather out of its usual spot in the inner-pocket of his suit. You watch as his fingers delve in to count his own cash.

“You don’t spend fifteen dollars on takeout. That’s absurd.” He takes out twenty—two ten-dollar bills—taking your hand up from your side, pressing the crisp bills into your palm, and closing your fingers over them.

“Would’ve been six bucks on the takeout, plus another two—I tip well. And the rest would get squandered on booze and cigarettes,” he reasons. The sheer size of his callused hand makes your own feel small in comparison, and the math, you’re sure, is still not adding up. So, you try to fork the bills back over to him by force, shoving both of your hands closer to his chest.

The insistence gets you nowhere except slightly closer to him. “It’s too much,” you tell Holland, “I can’t take it.”

He pressed your hand back. “Once the money comes out of the wallet, it can’t go back in. Personal rule,” he shakes his head. “You’re doing me a big favor with Holly, and I know you’ll spend it better than I will.” It comes out more earnest than even Holland himself could’ve expected, but he seems to mean it. Meek smile and a shrug. Oh, you despise him.

—

So, your evening has a bit of an unexpected detour, seeing as you’re in the March house doing the same thing that you would’ve at your own place. Chinese takeout and Wheel of Fortune, plus Holly. You’re shocked that she hasn’t asked you to change channels yet. You’re watching some snotty, East Coast elementary school teacher spin the Wheel with ardor, collared blouse high and tight on her neck. It lands on $200, she guesses “S” successfully, and then “B” unsuccessfully. You think, Bad luck and also wonder why Holly’s so damn quiet. It takes you a moment to brave it out and look over at her.

Holly’s large blue eyes distort with a clouded kind of look that you haven’t quite seen before—something between contemplation and amusement. Terrifying. You try to look back at the cable TV, maybe focus on the fried rice that you’ve got in the takeout box in your hand. But, Holly’s already noticed and ready to strike. “My dad has a crush on you, you know.”

Your chopsticks halt in the box. “No, he doesn’t,” you blurt. “Eat your lo mein.” Wheel of Fortune keeps playing on, with the tick-tack spin of the wheel, the letters, Susan Stafford turning the letters. Holly shuts up, taking her fork up to shovel a fried shrimp and a generous scoop of noodles into her mouth. Then, after scarfing that all down, she asks you, “Do you want to know how I know?”

“No.” Of course, that’s not true. You totally do want to know what Holland thinks of you, if he thinks of you, and if it’s with just as much perversion with which you think of him. You shouldn’t call it that. Perversion. But it’s true that you think of Holland too much and in too many ways.

Holly places her takeout box onto the coffee table with a soft thud. You have a feeling that she wants to teach you to death, and only somewhat regretfully, you decide to endure it. Holly squeaks out, uncrossing and recrossing her legs on the couch, “He stares too much. Totally checks you out when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s kind of gross. Like, he wants to X-ray your clothes.” Like Superman, you think sardonically. Skepticism aside, the thought of Holland being unable to keep his eyes off you has you thrilled. “He also has your number up on our fridge under his ad clipping, which he says is for emergencies for me, but I don’t really buy it.” 

“Compelling points, Holly.” Dismissively, you begin to close up the empty takeout boxes and throw them straight back into the crinkly plastic bag that they came out of.

She’s relentless. “Also, he’s always asking me about what you like. Flowers and colors and if you have a boyfriend. I told him you don’t have one and then he got all preach-y.”

You take the filled plastic bag and Holly’s empty coke bottle over to the trash. “What does that even mean? Preach-y,” you echo.

“He got on his knees and started putting his hands in the air. Like this.” Holly raises her hands up in the air and clasps them together they lift over her head. As she looks up—presumably, to God—she seems to configure her expression into a caricature of desperation. The thought of Holland in this exact positioning on the ground of this house makes you cackle insubordinately. Holly laughs, too. “I’m telling the truth, you know. I even heard Mr. Healy and Dad talking about you just last week.”

Up until this point, you had been taking her claims without an ounce of seriousness. “And what did Mr. Healy say?” Your chuckling reduces down to a sweaty smile, eyes narrowed as you await her response. Holly, the tormentor that she is, cups her palms on her knees, shrugs, and rolls her eyes. She knows she’s got you hooked.

“Mr. Healy said Dad needs to quit trying to date up and stay in his own league. ‘Cause every time Mr. Healy watches Dad talk to you, it’s like watching Sisyphus eat shit.” Well, it sure sounds like Healy. Holly beams, “Dad wouldn’t listen to him, though—said he just couldn’t help it.”

—

You’re sleeping on your side on the March’s couch, arms crossed and tight to your chest. By now, Holly’s tucked in bed behind her little curtained alcove, and you’re fulfilling your promise to keep her company well into the night. The couch isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world; it’s just the March’s lack of central heating in this otherwise perfect rental that has you folding into your own body.

It’s a decent enough rest until about two in the morning. You wake up to the sound of keys jingling just outside the front door, the crack of the door open and close, and a stumbling upon the runner. A heavy body thuds onto the ground.  The streetlight pooling in through window slats gives you enough visibility to see him in there, keeled over right by the opposite end of the couch. You hiss, “Holland? Holland.” He rushes like a snail to his feet, shirt buttoned low, white undershirt exposed, yellow tie hanging undone over his chest. You can see his ring dancing on its silver chain helplessly as he gets back on his feet.

“Don’t look. M’stuck.” And it seems that Holland’s suit jacket is caught halfway off, locking his arms in a tight tangle behind his back. In your just-now-conscious state, it’s really very pleasing to see him straining to get out. You cup your hand over your mouth in a choked laugh. Holland murmurs to himself, still trying to thrash the suit jacket off himself. Finally, after a fair amount of struggle, he gets the sleeves tugged off his arms—you’re sure you’ve heard some kind of rip from the inner-fabric—and he throws it on the side chair across from you. “You’re still here. Thought you’d go home,” he rasps.

By now, you’ve sat up on the couch and let your socked feet touch the ground. You blink slowly at Holland, trying to rouse yourself awake. “Did you drink a whole bar? Jesus.”

“I didn’t drink a whole bar. I drank three-quarters of a bar. Healy had the rest.” Holland stumbles into the hall. Holly’s certainly still fast-asleep in her room, you remember, and you have to get up from your resting place on the couch to try and quiet him down. There’s a thud. Holland stumbles back, colliding with your front. Drudgingly, he turns to face you with his hands cupped over his face. Guilty.

“What are you doing?” you whisper pointedly at him. He doesn’t know how to be any less quiet right now. 

“I was trying to find you a blanket or something warm. There’s a spare comforter in the hallway closet, but closet’s missing. Just my luck.” You peer over his shoulder in the barely lit hall. The closet is another six feet down from the flat wall that Holland tried to “open.”

You shake your head. “Just come back to the living room. And be quieter, please. Holly’s still asleep and I wanna keep it that way.” Holland stumbles along as you drag him by the sleeve back towards the living room. His fingers seem to wander on their own accord, brushing at your wrist with an unsteady touch.

“Are you cold? You seem cold,” he notes, “Maybe I could warm you up. Don’t need a comforter for that.” Holland’s drunk, you remind yourself. He’s not thinking straight, and you’re too flustered to think up something witty to say back. So, you merely sit him on the couch with a mild bit of force. He seems to slump over in defeat as you drop him down, whining as you draw away from him, “Where are you going?”

You pad into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the high cupboard—right past the rather strong brigade of tequila glasses. Then, straight to the faucet: you crank the cold water on and fill it halfway. It shouldn’t take you nearly as long as it does to grab the water for Holland, but you really need a second to think. What are you doing, taking care of him? Just this afternoon, you signed up to watch his kid, and you’re now babysitting the man himself. Then again, Holland is a handsome mess—and sweet on you, too. You shut the faucet off with your head hung.

When you return to him with the glass, he’s quick to take it out of your hands and chug it down with a grumbled “thank you.” You have to look away from the water that drips onto his stubble down his neck. It makes uneven splotches on his shirt. Once he lowers the glass down onto the coffee table with an unstable hand, he edges his body towards you. Determinedly, Holland says, words slurring into one another, “It’s not safe for you to walk back this late. You might as well stay here.”

You want to scold him, but you can only impart a firm and patient, “I was already staying here, March. You woke me up.”

But, Holland’s stuck on it now. The mere thought of you walking home, a measly block and a half away, tortures him.  “I don’t want you to walk home,” he insists in his plastered state, “You’re too pretty to walk home. You could get nabbed or something.”

“Too pretty?” you laugh, “Where’s this coming from?” Oh, it feels almost cruel to ask this to Holland when he’s so far gone—but selfishly, you’d like to see how he’ll respond, especially without the usual, lightly veiled filter.

“Oh, you already know I say it all the time behind your back. Everybody’s tired of it,” Holland admits, “Healy wants to sock me every time I talk about you. He’s almost done it once or twice.” You blink in rapid succession. So, Holly had been telling the truth all along.

Holland leans straight into the back cushion of the couch, exasperated, and his head thuds loudly against the back frame. Holland barely leaves enough room for you on the couch, his arms and legs sloppily spread out. Taking up the most surface area possible seems the most comfortable for his inebriated self; he’s practically melting into the seat. Meanwhile, you’re only minimally avoiding the fall of his hand close to your thigh. He’s not even looking at you now, just throwing his hand over his eyes. Holland mumbles, “Just sleep here in my room and, uh, don’t look under my bed. Playboys…” And, he’s out like a light. Holland’s chest rises and falls with the pattern of his snores. You let yourself watch over him for another moment, before lifting off the couch and walking tentatively towards his room.

—

The next time you see Holland, he’s shockingly upright—in the kitchen, changed into a similar dress-shirt to yesterday and slacks to go with them. It’s a little impossible how quickly he’s recovered from his state the night before. The whole house is concentrated with the scent of something sweet, and by the looks of it, he’s slinging something on the stove. Once you’re in his sight line, Holland’s eyes drift down, then up, then down again. He’s practically drooling at the sight of you with your sleep-mussed hair and your tight pajamas—bare legs and all, he doesn’t know what to do. He practically burns his hand accidentally touching the panhandle too close to the burner. “Shit—morning.”

“Good morning to you, too,” you say, neck cocking out to see what he has cooking up.

Holland is quick to serve a plate and urge it towards you—a short stack of pancakes. “March special. Sorry-Thank-You Breakfast.” You take it from him with an air of hesitance. You’ve heard about this kind of breakfast by word of mouth before, from Holly, of course. The recognition must read on your face and the way you turn your head over your shoulder to search for the blonde little girl; Holland is quick to tell you, “She’s down the street at the old place, reading that book you lent her.” He looks down to serve his own plate, shuts off the stove with a click.

You’re quick to turn your back to him, placing your serving on the dark-wood surface of the dining table. He’s still carrying on behind you; you can hear the spatula grating against the pan, then the glass plate, the click-off of the stove… Holland notes, only half-serious, “Seems like she likes you more than she does me, lately. Not a good sign—means I should maybe sit you down sometime and fish for a couple of tips.”

You can’t avoid the subject—as much as he clearely wants to. With a spin around, you rub your palms together. “About last night—”

“What I said—”

You interject, “You have a problem and a half, Holland,” and he seems to stop in his tracks. He’s seemingly shocked that your primary concern is him. But, you’re clearly more riled up than you’d expected yourself to be. “You can’t just stumble in at two in the morning drunk off your ass. You’re lucky you even get home. And God knows what happens when I’m not here.”

Holland places his plate down on the stove, diagonal to the pan. Then, he juts his palm across the scruff on his neck. “I don’t think I wanna say.” You can picture it clearly enough—him, ending up in all sorts of odd resting places, on the living room floor, in the tub, maybe even the bushes outside. All options are rather morose, and they worry you beyond your minid.

“You have to get your shit fixed,” you lecture.

Holland approaches you now, with earnestness. “I can do that.” It’s loaded. I can do that for you. His eyes beg for forgiveness, and his hands are almost close to coming up to your hips. It’s a surprise that he manages to lower them down to his sides as soon as they threaten to come up. Holland’s sorry, he wants to atone, he clearly wants your forgiveness. You wonder how quickly he scrambled this morning to get everything in the kitchen ready for you, and with how much intention he’d gotten dressed. Now that he’s this close to you, you can certainly tell that he shaved up, combed his hair rather meticulously. His clothed knees practically bump against your bare ones.

“I won’t let you date me if it’s an empty promise,” you murmur. It’s there in the open, now—the gap that Holland had been waiting for you to bridge. He remembered what he said last night, you remember what he said last night, and the two of you have merely been waiting for the inevitable to hit.

Now that he knows you’re on the same page, Holland seems to be renewed with a new kind of vigor. “…You’ll let me date you?” It’s almost taunting. He’s clearly feeling more self-assured, smirk and all, and you want to wipe it clean off.

With a shrug, you say, “I’m considering it.”

It’s as unconvincing as it can be, and Holland seems to huff out a soft sigh. He has you—and still, he plays along. “Oh, consider it. Seriously consider it.” He seems to lower his gaze down to your lips, slowly but surely urging you back against the wooden table. You can feel the edge of it hit the back of your thighs.

You tilt your head, a fit of heat filtering through your body. He’s terrible—too good at getting you like this. He reaches one arm up behind you to push your plate aside. It skids on the table slow. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you, and you have to push out a soft, “What’re you doing, March?”

“Trying to kiss you,” he mutters. “That okay?” As soon as you get the slightest movement of a nod, Holland acts. His hands come up to your hips with a strong squeeze, and he’s quick to smash his lips into yours. It’s almost risque, the way he kisses you with so much force. You can hear him grumbling, pleased to be feeling you all over with his large hands. It takes another minute of this before Holland scoops you up off the ground and onto the table—stronger than you’d expected. He drags his lips downward; you can feel his mustache drag roughly down your neck with each hard kiss.

Then, as soon as he reaches the neckline of your shirt—his shirt—he makes sure to pull back. Again, the scent of pine lingers on your senses. You hadn’t noticed, in the rush, how easily Holland had settled in between your legs. He’s too happy about this development, clearly, because he has a stupid grin on his face. You scoff, and it only grows wider. “First date. No drinks,” you decide, “And you’ve got to dial it back on the cologne. Like, half of whatever you’ve been putting on.”

Holland nods, sure to help you quick off the dining table—lest Holly comes back and flees at the sight of both of you. With a tug of your hips closer to him, he hums, “Whatever you want from me, baby.”

aerion targaryen knew he wanted you from the moment he first saw you, a certainty as sharp and clear as the valyrian steel of his ancestors. he knew he loved you from the start, a foreign, terrifying feeling that had taken root in the barren soil of his heart. you were so smart, your wit a keen blade that could match his own. you were so kind, your gentleness a balm to a soul that had only known the sting of cruelty. he saw the way you would treat a frightened stable boy with the same patience you showed a spooked horse, and in you, he saw a reflection of the mother he had all but forgotten, a warmth he thought had long since turned to ash.

it was never doubted in the court, not truly, that aerion targaryen loved his wife, even if it was an unfathomable thought to many that he could ever love anyone but himself. his love for you was a possessive, obsessive thing, a sun around which his dark little world orbited.

and then the summons came. a princess’s duty. your presence was required at your homeland for the birth of your cousin’s first child, a journey of months that would take you far from him.

he argued with you the night before you left, his voice a deceptively calm, low murmur that was far more terrifying than any shout. he sat by the hearth, the firelight casting his sharp features in relief, turning his silver hair into a halo of cold fire.

"a princess’s duty," he said, his voice dripping with a quiet contempt. "and what of a wife’s duty? is it not to her husband? to her home?"

"aerion," you said gently.

he did not turn right away. "do not use that tone with me."

your lips twitched. "what tone?"

"the one that means you have already decided to make yourself the reasonable party and me the unreasonable one. your place is here. with me. tell them you are unwell. tell them the journey is too perilous. i will make it true."

you smiled a little at that, though it faded quickly when he finally looked up at you. his expression was composed, but his eyes were not. there was something wounded in them, something stubborn and frustrated and entirely too honest for a man who liked to pretend he was above such things.

the room seemed to shift as you crossed it, the hem of your gown whispering over the floor. when you reached him, you placed a hand lightly against his chest, sitting beside him.

"i have not decided anything," you said. "i am listening." he gave you a look that said he did not believe you, but he did not move away. "i am going because i must. you know that."

"i know," he said, and his voice was lower now, rougher around the edges.

your fingers flexed against his chest. "husband..."

his gaze dropped briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "do not ask me to accept it gracefully."

"i am not asking that."

"good." he let out a slow breath, controlled, measured. "because i cannot."

you studied him, seeing the strain he had been holding back all day. aerion was many things. proud, sharp-tongued, vain in his own way, impossible when he wished to be. he could be cruel with a sentence and tender with a touch, and he often seemed to prefer the first because it was easier to hide behind. but with you there was little use in hiding. not after all this time. not after he had loved you from the moment he first saw you and hated himself a little for how immediate it had been.

his hand lifted as if he meant to touch your face, then stopped halfway, caught between pride and desperation. "i am asking you not to go."

the plea in his voice was quiet enough that anyone else might have missed it. you did not.

he looked down at you, and for a moment the grandness of him slipped away. he was only your husband then, displeased and unguarded and trying, badly, not to show how deeply he hated the thought of waking to an empty bed. "do not tell me you cannot refuse," he said. "i know you can. i am only asking you to reconsider."

you reached up and brushed your thumb over the line of his jaw. "i did reconsider. many times."

"and still you choose to leave."

"because i have a duty."

"i know." the words came sharper now, though not at you. never truly at you. "you have said that already."

in an attempt to ease his growing displeasure, you sit up only to settle on his lap instead, his hand finally settling at your waist. "you will have guards," he said after a moment.

"yes."

"more than enough?"

"yes."

"your rooms will be secure?"

"i am sure they will be."

he frowned. "you are ‘sure’ of many things tonight."

you tilted your head. "would you prefer i lie and tell you nothing can possibly happen to me?"

his eyes narrowed. "i would prefer you remained here."

the words hung there between you and made your heart ache.

so you moved closer still, slipping your arms around his neck before he could stop you. aerion’s hands went lower, gathering you in as if he had not quite decided whether to hold you or keep you from vanishing.

you leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, then the other, slow and deliberate. that earned you the faintest exhale that might have been a laugh if he had allowed himself one. his hands tightened at your back.

"this is not helping your cause," he said.

he looked down at you, and even in the dimness you could see how tired his eyes were. "you think you can soften me with kisses."

"i know i can, my love."

that finally coaxed a real, reluctant curve at his mouth, though it vanished almost as soon as it appeared. he rested his forehead briefly against yours, one hand moving to cradle the back of your head. the gesture was so tender it made your chest tighten.

"i dislike this," he admitted. "i dislike it very much. and i will not be made to enjoy your absence."

"you need not enjoy it."

you smiled and kissed him again, slower this time, until the tension at the corners of his mouth eased. his hands remained firm around you, as if he had decided that if you were to leave, he would at least refuse to stop holding you until the last possible second.

when you pulled back, he was watching you with the same bleak concentration he gave difficult maps and unpleasant letters.

"i will write every day," you told him. "you will know where i am, and that i am safe, and that i am thinking of you."

his expression shifted at that, just slightly. "thinking of me," he repeated, quieter now.

"always."

he did not answer right away. his thumb stroked once over the fabric at your side, a small, absent motion.

you kissed his brow, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth until he finally gave in and turned his head to catch your lips fully, his kiss slow and warm and full of all the things he refused to say plainly. you felt the last of his resistance give way beneath your hands. his arms came around you more tightly, drawing you against him until there was hardly any air left between you.

when he finally pulled back, it was only enough to look at you. you thought, not for the first time, that he looked loveliest when he was trying and failing to stay unmoved by you. you rested your hands against his shoulders. "i will come back."

"and you will write."

"every day." you confirmed again and kissed the side of his throat.

since you’d been gone, he had spent his days trying not to let others see how alone he felt. he was a prince, a dragon, he did not pine.

your absence made him restless in ways that irritated him. he found no patience for courtly nonsense, no interest in idle conversation. his temper shortened, his silences lengthened. where once he might have indulged in sharp remarks for his own amusement, now he simply walked away, leaving words unsaid and people unsettled in his wake.

and always, he returned to your chambers.

to your things.

to the faint, lingering scent of you that clung to the linens and the drape of your gowns. more than once, he found himself standing there with one of them in his hands, the fabric slipping between his fingers as though it might dissolve if he held it too tightly. he would scoff at himself afterward, irritated, but he never stopped.

at night, he slept poorly. sometimes not at all.

he would lie on his back, staring up at the canopy, one arm thrown across the empty space where you should have been. his hand would rest there, palm flat against the mattress, as if he expected to feel warmth that was no longer there. more than once, he caught himself turning his head, half-prepared to speak to you, only to find silence waiting instead.

it made something sharp twist low in his chest.

so he wrote.

his own replies were scrawled, frantic things, the ink pressed too hard into the page, as if force alone could carry his words across the distance between you. the careful composure he showed the rest of the world unraveled in those letters. what remained was raw and unfiltered, a possessive devotion he allowed no one else to see.

wives are not meant to leave their husbands, he wrote. it is an unnatural state of affairs. you promised me daily letters. i have counted the hours between them. do not think i will not notice if you delay. you have made me accustomed to your presence. it was a poor decision on your part, as i now find myself unwilling to return to how things were before you, radiant girl.

another night, another letter, written long past reason:

the bed is too large. i had not noticed before. i do not sleep well in it without you. come back to me as quickly as you are able. i find that i do not enjoy anything half so much in your absence.

there were moments, rare and unguarded, when his writing slowed, when the frantic edge gave way to something reverent.

i read your last letter three times before i allowed myself to answer it. you write as though you are still here with me, and for a moment, i can almost believe it.

ink would blot slightly there, where his hand lingered too long.

you say you think of me. i require no reassurance in that matter. i know you do.

i think of you constantly, my darling wife.

and always, always, he signed them with the same controlled hand he used in court, as if that small piece of composure might anchor everything else unraveling beneath it.

by the time you finally returned, the sea air still clinging to your cloak, he was waiting for you in the courtyard. he had not been patient about it.

there were guards posted at their usual places, the faint hum of voices carrying across the stone, but aerion stood apart from all of it. his hands were clasped behind his back, his posture perfectly straight, his expression carved into something cool and distant. only his eyes betrayed him.

they found you the moment you stepped through the gate.

you barely had time to take in the sight of him before you were moving, gathering your skirts in a way that was hardly proper, your breath catching as you hurried across the courtyard.

"aerion-" you reached him slightly breathless, your hands finding his before he could decide whether to make you wait.

he looked down at your joined hands like he did not trust the reality of it, like you might disappear again if he blinked too quickly. his fingers tightened around yours, firm enough to ground you both.

"you took your time," he said, his voice even, controlled, as though he had not been standing there waiting for far longer than anyone would have imagined.

you smiled despite the way your heart was racing. "and you chose to greet me with a complaint."

his gaze flickered over your face, searching, taking in every detail as if he were cataloging proof that you were whole and real and finally within reach again. "you look well," he said after a moment.

"so do you."

"i do not feel it."

you laughed softly, breathless still, and stepped closer. "then perhaps we should fix that."

his fingers tightened again, just slightly. "not here."

you tilted your head. "then come with me."

he did not argue. he let you pull him, though there was nothing hesitant in the way he followed. if anything, there was a restrained urgency to it, a tension coiled beneath his composure that made your pulse quicken.

the moment you turned into a quieter hall, the noise of the courtyard fading behind you, his hand caught your arm, pulling you back against him with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. his other hand came up to your face, fingers warm against your cheek, and then he was kissing you.

it was everything he had been holding back since the moment you left.

you barely had time to react before he deepened it, his grip tightening at your waist as if to keep you from slipping away again. the taste of him was familiar and overwhelming all at once, the weeks of distance collapsing into nothing under the press of his mouth.

your hands found him just as quickly, sliding up to his shoulders, then into his hair, pulling him closer in answer. the kiss turned breathless, a little desperate, the kind that spoke more clearly than any of his letters ever could.

when he finally broke away, it was only by inches, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath unsteady.

"you said you would write every day," he murmured, his voice low, threaded with something dangerously close to accusation.

"i did."

"you missed one."

your lips parted in surprise, a soft laugh slipping through despite everything. "i did not realize i was being counted so closely."

"i told you i was counting."

you smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. "it was one day."

"it was an entire day."

you laughed again, softer this time, and leaned in to kiss him once more, slower. "i am here now," you whispered against his mouth.

his eyes closed briefly, just long enough to betray how much that mattered to him.

"you are," he said, quieter now.

his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. "you are not to leave me like that again."

there was no anger in it, so you softened immediately, your fingers brushing through his hair, smoothing it back where it had come loose. "did you miss me so terribly, my prince?"

"yes, my love." the honesty of it settled between you, warm and heavy and impossible to ignore. your expression gentled, your hand cupping his cheek.

"i missed you too."

he exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing just slightly under your touch. for a moment, he simply looked at you, as if confirming again that you were real, that you had come back, that he did not have to imagine you from ink and parchment anymore.

"do not grow accustomed to leaving me."

you smiled, brushing your lips against his once more. "i think you would follow me next time."

"i would," he said without hesitation. his arms came around you again, drawing you close, not as desperate now, but no less certain. and though he would never admit it aloud in front of anyone else, the tension that had lived in him for weeks finally began, slowly, to ease.

later, after the bath had been drawn and you were soaking in the steaming water, he knelt by the tub, his sleeves rolled up, his hands gently washing your back with a soft cloth. the domesticity of it was so at odds with the man he was, yet it felt more right than anything. you leaned your head back against his shoulder, the water lapping at your skin.

"next time i am called away," you said softly, your voice a murmur in the quiet room, "you will not be alone."

his hand stilled on your back. "what are you saying?"

you turned your head to look at him, your eyes clear and serious in the candlelight. "i am saying i will give you a piece of me that cannot leave. i promise you a babe to be with you. our child."

the world seemed to stop. the air grew thick, charged with a new, potent energy. he stared at you, his eyes burning with an intensity that was almost frightening.

"make good on your word." the words were steady, but the meaning beneath them was a plea. you held his gaze and let your smile turn small and private and infinitely certain.