Ur true lover

You reach up, fingers brushing the chain at his neck. “Leave them,” you breathe, because the sound is filthy in its own way, the soft metallic music of him claiming you.

But Bucky’s eyes, stormy blue, pupils blown wide with lust darken further. He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “They’re distracting you from what I want you feeling.”

In one smooth motion, he catches the tags between his teeth. The chain pulls taut against the back of his neck, the metal plates disappearing into his mouth. His jaw flexes, lips parting just enough for you to see the silver edge glinting against his tongue. The sight alone rips a fresh wave of heat through you, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, reduced to biting down on his own history just so he can fuck you without anything getting in the way.

He groans around the tags, the sound muffled and raw. Then he drives into you harder.

No more clinking. Just the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, and the obscene sounds of your body taking him. His metal fingers dig into your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth like he wants to feel how wrecked you are.

“Look at me,” he demands around the metal. His voice is distorted, rougher, sex-drenched. Sweat beads at his temple, dark hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you with punishing precision, long strokes that bottom out and grind against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Every time he bottoms out, his abs flex against your clit, and the tags shift between his teeth with the motion, a constant, visible reminder of how much control he’s exerting just for you.

You moan his name and he bites down harder, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your cunt around his cock. The chain trembles against his throat with each thrust. You can see the way his tongue moves against the tags inside his mouth, the way his lips are shiny with spit, and it’s so fucking filthy you clench around him involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, the words barely intelligible but vibrating straight down to your core. “Milk me, doll. Let me feel how much you love this.”

Your hands scramble up his back, nails digging into scarred skin and metal plating alike. He’s relentless, hips snapping faster now, the wet sounds louder, your slick coating his balls as they slap against you. The dog tags stay right where he put them, trapped between those perfect teeth, catching the light every time he pulls back to look at where you’re stretched around him.

You’re close. So fucking close. And Bucky knows it, he always does. He drops his forehead to yours, tags still clenched tight, breath coming in hot pants around the metal. His voice is a broken rasp:

“Come on my cock while I’ve got these between my teeth, baby. Want to feel you fall apart knowing I’d do anything- anything- to keep fucking you right.”

The orgasm slams into you like lightning under your skin, sudden, devastating, unstoppable. Your back arches sharply off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing in relentless waves. Pleasure rips through every nerve ending, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. He keeps fucking you through it with those deep, grinding thrusts, hips rolling relentlessly as he chases his own release, dragging out your climax until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess beneath him.

Only then does he let the tags fall from his mouth, spit-slick and gleaming, dropping heavy and cool against your heaving chest. He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills deep inside you, hips stuttering, metal arm braced beside your head so he doesn’t crush you.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, final clink of the dog tags settling between your sweat-slick bodies.

Bucky kisses the side of your throat, soft and reverent now, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot where his teeth had been clenched moments before.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “I’m putting them between your teeth. See how quiet you can stay while I ruin you.”

You laugh breathlessly, already aching for it.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

“No—but I think it’s important for you to remember how it’s your fault we’re in this predicament in the first place!”

“I beg to differ,” Draco says, opening the door with a flick of his wand and stepping out into the night. “I’m quite good at potions.”

You rush to slip after him before the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.

Prick.

You’re not sure why Draco really even gives a shit about this assignment. All he cares about is winning Quidditch matches and getting the hell out of this school.

And why should he care?

It’s not like anything bad will happen to him if he gets one bad grade. You, on the other hand, have a bit more to lose. As a trainee healer, you need to score well on the NEWTs this year to secure your spot in the coveted apprentice slots. Needless to say, failing your Potions final just simply isn’t an option.

The air outside is muggy and warm—an unusually humid night for early April. The sky is clear, though, boasting a bright full moon. A perfect night for harvesting a nocturnal plant. An owl hoots somewhere in the Forbidden Forest beyond, and the tall grass tickles your ankles as you make your way to the cluster of greenhouses on the grounds.

You yank on Draco's sleeve as he walks straight past the entrance to Greenhouse Three.

He shrugs off your hand and gestures impatiently to the latticed door. “Hurry up and open it.”

“One of us should stay on the lookout,” you huff. Your fingers brush your wand in your pocket. “I’ll go and grab the sample, and you signal me if there’s any—”

“Wait.” He stops you. “Why do you get to go inside?”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “Because I’m the healer?”

“Not yet, you’re not.”

Sometimes, you take comfort in your fantasies about Draco Malfoy.

You’re up to ten different ways you might be able to knock him off his broom. Make him suffer in a way he never saw coming. And thanks to that comment, you’re now trying to come up with the eleventh.

“Why don’t you be the lookout, and I retrieve the sample?” He asks pointedly.

You sigh, irritated. “Because, Malfoy, I don’t trust you to get an accurate sample, okay? You couldn’t even keep our original sprig alive long enough for us to use it tomorrow!”

“You know, that’s a good point.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I don’t trust you, either. You know, we never did specify which of us was supposed to give the plant the appropriate amount of moonlight…”

You squint up at him. “Oh? We didn’t? That’s right. Maybe that’s because when we got assigned this potion, I stole the Snitch from under your nose at finals, and you didn’t speak to me for a week!”

Normally, you wouldn't complain about that. Being Quidditch rivals was one thing. Mouthing off to each other on the Pitch? That was a given. Outside of that, you didn't talk. It was a hard line.

That week just happened to be the one week you actually needed him to speak to you.

Because while he was busy trying to salvage his pride and keep his ego somewhat intact, you were actually doing all the heavy lifting for the assignment in Potions. The one Snape assigned to the both of you.

He huffs, irritated. He’s obviously annoyed you keep bringing that loss of his up, but you won’t stop anytime soon.

“We both go in, or I’m out," he says, his jaw set in determination.

You weigh your options. You could probably get the sample on your own, but you’re not willing to risk getting caught by yourself. If you get caught with him, you can do the obvious.

Blame him.

Turns out, it’s not much of a decision after all.

“Fine,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You unlock the door with a few precise spins of your wand and whisper the password low enough that Malfoy can’t hear it. The door unlatches with a hiss, and a warm, earthy smell hits you in the face. It’s familiar to you, and soothing in a way.

Malfoy shifts on his feet, eager to enter, but right before he pushes the door open, you bar his chest with your arm, wand at the ready.

You level his gaze. “Whatever you do—don’t touch anything.”

He scoffs, slipping past you and through the door with a flick of his robes. “Scared of a few plants, Nineteen?” He looks over his shoulder. “Bit concerning for a future healer and all. You might not make the cut.”

He shrugs with false sympathy before disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Nevermind. Gone are the thoughts of making his death a swift and easy one. Now, you’re envisioning something longer, slower, your hands around his neck—

You wonder if he begs half as prettily as he flies.

You’ve never really understood it.

The strange utopia that is Greenhouse Three. It’s always felt more like a portal to another dimension, rather than a plant nursery. But seeing it under the night sky is an otherworldly experience.

The tall domed ceiling stretches high above you, and dimmer disks fly from their assigned pots to line the narrow walkway upon your arrival.

There’s a silence about the place, but beneath it all, something living without breathing. As you walk among the taller plants lining the path, it feels like walking through a graveyard. But instead of the bones turning to dust under the earth—they’re watching.

The Nightbell Stalk lives all the way at the back of the greenhouse, in a secret locker called the Lumen Garden. You’ve never seen this garden, given the fact that it magically appears only when the moon is at its peak, and disappears again before the sun rises. Even despite the blatant breaking of curfew, you’ve been warned never to enter, given the dangerous nature of the plants one might encounter.

But, as they say, dangerous times call for desperate measures. Or, desperate times call for dangerous measures. Something like that.

All you know is it’s as desperate as it is dangerous, or you would never be so reckless.

Soon enough, the Lumen Garden door looms over you. It’s tall and black, and it sparkles in the light of the skimmer dimmers, like it’s made of crushed black diamond.

You turn to Malfoy. “Do you have it?”

He pulls an aged piece of parchment from his pocket. You reach for it but he snatches it back just in time.

“I didn’t risk my life in the Restricted Section, so you could show off your poor Mermish,” he says.

“‘Risking your life,’” you roll your eyes, unimpressed. “As if you don’t practically live there. Get on with it, then.”

He clears his throat. You try not to watch the way his fingers carefully unfold the paper, holding it like it’s something valuable. He’s always been like that when it comes to ancient scripts.

“Vaelith mora selune,” he whispers.

By moonlight reveal.

Your pulse leaps as the scrape of stone on stone reverberates throughout the silent room, bouncing off the glass panes above you.

As the stone door rolls back, it reveals a room so beautiful it nearly takes your breath away.

Opal stones guide you forward, leading to a circular pool in the center. The water lies perfectly still, glassy and undisturbed, yet the plants rooted beneath its surface sway gently in some unseen current.

Overhead, moonlight spills through the curved glass dome, and the panes are cloudy on purpose, filtering and diffusing the moonlight into something stronger and more even. 

You tiptoe onto the landing, barely noting the black mossy walls surrounding you before the stone rolls shut behind you. Malfoy’s polished shoes click decisively down the opal stones, not the least bit fased.

You swallow and follow after him. Mist rises up from the pond, and when you lean closer, curiosity pulling you in, you catch sight of movement. Thin, glowing threads streak by under the glassy surface. Jilly bugs. They help the plants thrive in the lowlight conditions.

“Keep up, will you?” Draco hisses, drawing your attention to him.

He’s standing over a garden bed beyond the pond, half swallowed by the shadowed wall behind him.

These nocturnal plants only bloom at night, and they die without it. Because of this, these plants have different colors than normal ones. Most of them are varying shades of black, purple, or blue, evolved to camouflage with the night or their natural habitats.

As you step closer, the vines come into view. There are tons of them, growing along a nearly imperceptible trellis that spans the full length of the back wall, their long stems twirling and looping, spilling out across the floor and crawling up the dome above.

You’re just reaching his side when something moves out of the corner of your eye. Your head whips towards the wall, eyes narrowing through the gray haze.

But there’s nothing. Just vines, their leaves sitting so still they could almost pass as wax.

“Where’s the bloody vial…?” Draco mutters to himself, patting down the pockets of his robes.

His features catch the light as he looks down. Your eyes drift over the edge of his nose, the slope of his brow, that strong jaw. You look away when his chin tips up.

Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve the small glass bottle, holding it out for him to see.

Draco frowns. “Thief.”

You shrug, glancing down at the Nightbell Stalk in front of you.

It’s a deep violet, with small, downward-facing flowers. Inside each one, the stems glow a faint gold. You can smell the nectar from where you stand--sweet, like honey, but heavier. Thicker.

When Malfoy reaches for the vial, you snap it back in the last second.

“I’m doing it,” you say.

“Like hell you are.” He scoffs. “Just because you’re a healer doesn’t give you the right to fuck this up. It’s my project too, you know.”

Anger sparks in your gut and you turn on him. “You haven’t given a shit about this potion the entire semester, and I’m supposed to believe you actually care now? Besides, you don’t have the experience required—”

“Oh, I have the experience. Stand aside.” He reaches for the sample vial. “I can handle something as simple as—”

You snatch it back again. “Oh, so you know that the bells ring when disturbed, so you only touch the stem. Did you know that Malfoy?”

“I—yes! I know more than—”

“So, obviously, you’d be cautious around the petals, since they’re so sticky they can leave a residue on your hands for a week.” Your lips set in a taunting line and narrow your eyes at him. “But you knew that, huh?”

Draco glares down at you. “I’m well aware of the difficulties with this plant. And by the way, I suggested this plan. So, I’ll do it.”

Your argument continues, words overlapping, while your voices ring eerily loud in the silence of the greenhouse.

Push, pull, counter, strike.

You fight the same way you fly on the pitch, chasing the same goal. Competitive to a fault.

The exact fault being that while the two of you are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the stem—and where the vial goes exactly—you don’t realize one vine unfurling from the wall behind you, growing curious in the moonlight.

“My hands are steadier,” Draco says from his place over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, ignoring the way his breath ghosts across your ear, focusing your energy on getting the ingredient.

You accidentally graze the edge of the downward-turned petal with the rim of the glass and the flowers on the Nightbell Stalk ring softly.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“You know it’s true,” he continues, voice low. “How many times have you lost the Snitch because of your poor grip, hmm? I haven’t. Not once.”

With one sharp movement of your fingers, you scoop up the drop of nectar from the stems inside. It slides down the glass, glowing a deep orange. Satisfaction curls warm under your ribs like your feline familiar back in your dorm room.

You grin. “Got it.”

Reveling in your win, you turn, ready to shove your success in his face, but the movement only presses your back further into his chest.

“Move, would you?” You bite, trying to slide around him, but the tight space doesn’t allow for much wiggle room.

He shifts to let you through, but the narrow corridor between the wall and the garden bed seems to get tighter with his body pressed against yours. Somewhere, your feet get tangled and he stumbles, sprawling back against the garden bed, which pushes you flat against the ivy wall, glaring up at him.

His head blocks the moonlight, his silhouette falling over you like a living shadow. His lips part like he might say something, and you find yourself leaning forward, waiting breathlessly, when something brushes your ankle.

You leap forward. Draco’s arm wraps around you out of instinct. The two of you stare at each other before he seems to remember who you are and drop his arm like you’ve burned him.

“Throwing yourself at me, are you?” He drawls, breaking the silent tension.

“No!” You look down at the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just mossy stone under your feet, the shadow of the vine wall at your heels. “Something just…grabbed me.”

Draco shakes his head and shoves past you. “It’s always drama with you, isn’t it?”

“I’m serious!” you snap. “It almost tripped me!”

“Ah, yes. Do me a favor and twist that pretty little ankle would you? Just secure me a win next match, thanks.”

His words make you pause, forgetting all about the mysterious touch. A smile steals across your face before you can stop it. “So, you admit I need to be taken out for you to have a shot at the Cup, then?”

He spins on the spot, a shadow etched between his brows as he scowls at you under the moonlight. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I am not! Merlin, Malfoy, do you ever just shut up—” Something brushes your shoulder. You freeze. “What was that?”

To your surprise, Draco actually shuts his mouth to listen. There’s nothing. No frogs, no crickets, no owl, no water dripping, no jilly bugs splashing in the pond.

It’s…silent.

Suddenly, something moves above you. Both your gazes jerk up at the same time. A leafy vine—so green it’s almost black—drops down from the wall and brushes Draco’s hair.

He flinches, and as the light catches on the small, glass-like beads growing between the leaves, your stomach drops.

You know exactly what that is.

The Veleroux Vine. Some call it Sirenlace. But it’s best known for another name.

Sex pollen.

You recognize it from your studies. The pollen pods contain a powerful aphrodisiac, said to heighten biological desire to mate in extreme ways. The more you resist, the worse the fever gets, making you wild with lust.

“Draco—don’t touch—” You throw a hand out to stop him.

But it’s too late.

Malfoy rears back and slaps the invading greenery away like he’s swatting a fly.

Shit.

“Dammit, Malfoy, what did I say about not touching anything?” You shriek, surging forward and shoving at his chest. “Get away from th—”

The first bead snaps open in a plume of dust. Fear rushes through your limbs and you try to jerk the both of you away, but you’re not quick enough.

One after another, the pollen pods pop in sequence, traveling down the vine, dusting your hair, your robes, and filling the air.

You jerk back, furiously rubbing at your skin, but it’s no use. It settles on you like a thin glitter, small enough to even to slip into your pores.

“Oh, shit. Fucking—fuck. Fuck!” you holler, but you shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Now the back of your throat feels like when you stuck your head in the sugar jar as a kid.

Draco sends you a withering look, brushing down his robes. “Calm down, will you? Bloody hell—just a little plant dust.”

“Just a plant—” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Merlin help me, you can’t just fucking listen for one second. I know what I’m talking about! Hurry! We have to get out of here before it—”

The vine slips around your shoulder at the very same moment Draco glances down to find another one winding around his ankle.

“—grabs us,” you finish weakly.

You try to scramble away, but the leaves thread around your arm in a silky vice.

Draco curses loudly at the thing, hopping on one foot, losing his robes in the process of trying to extricate himself.

“You have the wrong…pair,” you tell the inky leaves while you fumble for your wand. “We aren’t—we can’t…do what you want.”

“It wants something?” Draco casts a disbelieving look at the vine now wrapped around his dark slacks, settling around his knee. “Merlin—what?”

“It wants us to have sex,” you say, matter-of-factly.

He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. Then his gaze darkens, snagging on the way your hard nipples strain against your shirt.

Already? This shit works fast. You finally free your wand and cross your arms over your chest.

“Sex?” he sneers.

“Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac plant, native to rare jungles. Its job is to encourage mating between compatible species.”

“Compatible.” He scoffs. “You and me? Farthest thing from it.”

“It doesn’t know that..." You gasp as your wand is whisked out of your hands by a particularly strong leaf.

“Talk to it again. Tell it!” Draco shouts. He looks down and shakes his leg violently. The vine doesn’t budge. “Shit—just get it off me!”

Whispers of leaves dragging against stone make you turn to face the corner of the room behind you. A cluster of vines has begun to twist together, the husky hush of plants twining and looping filling the air. Vines slide across the floor, retracting into the dark corner, while more gather from the ceiling, shifting the beams of moonlight through the dusty air.

You inhale sharply. “Oh no.”

Draco curses somewhere behind you. “What now?”

“It’s building its nest,” you reply, eyes on the plant.

“It’s…what?”

You turn to see Draco fighting tooth and nail. He’s got his wand out now. Streaks of light bounce across the room, flames erupt in the air but they bounce off the leaves like they’re nothing but a few stray sparks. Across the room, past the pool, some of the other plants wither and shrink away from the light.

Adrenaline surges through you as your mind scrambles for a solution. You’re already beginning to feel it, a tugging deep in your core.

That familiar tight ache that blooms in the dark, alone, in your bed. But unlike then, right now, you can’t give into it. You try not think about how the longer you resist, the worse it will get. From your brief research, sex pollen isn’t fatal, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

Unless you give in.

Then, of course, it’s rumored to be the best sex of your entire life.

You don’t have the luxury of finding that out.

There is an antidote, of course, but it is completely and totally, one-hundred percent, without a doubt—out of the question.

Sex with Malfoy? Not happening.

There’s only one answer. You have to escape.

Your gaze swings to the stone door, framed in elegant iron bars that allow climbers to reach moonlight.

Maybe if you could get out of the vine’s reach, it wouldn’t be able to chase you.

It only takes a second to form a plan.

Tipping back, you let your weight fall backwards into the vine, hoping to catch it off guard and force it to loosen its hold. Instead, you trip over a stray pot and go tumbling to the ground.

But before you hit the stone, the Veleroux is there.

Your breath catches, heart pounding, suspended in the air. Then the vine pushes gently into your lower back, guiding you forward util your feet find solid ground again. You stare, openmouthed, as the leaves brush along your leg, almost as if checking for injury, before nudging you toward the corner of the room.

“Oh, Merlin. Yes, I see your nest,” you say weakly, watching as the vine curls in on itself to form a sort of ball—more of a fist, really—and uses it to push softly against the heels of your shoes, urging you forward. It uncurls when you take a step, leaves fluttering as if pleased. Then it spins in the air, gesturing as if to say, look, I made this for you. A cozy, safe place to mate. “Very nice. Lovely, really. But you see, we can’t—”

“Blimey! Get back!” Draco’s voice interrupts your one-sided conversation.

You look over your shoulder, wobbling a bit as the plant continues to nudge you towards the silky hammock in the corner. He’s covered in vines, now. His wand has fallen somewhere off to the side, out of both your reach. He’s still flailing, hair mussed, trying and—failing— to break free.

You look down. The vine’s not even holding onto you anymore. Is it because you’re not fighting as hard?

You take a step towards the door. Nothing happens. You take another, and the vine edges closer. On the third, it finds your ankle again. But it doesn’t squeeze you or cinch tight enough to sting. It just curls softly around your leg, firm enough to stop you from running, but gentle enough that you start to suspect it doesn’t want you damaged.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looks almost black and blue.

“Stop!” You call. “The harder you fight, the tighter it tries to hold you. Just—watch. Walk towards me.”

“You’re insane. You know that?” he spits. But his eyes catch on your vineless body anyway.

“Trust me, Malfoy.”

That’s a phrase you never imagined yourself saying to him.

“It doesn’t want to hurt us,” you whisper. “I don’t think.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.”

Despite his words, Draco takes one step towards you. The vine’s hold loosens. Another step and it slips from his chest entirely.

“See?” you say, encouraged. “It’s biological nature is to keep its prey alive and well. It can’t force us to mate. It just…heavily suggests it.”

“Of course it doesn’t force it,” Draco sneers. “A plant can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” But even as the words leave his lips, his eyes drop to the edge of your skirt. The hem suddenly feels six inches shorter, though you know it hasn’t shrunk.

Draco moves closer and the vines start to retreat, but he keeps a wary eye on them until they disappear into the Nest.

He glares at it, then at you. “What is that?”

“It’s a hammock,” you answer, eyes darting around for another escape route. “The vine thinks it will make us more comfortable. Since it’s not all over us anymore, I say we try to appease it. Just a little.”

“Appease it?” He gasps. “You want to—I can’t believe this. That—” he gestures towards the jumble of vines. “Could be a swan down comforter with silk sheets. I don’t care, I’m not going near it.”

You roll your eyes. “Merlin, you don’t listen. I’m not saying we go in the Nest. I’m saying we just…pretend. Then we can make a run for it.”

He doesn’t look convinced, so you turn to face him. “This plant spreads pollen to encourage mating, right? But how does it know when it’s worked? It’s not aware like we are.”

His eyes narrow. “Your point?”

“My point is…it’s pheromones, right? With our heightened hormones right now, we might be able to trick it into thinking we're on board, and it will let it's guard down.” Your stomach swoops with the words about to leave your tongue. “So maybe if you—if we—”

Draco’s eyes snap to yours. “If we what?”

His tongue swipes over his lower lip, leaving it glistening in the moonlight.

Stupid fucking pollen.

You swallow hard. “I think we should kiss.”

A beat of silence passes, the only sound your heartbeat kicking up, drumming in your ears.

“Fine,” he agrees.

That surprises you. You thought he’d gag at the very idea.

It must be the pollen, overriding his blatant hate for you and digging into his more urgent needs.

A shiver rolls down your spine at what those needs of his might be. You’re feeling it too, of course. The effect of being so close to him.

It’s only biological. To be drawn to a specimen of the opposite sex.

And why not Draco? He’s tall, healthy, miles of lean muscle. He smells good, and he’s not bad to look at. Especially when his eyes do that—flashing over at you thing, while his mouth quirks into a crooked smirk…

No other reason. Right?

You don’t have time to debate this, however, because Draco’s moving.

You’re vaguely aware of the vine brushing your ankle, keeping you steady as he crowds your space, and then—

Your lips meet his.

Your breath catches at the warmth you weren’t expecting. And that warmth…blooms. Your lashes fall shut as your whole body seems to sigh at the touch, like he’s the cure to the dull ache in your limbs, the antidote to the burning in your core. Just a gentle caress turns the sharp heat into a molten lava that invades your bloodstream.

He groans softly into your mouth, and the sound alone makes you gasp. Next thing you know, you’re pressed against his chest. Whether by his arms around you, or your own feet carrying you, or the stupid fucking vine playing matchmaker, all you know is he smells like green apples and teakwood. Cold luxury, but with a hint of…home.

At the first taste of his tongue, your stomach swoops dangerously. As he slants his mouth further, exploring, kissing you deeper, your heart feels like it’s beating as fast as a Snitch’s wings.

Your hands find his hair. It’s soft as silk between your fingers. A whimper escapes him and he breaks the kiss, head dropping back instinctively.

You watch through half-lidded eyes, taking in the way his wet lips gleam in the moonlight, blond lashes fluttering.

Merlin, he’s gorgeous.

His throat bobs on a swallow, and before you know it, your mouth is on his neck. He lets out a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before jerking suddenly in your hold.

You stumble away, already missing the heat of his hands, lips buzzing like you’ve just downed a shot of fire-whiskey.

It’s him, you realize. He’s your drug. And when he lurches backward, breathing hard, you feel as if he’s just taken your last fix.

His eyes stay pinned on you as he retreats. The vine stops him with a gentle pressure at his back, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He lets it guide him toward the nest, stopping just beside it, his back hitting the wall.

You scramble back until your heels knock into the stone wall opposite him. The Nest sits between you, off to the right, tucked in the dark corner of the room.

“Brilliant plan,” he grits out. “Bloody brilliant.”

And you’re back to square one.

“Ah!” Draco shouts, pointing at his wand lying on the ground between you. “You crossed the boundary.”

“I did not!” you snap at him, eyes flashing. “I was just adjusting. My foot kicked it accidentally—shit—would you just shut up? Your voice makes it worse.”

Over the last several minutes, you and Draco have tried everything under the sun to escape. The farthest you ever made it was all of ten feet. You did manage to retrieve Draco’s wand, though. Which then started the slew of fire spells, sharp object summoning charms, and so on. An earthquake hex was threatened, but that could’ve brought the whole school down, so you couldn’t risk that.

Although it was considered for one brief—and selfish—moment.

But none of it did a thing.

Turns out, this plant has some sort of magical resistance. It’s so bad that he couldn’t even make a force field or proper line divider between you, so he placed his wand there instead.

You’ve slowly slid down into a heap on the floor, attempting to make yourself smaller, as if that might ease the ache building deep in your core. It’s relentless, hot and gnawing, and you know it’s only going to get worse if you don’t come up with another plan soon.

Draco’s sitting now too, half draped in shadow. His arms crossed over his crisp white button-down, and he’s still glaring at you as if this is all your fault. The one knee strategically placed in front of his groan is the only sign you’ve gotten that the pollen is effecting him at all.

Bastard.

His tie is loose though, and his hair is tousled. Like it always is after a match. There’s no wind in here though, just the whisper of leaves and the steady drip of water.

No. Your hands are the only thing to blame for that.

Shit.

Now all you can think about is how soft his hair felt, how easily your fingers sank into it, and all the ways you could drag him closer by it, yanking his hot, wet mouth to your—

“What did I tell you about thinking those things?” Draco says. You peek up to see his head hit the wall, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m not thinking anything—”

“Stop lying, Nineteen.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes snap open. Somehow, his pupils have grown even larger. “You're so wet I can practically taste it from here.”

Merlin. Your thighs press together instinctively.

“I’m not thinking anything that has to do with you,” you snap. “Except how much I hate you. How much I despise your face, how much I want to steal that Snitch from you every damn day, and how if I had to be here, I would rather it be anyone else other than you!”

Your chest heaves as you catch your breath. But the way he looks at you makes your pulse spike all over again.

“Is that right?”

His cheeks are flushed, the same way they are when he’s hot on the Snitch’s trail. Your slick walls flutter at the sight. You’ve always thought he looked good like that. All sweaty and warm, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes bright with a fire that matches yours.

Not that you would ever tell him, of course.

“Who would you want instead?” he rasps. “Montague? Flint? I see the way you look at them on the pitch.” He looks away for a second and drags his knuckles across his lips before his gaze snaps back to yours.  “Lucky for you, you’re trapped here with someone who can show a little restraint.”

You bark out a laugh. “You think you’re the only one here with restraint? Take one step toward me, Malfoy, and I swear I’ll hex you.”

He grunts. “You don’t have a wand.”

Your head tips back with a quiet groan, your clit aching to be touched. You make another weak attempt to get away, but the vine catches you.

It doesn’t snap, claw, or hold you against your will. Rather it settles around your shoulders, brushing a waxy leaf along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear before retreating again, as if to say, Stop fighting. Just look at him. Don’t you want to?

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because you do.

Badly.

You find yourself looking at his hands. Your gaze drifts over the curve of his palms, the long lines of his fingers, the tension there, the veins, the control he’s barely holding onto and—you’re salivating.

Snap out of it.

“It’s so hot in here, f-fuck,” you whine, pawing at the collar of your shirt.

Draco eyes lock on you fingers. “Take that off and I swear—don’t.”

But your tie feels like it’s choking you, and your pulse booms in your ears. Your fingers keep loosening it. Draco curses.

You whimper. “That’s not fair, you took yours off!”

“Stop talking. Merlin, just—” he cuts himself off with a rough breath, his large palm grinding down into his erection beneath his slacks. “Shut up.”

You try to stay quiet. You really do.

But every shift of your body sends heat spiraling lower, making it harder to think. Every brush of your thighs squeezes your swollen clit, and has you gasping into the wall behind you.

Draco’s breathing is uneven now, too, echoing faintly off the stone. He hasn’t been able to keep his hand off his dick, still hidden under his clothes.

Not that you’ve been watching.

“I think—‘ you swallow. “I think I have a plan.”

Draco moans. “Fine. Enlighten me.”

“Remember what I said about the pheromones?” You manage. “It’s clear kissing wa—shit—wasn’t enough. Maybe…” Your eyes drop to his erection.

“No.”

“Draco, we’re going to have to touch ourselves. It’s the only way.”

You expect him to be glaring at you, but when you look up, his eyes are on your legs—that bare skin between your shoe and your skirt.

“Fine.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “You first.”

You barely have time to debate the ramifications of your actions. Your body burns, thick pressure building low and sharp.

You slip your hand under your skirt, straight under your panties. You inhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, but when your fingers meet a slickness like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the breath leaves your lungs.

The sound of of your wetness fills the silence between you and Draco makes a low, strained sound.

You glance over at him and immediately wish you hadn’t.

He’s taken his cock out, and he’s stroking it from base to tip. It’s long. Thick enough to fill up his palm, and veiny. The tip is darker than the rest, and you just know, if you were to take him in your mouth and suck—you’d feel his heartbeat against your tongue.

His jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, like he tried to close them but his body won’t let him. When he sighs and bucks his hips into his own fist your mouth runs dry.

Whatever cavern of distance used to exist between you is crumbling now. It’s being burned away. There’s no space for it in this heat, this constant pull towards each other. Your skirt rides higher up on your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet inner thighs.

After a minute, the relief starts to fade. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus. But your body won’t cooperate. Your hips jerk back from your own touch, your clit bordering on overstimulation. You frown, plunging two fingers inside yourself to rub the ache away. But they feel like cold pencils in your pulsing channel.

The heat drags through your veins like hot cotton, begging for a deep release. But every brush of your arms against the cold stone behind you makes your elbows start to itch, and your very skin start to feel like a husk.

You need water. No—not water.

You need him.

It’s almost as if your body is punishing you for doing it to yourself.

“It’s not w-working,” you whimper, helpless.

Draco groans, his frustration evident in the bulging vein in his neck. His cock looks so angry in the dim light. He bites his lip in determination, and you watch his fist grip tighter. He only gets to three more strokes before he’s hissing with discomfort.

“There’s got to be another way,” he rasps, his hand dropping away.

You huff, so needy you’re almost on the verge of tears. “I’m thinking!”

“Well, think harder.”

You glare at him, dimly aware of how on display you are right now. Legs open and spread towards him, skirt barely concealing the way your fingers move against yourself. “Maybe I could if you could just shut your mouth for one damn second!”

His voice is not helping. All low and deep, with a hint of a rasp curling around his accent, making your belly tighten.

In fact, none of this is helping. Silence fills the space between you, only broken by uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of the Nest.

When his eyes drop to your dripping cunt and you don’t even have the decency to close your legs, it’s like the pollen has overridden your higher thinking. Your knees widen instinctively, begging for him to look. To touch…

Your composure slips further. And when he licks his lips, your lips actually part in preparation to ask for him.

Merlin, if this keeps up much longer, you’re not above begging if that what it takes. And begging Draco Malfoy for anything is beyond the lowest you’d ever thought you’d go.

You work yourself harder, but your fingertips feel like sandpaper against your soft folds, even as your arousal continues to leak steadily from you, your pussy desperate to be filled.

But that feels impossible.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you’re helpless to stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away from him, still chasing any kind of relief, begging for it to feel like something worth grabbing onto.

Somewhere, distantly, you think Draco might be saying something, but you’re not sure what. Your body’s honed in on the vibrations of his voice, the way he smells—

“Nineteen.”

Hearing your nickname snaps you back to reality.

You open your mouth to answer him, but no words come out. Little gasps punch out of your parted lips, hips twisting  and writhing, searching for friction. For heat. For him.

“Tell me,” he says firmly.

You turn your head. You can barely see him, your eyes refusing to open more than a sliver. He’s leaning forward now, one knee planted on the ground.

“W-what?” you rasp.

“Your plan—the pheromones—shit.” Then, quieter, he adds. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting you.”

Your eyes snap to his. He’s watching you with that sharp focus you’ve always admired about him. The look that says nothing is getting in the way of what he wants.

You’re not sure exactly what makes him give in.

Maybe it’s the way your breaths come in soft pants that make the rise and fall of your breasts visible beneath your loosened tie. Maybe it’s the way your eyes drop to his lips, his neck, your tongue running over your teeth like you’re imagining how he tastes. It might be the ways your hips slant forward, knees falling open, your body begging even if you don’t have the words to.

But he must see it.

Because, he just says, “Fuck.”

His shoulders catch the moonlight as he shrugs out of his shirt in one smooth motion. Lines of lean muscle come into view, and you feel as if you’ve been presented with a feast after almost starving to death.

Malfoy’s always had a very determined walk. A powerful stride, one that commands attention. You’ve seen in in the halls, backed by his loyal little following. You’ve watched him stride towards the Quidditch cup, shoulders back, chest high.

But right now—he’s not walking.

He’s crawling.

Towards you.

“Close your eyes. If it helps,” he says before his hand meets your ankle and he’s bowing in front of you.

Something deep in your mind catches on those words, but he’s yanking your panties the rest of the way down your legs, and the heat of his mouth against your core whisks your thoughts away.

The second his tongue finds your clit you can’t help but cry out. Your head tips back against the stone, the relief so immediate it’s almost staggering. Draco attacks you with warm, lascivious licks that aren’t meant to soothe, despite his words. They’re meant to claim.

Your hands dig into the mossy floor beneath you, arching your hips up for him. His strong, hot tongue parts your folds like it’s his life’s work. The view of his back muscles shifting and stretching in the moonlight as he makes out with your pussy is so seductive to you it’s nearly frightening.

In fact, it is.

Frightening.

“I hate you,” you grit out, not even entirely sure where it came from. Just a need to set things back in order, even as he’s unraveling you.

He groans against your clit, the vibration licking up your spine.

“Say it again.”

You gasp, caught between resisting and wanting more, even as your pelvis shoves forward and you grind into him like you’re in heat. His tongue dives lower and when his nose nudges your clit, you nearly scream. Your orgasm rises like something sharp. It’s so powerful of a burn, of an ache, you find yourself scrambling backwards in an attempt to get away from the promise of such delirious pleasure.

Merlin, you need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire fucking life—

It scares you how much.

But Draco just hums against the pulls on his hair and follows you anyway, scuffling forward on the stone ground, gripping your hips and spearing his tongue deep inside you.

“Malfoy, I’m gonna—oh, fuckkk—”

“That’s it,” he says, and the sound of him quietly speaking against your slick folds nearly does you in.  “Scream my name, Nineteen. N-need—fuck—wanna hear you say it like that.”

The soft rasp of his voice, and the two long fingers being pushed inside you send you straight over the edge.

The release pulls you under in waves. Dark, pulsing tidal waves that drive deep through your pelvis, erasing through your body until the pleasure nearly blinds you. You feel yourself going rigid in his hands, thighs trembling against his soft hair, but he just hauls you through it, like a lighthouse in a storm. Strong, steady, and never stopping until you’re jolting and gasping, crying out in relief.

But the second your orgasm fades, the heat rushes in again. The fever. It’s back, and with vengeance this time.

Sweat beads your forehead and your vision swims, but you look up just in time to see Malfoy scramble backwards like you burned him.

You frown. “Dra—what?”

He throws a hand out, pressing himself against the opposite wall.  “Don’t come closer.”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. The heat is different now. Instead of feeling like a thread about to snap, your body has narrowed down to one singular need.

Breed.

Your fingers fly to your shirt without you telling them to, unbuttoning your shirt with ease. You feel the way your breasts move with your harsh breaths, but your gaze is locked on him. And when you drop down to all fours and slink forward, Draco looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.

“Merlin—I can’t.” he chokes out. “I can’t even think about it.”

Your gut feels like it’s been punched. Is he so disgusted by the thought that he can’t even look at you?

Does he truly not want you? Was that some sort of…pity—

You can’t even finish that thought.

You slink backwards until you’re half in shadow. He must see the look on your face because his head falls back against the wall on a groan. You can smell his sweat in the air and it’s making you downright feral even though you can barely look at him from embarrasement.

“I can’t think about it, because if I do, then I’ll do it,” he says. “And if I do it…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

Control. That’s always been Malfoy’s vice, hasn’t it?

This situation is probably his worst nightmare.

Not for the first time, something plucks on your heart strings deep under your ribs. He’s scared of losing it? You can give it back to him.

Slowly, and with deliberate care, you cross the boundary. The wand clatters somewhere to the side. Draco watches as you crawl to him, his eyes raking over you, a mixture of pain and hunger in his eyes.

You can only imagine what you look like.

Hair mussed, left in just a lace bra and soaked panties, your skirt hanging loose on your hips.

“Then don’t,” you murmur.

Your voice is so quiet in the stillness, but it spears through him all the same. Your gazes click together like magnets.

He shakes his head, chest heaving. “You don’t mean that. It’s just the fucking plant dust—”

He stops short when your hands settle on his knees, gently forcing them apart to make room for yourself. Your breath catches when you drop your gaze to see his cock sitting heavy and hard against his lower stomach. It twitches under your watchful gaze and your mouth waters.

Carefully, you settle into his lap.

He exhales sharply, and his hands find your soft skin, undoing your bra before you can even blink. Testament to a lot of practice, you’re sure. 

You don’t have the strength to be self-conscious. You just need him. Now. Even so, somewhere through the lust-filled haze, you remember his words.

“The plant just lowers—” your breath hitches as his teeth find the soft skin of your neck. “—your inhibitions. It can’t make you fuck someone you don’t…w-want.”

“How do you know so much about this?” he groans into your hair. “Why are you so—”

“What? So smart?”

“You wish.”

The words barely brush your ear before you lean back to get a better look at him. You’ve barely straightened by the time his mouth is on your tits.

You cry out as he swirls his hot, greedy tongue around your nipples, sucking on the hard buds until you’re panting. Your clit swells and you bite your lip, threading your fingers through his hair. The first rock of your hips has you both groaning. 

You grind down on him again and you nearly black out at the feeling of his bare length sliding through your slick folds. You reach between you to tug his slacks down further. His balls are heavy in your hand, and he grunts, shoving himself up into you.

“Merlin—I can’t—” he chokes out, mouth leaving your tits as his palms fly up and dig into his eye sockets.

Without thinking, you lean forward and kiss his fingers one by one. His bare chest stutters against yours at the softness of it, and when you slip his thumb into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it eagerly, he drops his hands.

You look down to find him staring up at you with a familiar expression. You make that face. When you're seconds away from catching the Snitch.

You swear you can feel every vein in his dick, so hot and hard against you as you grind your slick cunt against him. It’s instinct to drop your head and search for his mouth with yours, but you pull back at the last second. That last thread of lucidity coming back to haunt you.

This is your rival.

For a second you just breathe each other in, mouths parted, groaning and writhing into the other, but when the blunt head of his cock catches on your entrance, your hips react on their own—circling, pelvis arching, body begging in a primal, secret language you don’t fully understand.

And he moves with you—meeting you there with the deep urges of his own.

His hips don’t snap into you, brutal and deep. Instead, they slide. Back and forth. His hands clamp onto your hips, holding you still in his lap as he eases the tip in and out, letting your slick coat him until you’re ready to take the whole thing. 

The way his body moves speaks to something primal and powerful in you. How his sweaty muscles bunch and tense, and his hands dig into your skin at your hips, your thighs, your waist— it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he growls into your ear.

You nod frantically, clenching around him.

In one long thrust, Draco fills you up. The stretch is breathtaking. Literally. He’s so long that his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust, sending you mewing and clawing at his hair, his shoulders, just to stay afloat through the pleasure.

He’s not fairing much better.

He’s growling and moaning, his cock jerking desperately in your slick walls as he pulls back just far enough to yank your hips back down to meet his.

Sounds spill out of you. They might be words, you’re not sure. But the next thing you know, cold stone meets your back, and Draco’s warm body is spread out over you. His thrusts grow heavier and deeper. You can feel the way your body tries to hold onto him, clenching and fluttering desperately, even as your arousal makes it easy for him to slide so deep.

You’ve never been this wet in your life. And now, you’re wondering, if it’s from the pollen, or if it’s just from him. Because you’ve never had sex this good, and that’s saying something.

Your bodies just…move together. Like they’re one of a kind puzzle pieces meant to fit. The give and take is so instinctual it’s almost unbearable how good it is.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Draco pants, a lock of hair falling over his sweaty brow. “Knew you would.”

You throw your head back, your ankle finding solace in his lower back, sealing him to you and begging for more. Your body gives into the heat, the pleasure cresting and pulling you into something dangerously strong. So strong you’re worried your body might not survive it.

“So pretty on the pitch,” he groans, seemingly unable to stop from talking. “Merlin, I just—I lose the bloody Snitch every time you look at me.”

That does it.

Your orgasm rushes through your body like lightning. Your spine snaps straight, muscles clenching down with a pulse you feel everywhere. A moan leaves your chest, so loud you’ve probably woken the whole damn castle, but you’re too gone to care.

Draco makes a rough sound against the skin of your neck. “Holy—fuck, I’m gonna—where should I—”

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please. Please, Draco. I need it. P-please—”

“Ah, fuck—” His mouth seals against your throat, nose brushing the pulse point below your ear. “Need you.”

He jerks hard, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you. Your body seems to understand, back arching, pulling him deeper with your ankle as he stills and lets out a groan that curls low in your belly, and will certainly live on in every wet dream you have from here on out.

The fever fades like a receding tide. You blink, slowly coming back to yourself. Your clit is throbbing, and your pulse is still hammering, but strangely you feel...lighter somehow.

Like maybe the last few years of tension between you and your rival finally needed to snap.

You turn to him. He’s on his knees, breathing hard, buttoning up his pants. He looks up at you, and something in his eyes softens.

“What did you mean?” You find yourself asking. “When you told me to close my eyes earlier?”

He shrugs, reaching for his shirt.

“Well, you said you’d rather be here with anyone else. I just—” he looks away, suddenly seeming very interested in the way the Nest is unraveling like it did its job, and the stray vine that’s currently retrieving his wand for him.

You don’t let him finish.

You lurch forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate a second before meeting your mouth. He kisses you back, long and hard, digging his fingers through your hair to pull you closer. You exhale into it, something long unsaid passing between you.  But it’s not enough. You still need to say the words.

So, you break the kiss first. He blinks down at you, eyes dark, hair mussed.

“I only think about you, Malfoy,” you whisper in the shared air between you. “On or off the pitch, it’s only you.”

He leans down and brushes his lips across yours. “I still hate you, Nineteen.”

You reward him by deepening the kiss. He answers it, slower this time, but no less intense. When he finally pulls back, you’re already smiling.

“Say it again.”

dividers by @/bbyg4rlhelps | draco masterlist

taglist: @m00cow2000, @annonymoose, @poopoocacapepr, @witheringwidgetwrites, @stressedoutsteph,

@skankhvnt42, @afterhoursangell, @madimcg14, @virocci, @sprinkles260, @vroomvroom0481

You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.

Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”

Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.

Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.

Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.

You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.

But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.

The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.

And yet, here you are.

Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.

For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.

And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.

Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.

It was a test. Not your first.

And you ripped the fucking purse strings.

Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”

And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.

So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.

You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)

You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.

But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.

You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.

But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.

You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.

You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.

Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.

You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.

Of-fucking-course.

You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“

He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.

“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”

Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.

“…Those are three by threes.”

Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.

“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”

You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.

“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”

“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”

His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)

You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.

“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”

You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.

The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.

Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.

“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”

A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“

Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.

Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?

“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”

He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.

Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”

“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”

“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”

“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”

He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”

“…No?”

He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”

You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”

Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”

—

Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.

He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.

Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.

He started to get restless again.

He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.

And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.

And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.

That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.

Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.

Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.

Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.

Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.

He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’

And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’

Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.

He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.

The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.

When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.

“That one yours, then?”

Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”

“She’s Robby’s intern.”

“Mhm.”

“She’s way too young.”

Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”

“Maybe.”

Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”

“She’s not my intern.”

Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.

“It’s an HR nightmare.”

Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”

He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”

“Parker.”

“Jack.”

He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”

Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”

To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.

You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.

Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.

Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.

“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”

Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.

“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“

“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”

Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”

Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.

When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.

He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.

“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.

You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.

“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”

“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”

You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”

Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.

But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.

Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.

His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.

But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.

“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”

“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”

Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”

Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.

No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.

What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.

He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.

He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.

“Tilt your head up.”

He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.

He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.

Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.

He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.

“Did you walk to work today?”

You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”

He blinks.

“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”

You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.

“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”

There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.

“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”

“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”

Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.

God.

“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”

He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.

Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.

“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”

Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.

“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“

“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”

The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.

“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”

Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.

He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”

Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”

Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.

So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.

“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”

He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”

You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”

He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”

“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”

“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”

“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”

Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.

He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.

“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”

You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”

He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.

“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.

You’re not exactly rushing out the door.

You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?

The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.

“Still raining out there?”

“Yep. Looks worse now.”

“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.

“Come on, kid.”

The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.

He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.

You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.

“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“

“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“

By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.

On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.

Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.

“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”

That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?

Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

Ah. Right. The Incident.

“I told you I’m—“

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”

Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?

He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”

“Have you been hit by a patient before?”

He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”

“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”

“What, did she slap you too?”

“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”

“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”

You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”

Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”

“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”

The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.

Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.

Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.

Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.

“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”

Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.

Oh right, your apartment.

“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.

Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.

You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”

“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”

Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.

“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”

He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”

Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”

Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.

Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.

It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.

“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”

“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“

“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”

He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I was planning on looking online—“

Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”

Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?

“Dr. Abbot, I—“

“Jack.”

His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.

“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”

“Kid—“

The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.

“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”

Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.

He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.

“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”

Jack holds up a second finger.

“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”

Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.

Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”

“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”

He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”

Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.

“You worry about me?”

Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.

“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”

Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.

You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.

“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”

“No problem, kid.”

And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.

—

From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.

Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.

You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.

Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.

Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.

Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.

But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.

You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.

Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.

“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”

If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.

“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”

In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.

“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.

You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.

So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.

What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.

The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.

She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.

“Bad shift?”

“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”

Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”

“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”

“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”

She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”

You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.

Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.

Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.

“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”

She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”

“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”

Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“

“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”

The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.

“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”

You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”

Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.

“Have you… acted on it?”

“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”

She leans in. “But…?”

“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”

Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”

“Right. Yeah.”

She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”

Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.

“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.

“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”

You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”

She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”

Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”

“You’re the best. I love you.”

The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.

—

Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”

Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.

After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.

“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.

“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”

Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”

There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.

“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”

She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”

“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”

She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”

“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”

“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“

“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”

Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”

“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”

She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”

Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”

Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”

She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”

“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”

Mohan actually looks taken back.

“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”

“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”

She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”

“Yes please.”

Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.

She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.

You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.

Maybe everything will be okay.

—

Everything is not okay.

You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.

Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.

“Careful. You’re gonna replace Huckleberry pretty soon.”

You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”

“I try.”

You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.

It doesn’t help much.

There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.

Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.

The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.

You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.

A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.

You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.

Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.

“You’re flagging.”

Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”

He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”

“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”

Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.

Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.

Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.

Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.

“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.

Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.

And that’s just the last straw, really.

You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.

The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.

“Hello?”

It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.

You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”

“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”

“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”

Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.

“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

Always a man of action, Jack is.

You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”

“I have a guest bedroom.”

The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“What’s your address?”

The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.

You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.

It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.

The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.

Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.

If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.

His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.

He makes a low noise in his throat.

“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”

Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".

Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.

Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”

You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.

“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.

“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”

At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.

“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”

“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”

He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.

It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.

Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.

There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.

But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.

Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.

“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”

“That explains a lot of things.”

His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.

“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”

Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”

“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”

Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”

That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.

“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”

Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.

“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”

Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.

Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.

Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.

You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.

Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.

(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)

The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.

Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.

He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.

“Feeling better after your shower?”

You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.

“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”

He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”

He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”

“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”

You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.

You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”

“Do you want to leave?”

You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.

You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.

“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”

Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”

“Do you?”

You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.

Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.

“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”

“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”

“Are they?”

“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“

You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.

I want you to like me.

Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.

(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)

He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.

It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.

Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.

It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.

And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.

He doesn’t. He starts talking.

“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”

He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”

Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.

Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.

“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”

There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?

Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.

Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.

That would be something, wouldn’t it.

You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.

Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.

There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.

You start crying again, in earnest.

“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”

You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.

Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”

He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.

“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.

You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.

Holy shit. What the fuck.

Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.

In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.

Kid-

I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.

Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.

The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.

On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.

Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.

Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.

You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.

“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”

Mel is the first to speak.

“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”

Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.

You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”

Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”

Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”

Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”

Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.

"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."

Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.

–

At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.

It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:

Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.

Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.

–

When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.

He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.

And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.

You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.

"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'

You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."

You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."

Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.

Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.

Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.

The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.

Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.

"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"

He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.

"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."

He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.

"Why did you put it on?"

You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.

"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."

The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.

"How come?"

"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."

You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."

"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."

You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."

Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.

"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."

Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.

He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.

He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.

"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Hmm?"

"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"

"I want to kiss you."

Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.

He continues when you don't speak.

"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."

"Oh."

"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."

You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.

"I thought I was just reading into things!"

"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"

Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.

"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"

He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.

"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"

For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.

"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."

“Keep staring like that and Rooster's gonna catch fire.”

Bob whips around to find Jake watching him with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m not staring,” Bob mutters.

Natasha glances over her shoulder. “You haven’t stopped staring all morning, Floyd.”

“Why don't you just ask Rooster to switch seats?” Reuben asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t—I’m not—why would I—”

“Your boarding pass, please, sir,” the flight attendant cuts in.

Bob hands his ticket over with a tight-lipped smile, trying not to combust as the rest of his squad smother their giggles behind him. The flight attendant points him down the aisle, saying something about on the right, and he steps through after Natasha—the others trailing close behind.

And he can’t help it. The second he steps into the aisle, his eyes search for you—but they find Bradley first, his head sticking up above the rows of seats. He glances up and spots the group, a bright smile breaking across his face as he nudges the person beside him. You, obviously.

Then your head pops up over the seats and your smile knocks the air right out of Bob’s lungs. You wave frantically, eyes sparkling even under the bleak airplane lighting. He almost trips over his own feet as he shuffles down the aisle—and behind him, Jake doesn’t miss a beat.

“Watch your step, Floyd,” he says, voice smug. “I knew you were falling for her, but I didn’t think literally.”

Bob shoots him a flat look over his shoulder, biting back what he really wants to say when he spots a little kid within earshot. “Cut it out.”

Jake raises both hands in surrender—but the look on his face says he’s going to do anything but cut it out.

After an awkward shuffle past a family trying to wrestle their toddler into a seatbelt, Natasha announces that she’s found everyone’s seats. She quickly tosses her backpack into the overhead locker and claims the window seat. Mickey and Reuben stash their bags and slide into two of the four middle seats, Javy following suit. Then Bob drops into the seat beside Natasha—which means, to his dismay, Jake is directly across the aisle.

By the time everyone is settled—belts clipped and phones on airplane mode—the plane is almost full. There are people chatting excitedly, parents yelling at kids to sit still, and flight attendants walking the aisles in preparation for takeoff. Natasha already has her neck pillow wrapped around her shoulders, her head tilted against the window, eyes shut and looking perfectly content. Until—

Mickey leans forward, raising his voice above the chatter. “Did you guys know the last eruption of—”

“No,” Natasha snaps, eyes flying open.

Mickey hesitates, but continues anyway. “—Mauna Loa was in—”

“No!” she says again, leaning across Bob now. “I swear to all the Gods, Garcia. If you don’t shut the hell up for the next six hours, I’m going to find an active volcano to throw you in the second we land. Got it?”

The corner of Bob’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t dare laugh—not when Natasha’s in a mood like this.

“Okay, damn.” Mickey raises both hands. “Sue me for trying to get in the vacation spirit.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and flops back in her seat. “It’s not a vacation.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah—right. So why do I have my vacation sandals on, then?”

Bob’s almost positive Natasha would have leapt across the aisle and strangled Mickey if it weren’t for the captain’s announcement crackling through the overhead speakers. Her jaw ticks, dark eyes narrowed across the aisle at where Mickey is now sinking back in his seat. The others are giggling like idiots, holding their hands over their mouths as the captain talks about takeoff and then instructs the cabin crew to start the life jacket demonstration.

Bob tries to pay attention. He really does. But he can hear your quiet laughter, and he can hear your muttered voice telling Bradley to cut it out. Whatever it is. You’re only five rows back—yeah, he counted—and he knows the sound of your voice better than he knows his own.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he knows just a little too much about you and not nearly enough about himself. Not enough to understand why he feels like this. Not enough to convince himself you could possibly feel the same way. Not enough to ask you out instead of pining over youlike some pathetic loser.

Yeah. He’s doomed.

When Bob finally blinks and returns to his own body, takeoff is over. The plane is cutting through the clouds, still ascending, and Natasha is back to leaning against the window with her eyes closed.

And it’s at this very moment that Bob regrets not packing his headphones.

“So.” Jake leans toward the aisle, grinning. “You and Blink, huh?”

Bob rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing, Hangman. Just drop it.”

“If it’s nothing, then why would I have to drop it?”

Bob gives him a look. “I said drop it.”

“And I’m just asking what it is I’m being told to drop,” Jake presses.

Bob sighs, tipping his head back against the headrest. “Why do you even care?”

Jake’s grin sharpens. “Care about what?”

“Oh my God,” Bob mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

Jake chuckles, shifting as much as he can in the narrow seat to face Bob. “Look, I swear I’m not just trying to be a dick. I see the way you look at her—we all do. And if you weren’t so stuck in your head about it, you’d see that she’s just as into you.”

Bob doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s not about to admit anything, and he sure as hell isn’t about to let Jake’s ridiculous idea get any traction.

Because you’re not into him. He knows that for a fact.

Jake rolls his eyes. “And since you refuse to believe me, and since you’re too chickenshit to ask her out, I figured this vacation might be a good chance to prove it.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mumbles, eyes still shut.

Bob ignores her. “Prove what?”

“That she’s into you,” Jake says, exasperated.

Bob frowns. “Prove it how?”

Jake settles back in his seat, smirking. “Oh, you know… a little proximity, a little orchestration, a few strategic interventions.”

“Strategic interventions?” Bob echoes.

Jake just grins.

“Like—” Bob’s brows pull tighter. “Like what?”

“Like this.”

Before Bob can get another word out, Jake is on his feet. Bob’s eyes snap up to the little seatbelt sign overhead—no longer lit, which means passengers are free to move around the cabin. He fumbles with his own belt and pushes halfway out of his chair, craning his neck over the back of the seat to see where Jake’s headed.

Bob’s stomach drops when Jake stops beside you and Bradley—but when he shifts a little higher, he sees you’ve got your headphones on and your eyes shut.

Jake leans over you, muttering something to Bradley.

Bradley frowns, his face twisting into something between disbelief and irritation. He shakes his head.

Jake’s eyes widen, and he murmurs something else, pointing a finger toward Bob.

Bradley glances at Bob—still frowning, but now with a hint of confusion.

“Bobby,” Jake calls, waving him over.

Bob sinks back into his seat, exhaling hard. What the fuck has he done to deserve this?

With a deep breath, he pushes the belt clip off his lap and stands, making his way down the narrow aisle toward where Jake is standing with a very convincing look of concern on his face.

“Come on, Rooster,” Jake says. “Do you really want to be the reason Bob goes into anaphylactic shock?”

Bob’s looks at Jake, eyes wide. “The reason I what?”

“I told you he’s not allergic to peaches,” Bradley says.

Bob frowns. “I’m not allergic to—”

“Oh, hey guys.” You slip your headphones off, blinking up at Jake and Bob. “What are you doing back here?”

“Bob’s severely allergic to peaches,” Jake says quickly, “and the guy in front of him just opened a peach cup.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Do you need to swap—”

“But the thing is,” Jake cuts in, leaning closer to you, “he gets super sick if he’s sitting in an aisle seat—which is why I was asking Rooster, here, to be a gentleman and swap seats.”

Silence.

Your brows pull together. Jake looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at Bob. Bob can’t stop looking at you.

Then Bradley looks at you and—it clicks.

“Okay, fine,” he says, unclipping his belt. “Only because Bob dying would be a really shit start to the holiday.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as Bradley slides out of his seat and into the aisle—and Jake looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Bob can feel his pulse thrumming under his skin as everyone makes the awkward shuffle to give him space to squeeze in beside you.

His heart stutters when you look up at him with that soft little smile. The one you give him every morning from behind your coffee mug. The one you wear with a nod on the tarmac right before you climb into your jet. The one that’s been showing up in his dreams more than he cares to admit.

With a steadying breath—laced with your intoxicating perfume—he drops into Bradley’s seat. His arm brushes yours, his knee bumps your thigh, and when he glances over and finds you right there… God. He’s lightheaded.

“Alright, you crazy kids,” Jake says with a grin. “Mommy and Daddy are just up ahead if you need anything. Don’t be too loud, and keep your hands to yourself.” He pauses, smile sharpening. “I’m looking at you, Bobby.”

Bob can feel his whole face burning as he stares back at Jake, lips pressed into a thin line. He can’t start cursing him out in the middle of the plane. And he definitely can’t say what he really wants to say with you sitting right between them, rolling your eyes and laughing.

Laughing like you don’t notice the way his heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else.

Like you don’t see the smirk Bradley gives him now, finally in on Jake’s stupid scheme.

Like you don’t catch the little wink Jake shoots over his shoulder before he walks back to his seat with Bradley in tow—both already arguing about which one of them is mommy and which is daddy.

Bob shifts carefully in his seat, trying not to jostle you too much as he finds his belt and clips it—but your thigh stays pressed to his anyway. And when he finally settles, you turn toward him with that same warm smile, cheeks faintly pink.

“I didn’t know you were allergic to peaches,” you say, voice soft enough that it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the plane.

Bob feels his pulse trip over itself. “I’m—I, uh… only found out recently. Really recently.”

Your lips twitch like you’re trying not to laugh. “That’s rough. Peaches are delicious.”

“They’re dangerous,” he murmurs before he can stop himself, eyes flicking to the peachy colour of your lip balm.

You nudge him with your elbow—not hard, just enough to send a spark up his arm. “Good thing you’re sitting with me then.”

Bob can’t breathe for a second.

Then something shifts—so subtle he almost misses it. You adjust in your seat, turning your knees a little more toward him, your shoulder brushing his. You’re close enough now that he can smell your shampoo, warm and sweet, and it takes everything in him not to lean into it.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods—too fast. “Yep. Great. Perfectly fine.”

Your smile softens, brows pulling together just slightly. “Jake didn’t bully you into this, did he?”

Bob almost laughs. Almost. “A little. But I figured sitting with you was better than Fanboy and his Hawai’i facts.”

“And the peaches,” you add, eyes sparkling.

Bob chuckles. “And the peaches.”

The next hour slips by in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silence. At some point, the plane dips slightly through a pocket of turbulence, and your shoulder knocks gently into his. You mumble a quiet apology, but you don’t pull away.

If anything—you gravitate closer.

Bob swears he stops breathing when your head softly rests against his shoulder, your hair brushing his jaw when you shift to get comfortable. You let out a soft sigh, warm through the cotton of his shirt, and Bob has never been more aware of another human being in his life.

He tries to focus on the in-flight map glowing on the screen in front of him. He tries to remember how to sit normally, breathe normally, exist normally. But then his eyes drop to where your fingers rest, just barely brushing his armrest, and he wonders if you even notice how close you are. How close he is.

Then a shadow passes over him. Slowly. And his gaze flicks up to find Bradley.

He’s grinning like an idiot, pausing just long enough to catch Bob’s eye and wink—slow, smug, deeply unhelpful. Bob glares, as much as a man with a sleeping passenger on his shoulder can glare, but Bradley just suppresses a laugh and keeps walking toward the bathrooms.

Eventually—even with his racing heart—Bob starts to relax. The warmth of you curled against him, the quiet hum of the engines, the dimmed cabin lights... it all blurs together. His chin dips, his breathing evens, and without meaning to, he drifts off too.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps like that—your cheek tucked against his shoulder, his head resting lightly against yours—but it’s the soft chime of the speakers that yanks him back to consciousness.

“Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for descent.”

Bob blinks awake, disoriented, momentarily unsure where he is. And then you shift against him, lifting your head with a groggy little noise that hits him square in the chest.

“Oh—sorry,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Bob sits up straighter, heat flooding his cheeks. “No, no—you’re fine. Totally fine.”

You smile, still sleepy, still warm. “You’re comfortable.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just smiles—face burning, heart racing—and glances down at his lap, wondering if you could possibly hear the pounding of his heart over the hum of the plane engines.

By the time the plane lands, Bob is almost sure he’s sweat through his shirt. He keeps his arms pinned to his sides as he shuffles out behind you, eyes fixed on the back of your head and definitely not on the way your butt looks in the soft, slinky lounge pants you’d worn for the flight.

After the chaos of disembarking and baggage claim—which ended in tears after Mickey accidentally knocked a little boy over while yanking his suitcase off the conveyor belt—the whole team heads out to the taxi rank. Bradley and Reuben are already complaining about how hungry they are, Jake is unbuttoning his shirt because he’s too hot, and Natasha is about five seconds away from getting her own Netflix special about how she went from naval aviator to homicidal murderer.

The team splits into two cabs, and for the first time all day, everything actually goes quiet. For the first time there are thirty minutes of blissful, air-conditioned silence—no trivia, no yelling, no crying children—just the low rumble of traffic and the faint rush of waves as the coast gets closer.

And when the resort finally comes into view, even Mickey stops trying to make small talk with the driver.

It’s huge and bright and tropical, with balconies stacked around every level and palm trees swaying over the massive pool that stretches right along the beachfront. There are clusters of lounge chairs tucked beneath striped umbrellas and shade sails, and two bars anchored at each end of the sprawling pool deck.

It’s paradise.

“Goddamn,” Javy mutters. “This place is nice.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says as she marches toward the lobby doors, “and it’s going to be a whole lot nicer when I’m lying on a lounge chair with a drink in my hand at least twenty feet away from you idiots.”

The sliding doors whoosh open, and the rush of cool air feels like a blessing. The lobby is enormous—open ceilings, carved wooden beams, tropical flowers arranged in towering vases, and the steady trickle of a waterfall somewhere off to the right. There are people everywhere. Families wrangling kids and suitcases, couples in matching outfits, honeymooners draped over each other like they’re allergic to personal space.

And somehow the Dagger Squad still manages to be the loudest thing in the room.

Jake stops dead in the doorway, sunglasses still perched low on his nose. “Now this,” he says, beaming, “is what I call a vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mutters—for what must be the tenth time today.

“Does this place have a lounge?” Mickey asks, stepping in front of Jake. “Like, a member’s lounge or VIP lounge? I feel like this place should have a lounge. Someone ask about a lounge.”

Reuben elbows him. “Mick, enough about the lounge or I’m shoving your head in that fountain.”

Bob hangs back a step, letting you move ahead of him in the line for the check-in desk. Your bag bumps against your hip when you shift, and Bob has to pretend he’s studying a carved tiki statue so he doesn’t keep staring at you like some sex-starved lunatic.

But then Jake leans around him and whispers, “Is this your plan? Just stand really close and stare at her all vacation?”

Bob’s entire spine locks up.

“Seresin,” he warns under his breath.

Jake smirks. “Just saying, I don’t think it’s gonna work.”

Before Bob can snap back, the front desk clerk waves everyone forward with a too-wide smile—her eyes flicking up and down the group like she can’t decide which one she wants to eat first.

“Welcome! Are we all checking in this afternoon?”

Natasha steps forward with the confirmation email pulled up. “Yep. Five rooms under Mitchell, but one checked in yesterday.”

The clerk taps a few keys and scans her computer screen. “That’s right. Captain Mitchell arrived yesterday evening. Is this the rest of the party?”

Natasha nods.

“You’re all Navy, right?” the clerk asks, brows lifting. “Like... pilots?”

Mickey groans. “Here we go.”

Jake steps forward, flashing his most charming smile. “Yes ma’am. And as the most decorated pilot in the group—”

Natasha actually barks out a laugh.

You snort behind your hand.

Bob rolls his eyes.

But the clerk doesn’t notice the chaos—she’s too busy tapping away on her computer. “Alright, I’ve got your room assignments right here…”

Bob’s pulse jumps.

Jake leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes sparkling.

Natasha crosses her arms like she’s preparing for war.

Mickey mutters something about hoping for ocean views.

And you glance back at Bob with a soft little smile—completely unaware that he’s seconds away from cardiac arrest.

“Alright.” The clerk lays four sets of keycards on the counter. “You’ve got three twin rooms and one king.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

Bob’s stomach drops.

“Room 301, Seresin and Machado. Room 302, Bradshaw and Fitch.”

Jake looks at Bob, then at you, then back at the clerk.

“Room 303, Garcia and...”

The clerk squints at her screen. Bob’s heart skips. Jake looks like he’s about to explode.

“...and Floyd,” she says finally.

Bob lets out a soft exhale—part relief, part disappointment—and he can almost swear he sees your shoulders sag, just a little.

“What?” Jake snaps. “That’s ridiculous! We’re wasting a king bed on the two girls?”

The clerk’s eyes widen as she slowly pushes the keycards across the counter.

Natasha turns to Jake, lips curling into a smirk. “Who says it’s wasted?”

Jake sputters. “That’s—no. Hold on. You can’t just—what does that mean?”

Natasha grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then she shoots you a cheeky wink and snatches two of the keycards off the counter.

The clerk clears her throat, gesturing toward the elevators. “Your rooms are all on the third floor. Elevators just to the left.”

The rest of the group grab their keycards as Natasha starts tugging you toward the elevators. Jake trudges close behind, muttering something about injustice, and Bradley, Javy, and Reuben crowd in last. Bob lingers for a second, tucking his keycard into his pocket and watching the elevator doors ease shut.

Mickey nudges him. “You good, buddy?”

Bob flinches slightly. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

“Cool,” Mickey says, stepping forward to aggressively mash the elevator button. “Because I’m showering first. And if this ocean view isn’t pristine, I’m writing an email.”

Bob huffs half a laugh through his nose. “Sure.”

The second elevator dings and they both file in. Mickey keeps rambling—something about how he expects to see dolphins every morning and can’t wait to drink out of a coconut—but Bob’s not listening.

He’s thinking about you. Again. As usual.

But for some reason, right now, right here, he can’t make himself stop. Normally he can shove it down, tell himself it’s an unrealistic fantasy, remind himself you’re just his friend, his squadmate. Someone he cares about, sure, but not someone he gets to have.

Except… every time he tries to tell himself that, he sees your smile. Soft, pink-cheeked, eyes sparkling like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right there beside him.

And God. It hits him in the chest. Every damn time.

Could Jake be right? Could you really feel the same way about him?

Surely not. Right? You’ve never asked him out. And sure, you flirt sometimes, but the whole squad does. It’s practically part of the job description at this point. And maybe you try to sit next to him whenever you’re at The Hard Deck, but that’s only because you get along so well. Right?

Jake’s not right. He can’t be.

The ding of the elevator yanks Bob out of his thoughts, and the doors slide open onto the third floor. The hallway is warm and bright, lined with framed watercolour paintings of hibiscus flowers, plush little sofas tucked between every second door, and the faint smell of sunscreen drifting from someone’s open door.

“Look, Mick,” Reuben calls, already one foot in his room, “here’s your lounge.”

He points at one of the small sofas, and Bradley snorts before they both disappear inside. Mickey just rolls his eyes and continues down the hall until he stops at room 303.

He swipes the key and shoves the door open with a grin. “Home sweet home.”

Across the hall, behind room 304’s door, Bob hears your voice. Your laughter—light, familiar, stupidly gorgeous.

And with a soft exhale that feels more dramatic than it should, he turns and steps into his room.

Not your room.

Not this time.

But the ache in his chest says he’s already imagining the next time Jake meddles.

And—God help him—he might just be on board with it.

After settling in, showering, spending twenty minutes doom-scrolling and another ten on the balcony looking for dolphins, Bob and Mickey finally make their way down to the hotel restaurant. It’s almost seven p.m., and Mav has organised for the whole group to meet for dinner to go over work-related requirements before the Dagger Squad are unleashed on Oʻahu.

Almost everyone is already there by the time they walk in—everyone but you and Natasha.

“Ooh, shrimp,” Mickey says immediately, rushing up to the table with zero hesitation and snatching the biggest prawn off the platter sitting in the centre.

Maverick stands, brows raised. “Nice to see you too, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Mav,” Mickey mumbles around a mouthful of shrimp.

Bob gives a short nod. “Captain.”

“Bob,” Maverick says, amused, before taking his seat again.

Mickey pulls out the chair beside Reuben, and Bob grabs the next one along—leaving two empty seats between him and Bradley. Jake catches Bob’s eye from across the table with a knowing smirk, wiggling his eyebrows like he orchestrated this exact seating plan. Like he already knows exactly where you’ll sit when you get here.

And as if the universe is working off Jake’s script, Maverick stands again.

“Ladies. Nice of you to finally join us.”

Bob twists in his seat to look—and that’s when he forgets how to breathe entirely.

He didn't expect you to change—and even if he had, he would’ve pictured shorts or something soft and easy like your flight pants—but you… you’re wearing a sundress. Light, floaty, soft in a way that belongs to somewhere warm and ocean-bright like Oʻahu. Not that you don’t look gorgeous in your service khakis or your flight suit—you do, painfully so—but this is different. There’s something about the way the fabric moves when you walk, catching the light each time you step closer, that knocks every coherent thought straight out of Bob’s head.

He tries to school his expression into something normal, something friendly and casual, but his pulse is thundering and his palms are suddenly warm. All he can think about is the press of your head against his shoulder on the plane and how he can still feel it, like a phantom touch.

Natasha takes the seat beside Bradley without hesitation, and you slide into the last empty chair beside Bob. So close he can smell your sunscreen. So close that the air shifts when you sit—warm and sweet and dizzying in a way he’s not prepared for.

Bob swallows, mouth dry.

He is so, so screwed.

“Yum, shrimp,” Natasha says, leaning across the table to stab one with her fork while Mickey glares.

You glance at Bob as you pull your chair in, sliding your napkin onto your lap with a small smile that makes his heart knock dangerously against his ribs. He’s just about to open his mouth to ask how your room is when a waiter appears beside him, carrying another elaborate food platter.

“The fruit platter,” he announces, angling it toward the table.

You gasp. “Oh! No, I’m so sorry—could you actually put that down the other end? He’s allergic to peaches.”

The waiter freezes, eyes wide. “Of course. My apologies, sir.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as every pair of eyes at the table snap toward him. “No worries,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

The waiter circles around and sets the platter down in front of Jake and Bradley, who are trying—very unsuccessfully—to hold back their laughter, hands clamped over their mouths, faces turning red, shoulders shaking.

As soon as he leaves, Maverick turns to Bob. “You’re not—”

“It’s new,” Bob blurts. “I—uh—just found out.”

Maverick frowns. Jake wheezes. Mickey eats another prawn.

“Right,” Mav says slowly. “Well—you should really update your medical records.”

Bob nods, once, tight. “Yeah. Will do.”

There’s a brief moment of quiet while Jake and Bradley finally manage to choke down their laughter—then Maverick clears his throat and launches into logistics. He talks through the week ahead—tomorrow free, Pearl Harbor the day after, two more free days, then the gala on Friday night after an early-morning rehearsal. Simple enough. Easy to follow.

But Bob hears almost none of it.

He nods when everyone else nods, laughs when the table laughs, eats when food is served without really tasting a thing. Because you’re beside him—close enough that your knee brushes his under the table every now and then, close enough that he can smell the floral hotel soap still clinging to your skin, close enough that he keeps catching your hand almost resting over his on the table. Like gravity itself is pulling you toward him.

Mickey keeps reaching for shrimp. Natasha keeps stealing them. Jake keeps watching Bob like a man waiting for fireworks. And every time you lean in to speak to Javy or Maverick across from you, the sleeve of your sundress slides a little down your shoulder and Bob forgets what language is.

By the time dessert comes out, he’s ruined.

Fully, hopelessly gone.

And when Mav finally calls it a night, the sky outside is dark, the pool lights glow turquoise, and the night air feels thick and lazy, like everyone is finally ready to crash.

Chairs scrape, napkins drop, and everyone slowly stands and starts filing out of the restaurant. Maverick peels off first, heading for the block of lifts at the far end of the building that go all the way up to the top floor—to his fancy executive suite.

The rest of the squad drifts toward the main elevators—laughing, yawning, nudging shoulders. And you end up next to Bob, because of course you do. Close enough that your arm brushes his when the hallway narrows, close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He tries to focus on Mickey’s running monologue about whether the pool bar has frozen margaritas or only blended ones, but all he can think about is the faint smell of coconut shampoo every time you turn your head.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and everyone squeezes in. You step in beside him, shoulder pressed to his as the doors slide closed. Jake catches Bob’s eye over your head and winks, like an absolute menace.

Bob pointedly looks at the ceiling.

Three floors pass in seconds—but it feels like hours, with the back of your hand brushing his, his fingers itching to lace with yours, every inch of air between you charged and too warm for such a small space.

When the doors finally open on the third floor, everyone spills out, still chatting lazily as they wander down the hallway toward their rooms—301, 302, 303, 304 all in one neat cluster.

You stop at your door with Natasha, turning to Bob with that gentle smile again.

“Night, Bob.”

He swallows. “Night.”

Mickey claps him on the back. “Come on, roomie. I’m exhausted.”

Bob follows him into room 303, but not before glancing once more at you disappearing behind your door across the hall—heart pounding like he’s eighteen and in love for the first damn time.

He exhales, long and helpless.

Maybe he should do something about it.

About you.

Maybe he should talk to Jake.

-

Jake is already sprawled across a sun lounge when Bob finally walks out onto the pool deck late morning. Clustered around him are five more lounges, each reserved with a single item on them as if that’s legally binding. One has a pair of sunglasses—even though Jake already has aviators perched low on his nose—the next has a hat, then a shirt, and the last two each have a single flip-flop.

“Morning, Bobby,” Jake grins, all lazy confidence and oiled skin.

Bob sighs. “Don’t call me that.”

He drops onto the lounge with the hat, picks it up, and tosses it at Jake. Then he scrubs both hands over his face, elbows on his knees, and stares at the ground—jaw tight, chest aching.

“Okay,” he finally says, lifting his head. “I’m in.”

Jake arches a brow. “In?”

Bob swallows. “Help me. With… her.”

Jake’s grin spreads slow and wolfish—like the sun rising just to witness chaos.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He sits up, pushing his sunglasses into his hair and swinging his legs off the side of the lounge to face Bob properly.

“Alright, Phase One: Plane Buddy. Complete success. Shoulder contact achieved. Mutual napping? Unplanned bonus.”

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Please don’t call it phases—”

“Phase Two,” Jake continues, ignoring him completely. “Proximity. Sun, water, bare shoulders. Classic vacation bonding. She sits there—” he points to the empty lounge on Bob’s other side, “—you offer sunscreen for her back, she does yours, feelings ignite, boom.”

“This isn’t a mission brief, this is—”

“Everything is a mission brief if you do it right.”

Bob just stares at him—horrified, defeated, wondering if he’s made a terrible mistake.

Then footsteps thump against the deck boards behind them, and Bradley appears wearing swim trunks and a hideous Hawaiian shirt hanging wide open like he owns the entire island.

“What mission brief?” he asks, dropping his towel onto one of the flip-flop lounges.

“Operation Hawaiian Heat,” Jake says.

Bob almost chokes. “We are not calling it that.”

Jake turns back to him. “Okay. Fine. The other option is Operation Unblue Bob’s Balls.”

Bradley snorts. “I like that one better.”

Jake gestures at him triumphantly. “See? Rooster gets it.”

Bob lays back onto his lounge and throws an arm dramatically over his face. “What have I done?”

“You’ve come to the right man, that’s what,” Jake says, far too proud.

Bradley drops onto his sun lounge, kicks his slides off, and sprawls out with a contented sigh.

“Now.” Jake leans in. “Phase Two—”

Bradley turns his head. “There are phases?”

“Obviously,” Jake says, like Bradley just asked whether water was wet. “Bob’s going to make a move today.”

Bradley sits up, suddenly invested. “Finally. I was this close to drafting you a script.”

Bob’s ears burn. “I’m not making a move. I just—I asked for help.”

“Which implies intent,” Bradley says.

“And opportunity,” Jake adds.

Bob sinks lower in his lounge, face in his hands. This was a mistake. A huge, life-altering mistake.

Jake claps his hands once, decisive. “Now we just need Blink down here. We keep her close. Swim together, flirty eye contact, sunscreen situation if we can engineer it—”

Bradley nods. “Water proximity works. Pools lower personal-space boundaries by at least forty percent.”

“That’s not real data,” Bob mutters.

“It is now,” Bradley replies.

Jake gasps suddenly, like he’s just been struck by divine inspiration. “Oh! And when Phoenix eventually emerges from the underworld, we—”

“Morning!”

Bob freezes at the sound of your voice.

“Hey, Blink,” Bradley greets, too quick and too casual to be anything but suspicious. “How’s Nix?”

You drop your towel onto the lounge beside Bob, and Jake’s grin sharpens.

“Miserable, but alive,” you reply. “Housekeeping dropped off, like, a litre of Pedialyte, but she won’t drink it until she’s sure she can at least keep water down.”

Bradley winces. “Damn. Is she alright on her own?”

“Insisted on it, actually,” you say. “Said she doesn’t want anyone to see her this weak.”

Then you rest a hand on Bob’s shoulder, and his entire body goes rigid.

“How’s Fanboy?”

Bob clears his throat. “He’s good—I mean, not good—alive. He’s alive. But still really sick.”

His cheeks burn—and Bradley snorts. Loudly. But before anyone can question it, he pushes off the lounge, takes four long strides across the deck, and dives straight into the pool.

You blink after him. “That was weird.”

“When has Rooster ever been normal?” Jake says quickly. “Anyway—what were you saying about Phoenix?”

You eye him suspiciously. “Nothing. Bob was saying Mick is still really unwell.”

Jake raises both brows. “And Natasha?”

You frown. “Like I said two minutes ago—still sick.”

Jake hums, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk. “Do you think it was something they ate?”

“Nat reckons the shrimp,” you reply. “They were the only ones who ate it.”

Bob sits up straighter, as if suddenly unsure how to hold himself with you around. “So, it shouldn’t last too long—they'll be better by tomorrow, right?” he asks.

You shrug—and then you do something that has Jake biting his knuckles and Bob ready to explode. Figuratively. Literally. All of the above.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your shorts and tug them off in one smooth motion, then pull your shirt over your head and drop it on the lounge beside you. Sunlight catches on your swimsuit—soft and pale blue—and whatever words Bob had left in his brain evaporate instantly.

His breath stops. Full system shutdown.

He tries to look away, he really does, but his eyes drag back helplessly, like gravity has been recalibrated to you. His pulse kicks up hard enough he’s convinced Bradley can hear it underwater. And Jake definitely notices—he chokes on a laugh, clamps a hand over his mouth, and shoots Bob the smuggest look a human has ever produced.

Bob’s fingers curl around the edge of his sun lounge, knuckles white. Every rational thought he’s ever had abandons ship. The only thing left is the shape of your smile, the sun on your skin, the faint scent of sunscreen drifting with the breeze as you shake out your hair.

You don’t seem to notice the devastation you’ve just caused. You just drop your flip flops on top of your towel and push your sunglasses up your nose—casual, effortless, lethal.

Bob’s mouth is dry. His heartbeat is loud. And if he wasn’t already in over his head, he is now—irrevocably.

“Anyway,” you say, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m gonna go for a swim.” Then you tilt your head toward Bob, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “You should come, Floyd. You look hot.”

You don’t wait for an answer. You just flash him a smile—warm, easy, devastating—and walk toward the pool, the sun catching on the sheen of sunscreen coating your skin until it makes him dizzy. You slip into the water with a clean, graceful dive that sends a ripple across the surface and a full emotional crisis through Bob’s nervous system.

“Go!” Jake hisses, slapping Bob’s leg.

Bob startles. “What—now?”

Jake’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “She literally just asked you. Invited you. By name. While wearing that swimsuit. And I’m sitting right here—do you hear the words coming out of my mouth? Go!”

Bob hesitates, palms flattening uselessly against his thighs. “I—uh, I don’t know. I should probably—”

Jake grabs the sides of Bob’s lounge and shakes it once. “Robert. Floyd. Get. In. The Pool.”

Bob exhales in a rush, defeated. “Fine.”

He sits up—reluctantly, slowly, like a man walking to his own execution.

“Take your shirt off!” Jake hisses.

Bob frowns. “No. Absolutely not. I’m pale. I’ll burn in, like, five minutes.”

Jake’s eyes widen. “Do you want to be sun-safe or get laid, Bob?!”

“That’s not—those aren’t the only options—”

“Right now they are!”

Bob glares at him, then at the pool, then at you—floating on your back, sun in your hair, laughing as Bradley splashes you.

Jake gives him one last shove. “Shirt. Off. Go.”

And Bob, red-faced and mortified and completely hopeless, reaches for the hem of his shirt.

He inhales once—deep, resigned—then tugs it over his head in one quick, graceless movement before he can chicken out. His glasses get a little crooked in the process, his hair sticks up, and his entire torso goes pink the second sunlight hits it.

“Dear God, he’s adorable,” Jake mutters, like he’s narrating a nature documentary.

Bob pointedly ignores him. He folds his shirt—mostly to have something to do with his hands—and sets it on the lounge beside him. His ears are burning. His chest is burning. His soul is burning. He’s already regretting every life choice that has led him to this exact moment.

And then—he feels it.

A flicker of attention. The weight of someone’s stare. Like heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He glances toward the pool, and—

You’re watching him.

Not accidentally. Not confused. Not casually.

You’re watching him—with your elbows resting on the edge of the pool, water beading on your shoulders, chin tilted just slightly as your eyes track down his chest and back up again.

Your lips part—not much, just enough—and Bob’s heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

The second your gaze snaps up to meet his, you blink fast and pretend you weren’t staring, pushing off the wall and turning onto your back like you’re suddenly very invested in the wispy white clouds floating through the sky.

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. “She was eating you alive.”

“Shut up,” Bob hisses—but his voice comes out thin, breathless, like all the air has left his lungs.

He swallows hard, palms slick, pulse pounding, eyes drifting back to where you’re pretending not to look at him—except you absolutely are. Out of the corner of your eye, subtle and warm and curious. Your lips even quirk a little when his gaze catches yours, and then you turn away with pink cheeks like nothing even happened.

Jake nudges Bob hard with his foot. “Get. In. The. Pool.”

Bob exhales like a man marching toward certain doom and pushes himself to his feet. The sun feels too hot, the water too bright, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to sit back down—but he forces himself forward anyway.

He steps in slowly, careful, lowering himself until the water settles warm around his chest. His heart is pounding so loudly he’s amazed it doesn’t disturb the surface.

You turn at the sound of movement, brushing wet hair from your cheek.

And then you smile at him.

Not the casual, breezy smile you give everyone. Not the professional squadmate smile. Something softer. Something that hits him sharp behind the ribs, like you’re seeing a part of him he doesn’t know how to hide.

“Hey,” you say, drifting closer.

Bob clears his throat. “Hi.”

Your eyes slide from his face down to his chest, not even trying to be subtle this time. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this—”

“Wet?” he offers—quick, nervous.

You snort softly. “I was going to say undressed.”

Then you turn your head, suddenly very interested in something across the deck—but Bob catches the colour rising in your cheeks, and he knows the sun has nothing to do with it.

A quiet beat stretches between you. Nothing but the gentle lap of water against tile, the distant crash of waves, the low murmur of O’ahu slowly waking up around you.

“Sleep well?” he asks suddenly—because he has no idea what else to say, only that he has to say something.

You turn back to him. “Not really. Nat was up most of the night. You?”

He shrugs. “Same. Fanboy wouldn’t stop groaning.”

You laugh—soft, breathless—and Bob feels the sound settle somewhere beneath his skin, warm and dangerous. “Maybe we should swap—”

A dramatic splash cuts you off, both of you flinching as water sprays everywhere.

When Bob opens his eyes again, he can’t see—his glasses are spattered with droplets, the world reduced to blur and colour—but he can feel you. Warm. Close. Too close. You laugh softly, and he feels the exhale of your breath brush his lips.

“Oh no,” you say. “You’re blind.”

Before he can even think to move, he feels the ghost of your fingertips at his temples, gently as you slide his glasses off. His whole body goes still, every muscle locking as it registers just how close you are. And when he blinks, uselessly trying to coax focus from his lousy vision, all he can really see is—

You.

Everything beyond you dissolves into colour and light—the blue of the pool, the pale stretch of sky, movement without detail—but you stay sharp. Close. So close he can see every tiny detail he’s never let himself linger on—the dark line of your lashes, the curve of your lip. You’re right there, within reach, water slicking over your shoulders as you float nearer without even meaning to.

Bob’s breath stutters.

Without his glasses, there’s nothing to hide behind. No distance. No buffer. Just you and the water nudging him forward, your bodies close enough that he can feel the heat of you through the pool, the faint brush of your knee against his thigh sending a spark straight through him.

You tilt your head, studying him, lips parted like you’re about to say something—and the way your eyes trace over his face, down his chest, back up again makes something low and dangerous coil in his gut. The water laps between you, slow and lazy, but Bob feels wound tight, every nerve lit up, every thought stripped down to how close you are and how impossible it is to pretend he isn’t thinking about it.

About you.

Your skin. How it would feel against his. How your lips would taste if he just leaned in.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And then—

Jake surfaces. “Whew! That’s refreshing!”

Bob startles and steps back.

You shoot Jake an unimpressed look. “Really, Seresin?”

“Oh.” His brows lift, lips curling into a smirk. “Did I interrupt something?”

You don’t answer—you just shake your head and start wading toward the edge of the pool, Bob's glasses still in your hand.

Jake watches you go for exactly half a second before turning back to Bob. “Easy there, Casanova. This is a family resort.”

Bob squints at him, mostly just trying to see him clearly. “What do you mean? Wasn’t getting close the—”

“Close, yes,” Jake cuts in under his breath. “But you don’t give it away. You keep the tension high. You let it build.” He pauses, his smirk sharpening, and drops his voice lower. “You have to make her want it. Make her beg for it.”

And God—that absolutely does it.

Because Bob’s brain, traitorous and unhelpful, fills in the blank immediately. You—closer than you should be. Looking at him like you were a second ago. But this time? You’re lower. Even closer. That softness in your eyes sharpening into something else entirely. And his body reacts before he can shut the thought down—fast, unmistakable, and deeply inconvenient.

Bob sucks in a sharp breath.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He needs space. Distance. A wall. A lifeguard whistle—something—because if he stays here another second, Jake’s going to notice, and that will be a whole new level of humiliation.

Without another word, he turns and wades toward the shallow end, heart hammering, every nerve lit up for reasons that have nothing to do with swimming.

“Are you guys hungry?” you call from the deck.

Bob glances over his shoulder and squints to see you using your shirt to clean his glasses—and he has no idea why, but somehow that makes his situation even worse.

“Yes!” Bradley replies, way too eager. “I’m starving.”

“Can you get a fruit platter?” Jake asks, voice smug.

Bob refuses to turn around.

“But no peaches!” Bradley calls.

“Of course—no peaches,” you say.

Bradley and Jake both do a terrible job of suppressing their laughter, but Bob still doesn’t turn around. He just takes a deep breath and keeps wading through the water, willing his body to cooperate, until—

“Bobby!” you shout. “C’mere!”

And just like a moth to a flame, he turns and starts toward the edge of the pool.

He puts his hands out to keep from running straight into the wall, palms finding the warm tile as he leans in. For a second, it’s all blurred shapes and colour—and then you’re there, crouched beside the pool, skin still glistening with tiny droplets of water, that damn swimsuit wet now and clinging sinfully to your body.

“Here,” you says softly, holding his glasses out.

He takes them and slides them on, blinking a few times as the world sharpens again.

“You hungry?” you ask, smiling now.

He clears his throat. “A little.”

“Good.” You straighten, and Bob’s thoughts immediately pivot back into deeply unhelpful territory as he looks up at you from this angle. “I’m going to order some breakfast.”

He nods. “I’ll—uh, I’ll be out in a minute.”

You tilt your head, still smiling but curious now, brows furrowing just slightly—but you don’t press. After a beat, you simply nod and turn away, heading toward the bar where one of the resort’s waitstaff greets you enthusiastically.

Bob continues wading toward the shallow end of the pool, deliberately keeping his distance from Jake and Bradley while trying to think of anything—anything at all—that isn’t you. He watches a gecko scale the trunk of a palm tree, tipping his head back until it disappears into the fronds above. Then he shifts his gaze skyward and starts counting birds as they fly over the surfboard hut on the beach.

By the time he hears you call out that the food has arrived, his situation is finally under control and he can climb out of the pool with most of his dignity intact.

Reuben and Javy have joined the group now, everyone clustered around the lounge chairs with two huge platters of food set out on the low tables between them. Bradley and Reuben have dragged a couple of loungers closer to make a loose circle, and in the middle of it all, there’s you—smiling and waving Bob over as he pads across the deck.

“I made sure there are no peaches,” you say as he steps closer.

Jake drops his chin to his chest and snorts, like he just can’t get enough of this ridiculous joke.

Bob nods, pressing his lips into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

There’re a few minutes of blissful quiet while everyone stuffs their faces with fruit and pastries. Bradley and Reuben fight over the last pain au chocolat, Jake whinges about the lack of protein, and Bob does everything he can not to watch you like the total creep he’s become since landing in Hawai’i.

The moment stretches—comfortable, lazy—until Javy finally breaks it.

“So,” he says, glancing around the group, “we’re going out tonight, right?”

Reuben looks up, chocolate smeared across his top lip. “What about Phoenix and Fanboy?”

Jake scoffs. “Just because they decided to eat bad prawns and get sick doesn’t mean they get to ruin my vacation.”

“I feel obliged to say it since Nat isn’t here,” you mutter, “it’s technically not a vacation.”

“Yeah, we’ve got that visit to Pearl Harbor tomorrow,” Bob adds. “Mav won’t be happy if we’re all hungover.”

Jake smirks. “So we invite Mav. He can’t be mad if he’s hungover too.”

Reuben snorts. “Mav is a highly decorated captain who’s about to receive a very serious, very formal Navy commendation. He’s not going to—” He stops, tilting his head. “Actually, no. You’re right. He’ll definitely come out.”

Bradley chuckles. “Yeah, he will.”

“So—what?” you ask. We just ditch Mickey and Nat?”

Jake’s smirk sharpens. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh, God,” Javy mutters. “He’s been thinking.”

Bradley snorts, but Jake ignores him completely.

“We’re only assuming it was the prawns, right?” he says, voice light and full of faux innocence. “But it could be a virus. Or something contagious.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Bob’s pulse kicks harder.

“So,” Jake says slowly, his eyes sliding toward Bob, “I think it’d make sense to quarantine the sick.”

Bob’s stomach twists.

You frown, still oblivious. “How?”

“I don’t think—” Bob starts.

But Bradley cuts in. “I agree. We don’t want anyone else getting sick.”

“I don’t know if the resort will have any free rooms,” Javy adds, equally oblivious.

Jake rolls his eyes. “We don’t need another room.”

There’s a beat of silence.

All Bob can hear is his pulse pounding in his ears.

And then—you laugh.

“Oh my God,” you snort, clapping a hand over your mouth. “There is no way you’re getting Nat to share a bed with Fanboy. She barely tolerates being in the same state as him.”

Jake grins. “I never said anything about Phoenix and Fanboy sharing a bed.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Then who—”

Your eyes land on Bob, and the question dies on your tongue.

There’s a split second of nothing—nothing but static. Bob’s heart slams so hard he’s pretty sure everyone can hear it. His spine locks, breath catching in his chest as heat rushes up his neck so fast it makes his ears burn.

You go still beside him. Not panicked. Not nervous. Just quiet. Processing.

Jake’s eyes dart between the two of you. “Get it now?”

Bradley makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Reuben abruptly becomes very interested in the breakfast platter, and Javy presses his lips together so hard his cheeks puff out.

Bob stares straight ahead, brain completely blank except for the deafening thud of his pulse. Share a bed. With you. Overnight. Multiple nights—maybe. The thought hits him low and heavy and immediate, and he has to brace his hands against his knees just to stay upright.

“That’s—” you start, then stop, glancing at Bob. “I mean… yeah. I guess it makes sense?”

Bob doesn’t dare meet your eyes. If he does, he might combust—or worse—so instead he watches Reuben pick a handful of grapes off the fruit platter like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, softly.

Bob’s breath catches.

“Great.” Jake claps his hands together. “Look at that. Problem solved.”

Bob opens his mouth. Then closes it. His brows knit as he tries to remember how words work. His heart is still racing, his face is definitely on fire, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how close you’re sitting—close enough that if he shifted even an inch, your knees would touch.

You lean forward just slightly, like you’re trying to catch his attention.

He doesn’t look. Not directly, at least.

“Unless you’re not okay with it?” you ask.

Bob shakes his head way too fast. “No. I—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

He is absolutely not fine.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Bob makes a valiant attempt to remember how breathing works as he tries to relax on his sun lounge beneath the shade sail—but every time you catch his eye, his lungs promptly forget their job. He feels hot. Too hot. In a way that has nothing to do with the balmy weather and everything to do with the way sunlight glints off your skin when you climb out of the pool, water tracing slow paths down your arms and back.

And so, relaxing proves impossible.

After lunch, Jake announces that it’s time to check on the casualties—and break the news of the new room allocations—dragging both Bradley and Javy inside with him. They’re gone for almost an hour. Long enough for Reuben to glance nervously toward the hotel lobby and seriously suggest alerting security.

But eventually, they reappear. All three of them looking a little… shaken.

Apparently, Natasha had put up a fight—an impressive one—before eventually, finally, surrendering. But not before making one thing abundantly clear. This arrangement is for you. Only you. Not the boys. Not Jake’s logic. Just you.

And when Javy relays that information with a glint of fear in his eyes, you laugh—bright and sweet and completely unaware of the effect it has—and Bob’s head spins so hard he has to shut his eyes.

He’s not sure he’s going to survive the night—let alone the rest of the trip.

After a few more hours of lying in the shade, pretending not to watch you, and doing everything in his power to ignore Jake’s running commentary, Bob finally decides to head back up to his room to get ready for the night. For whatever circus he’s signed up for by giving Jake even the smallest amount of control over his love life.

Bradley calls after him to be back in the lobby no later than six, and Jake adds something smug about making sure the room situation is handled—as if Bob has ever once been in charge of what Natasha Trace does.

By the time he reaches the third floor, his skin is still warm from the sun—burnt, probably, thanks to Jake—and his head is so full of your laughter he feels like he might faint. He drags his keycard through the reader for room 303, pushes the door open—

And freezes.

Natasha’s suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, and both twin beds are occupied.

Mickey is curled up on his side, scrolling through his phone with a washcloth pressed to his forehead, and Natasha is sitting on the other bed, hugging the—hopefully—empty wastebin to her chest.

“Hey,” Bob says, taking a hesitant step inside. “How are you feeling?”

Natasha glares at him. “Great.”

Mickey doesn’t reply—he just groans and curls up tighter.

Bob winces. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah,” Natasha mutters. “You can get out before I throw up again.”

“We got housekeeping to move your stuff already,” Mickey mumbles.

“Oh.” Bob glances at the small entryway table, at the keycard for room 304 waiting there. For him. “Thanks.”

He picks it up and sets his card for room 303 in its place.

“And for the record,” Natasha says, eyes still narrowed. “I know what this is about. Bagman isn’t subtle. But I’m too sick to argue, and like I said—I’m doing this for her.” She lifts a hand and points a finger at him. “So don’t screw it up.”

Bob’s heart slams against his ribs. Screw what up?

“Okay,” he says quickly—obediently, because Natasha Trace is terrifying at the best of times.

She nods once, slowly, before her eyes slip shut and her chin dips to her chest. Bob watches for a few seconds as she breathes through another wave of nausea, feeling totally useless and hating it. But he knows Nat. And he knows better than anyone that all she wants right now is to be left alone.

“Hey, Bobby,” Mickey says, his voice theatrically weak. “If I don’t make it, don’t let Rooster hit on the girl at the coffee shop back home, okay? I know he thinks she’s cute, but I called dibs and that counts even if I’m dead.”

Natasha sighs into the wastebin. “The only way you’re dying on this trip is when I kill you for being so fucking annoying.”

Mickey frowns. “Hey. You didn’t hear me complaining when you were hogging the toilet. You don’t think that was annoying?”

“I was throwing up!” Natasha snaps.

Mickey’s eyes widen. “So was I!”

“Well,” Bob cuts in, already retreating a step toward the door. “I’m gonna just—you know. I have to get ready, so… I’m gonna go.” He opens the door. “Let me know if you need anything, and—uh—don’t kill each other.”

Then he slips out and lets the door click shut behind him before either of them can protest.

His pulse pounds in his ears as he turns slowly and walks across the hall to room 304. He tries to act normal. Tries to stop his hands from shaking as he swipes the keycard through the reader. Tries not to let his knees buckle as he takes that first step over the threshold.

But it’s hard. Harder than it should be. Literally and figuratively.

The smell hits him immediately—sunscreen, fresh linen, and you. That warm, sweet scent that haunts his dreams and makes him dizzy every time you pass by too close.

With unsteady steps, he moves further inside and lets the door fall shut behind him. His suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, the bed is perfectly made, and fresh soaps sit on a little tray beside the bathroom sink.

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat as his gaze snaps between the bathroom and the bed.

Oh, God.

There’s no door.

No door separating the bathroom from the rest of the suite.

Just two frosted glass partitions—one in front of the toilet, the other shielding the showerhead. But at the right angle? God. At the right angle, you could see everything.

Bob drags in a slow, shaky breath, willing his nervous system to stand down. He’s not in the middle of a dogfight—he’s in a hotel room. In Hawaiʻi. On what could be considered a vacation. This is not the time for fight-or-flight to kick in.

With trembling hands, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and wheels it farther into the room. Your suitcase is laying open on the floor beside the bed, clothes half-spilled like you’d only just started unpacking, so he steers himself to the opposite side before dropping his own case down flat.

He has to shower before you get here. He has to.

Because the thought of you walking into this room while he’s naked—with no real barrier, no real privacy—doesn’t make Bob nervous.

It makes him unreasonably horny. Dangerously so.

And he has absolutely no desire to find out just how hard—literally—it would be for him to control himself.

He rummages through his case until he finds an acceptable shirt and pair of shorts, then jumps up, grabs a towel from the heated rack beside the bathtub, and tosses it over the shower partition.

The water heats in no time, and Bob’s hands are still trembling as he pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his swim trunks. He takes his glasses off last, setting them carefully on the edge of the sink before stepping under the spray and trying—with every ounce of focus he has—to think of anything but you.

He scrubs himself quickly, movements brisk and efficient, ignoring the almost painful state of his arousal as the imaginary clock in his head counts down to your arrival.

But his imagination, unhelpful as ever, drifts anyway.

What if you walked in right now?

What if you saw him—saw everything?

What if, instead of shock or embarrassment, you just laughed softly and stripped out of that damn blue swimsuit and—

Bob’s eyes snap open at the sound of the door.

His heart slams, and he looks down—at his hand curled tight around the base of his cock.

Jesus Christ.

“It’s just me!” you call out quickly. “I’m not looking, I swear! I just went to check on Fanboy and saw Nat had already swapped rooms.”

Bob squeezes his eyes shut again, every muscle in his body locking as he stands frozen beneath the spray. He wants to answer—he really does—but he’s not sure anything there’s anything he could say right now that would come out sounding even remotely normal.

“I’m just going to watch some TV,” you add, your footsteps echoing softly through the room. “Take your time.”

And Bob has no choice—because it takes an embarrassingly long time for his situation to go down when he can still hear your soft laughter from the bedroom.

Eventually, though, his blood reroutes and his muscles finally relax. He turns the water off, half-dries himself behind the partition, and wraps the fluffy white towel around his hips—heart thumping wickedly as he steps out of the bathroom.

He clears his throat. “I’m—uh. I’m done. Shower’s all yours.”

Your head snaps toward him—and your eyes go wide.

You swallow hard, making no effort to hide it as your gaze drifts down—over his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach, and lower still—until it catches on the towel sitting low on his hips and stays there.

Bob flushes instantly, his whole body going hot under your gaze. But he doesn’t get it. You saw him in the pool earlier—more of him, technically. He’s exactly as naked now as he was then, maybe even less so. The towel is at least a little longer than his swim trunks are.

And yet—

Here you are. Silent and staring at him like you can’t decide how to feel.

He clears his throat again.

You blink, eyes jumping back up to his face. “Sorry,” you murmur, cheeks pink. “I just—uh. You know. I’ve never really…” Your words trail off, and as if you can’t help yourself, your eyes dip again—quick, guilty, unmistakable.

Then you shake your head and scramble off the bed.

“Sorry. I’m gonna—um—yeah. Shower.”

You brush past him in a rush, close enough that he can feel the heat of you on his skin. Close enough that he can feel the way you shiver when your arm brushes his.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there—listening to your soft footsteps against the tiled floor, the rustle of clothes, the sound of the shower turning on. Out of the very corner of his eye, he can see your silhouette behind the frosted glass. If he turned his head, he could probably see more. Your shoulder, your arm, your hip—right at the edge of the partition.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t look.

Instead, he drops his gaze to where he left his clothes on the bed and curls his shaking fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

As soon as Bob is dressed, he banishes himself to the balcony—and stays there. He grips the railing and stares out at the ocean like it might save him. He counts every bird that lands on the same palm frond blocking half his view, tracks a couple walking barefoot along the shoreline, listens to the hum of traffic somewhere beyond the resort. He tells himself to breathe. To stand normally. To not look back.

And he doesn’t turn around until he hears a soft knock, followed by the slide of the glass door.

“Okay, Captain Chivalry—it’s safe now.”

When he finally sees you, standing just inside the door, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re wearing another flowy sundress, but this one has a structured bodice—almost like a corset. It hugs you perfectly, all clean lines and soft fabric, and somehow still looks like absolute sin despite the ivory colour and lace detailing that should suggest the exact opposite.

“You look—” he chokes, his voice already hoarse. “I mean, you—you…”

Nothing. Absolutely no thoughts. Just a catastrophic loop of wildly inappropriate ones.

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “I’m going to assume you’re trying for a compliment, so—thanks, Floyd.” Your cheeks go a little redder beneath your blush. “Now come on. It’s almost six.”

Bob nearly trips over his own feet as he follows you inside, his eyes shamelessly glued to where the hem of your dress brushes the backs of your thighs. He watches you slip on your shoes, grab your purse, fix a stray lock of hair in the mirror—and it’s only when you turn to him with a small, curious frown that he tears his gaze away and starts searching for his shoes.

The walk to the elevator is completely silent, aside from the thunder of Bob’s pulse in his own ears. Only when the doors slide shut do you finally turn to him again.

“Is it too weird?” you ask, so quickly he almost misses it.

He blinks, turning slowly toward you. “Is what weird?”

“Sharing a room,” you reply. “Specifically that room.”

Yes. But only because he can’t seem to keep his own thoughts under control.

“No,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “I—I mean, I don’t think so. It’s a little… intimate—” he tries not to cringe at the word “—but I don’t think it’s weird.”

Your expression relaxes, your gaze softening.

“Okay, good.” You turn back to face the elevator doors. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Bob shrugs. “It could be worse.”

Your head whips back toward him, eyes wide—indignant.

“Oh my God,” he rushes. “No, not you. I meant—Phoenix and Fanboy. I meant—”

Your brows rise slowly as you wait for him to find the right words—but his brain is fuzzy, his face is hot, and standing this close to you is doing him no favours, giving him an unfair vantage of your cleavage.

Then a soft ding cuts through the silence and the doors slide open.

You huff a short, quiet laugh through your nose, shake your head, and step out without another word.

Bob hesitates. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t go out tonight. Maybe he, his foot, and his mouth—which it keeps getting stuck in—should just go back up to the room and hide in shame while the rest of the squad goes out. Maybe he could pass this embarrassment off as concern for his sick friends and avoid the night entirely.

Maybe—

“Floyd!” Reuben calls. “You waiting for an invitation?”

Bob blinks, waiting only one more undecided second before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the elevator.

The next half hour passes in a blur of streetlights and excited chatter. Thanks to the dwindling squad numbers, it only takes one maxi cab to get everyone from the resort to the first location of the night—scouted by Bradley, of course. It’s a bar on the beach, literally called The Beach Bar, with alfresco seating and a list of signature cocktails long enough to rival Jake’s dating history.

According to Bradley, Maverick and Penny have already arrived. Penny flew in this morning with Amelia after making the devastating decision to close The Hard Deck for the week—something the Dagger Squad would undoubtedly be complaining about if they weren’t in Waikiki with the bar owner herself.

“There they are!” Penny calls, a bright smile on her face as she pushes out of her seat.

Everyone crowds around to give her a hug while Maverick stays firmly seated, beer lifted to his lips.

Jake is the first to find a seat at the table—right beside Maverick—and before Bob can beeline for the opposite end, Jake grabs his arm and pulls him into the chair next to his.

“It’s part of the plan,” he hisses as Bradley takes the seat on Bob’s other side.

Bradley shoots Bob a knowing smile before picking up the drinks menu and flipping it open.

“How are Fanboy and Phoenix?” Maverick asks once everyone’s seated.

Bob glances across the table—at where you’re sitting, between Penny and Javy. The furthest spot from him.

“Not great,” Reuben replies. “Nix was green the last time I saw her.”

Penny sighs. “Poor thing.”

Maverick’s brows pull together, concerned. “Do you think they’ll make tomorrow’s visit to base?”

“Doubt it,” Bradley mutters.

The conversation blurs into background noise—voices overlapping, topics changing—but Bob barely hears it. He hums and nods when he has to, but he’s not listening. Not really. Not at all. He’s too busy watching you.

As always.

He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t realise Jake has ordered him a drink until a tall glass of something brown, with a wedge of lemon, is set on the table in front of him.

“On the hard stuff tonight, hey, Floyd?” Javy says with a smirk, nodding toward the drink.

Bob blinks, then glances down. “I—uh—yeah, I guess.”

He doesn’t drink often—and very rarely drinks to get drunk—but he’s pretty sure Jake ordered him a Long Island Iced Tea.

Great.

Maverick chuckles. “Didn’t think you’d be the one I’d have to warn about being hungover tomorrow, Bob.”

Bob’s lips press into a forced, fake smile while the rest of the table shares a laugh. Even you. But he doesn’t get to enjoy your smile right now—he’s too busy shooting daggers at the smug man sitting beside him.

“Alright,” Jake says, lifting his own drink. “A toast—to our fearless leader, our formidable captain, and the generosity of the U.S. Navy for this all-expenses-paid vacation to Hawai’i.”

“Hear, hear!” Reuben cheers, raising his beer.

Maverick rolls his eyes as the whole table stands and lifts their drinks, laughing. And even Bob can’t help but crack a small smile when the rim of your glass clinks against his.

The night wears on in surprisingly calm fashion. Everyone drinks. Everyone eats. Everyone laughs. There’s easy conversation and a warm atmosphere that settles in around the table. Bob makes it through two terrible drinks before he beats Jake to ordering and finally gets a glass of something non-alcoholic that doesn’t make his throat burn.

But even then—even with a glass of orange juice in front of him—something about the way your eyes darken whenever they meet his makes him feel just a little drunk.

A little reckless, maybe.

By nine p.m., Maverick is on his third embarrassing story about baby Bradley, Penny is crying with laughter, and Reuben is recording it because he knows Mickey would be devastated to miss out.

“And that is why Rooster is banned from every Chuck E. Cheese in the state of California,” Maverick snorts, lifting his drink.

Javy leans halfway across the table, grinning. “Every Chuck E. Cheese in California? Still?”

Maverick nods. “Still.”

“I was eleven!” Bradley exclaims. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, buddy,” you giggle. “That definitely doesn’t sound like an accident. You were an evil little kid.”

Bradley rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts his beer to his lips and drains it.

After a few more minutes of laughter—and Bradley sulking—Jake claps his hands together and sits up straighter.

“Alright, team,” he says. “I think it’s time we move on.”

Maverick’s brows lift. “Move on?”

Jake nods. “I found this great little bar with live music—it’s only about a block away.”

“What about tomorrow?” Penny asks, arching a brow.

Bradley shrugs. “What about tomorrow?”

“I don’t want six hungover pilots showing up to Pearl Harbor,” Maverick says, his brows drawing together.

Reuben scoffs. “Come on, Mav. At best you’ll get five—Bob never gets drunk!”

Maverick drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Payback. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Penny stifles a laugh behind a sip of her drink.

“Well,” Jake says, smirking, “if you come with us, you can make sure we don’t drink too much.”

At that, Penny snorts, nearly spraying a mouthful of beer across the table.

“Sorry,” she mutters, still smiling. “I just—sorry, but did you really just ask Maverick to come out with you and be the responsible one?”

“Hey.” Maverick shoots her an indignant look. “I can be responsible. I’m their captain.”

Penny doesn’t respond—she just keeps giggling like this is the best joke she’s heard in years.

“You know what,” Maverick says, pushing out of his chair. “I’ll rise to the challenge. I’ll be the babysitter. Let’s do this.”

There’s a chorus of cheers and laughter as chairs scrape back and everyone stands. Penny is still laughing as people pay their bills and wander out to the front of the bar—and that’s where she bids Maverick goodnight, says her farewells to the rest, and climbs into a cab to get back to Amelia at the hotel.

Jake then tells Bradley the name of the next bar and motions for him to lead the way—with a wink he’s not even trying to hide. Bradley nods, grinning like the unsubtle fool he is, and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the front of the group and striking up a conversation about something Bob can’t quite make out.

“Okay,” Jake whispers, falling into step beside Bob. “Phase Three.”

Bob sighs. “Great.”

“This is where it gets a little counterintuitive,” Jake says. “But stay with me. You’ve done great so far—well. Mostly. You’re lucky you’ve got me.”

Bob grimaces.

“But now,” Jake continues, “you need to pull back.”

Bob looks at him. “What?”

“Just a little,” Jake adds quickly. “Enough that she notices. Up until now, you’ve been attentive. Safe. Available.” He glances ahead, toward you. “Now you introduce a little… mystery.”

He emphasises the last word with a flourish of his hand, like he’s unveiling a magic trick.

“What have I done?” Bob mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Jake ignores him. “You’ve got to become temporarily unavailable.”

Bob’s eyes go wide.

“Not emotionally—don’t freak out,” Jake adds. “Just... visually.”

“Visually?” Bob echoes.

“Nothing dramatic. Five minutes. Smile. Eye contact. A compliment.” Jake shrugs. “You don’t even have to mean it.”

Bob frowns. “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Flirt, Bob. I’m telling you to flirt with another woman.”

“What?” Bob’s eyes go wide again. “No way. I—I can’t. I mean, I just—”

“I know, I know—this makes you uncomfortable.” Jake claps a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “But that’s where the growth happens.”

Bob shrugs him off.

“How is flirting with someone else supposed to help?”

“It’s scarcity, Floyd. Very basic economics.” Jake lowers his voice. “Right now she thinks she’s got you figured out. We just need to… shake the snow globe. You know?”

Bob stares at him. “No. Actually, I have no idea what you’re—”

“We’re here!” Bradley calls from the front of the group. “Get your IDs out, sexy people. You especially, Floyd—those glasses do nothing for your baby face.”

Bob lets out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“Buck up, Bobby!” Jake grins. “Your night is about to get a whole lot more interesting.”

Everyone funnels into the bar without too much fuss—the security guard checking IDs even though he can clearly tell no one is underage. The place is already humming, with live music booming above the chatter and a heavy air thick with salt and sweat and something citrusy from the bar. It’s darker than the last place, lit mostly by strings of lights and the low glow of neon along the back wall.

Bob hangs back out of instinct, letting everyone else surge ahead, but Jake’s hand at his elbow steers him forward before he can fully commit to disappearing.

The bar stretches along the back wall, polished wood crowded with elbows and condensation rings. People shout their orders over the music—beer, cocktails, something pink with fruit floating in it—and Bob finds himself wedged between Bradley and Jake, staring at the chalkboard menu like it might offer him spiritual guidance.

He doesn’t look at you first—even though he wants to.

He can feel where you are, though. Somewhere just to his right. Close enough that when he finally turns his head, he catches the tail end of your glance. Your eyes flick away immediately—nothing dramatic, nothing obvious—but it still sends a small, unsteady jolt through him. Like being caught mid-thought.

But before he can linger on it for too long, Jake nudges his side. Hard.

“Six o’clock. Blonde. She’s looking this way,” he says, eyes trained across the bar. “Not sure if she wants me or you—” he smirks. “I know which I’d put my money on—but I’ll give you this one.”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Gee, thanks.”

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Bob stumbles through the crowd, half-dragged by Jake, until he finds himself at the other end of the bar, right beside the blonde—he’s assuming—Jake had been referring to. And then Jake is gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen. But Bob can still feel his gaze from wherever he’s hiding.

Bob clears his throat, turning stiffly toward the blonde.

“Uh—hey,” he says, immediately hating how unsure it sounds.

She turns to face him, smile widening. “Hi.”

Now he’s supposed to say something else. Something smooth. Something intentional. Something Jake would say that’d have any woman scribbling her number on a napkin.

He clears his throat. Again. “I—I’m Bob.”

“Marci,” she says, holding out her hand.

Bob shakes it. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

Okay. Now what?

Bob knows he shouldn’t—he knows it’s too soon, that it could very well blow up Jake’s stupid plan—but he does it anyway. He looks for you.

And you’re still there.

Standing between Bradley and Reuben. Your eyes catch his, just for a second, before drifting away—as if they never really meant to land on him at all. Your posture is relaxed, your expression unreadable, but there’s something uneasy in the set of your mouth. Something he can’t quite figure out.

“So,” Marci says, patient, expectant.

Bob’s eyes snap back to her, and he tries to focus.

What would Hangman do?

God. He never thought he’d be seriously asking himself that question.

“I like your—uh—shoes,” he offers, and immediately regrets it. They’re just shoes. Normal shoes. Why would he compliment her shoes?

She laughs anyway. “Thanks.”

He nods, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. “Yeah. They—um. They suit you.”

This is going so much worse than he thought. And he already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

But the worst part—the worst part—is that he can feel himself pulling away from you to do this. Turning his body, angling his shoulders, pretending to be temporarily unavailable like Jake told him to. It feels wrong in a way he can’t quite articulate.

He risks another glance across the bar.

You’re looking now.

Not sharply. Not accusingly. Just… looking. Your brows faintly knit, head tilted, like you’re watching something you didn’t expect and aren’t sure how to categorise.

Something in Bob’s chest gives a small, panicked lurch.

He laughs, turning back to the blonde. “Sorry. I’m not—this isn’t usually my thing.”

Marci hums, amused. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob glances across the bar, searching for something—anything, any excuse—when a frantic hand gesture catches his eye. Jake. Of course. His eyes are wide, expression stern, a sharp finger pointed straight at Bob as he mouths something Bob absolutely cannot make out.

But he can gauge the general vibe.

Try harder.

So, with a deep breath, Bob forces his shoulders to relax and asks Marci if she’s here on vacation—which works. Her face lights up, and she launches into the story of why she’s here. Why she and her friends decided they needed a girls’ trip because one of them found out her boyfriend had not one, but two other girlfriends.

Then it’s something about work. Something about her boss, who only has it out for her because she has naturally thick hair and he’s going bald. Then it’s her family. Her cat. A friend who moved to Canada who, like, totally regrets it because it’s so cold up there.

Bob nods in all the right places, hums when it feels expected, and lets the sound of her voice wash over him without really catching on to anything specific.

He’s not trying to be rude. It’s just easier this way.

He takes a slow sip of his drink—barely tasting it—and tries to settle into the role Jake’s assigned him. Tries to look relaxed. Tries to angle his body the way he’s supposed to, shoulders turned just enough to sell the illusion.

Temporarily unavailable.

The phrase echoes through his head, absurd and heavy all at once.

And every few minutes, he lets his gaze drift. Not fully—just enough to check. To confirm.

You’re still at the bar, but you’re not where you were before. You’ve shifted closer to Reuben now, your bodies angled together as he leans in to hear you over the music. Your head dips when you laugh at something he says, hair falling forward, obscuring your face for a second.

Bob’s chest tightens.

This is working, right? This is the point. This is what’s supposed to happen.

He tells himself that. Repeats it. Loops it in his mind like a mantra—the only thing keeping him grounded—and tries not to catalogue every tiny move you make, every glance you don’t send his way. But it’s hard. Because he wants to be the one you’re laughing with. Leaning into. Looking at with that concentrated little frown between your brows.

Marci laughs at something—and he realises suddenly, belatedly, that it must have been a joke. He smiles back, a reflex more than a choice.

“Sorry,” he says, automatically. “It’s loud in here.”

She doesn’t seem bothered. He’s not even sure she heard him, because she just keeps talking—easy, unoffended—like this is exactly the kind of interaction she expected when she walked into a bar like this.

Bob wonders—briefly, unfairly—if this is how it always goes for people like Jake. If it really can be this easy. Just standing here, nodding along, letting someone talk while the rest takes care of itself. No second-guessing every word, no constant awareness of where everyone else in the room is standing.

Because Marci doesn’t seem to need anything from him beyond that. She’s talking, filling the space easily, smiling when it suits her, perfectly content with half his attention—or less, really. It’s easy. Effortless. And the unsettling part is how little of him it actually requires.

For a moment, Bob feels strangely hollow. Lost in his thoughts, stuck on the idea that maybe this is what flirting is supposed to feel like, and he’s just been doing it all wrong.

Then a hand lands on his shoulder—solid and familiar—and Jake appears, a charming smile already stretched across his face.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need my friend for a minute. Do you mind?”

Marci’s cheeks flush. “Oh. No, not at all. Take your time.”

Okay. Maybe it’s just Jake. Maybe it really is this easy for him.

With a wink and a nod—a very cowboy nod—Jake turns away and steers Bob a few steps from Marci. Further from the band, where he doesn’t have to shout over the music.

“I think it worked a little too well,” he says.

Bob frowns. “What?”

Jake tips his head toward the bar. Toward you.

“She asked Payback to take her home. She’s gone.”

Bob’s stomach drops. “She... she what?”

Jake doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

Bob can feel his heart pounding, too fast, too loud, like it’s climbed up into his throat. There’s a tight, bitter ache behind his ribs—unfamiliar and immediate—and he swallows hard, like that might make it go away.

“Like, take her home?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even. “Or take her home?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Relax. She didn’t ask him to take her home like that. She’s probably just tired.” He pauses, then grins. “And jealous.”

Is that supposed to make Bob feel better? Because it doesn’t.

“I should—” Bob tries to step past Jake, but he blocks his path.

“Should what?”

“I should explain. I don’t want her to—”

“Explain what?” Jake asks, rhetorical. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were talking to a pretty girl in a bar and she couldn’t stand to watch. This was kind of the whole plan.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “Well, I don’t like the plan.”

Jake lets out a sharp sigh. “Come on, Floyd. Don’t chicken out now. I know Phase Three’s hard but I promise you’re gonna like Phase Four.”

Right now, Bob couldn’t care less about phase three or four or Jake’s entire stupid plan. All he cares about is you—where you are, what you’re thinking, who you’re with. He doesn’t care about jealousy or mystery or being temporarily unavailable.

Just you.

“Okay, whatever,” he says, eyes bouncing between Jake’s face and the door. “I won’t explain myself—but I’m going back to the hotel. I’m done tonight.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You promise you’re not going to blurt out some lame excuse and ruin everything?”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Yes. I promise. I’m just—I'm tired, okay?”

Jake doesn’t move at first. He just looks at Bob, studies him, as if he could stare hard enough to read his mind. Then, after what feels like a weirdly long time to be holding such intense eye contact, he steps out of Bob’s path.

“Fine. Be boring, go home.” His eyes move from Bob’s face to the bar behind him. “Mind if I comfort your friend?”

“Knock yourself out,” Bob mutters, brushing past Jake as he heads for the door.

Jake calls something behind him, but Bob doesn’t hear it—and he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to get back to the hotel and see you, before his imagination starts showing him things he won’t be able to shake.

It isn’t until he’s climbing out of the Uber, fishing for his room card in his back pocket, that he realises he should’ve texted you—let you know he’s on his way back. He doesn’t want to frighten you. Or worse. You could be showering again, or changing, or walking around in your underwear—

God. He needs to stop before his brain goes somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t—before he pops a boner waiting for the damn elevator.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and types a quick text:

Forgot to let you know I left the bar. Just got back to the resort.

But before he hits send, he hesitates. Is he trying too hard?

So he retypes as he steps into the lift:

I’ll be at the room in five.

He hesitates again. Should he elaborate?

He types again:

Decided to call it an early night and I’m just about back at the room. Hope that’s okay.

Hope that’s okay? Why wouldn’t it be? He doesn’t need your permission. It’s his room too.

He takes a deep breath as he steps out of the elevator, then deletes the text and tries again:

Just letting you know I’ll be back at the room in—

He glances up from his phone. Shit. He’s already here. Texting now would just be weird.

It’s fine—he’ll just knock. That’s a fair enough warning. Right?

He lifts his hand and raps on the door three times.

A beat passes. Then another. Nothing.

His brows draw together, his heart beating far too fast for this to mean nothing.

He knocks again. Waits.

Still nothing.

His stomach knots nervously, nausea crawling bitterly up the back of his throat.

Maybe you’re out on the balcony?

He exhales slowly, then slips his keycard from his back pocket and swipes it through the reader. The lock flashes green, then beeps and clicks. He turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly.

“It’s just me,” he calls. “I forgot to text when I left the bar, but—”

The room is dark. Not a single light left on. Bob’s brows knit tighter as he lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. He treads lightly, quietly, squinting through the dark toward the bed in the middle of the room.

But it’s empty. Everything’s empty.

The bed, the bathroom, the balcony—the whole damn room is completely empty.

Fuck.

Bob squeezes his eyes shut and drags in a slow, steady breath, like that might be enough to force his thoughts back into order. Like he can shove it all back down if he just doesn’t think too hard.

But it doesn’t work.

The images come anyway—half-formed and unwelcome. Not clear enough to be real, but sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t want to picture it. Doesn’t want to give the thought any shape or weight. But his brain keeps circling the same awful question, over and over, until it feels burned into the backs of his eyelids.

What if Jake’s stupid phase three didn’t make you jealous—what if it just made you move on?

What if you saw him laughing with someone else and decided not to wait around for clarification. What if you didn’t owe him that. What if you assumed the worst because, frankly, he’d given you every reason to.

Bob shoves his glasses into his hair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He did this. He followed the plan. He pulled back. He looked away. And now the room is empty, and you’re not here, and the silence feels loud enough to accuse him of something.

Maybe you didn’t even mean it to happen like this. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe you just wanted to go home and sleep.

But the thought doesn’t settle. It won’t.

Because another part of him—the louder, more anxious part—keeps whispering that he waited too long. That he hesitated when it mattered. That he let someone else step into the space he should’ve been standing in all along. That Jake’s plan was never going to work because Bob was already too late.

And now he’s alone in a dark hotel room, trying not to imagine what he’s already decided he’s lost.

After a few minutes of standing in the dark, listening to his pulse pound in his ears, Bob fumbles for a light switch, flicking on the first one he can find. The overhead lights flicker to life instantly, bathing the empty room in a warm yellow glow that feels almost mocking in its normalcy.

He avoids his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe as he steps around the bed and flips open his suitcase. He picks out a pair of sleep shorts and one of his threadbare sleep shirts, throws them on the bed, and starts unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy fingers.

Every sound is obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. He can hear the soft whistle of the breeze outside, the distant echo of voices from other rooms. Even the rustle of fabric is too sharp in his ears as he shrugs his shirt off.

Then his hands drop to his waistband, about to unbutton his shorts when he hears the door click—and freezes.

It barely takes you two steps to come into view, looking a little startled and a little confused.

“Oh.” You frown. “Sorry, I—uh—I didn’t expect you to be here.”

The tension drains out of him all at once, like someone pulled a plug. Bob can feel it in his shoulders, his jaw, the way his lungs finally remember how to exhale. You’re still wearing that sinful little sundress—hair still perfect, makeup unsmudged. Almost as if everything he’d imagined hadn’t happened at all.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “I’m sorry, I—I should have texted you, but I didn’t think. Just wanted to get out of that stuffy bar.”

You huff a quiet, humourless laugh through your nose. “Yeah. Looked like you were having a terrible time.”

Bob frowns. He might not be as good at reading women as Jake is, but he knows you—and he knows that was dripping with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

You shrug, but it’s stiff—too deliberate. “Nothing. Just… surprised you didn’t go home with your new friend.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “New friend?”

“The blonde,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “At the bar. Gorgeous, by the way.”

“Oh—uh.” Bob hesitates. “She was just—we were just talking.”

“Just talking?” you repeat, brows lifting.

He nods automatically, then pauses. There’s something different in your expression now—darker, sharper. Focused on him in a way that makes his skin prickle.

“I could see you, Bob,” you say, folding your arms. “I could see her. She was into you.”

He blinks. “She was?”

Your mouth twists. “God. Really? Isn’t that the whole reason you went over there? So you could get laid?”

The words hit harder than he expects.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean—no. That’s not—” He cuts himself off, heat creeping up his neck as he thinks of Jake—don’t explain, don’t chase. “I didn’t think she was interested… like that.”

You stare at him for a beat, then let out a short scoff. “Wow. Okay.”

You step closer without meaning to—or maybe he steps back. He’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re very aware of the fact that he’s shirtless now, your gaze dipping and catching before you drag it away again.

Something tight and confusing coils low in his stomach.

“You know, I used to think it was just me,” you say lightly—too lightly. “But at least now I know you’re clueless about all women.”

Then you turn on your heel, march toward the other side of the bed, snatch something out of your suitcase, and stomp into the bathroom.

Bob just stands there, stunned. His brain is still catching up—confusion tangling with relief, with something warmer and sharper that has no business showing up right now. His heart is still pounding, but not like before. Not panic. Something else.

“I’m changing,” you mutter.

Bob fumbles for his shirt, pulling it over his head as he turns toward the balcony. He doesn’t look back—no matter how much he wants to—he just slides the door open and steps out into the warm night.

He takes a deep breath, staring out at the quietly crashing waves, and for the first time since Jake started talking about plans and phases and being temporarily unavailable, a thought sneaks in—unwanted and reluctant, but impossible to ignore.

Oh.

Maybe it’s… working.

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

“Oh my God, Clark—”

His hand came over your mouth more out of instinct than discipline, a soft shh pressed into your cheek while your body ignored him entirely.

How could it obey when his cock was buried deep, hips rolling slow and unforgiving, pinning you to the drywall of your bedroom with barely-there strength? How? When you were already shaking from the second orgasm, your legs clutched around his waist, your voice determined to ruin any peace and quiet left on your floor?! Tell me!

“We promised to be respectful,” he murmured into your jaw, mouth wet, mock–solemn, teasing. “And you’re up here makin’ all these noises, hon…”

You keened against his hand, muffled and broken, your nails digging into his shoulders like it was his fault for being so deep, so thick, for hitting just right. Which it absolutely was. His pace was lazy and indulgent now, like he had all the time in the world to fuck you through the wall just hard enough for your joints to bump, bump, bump in rhythmic defiance.

“Oh my god, Clark, right there,’” he echoed you, full of smug affection. “That what you said, right?”

You squealed when he hit just right a-fuckin'-gain. He ravaged your neck, wet, hot kisses along your jaw, nipping at your ear.

“Think she liked the play-by-play,” he added, breath hot at your skin, still full of smug affection. “Maybe I should give her the encore.”

Oh, you hated him. You were going to kill him. 

Or maybe come again.

“Clark—Clark—!”

“I’ll—I’ll talk to her, hon. Bring muffins. A thank you note, too,” he promised, cock jerking as your body clenched around him again. “Dear 4B, thank you for inspiring me to—”

“Fuck, fuck fuck!”

“Make love to my wife—”

He thrust particularly deep, and you arched, crying out under his hand. It felt like he was trying to fuck you make love to you through the drywall.

“More passionate than last time—”

“RIght thererightthere—”

You came with a sob, jaw slack, nails digging in. Clark buried himself as deep as he could get, so desperate to somehow merge with you, and came hard, hips stuttering while he spilled hot, unrestrained, utterly unashamed inside you.

For a moment, there was only breathing. Sweat. Soft exchanges of ‘I love you’s’ and other tender sweet nothings. The faint sound of the city through the open balcony as scenic backdrop music.

Then—

BANG BANG BANG.

From the other side of the wall.

You both froze, panting.

Clark chuckled quietly into your throat, still holding you there, boneless. “Might need two batches.”

You swallowed, nodded weakly.  “Add extra chocolate chips, baby.”

the day that you had received the news that your best friend was getting married and that she wanted you to be her maid of honour, bucky had never seen you so happy.

he'd been in the kitchen halfway through making grilled sandwiches for the two of you when the door had slammed open. you'd burst through your apartment door breathless and beaming, your phone is one hand and a box full of tissue paper and embroidered satin in the other.

bucky barely had any time to turn off the stove before you'd thrown yourself at him, the news spilling from your mouth like a secret you simply couldn't keep.

"buck—" you gasped out, voice pitching up in disbelief as you show him the contents of the box. "look!"

bucky watches as shreds of paper and glitter fall to the ground, catching on your shoes and on his socks and on literally every in a two feet radius, but none of that is what catches his attention.

its the small card that sits on top, baby pink and unmistakably handwritten by your friend. the text is written in glittery ink and the paper is wrinkled at the edges like you'd already opened it a million times.

he looks up at you just to see that you're already staring at him with those big gleaming eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"what am i looking at, baby?" he asks softly even though the answer already sits in the forefront of his mind.

you exhale, a small shaky kind of breath that makes your shoulder lift, and then you turn the box around. you nudge it a little closer like the words won't make sense unless he's really looking at it, and then glittery ink finally makes a little more sense.

"she asked me to be her maid of honour!" you chirp.

there it is. the truth, the joy, the reason you look like you might just grow wings and fly off into the sky.

bucky lets your announcement settle for a minute, not because he's surprised— he isn't— but because watching you say it, watching the way your face lights up from the inside and out, feels like something he just shouldn't rush.

he'd seen you happy before— laughing at a movie happy, seeing a cute puppy happy, scoring the last parking space happy— but this? this was different.

"yeah?" he smiles, "sweetheart, that's huge. i'm happy for you."

you nod way too fast, already biting back another grin. "i know! i know, i just— i wanted to tell come home and tell you first."

and something in that small confession settles in his chest; the fact that you ran straight home— straight to him— like it wasn't even a second thought.

"well—" he says, voice dropping into something more fond and a little helpless, "c'mere and let me give you a hug before you explode all over the kitchen."

you laugh— a light and breathless little giggle— and set down the box onto the kitchen island before throwing yourself around bucky. his arms come around you instantly, tight and warm and instinctive like his body was just waiting for an excuse to hold you.

"i'm proud of you." he murmurs as he presses a kiss against the side of your head, "she picked the right person. youre gonna do so well."

you dont say anything and bury your face further into his chest. your heart is pounding against your ribs, still trying to crawl its way out of your chest, but the hug grounds in you the best way possible.

"okay." you pull away from the hug, wiping at your flushed cheeks even though you're smiling too hard to actually cry, "i need to call her back before she thinks i passed out."

bucky grins as he wipes away a stray bit of glitter from your cheek, "you still look like you might."

you roll your eyes and grab the box again, practically levitating down the hall. as bucky watches you disappear into the bedroom, he finds himself smiling at the empty space you leave behind— soft, fond, and completely enamoured.

the wedding day comes before he can even blink.

one moment he's waking up with you clinging to his side, your leg thrown over both of his like you always do when you're asleep, and the next, you're shoving him into a freshly tailored suit and driving halfway across town to a venue that looks like it's been taken straight from a bridal magazine.

as he drives, he finds that your perfectionist energy has infected him. he finds himself looking at himself in the rear view mirror and swiping a hand through his hair and adjusting his tie every so often even though everything about how he looks is fine, because your perfume lingers in the car from the ride there like a ghost in the upholstery and it's messing with his ability to think.

you're not there to help him. your friends has picked you up earlier that morning, laughing to each other and hurried as they stole you away from him under the thin excuse of time. you'd left him with a soft peck on the lips and a wide smile as you adjust his tie, fingers careful and familiar, like you'd trusted him enough to pull himself together while you were gone.

"the reception starts at one, and the ceremony starts at three." you tell him, your hands flat against his chest. you can feel his heart thumbing under your palm, and it makes you smile. "do you remember where you're sitting?"

bucky huffs out a quiet laugh as he nods, "second row, closest to the exit. if i dont know where to sit, just follow the man with the funky tie and sit on his left."

you smooth your hand over his chest once more, this time moee self-indulgent than before. "if you forget, i wrote it on a card and put it in your jacket pocket."

his brow lifts. "you did?"

you nod. "i did."

there's a loud honking that echoes around the street in front of your apartment building, and the two of you turn towards the sound. the driver is grinning at you through the tinted window and the other is poking her head out of the car's sunroof,

"i have time anxiety, so move it!" your friend claps her hands and ducks back into the car, reaching over the steering wheel to bang her fists against the horn. it resonates through the street, and the two of you wince.

you turn back to bucky with a defeated sigh, giving him a tight lipped smile like this is some bittersweet goodbye between lovers who would never see each other for years after.

"that's my cue." you murmur, adjusting his suit just one more time, lingering longer than you probably should. "you look really handsome, bucky."

"and you look beautiful, sweetheart." your boyfriend is quick to compliment, hands reaching up to grab at yours and hold them in his. he leans in for a kiss and you gladly accept it, savouring the warmth and familiarity one more time before you're ripped away by responsibilities.

and when you pull away, your noses touch and bucky's thumbs brush over your knuckles, a silent promise that he'll see you in no time.

much to your dismay, your friend pops her head out of the sunroof again. "if you don't let go of that man and get in the car within the next ten seconds, i'm tellin' the bride that you tried to elope before her wedding!"

you roll your eyes as you finally pull away from him, the two of you prolonging the farewell with lingering physical touch and quiet smiles. "i'll see you in four hours, buck. don't have too much fun without me!"

"i could never." he replies, thumbs brushing yours before you finally let go and make your way to the car. the door shuts behind you and bucky watches as it turns out of the street, heart already aching at your absense.

but now he was at the wedding venue four hours later, standing at the front as he fixes his cuffs just to make himself a little more presentable for your sake. the cuffs itch and they're uncomfortably stiff, but you'd picked the suit out for him and you were so happy about it— why would he ruin that?

he's welcomed by the venue staff with easy smiles as he steps in, and he's welcomed by the family members of the bride who light up when they recognise him. there's a few warm hellos, a clap on the shoulder, a joking 'when are you proposing to your girlfriend?', and bucky takes it all with polite nods and half-smiles, even though his attention keeps drifting elsewhere.

he's looking for you, and anybody paying even the slightest bit of attention to him would be able to figure that out. his eyes trace every face in the room just to find yours. somebody asks him how work is and he gives a vague answer. somebody asks him where he got his suit from and he simply shrugs with a polite 'my girlfriend got it for me'. everything he does traces back to you.

and then the ceremony starts.

bucky follows the man with the funky tie and finds his spot closest to the exit just as the music swells. the room quiets, and bucky watches as the crowd turns to watch the doors open.

his breath catches in his throat when he catches sight of a bridesmaid, walking through the doors, silk dress brushing against the aisle as she carries herself towards the altar with grace. another follows, and then another, and he recognises them all— your friends, the people who'd practically torn you away from him this morning, the people you'd laughed and cried and leaned on for every milestone.

then, with the next shift of the music, you appear.

you glide in with the elegance of a swan, a pink bouquet of flowers held between your hands. every movement you make is precise and practiced, head held high like you're not just carrying the flowers and walking down the aisle, but like you're ecstatic to be the one chosen to stay by the bride, to hold a piece of her joy for yourself.

bucky freezes for a moment. the muscles in his face loosen and his jaw almost goes slack, caught between awe and something warmer that could deep within his chest.

you look just as beautiful as the day he met you.

with every sway of your dress, every firm press of your heel into the floor, and every grin you shine to a guest, theres a quiet tug that cant— and doesnt want to— resist.

and when the bride enters and the crowd erupts into aws and whispers, bucky can't help that his eyes follow you instead. your shoulders are straight and your steps are measured, and despite the stiffness you try to instil in your movements, there's a softness in the way your eyes sweep the crowd— curious and warm and searching— until they land on him.

for a brief moment, it's only you two. the music, the audience, the flurry of movement around you fades into the background. you smile at him— a small, private smile, one that makes bucky's chest tighten and his thoughts scatter— and something cracks open inside of his chest.

it's subtle, but it seeps through his body like warm hands on cold skin, or sunlight beaming through closed eyelids— slow, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.

bucky doesn't want anybody else. he never has. he's known it since the day he met you, but something in this moment cements it.

it's you when he wakes up, and it's you when he comes home. it's you when his days are both invigorating and exhausting. it's you standing there in soft silk and the warm light, grinning at him like your smile is something that loves inside of you rather than something you put on for show, like the world hasnt just rearranged itself around the fact that he doesn't want nor does he need anybody else.

every passing thought of anyone else has always faded the second you walked into the room. seeing you like this— radiant and proud and impossibly beautiful— its doesn't make him want more; it makes him want you.

bucky exhales through his nose, something like a laugh caught in his throat, his eyes never leaving you throughout the entire ceremony— not when the bride steps forwards and the groom gets his first look, not when the vows are exchanged, and not when the newlyweds walk down the aisle. he's enraptured by you up until you and the bridal party disappear back through the doors, swallowed by flowers and fabric and congratulations.

the reception begins with the swell of piano music and the horde of guests spill into the dining room.

the lights of the dining room are dimmed, string lights hanging from the ceiling like constellations. the tables are covered with cream cloth and the chairs are lined with glittery ribbon that catches the light just right. suit jackets are shrugged off and heels are kicked loose under the table, the forced stiffness of the ceremony melting into something more carefree.

bucky finds his assigned seat at a table full of familiar faces, mostly the significant others of your friends, the bridesmaids. they welcome him with open arms and pats on the back with easy smiles and casual greetings like he belongs there.

the conversation drags into easier topics— jokes about the ceremony, complaining about how long the speeches are going to be, speculation about what the food will be like, mentioning the open bar like it's a gift from the heavens— until the screech of feedback from a microphone slices through the room.

"sorry—" the groom's brother apologises as the crowd quiets down, "didn't mean to do that. uh, thank you everybody for coming today. really, it's surreal looking at all of you and seeing so many people who love them both in one place. i know it means a lot to the newlyweds, and for me as well, because my brother is paying me to mc and dj tonight."

a ripple of laughter moves through the room.

"so, before we get into the speeches and— what i know you're all waiting for— the food," he clears his throat, tucking his palm cards into his pocket, "let's welcome... the bridal party!"

there's a wave of cheering and applause, chairs scraping and heads whipping around as people turn to watch the grand entrance. bucky straightens without meaning to, his neck craning to look over the mass of hair-sprayed heads.

the first couple walks in to loud whoops and whistles, laughing as they're ushered towards their table. then another, and another, each introduction met with more cheers, more clapping, and more playful shouting from the crowds.

and then you waltz in with your assigned groomsmen, the two of you bouncing around each other with the same bright energy, and the room eats it up. you bow dramatically for the crowd before being tugged upwards again, and you catch bucky's eyes with a wave. bucky grins into his glass like a love-struck idiot as you find your spot beside the bride.

the groom's brother lifts his microphone again. "alright... we're gonna start with speeches now, and i think it only makes sense to begin with the person who organised about ninety percent of this wedding. the woman who kept everyone on track, kept the newlyweds from losing their minds, and somehow looked incredible doing it— the maid of honour!"

there's an immediate ripple of excitement as the crowd begins to start clapping. people turn towards you. someone cheers your name. someone else whistles. it's a smorgasbord of noise and attention that rushes towards you all at once.

you blink— flustered— before laughing softly and pushing your chair back. you smooth your hands over the front of your dress and then reach for the microphone as it's passed to you. the room quiets again, and you take a breath.

"hi, uh." you lift your hand in a small half-wave like you're not quite sure what to do with all of the attention. your cheeks are pink and your smile is wide and almost disbelieving, but you continue.

"as you probably know by now, i'm the maid of honour. i've known the bride since... god, since forever. long enough that i remember her bad bangs phase and her obsession clear jelly shoes, so if anyone wants those photos later, i do take bribes."

the memory and the joke sends a ripple of laughter throughout the room, and bucky can't help but smile.

"but seriously," you say your voice softening. "i love her. i love her in a way that feels like family— in a way that feels like home. she's the person i lean on when i need help and the first person i call when something amazing happens. she's seen me at my best and my worst and still decided to keep me by her side anyways."

you glance towards the bride, you eyes shining.

"and when she met him... i could see it happen almost instantly. something in her just clicked, and when i wouldnt stop hearing about him after their first date, i knew that i was witnessing the start of two people finding themselves in each other.

over the years, i've watched them grown into each other. i've watched them choose each other again and again and again, even when things were hard or messy, and that's the type of love that lasts— the kind that you build a life on."

you swallow, eyes flicking back to your cards, but you find that nothing written in ink could possibly say what you really think. so you let them lower just a little, the paper flush against the table.

your eyes flick— not even intentionally— towards bucky, who's staring at you like you put the stars and the moon in the sky, like you're the only thing that's emitting light in the darkest night, and maybe that's why your voice softens when you speak.

"and i think what you two have taught me is that love isn't always about the big gestures or huge displays of affection." your eyes return to the bride, "it's knowing how you like your coffee... knowing whether you need quiet or distraction after a long day... being the place you feel the safest landing."

your smile is barely there now, warm tears flooding your eyes. you try not to blink just incase a tear ruins your makeup, but you can't help it when one runs down your cheek.

"and i hope that when it's my turn one day— when i'm the one wearing a dress i picked out months in advance and trying not to cry into the microphone— i hope i get something like this, and i hope that i get to look at my person and know, without a single doubt, that this is my person." you sniffle, "thank you for reminding me what love looks like."

something in bucky's chest twists, warm and tight, like a cord snapping taut.

it all makes sense now— those nights where you'd shut yourself in your room a with a notepad and a pen, the days where you randomly ask him how you take your coffee, or those odd moments where you'd drift off towards a corner, whispering ideas into the air like the walls were listening— you'd been writing a speech. a speech that, whether you realised it or not, was meant to show everyone— and maybe especially him— how you see love.

you raise your glass, and everyone in the room follows. "here's to love that feels like home and safety, to partnership, to choosing each other everyday, and to two people who did exactly that. i love you guys."

and as the room clinks glasses and cheers, bucky's eyes lock onto yours. his chest is full and aching in the best way possible, because he knows, without a doubt, that when the time comes, he wants that with you.

the speeches fade into laughter and applause, glasses clinking as everyone settles back into their seats for dinner. soon enough, the piano gives away to a livelier song, something upbeat and familiar, chairs scraping against the floor as feet shuffle towards the dance floor.

bucky watches from his seat for a moment, glass of champagne swirling around in his hand, before standing and letting himself be carried by the storm of people running towards the floor.

its a crowd of organised chaos and delight, the spotlights dimmed. couples are spinning each other around and little kids are dropping it low to the music, laughter bouncing off of the walls and the string lights ahead showering everything in a soft, golden glow.

the air is warm with perfume, sticky champagne, and the faint scent of sweet vanilla cake, and somewhere in the middle of it all, bucky finds you.

you're in the centre of the dance floor, laughing at something one of your friends just said. whatever little light there is catches on the curves of your face, your dress moving on its own as you sway to the music. and then, almost like you're tugged by some invisible string, your attention is pulled towards bucky. you send him a soft 'come over here' gesture and his chest tightens.

he cuts through the crowd without hesitation and almost before he even realises he's moving, weaving through dancing people and people chatting in circles until he's standing right in front of you.

your hands find his almost instantly, fingers curling around his like they've always known wgere to go, your warmth seeping into his skin and spreading through his body in a way that makes him feel a little lightheaded.

"hey, sweetheart." bucky is the first to speak, a soft smile stuck onto his face as he traces your features like he's seeing you properly for the first time.

"hi, babe. how are you? did you eat? how do i look? do i look okay?" you rush out in a single breath, brows almost knitted together as you stumble over your words.

but the answer comes easy to bucky, the words certain and firm, carrying the wright of everything he's been feeling tonight— "you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen."

your eyes widen for a fraction of a second before a slow smile spreads across your face. you look away, your cheeks warming. "buck, stop—"

"i'm serious, sweetheart. you look perfect." his voice comes out lower than he intends. he steps forwards, hands reaching for your waist, and he brings you close enough that he can see the flecks of glitter dusted upon your eyelids. "you are perfect."

for a heartbeat, the crowd and the music melts away. the laughter, the people, the twinkling lights— none of it really matters. its just the two of you, the brush of your hands, the heat of your presence, and the look in both of your eyes as you share your moment of joy.

"thanks, darling." your lips twitch— a tiny private grin that you try to hide. "you clean up pretty good yourself."

bucky huffs out a quiet laugh, eyes flicking between yours like he can gauge every unspoken feeling that runs through your mind. "yeah, well... i needed to be worthy of the maid of honour."

"worthy, huh? you've still got a long way to go, soldier." you tease, though you feel your chest tighten when his arm wraps around your lower back.

bucky grins, eyes glinting with mischief. "oh, i plan on spending a lifetime getting there."

you roll your eyes but your small smile gives you away. bucky pulls you in until your lips are pressed against his, your lipstick certainly staining his skin. the warmth of him, the press of his skin on yours, the brush of his hands on your hips, it’s enough to make everything melt away, but you almost don’t render him pulling away.

almost.

you suck in a breath when you notice the creases forming on bucky’s forehead, the lines soft and worried like the thought had been sitting in his mind for too long.

something catches in his throat, the question falling out before he can stop it. "did you mean what you said?"

you cock your head to the side just slightly, a teasing tone in your voice as you stare up at bucky with soft eyes. "what did i say?"

"that one day you want to be the one standing up there… with your person. that you want that kind of love.” he says quietly, uncertainty lacing each word. “that you want to get married.”

your heart thuds against your chest with a warmth that’s almost overwhelming. the look on bucky’s face rivals even the cutest of things— soft and unsure, like a puppy behind scratched glass waiting to see if its wanted.

you reach up without thinking, a hand resting along his jawline. his jaw clenches as you rub your thumb along the stubbled skin, his eyes flicking between yours as he awaits your answer.

"of course, i meant it. i’d love nothing more for that day to come.” you say gently. and then, with a tiny huff of a laugh and your other hand pressed against bucky’s chest, you grin. “and maybe the day would come quicker if a certain somebody stopped walking on eggshells and just popped the million dollar question already."

a soft laugh escapes bucky, and almost like all of the stress leaves his body, you can feel him melt into your touch.

"what kind of idiot keeps a woman like you waiting?" he murmurs with jokingly narrowed eyes, forehead tipping towards yours. “guy’s a real coward, isn’t he?”

"the biggest." you easily agree with a sneaky smile, but then more sincere, you say; "but he should also know that there's no rush, and that i'm not going anywhere anytime soon. i quite like having my very own barista in the mornings."

you lean up and press a soft kiss to the hollow of his cheek, your lips lingering for a moment as if to say ‘i love you’ before you pull away with a cheeky grin.

“now, you wanna stop standing there all love-struck and take the maid of honour for a spin? she’s been waiting all night for a dance with a man as handsome as you.”

bucky raises his brows, a smirk settling into his face as you tug him towards yours. “wouldnt want to keep a pretty lady like you hanging.”

his hand slips into yours as you pull him into a steady rhythm, his body following yours as you sway to the song. you pull him into the movement and the music and the lights, a breathy laugh escaping you when bucky spins you once, and then twice. it’s clumsy and uncoordinated, your dress flaring as you come back into his arms.

as he laughs, something in that moment— warm and spinning and so close to you— it hits him with a quiet certainty; maybe that five thousand dollar diamond wedding ring in his underwear drawer might find its way into his hands earlier than he'd thought.

Dick Grayson | Nightwing

Out of all of them, Dick has the best chance of moving of dealing with your death in a healthy manner. 

Perhaps, in the future, he will be able to move on.

Perhaps, in the future, he will wake up and his first instinct would not be to reach over what was once your side of it, still hoping to find warm skin greeting his fngertips.

Perhaps, in the future, the reality of your death will sink in.

But for now, he will mourn. 

It's a quiet sort of grief. One he hides behind bright smiles and forced, almost robotic efficiency. He goes back to work within a week. Patrols within two. He needs to keep his mind busy, he'll claim to his worried family. 

And Dick does his work well. He closes cases, he catches bad guys, and he does it all with that familiar smile on his face.

It is only when he gets home that the smile slides off his face as if it was never there.

Dick did not lie when he said he needed to keep his mind busy. 

Because the truth of it is, when he gets home to your once-shared apartment after work, he sees the ghost of you everywhere. 

Your favorite mug that you used to sip your morning coffee from, chipped at the handle from the time Dick had mishandled it. The scented candle the two of you had purchased together, barely used. And the sheets, now cold, perfectly made where you once had lain. 

Maybe one day, years from now, he'll be able to move on. 

Maybe one day, he'll be able to come home and not see the ghost of you everywhere.

Maybe one day, he'll be able to think of you and not feel as if his heart is breaking all over again. 

Your favorite mug will be put away, along with the scented candle. The clothes and the sheets you had once lain in. 

And the ghost of you might eventually stop haunting him.

And yet, there will still be days when he will wake up, and his first instinct would be to reach over to your side of the bed, hoping to find warm skin greeting his fingertips.

Only to be greeted by cold air.

He'll say that he has moved on, and for the most part, it will be true.

But the ache in his fingertips will never quite go away. 

Jason Todd | Red Hood

Jason's grief is loud, it demands to be heard. 

It screams, it thunders.

It wants the world to hurt the way he has been hurt.

He leaves bodies, criminals shot half a dozen times long after they had died. He strings up crime lords in alleys, like warnings. He closes cases with a brutality that he hasn't shown since his early days as the Red Hood.

And all he can think about is how it—all of it—is too little too late. 

If he had been this brutal before you had died, would you have even died at all? If he had bloodied his hands with every scumbag in Gotham, would you have been kept safe? 

He kills like he's trying to make up for something, he kills like he's trying to punish himself. 

And he keeps himself angry for a long, long time. 

But even the worst storms pass, and eventually, Jason's rage ends. 

When it does, he finds himself in front of your grave. The headstone is made out of a smooth blue granite, luminous even in the dim light. Your name carved into it in looping cursive. It's a beautiful headstone, really. 

Almost—but not quite—worthy of you.

It is the first time he's seen it. 

It's the first time he's been to visit you since the night of your death. 

He hadn't even been there for the funeral. 

He has killed and he has tortured and he has made sure that anyone who has ever hurt you was repaid a thousand times over.

Now, he reaches inside himself and finds only hollowness where his anger has once been. 

He traces your name with one shaking finger, and thinks about how cold granite is so different from the warmth of your smile. 

And finally, finally, Jason Todd is able to weep.

Bruce Wayne | Batman

Out of all them, it is Bruce who refuses to let go of his grief. 

Your room in Wayne Manor remains exactly the same. Your office, likewise. The sunroom that you had once so often occupied is left alone. The plants there flourish, even without your care. The roses you had so carefully pruned grow thick, with bulbs so heavy that their stems will droop as if in grief. 

The book you had been reading two days before your death remains on the table beside your favorite chair, bookmark still in place. A teacup next to it, as if awaiting the next pour of tea or coffee. 

It is perfectly preserved, as if waiting for you to waltz in and reclaim your position in Bruce's life. 

He does not move on, so much as he becomes stuck in time. 

Sometimes, he will turn his head, your name still on his lips ready to carry on a conversation only to realize he is speaking with empty air. 

Sometimes, he will visit your gravestone and speak to you as if you are still there. He'll give you mission updates, stories about how the other vigilantes were doing. And he will pause between each anecdote as if expecting you to respond. 

He'll bring you a bouquet of flowers every week without fail, as if he is still courting you. 

Out of all of them, it is Bruce Wayne who refuses to let go of his grief. 

To let go of his grief, it feels, would be to let go of you.