Just an almost 30 something, Lady in love with fictional men. Mostly reblogs but may post in the future but life is in the way. Sometimes will rant about teacher/education stuff cause its hard out here y'all!
Pairing: dom!Brendon Park x best friend's sister!reader
Word count: 5.5k
CW: MDNI, 18+
Tags/warnings: D/s dynamics, f!reader, age gap (reader is 26, Brendon is mid 30s), minor injury, little angst from brendon, tinge ooc but like is it really if that man was only on screen for like 3 seconds?, yearning, kinky relationships, kinky dating sites, sub drop
Summary: Something's been missing in Brendon's life ever since his last relationship ended, and you might just be exactly what he needs…if he lets himself have you
a/n: okay, here’s the much awaited set up for this series!! lmk what we think
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
Something gnaws at the back of Brendon’s skull, like a metaphorical breeze that he can’t quite seem to shake, irking him into a constant state of annoyance.
He’s getting irritable again, that much is clear from all the whispers and glances his interns, residents and nurses have been giving him all week. Hell, even Robinavitch has been more curt than usual, not lingering to engage with him outside of the strictly medical. It’s not like they were buddies to begin with, but the two extra words they give each other at consults are definitely missing.
Brendon knows what it is, that itching under his skin, that weight to his heartbeat, that cold deep within his bones.
He has tried to ignore it before and it had worked for the majority of his life. Contact sports, exercise, hell, even the rigorousness of med school had done wonders to dull the ache into a barely there whisper in the back of his mind. The need had just become a want, a little tingle that he could pretend didn’t exist.
But he can’t ignore it anymore, not since his last partner.
The breakup had been mutual, her moving away to another city and him letting her go because what kind of selfish monster would be he if he didn’t. But ever since then, the gust had turned into a storm, roaring and unashamed to freeze everything in its path.
Brendon threw his entire focus on work, on the medicine, on routine, structure but none of it has been enough to fix the heaviness of his heart.
He groans as he finally settles into the plush cushion of his office chair, the leather just the right amount of cool after being left alone in the air conditioned room all morning.
Six hour surgery, practically in and out, right when he clocked in and just a little after lunch. He should be proud, should be feeling the weight of hunger and exhaustion and accomplishment. But instead all he can feel is the weight of…emptiness.
He knows it’ll end in heartache once more, just pure dissatisfaction, but he can’t seem to stop himself as he pulls out his phone and opens that stupid private app that Robinavitch had so kindly recommended.
No new matches.
Great.
He’s not looking for much, nothing that he would consider unreasonable. Sure, he’s probably gone through every single profile on it in the few months since his separation, meeting a few of the ones who matched for initial compatibility assessment coffees, but none of them had stuck. They all felt like a chore, like he was adding more to their lives than they were to his. He felt awful about it for a while, tried to rationalize it, convince himself that it’s his role to provide for them so what he wants doesn’t matter as much. But that only made the times they’d made it into the bedroom that much more exhausting. It felt like a performance, detached and devoid of all emotional connection.
Needless to say, Brendon Park remains alone and the ache is slowly eating away at him.
His pager goes off as he stares into the distance, his brain giving him whiplash as he snaps back into the unfortunate reality of where he is, who he is and just all he isn’t. He groans, audibly, taking advantage of the empty room, the silence, the lack of prying eyes, and eventually pushes himself back on his already aching feet.
The walk down to the ED is quick and sharp, all business and forward momentum. People part like water as he swims through the hustle and bustle of the hospital, only slowing down in the elevator before resuming his swiftness the second the stainless steel doors open.
He catches the tired eyes of the head nurse above her glasses, giving her a subdued and respectful nod of his head as she intercepts him. His eyebrow twitches in confusion as she falls into step beside him, practically herding him into central eight.
"What've you got?"
Dana sighs, seemingly over whatever drama this patient has put her through.
"Just a really bad sprain from what I can tell but she insisted."
That makes Park stop cold. Her lip quirks into a soft smirk, somehow understanding something before he could even catch up to it, a hint of mischief breaking through her exhaustion.
"Oh yeah," she grins. "Asked for you by name too."
He pushes past her then, curiosity killing the big mean shark or however the saying goes.
And to say that he's surprised would be an understatement, his predatory gaze going from cold and calculating to one of shock, wiped swiftly by a softness that no one has ever seen from him.
"Sugar plum?"
"Nutcracker man!" your voice is like a shot of whiskey in a cold winter's night.
"What are you doing here?" Here at the hospital, here in Pittsburg, here, right in front of him, close enough to reach out and—
"Steven insisted I come over and ask for you by name," you huff, ever the indignant child. "I told him it was just a sprain but he got mad at me."
His lips instantly quirk into a full smile, completely ignoring the nurse in the room and Santos's bulging eyes.
"Cut your brother some slack, some habits die hard."
You roll your eyes. "Easy for you to say, your sisters are lovely."
That gets a chuckle out of him, easy and hearty, and he can practically see Santos almost falling out of her chair in shock.
"They're just as bad as you and you know it."
You smile brightly at that, innocent eyes with a devilish smirk that almost stops his heart.
“I don’t actually, I’m an angel.”
His lips instantly quirk into a full smile. Yeah right.
You chuckle softly at his reaction as he moves from the front of the bed towards you. Strong, confident hands hover over your elevated leg, as if trying to hold himself back from the temptation that is finally laying his hands on you, of confirming that you are real and not just another figment of his imagination.
He gets over himself quickly as Santos finally clears her throat, presenting the case before the room drowns in the downpour of your familiarity. He swallows thickly, willing his hands to just do their damn job, urging muscle memory to carry him through.
As Santos drones on, he can feel the searing fire of your stare, the way your breathing hitches ever so slightly as he picks up the ice pack over your purpling ankle, the way goosebumps emerge as he picks up your leg and gently conducts the same mobility, tenderness and pain examination that the intern in triage must’ve.
“…and that’s why I don’t babysit for anyone. Kids are a safety hazard.”
You chuckle lightheartedly. “It’s my own fault, I shouldn’t have trusted a three year old to tidy up. I should’ve looked where I was going.”
“You’re looking after Tyler?” The words escape him before he can think twice about it.
“Yeah, I’m living with them actually,” you murmur, shifting as he sets your foot back down on the pillow. “While I…” you trail off, a little embarrassed as you look around the room at the three other pairs of eyes still glued to your interaction with Park like he’s grown an extra head.
He stiffens, his light hand over your calf tightening ever so slightly as he clears his throat. “Well you’re right, it’s just a sprain but I’d still like to be sure so I’m going to order x-rays and we’ll go from there.”
You nod, watching him intently as he icily glares around the room, snapping everyone back into action. When the fishes have scattered and it's only the two of you in the room, he pulls back his teeth and settles on the stool Santos was just occupying.
“It’s really good to see you again,” you tell him, shyly playing with your necklace.
He’s smitten by the habit, one he knows well.
“Me too,” he keeps his voice steady and even. “Whatever happened to…”
He doesn’t mean to pry, but he simply can’t help it. He needs to know, his heart practically doing somersaults in his chest.
You sigh, ripping your gaze from his haunting blue eyes and making yourself as little as you can before speaking. “Broke up.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
“And your masters program?”
That gets you to look back at him, a tame yet excited smile curling your lips, causing a prideful shiver to course through Brendon’s body.
“Graduated with honors last year,” you beam.
“Atta girl, I’m proud of you,” he pats your thigh without thinking about it, the contact comfortable and familiar. He catches the way your breathing hitches, doesn’t mention it, sliding his touch to rest on the bed instead.
“What about you?” You recover quickly. “Whatever happened with that woman from Steven’s birthday party?”
Oh right, you'd met her. He visibly cringes and you instantly feel bad.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be, it’s okay,” the panic in your voice makes him violently ill, quickly returning his touch to your thigh to soothe you. “Didn’t work out.”
“Oh…I’m sorry Brendon, she doesn’t know what she missed out on.”
Your compliment is genuine, he knows it, he feels it, and it instantly puts him at ease. He gives you a soft, sorrowful smile.
“So what’s next?” He changes the subject, deflection always being easier to handle than truth.
You shrug. “Get x-rays done, prove to my brother that I’m fine and I shouldn’t have had to deal with medical bills, probably order takeout when I get discharged—”
Brendon chuckles, cutting off your rambling even if he doesn’t want to. “I meant with life, sugar plum.”
Your eyes widen in embarrassment, the panic that he’d seen in them earlier when he mentioned your ex returning tenfold.
It’s his turn to apologize, mouth instantly opening to try and fix it, when his pager goes off, cutting through the comfort you’d created for him instantly. Suddenly, the cold returns, the bright lights remind him of the headache, the loudness of the ED seep into his bones.
“Go,” you tell him. “Go be a hot, competent surgeon doctor man.”
He rolls his eyes, his eyes lingering on the sincerity of your voice. There had been a time when those words would’ve ended with your brother teasing the two of you relentlessly. But you never take it back. Even if the words don't mean anything more than the truth, Brendon could always count on you to remind him of the simple facts of life.
He is competent. He is a surgeon doctor man. He is hot.
Wait—
Before he can wrap his head around the word, around the meaning behind it, he’s being pulled away, this time by a 911. He gives your thigh one last squeeze, not really aware he’s doing but the warmth of your skin lingers against his palm all the way back upstairs into OR 3 and it relaxes him.
Complications with one of Garcia’s surgeries keep him distracted for the next four hours, the comforting practice of being just another set of hands that has no thoughts or feelings or yearnings aside from the medicine in front of him doing wonders to clench his thirst.
It’s late when he finally settles back into his body. The ache, the hunger, the exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave. He knows it was coming but actually realizing just how much he’s neglected himself in the hustle of the day always leaves him feeling worse about himself.
He cleans up as much as he can, changing into civilian clothes before he returns to his office to gather his things and get the fuck out of the sterile building.
His phone glares at him from where it’s been left, neglected and alone, for the majority of the day. He doesn’t panic, though. There’s no one waiting for him on the other end of the annoying device anyway. He taps the screen, however, a stupid habit that he too has fallen victim to like the entire human population.
One text from his sister in their family group chat. One weather notification. Two missed calls and a few texts from your brother.
The short interaction rushes back to him instantly, his body blossoming with the promise of something warm once more. He picks up the small device, returning your brother’s call instantly.
“Hey brother,” Steven’s voice is cheerful, even if Brendon knows better.
“Hey, long time no call.”
Steven chuckles at that, the lingering guilt from both parties only partially alleviated.
“Yeah, who’s fault is that?”
“Definitely mine,” Brendon concedes with a chuckle. “To what do I owe all this attention then?”
“Just wanted to thank you for taking care of my sister today.”
Brendon can’t help the smile that spreads at the mention of you, at the reminder that you’re actually real to other people too.
“Of course, man, she’s family,” he lets the feelings settle deep in his chest, resting against his desk before continuing. “How’s she doing?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me, she’s still at the hospital.”
The feeling expands, twisting into one of rage and shame.
“It’s been hours.”
“I know…but she just told me they’re discharging her.”
Brendon sighs, silently damning the entire healthcare system.
“I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”
“Thanks man,” Steven sighs in gratefulness. “Oh and bring a pizza over please.”
Brendon rolls his eyes at his friend’s lack of shame. “Of course. Still just cheese for Tyler?”
“You know it.”
With that, Brendon practically rushes back down to the ED, his hair fluffy from the sweat breaking apart his gel cast, the casual henley and dark wash denim combo making him unrecognizable to the staff as he walks through, giving Abbot a curt nod in acknowledgement before he enters the room you’d been in earlier.
Your eyes light up as you see him. “Hey stranger.”
“That’s doctor stranger to you.”
It makes you giggle and he’s certain his cheeks bloom pink at that.
“You taking me home?”
He nods once, walking over to the computer and scanning his ID so that he can take a final look at your chart. You gather your things slowly, watching how the man you’d seen a few hours ago has drastically transformed into the man you’ve known for the past seven years.
You’d met Brendon at your high school graduation, your brother having come back home from college with his roommate for the summer. You’d spent the entire two months before you left for college yourself convinced that the two of them were together together, the way they brought out the best in each other endearing.
It was when you’d caught them both at the same house party your friends had dragged you to, his tongue practically down the girl that had been a bitch to you all throughout high school’s throat that you realized that you had been deadly wrong. Jealousy bubbled in your stomach, ugly and upsetting, so much so that you had given him the silent treatment for a whole day before he finally had enough of it.
Brendon Park wasn’t yours, not even platonically, and yet, he couldn’t help but become one of the closest people to you that summer. You told him, the truth somehow spilling out of you in a way that had never happened before. And he’d apologized. The fucker said sorry and promised to never do it again. Needless to say, you’d ignored your feelings until college flings and serious boyfriends buried them deep within you.
Seeing him now is…a lot. You’ve always cared for him, always respected his opinion, his council, his everything. He’s Brendon for fuck’s sake. Accomplished, loyal, respectful, chivalrous, perfect golden boy Brendon. Your bother’s best friend. And the secret subject of your unbridled desires.
“Anything interesting?” You ask, desperate to break yourself from your thoughts.
“No break, healthy fibula…” he drones on, clinical and sterile, his deep knowledge of bones endearing at this point. He turns to catch your teasing smile and his cheeks blush the most adorable red as he realizes he’s been info dumping on you. “Everything looks good.”
“Thank you Brendon.”
He turns back to the computer, logging on his final notes for your medical history in an attempt to stop looking like a damn fool in front of you. Your smiles mean nothing more than what they are—comfort and familiarity. You’re a ray of sunshine to everyone that happens to be standing in your direction. He’s not the exception, he’s simply a part of the rule.
His phone vibrates from the depth of his pocket. Probably another text from your brother asking him to hurry the fuck up, impatience a running trait in your family. He pulls out his phone, his eyes slowly drifting to the notification. A flurry of emotions run through him as the next few moments play out.
At first, embarrassment when he notices it’s a notification from the app, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he hides it from view, who knows what you’d think about him if you only knew what it was.
Next, hope, dizzying and contagious as he reads the notification. One new profile found. The match strikes, an ember sparks. He’s almost giddy now, eager to get the evening over with so he can give the notification all of his attention.
And finally, he’s certain he’s going into cardiac arrest as he, because he’s a man and has the self-restraint of one, even if he prides himself on being everything but an eager motherfucker, taps on the notification and he’s instantly met with your beautiful face as the profile opens up.
Brendon can’t breathe anymore.
He manages a strangled excuse and darts into the private bathroom, his entire world both crumbling all around him with each exhale and being rebuilt into a utopia with every inhale. But it’s not enough, air is not enough anymore and he knows it. No, not when he knows.
There’s too much running through him that the only thing he can think of is how if he got this notification then you definitely did too. Panic and shame and every ugly emotion that reminds him just how wrong this is beats him up. Through trembling fingers he turns off the discoverability of his profile, praying to every god he’s ever learned about that you’ll never, ever get the full knowledge of just how deranged Brendon’s fears have convinced him he is.
Then comes the guilt. He should not know this about you. This is such a precious thing, vulnerable and honest, too honest, and he cannot help but feel like he’s betrayed your trust in some way. You’re Steven’s sister, curious and unapologetic, the girl who picked daisies and made flower crowns, the girl who spiked their ice tea with your dad’s whiskey, the girl who teased him relentlessly when he showed up with his first serious girlfriend to Christmas the first time your families met, the girl who baked him his favorite cake when he graduated from med school, the girl that tells him the truth and isn’t afraid to hurt him because you both have a mutual understanding that goes beyond acquaintances.
It’s because of this that the little ember nudges, whispering something much deadlier in his ear. Knowledge is power, so much so that the pull towards it becomes dizzying. What if you could be—
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
That is never going to happen.
No.
Nuh-uh.
He has half a mind to throw his phone in the trash and himself along with it. He can never allow himself to think of you that way, not again. He’s a heartbreaker, it’s what he’s always done. Overprotective, overbearing, possessive and cruel. He could never tie you down, could never ask you to fulfill those sick and twisted fantasies that he so desperately needs in order to feel whole.
No, he’ll damn himself to an eternity of solitude before he puts you in a position where you could actually be exactly what he’s looking for, because he knows that what he wants is not something that either of you can come back from, and he respects you too much to put you in a position where the relationship that you’re looking for can jeopardize the one you’ve got with your brother, with your family, with your friends and loved ones.
He will not do that to you. He will get his shit together, pretend he never saw what he saw, help you to his car, drive to Tony’s Pizzeria and get a half cheese, half pepperoni pizza, a huge homemade orange soda bottle for the four of you to share, spend an hour with your brother and nephew and then disappear from your life forever. It doesn’t matter that you’re here, it doesn't matter that you’re just as perfect as ever, treating him as if no time has passed, as if nothing has happened, as if his absence never happened.
He takes one last steadying breath, locking his phone, and stepping out onto the floor.
But then his eyes lock with yours and whatever plan he so masterfully concocted throws itself away in favor of this, that all encompassing feeling that blooms behind his heart and spreads all over his chest the second he comes into your spotlight.
It’s weirdly comfortable to be in Brendon’s car, the radio turned low yet steady, the confidence of his movements as he navigates night life traffic a little too sexy. The silence that lingers between the two of you isn’t uncomfortable, it’s simply…air.
You wince lightly as you settle further into the expensive leather, reveling in the comfort that is Brendon Park now being a big shot surgeon with doctor money. You chuckle at the thought, effectively breaking his constant stare forward, as if his only task right now is to drive as though he’s carrying precious cargo in his car.
He can’t help himself when he asks, “what’s so funny?”
You catch his softened gaze, a dopey smile still lingering. “You.”
The single word does something to him, constricting his heart until he forces himself to tear his eyes from yours as if they’ve hurt him.
“I knew you’d make it, you’ve always been determined,” you sigh. “I guess it’s just nice to see it for real now.”
He chuckles right back at you. “I could say the same thing to you.”
You scoff, self-deprecating. “Yeah right, I’m unemployed, living with my brother and his son because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life and person I thought I was going to spend it with broke up with me cause I was ‘too much work’.”
The car screeches to a halt in the middle of the road, causing you to jolt against the seatbelt across your chest.
“Absolutely not, sweetheart,” his voice cuts through the adrenaline pumping through your heart. “You will never speak about yourself in that way, do I make myself clear?”
It’s only after he says it that realization dawns on him like a bucket of ice water being poured over his body. He watches the way your body reacts to the authority in his voice, the way you shiver slightly, the way your expression drops into submission, pupils dilating, your legs rubbing together instinctively.
“I’m sorry Bren,” your voice is barely a whisper but he hears it nonetheless.
“It’s okay,” he settles back against his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “I’m sorry you’re going through so much, but that’s no excuse to talk down on yourself. You’d rip me a new one if I did the same thing, wouldn’t you?”
That pulls a smile back on your face. “Oh I’d do much, much worse.”
“See? So why would I allow the same?”
You nod, biting down on your lower lip ever so slightly as he starts the car again, both your hearts beating a million times a minute. You liked that, his rough voice, the way he instantly cut through all the noise in your head, reminding you that you’re more than all the self-destructive thoughts.
Your brain turns off so slowly you’re unable to spot it. You can hear him call your name, ask you a question, but all you register is that delicious baritone to his voice, how it reverberates against your ribs and makes you feel safe. As if understanding exactly what’s going on, he sighs deeply, wrapping his big, surgeon hand over your thigh. You barely register as he starts the car again, the comforting rumbling of the vehicle beneath you slowly lulling you to sleep as your body comes down from that adrenaline spike. You stare at him through hooded eyes, the warmth from his hand as the only anchor keeping you tethered in the ocean of your feelings.
A twisted thought turns in your heart, making you sick. Panic bubbles. You jolt into awareness, abrasive and shocking, and you’re certain he can feel the spike in your pulse from the death grip he’s got on your leg. You did not just drop in front of Brendon Park.
“You okay?” He asks, because of course he does, he’s always been attentive and kind and respectful.
You nod, far too quickly, but you pretend like nothing’s wrong, retreating so far into yourself until you can believe like it isn’t. You feel like a stranger in your own body as he parks the car, comes around to get your crutches and open your door, as the two of you go inside and greet every single person working tonight, as you busy yourself helping to marry the ketchups while your order gets made.
You can feel him watching you intensely, even if the kid working the register is still talking his ear off about last night’s hockey game. He replies half-heartedly, pays with his black amex which you only slightly tease him about, and let him carry everything back to the car while you settle back in the front seat.
You don’t say another word to him, not as he drives up your brother’s driveway, as he stands beside you while you unlock the door, as Steven brings him into a warm hug and Tyler runs up to uncle Brendon like a rocket ship.
No, you’re cold and distant, detached from everything going on around it and it breaks Brendon’s heart a little. He can’t stop chastising himself, over and over again, watching as you nibble at your food, as your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, as you avoid eye contact with him profusely throughout his stay.
Eventually, it’s time for Tyler’s nighttime routine and since you’re currently incapacitated, doctor’s orders, Steven wrangles the three year old by himself, making Brendon promise to wait for him so they can drink a few beers and catch up after.
The second that Steven leaves the room, Brendon decides he’s had enough.
He finds you aggressively washing the dishes you used for dinner by hand, mind off somewhere far away from him, from this, from now.
“Sugar plum?” He sees your body tense instantly, a shiver running through it that makes him cringe internally.
He takes a deep breath. You need him right now and he’s gotta be the bigger man and actually right his wrongs.
“Turn it off.”
You shiver again, legs rubbing together again, this time definitely intentional. You don’t dare face him, don’t dare breathe because if you do, you’re afraid it’ll choke out of you like a broken moan.
“Be a good girl and do as you’re told.”
That does you in. A clear command, fully open and honest, cutting through the noise in your head and letting you know you’re not crazy. Your shaky hand turns off the tab, the room falling back into an uneasy silence.
“I’m sorry if I startled you in the car,” he starts, voice even and apologetic. “It wasn’t my intention, I should’ve known better.”
Your brow scrunches in confusion but you don’t think much of it. Maybe you truly are that easy to read and your ex had been right, your disinterest in your “vanilla” relationship so evident in every action you took over the past three months that the only course of action was for him to cheat on you.
I can't give you what you need.
His words echo in your mind as a shaky sigh escapes your lips, your soapy hand coming up to slam over your mouth before he can hear the truth behind it, the rawness that he’s awakened. You’re not his responsibility, he should not have to deal with—
You don’t even know when it happens, all you do is feel his strong arms wrapping around you, turning your body so that you can hide your face against his chest as you can’t hold back the sobs anymore.
He shushes you gently, never crossing the platonic boundary your relationship has already established, and that only makes you that much more emotional. You don’t really remember how long you cry, all you know is that by the time the tears subside, there’s a wet patch right below his heart and his mouth flutters gentle praises in your ear, so close that his breathing makes you tickle.
You push him back slightly, getting your bearings straight enough to start feeling embarrassed that he just witnessed that.
“Hey, none of that,” he says, certain. “You’re okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
You avoid his piercing gaze as you wipe your face clean, one of the hands around your waist grabbing the hem of his shirt and wiping after your fingers.
You can’t help the giggle that escapes you then, the absurdity of the moment not lost on you as a singular thought persists—Brendon Park would make an amazing dom.
“Thank you Bren.”
“Don’t mention it, kiddo.”
“Ew, rude,” you scrunch your nose in mock offense, finally looking up at him.
He almost folds, your puffy eyes, slightly red nose, the way you hold onto him like you trust him, like he’s safe…any weaker man would’ve folded instantly. And fuck it if he doesn’t want to be weak.
“What? City girl suddenly too good for a silly nickname?”
You roll your eyes, trying to pull back from his embrace fully now but he doesn’t let you.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me—”
Your breathing hitches, something shifts, your pupils dilate slightly.
Brendon clears his throat, letting you go then, aggressively shoving his hands inside his jean pockets. You blink up at him, the cloud slowly dissipating as you come back into your body.
It’s beautiful. So raw and vulnerable he doesn’t even think about his movements, he only does them, holding out his arms so that you can hold yourself up on them, something steady and grounding. And to his pure delight, you do, your grip not tentative or shy but fully trusting in him.
After a long, drawn out minute, the house returns with full force, Steven joking after a giggling Tyler down the hall, the hum of the fridge behind him, the clock ticking in the other room. You hum, shifting your weight around uncomfortably.
“You should go to bed,” he tells you, a gentle command that has you instantly nodding, as if only because he’s said it you’re now aware of just how tired you are.
You nod, brain so fuzzy you don’t think it’ll be able to handle words right about now.
Brendon can’t help but smile, a barely there smirk that desperately wants to turn into more but he fears if it does then you’ll know everything.
“Want you to take a shower, elevate your foot and text me if you need anything else, alright?”
“Yes sir.”
His heart lurches. He knows you’re only saying it teasingly but still, the ache almost topples him over, throws him off balance. You pull away slowly, taking your warmth with you, returning his soul to the ice age it has cultivated. He stares at you go, body turned to stone until he hears Steven coming back down the hall towards him.
He snaps out of it then, putting on his best Brendon Park, college friend mask on and indulging the single parent in a much needed hour of beers and ranting. By the time he’s sat back in his car, he can’t seem to push himself to leave. He sits there, staring out into the dark street before him, head buzzing with thoughts and feelings that threaten to consume him.
And somehow, through all the noise, his phone dings.
You: In bed now. Feet elevated. Thank you so much for today, you didn’t have to be so kind but I’m glad that you were.
You: And also…thank you for…that too.
You added a picture, your foot, wrapped like the nurses had taught you, propped up on a mountain of pillows. The ember expands in his heart, ignites that desperate yearning again, and he’s finally able to get himself to drive away, but not before replying—
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୨ৎ pairing .ᐟ.ᐟ michael robinavitch x psych fellow!reader
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ robby was three months shy from his sabbatical. the amount of loose ends he had to tie were creating a dreadful to-do list he felt obligated to address before hitting the open road. one of the many things on his list is ensuring you'll be the newest addition to the behavioral health department to assist down in the pitt. the longer the two of you toe the line of professionalism, he realizes there are other things to broach with you.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no physical description, no use of y/n, SMUT MDNI!, unprotected p in v, handjob, making out, dirty talk, medical inaccuracies, mentions of gun violence, suicidal ideation, substance intoxication, physical assault at the workplace, robby being slightly jealous
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ woah...getting hot and steamy here! honestly, first piece of smut on this app. apologize if it sucks, lol! i actually was pretty satisfied after writing this, so i had to post it. anyways, i love them and they obviously had to come together eventually.
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13 k
prev: two against three
Another shift down, Robby mentally reminded himself. Another day closer before he’d be walking out those doors and learning the endless sights of the road. He was officially three months away from his sabbatical.
Every time he walked into his garage and admired the bike, he spent months reconstructing, he told himself to hold off. There was a buzzing noise in his ear during shift change recently, with the anticipation crawling. Eventually it would be his last for a while. Longer than he had been gone before.
Despite the fact he was tempted to go on his trip earlier, he knew there were responsibilities he’d be ignoring if he did. He never would have opened the reinstatement paper for Langdon to repeat his last year of residency due to ‘unforeseen circumstances.’ He never would have witnessed the renderings of the shiny plaque commemorating their efforts in the wake of the PittFest shooting. He would’ve also missed the invitation for the farewell party hosted by Princess and Perlah for Collins.
He would also be oblivious to the close proximity you shared with the night shift attending by the nursing station.
If anyone were looking in his direction, they would have noticed the quick double flick of his head as he walked out of Trauma 2. It was close to 8pm and by this time; you would have made your way out. It was rare you stuck around late. Robby knew from the few times you two ran into each other in the parking garage elevator.
While discretely keeping his eyes on the two of you, he noted how you leisurely leaned against the counter. One elbow resting on station while holding a coffee in the other. A clear cup with orange lettering. Shen was listening intently to you ramble about something. Your eyes fluttered and brightened as you continued with your story. Shen didn’t tear his eyes away for one moment.
Robby tried to make out what he could from across the station. He pretended to be engrossed in the patient board, arm crossed and head craned back; but if anyone paid closer attention, they would see his eyes fleeting back to you and Shen.
“So the tinman does have a heart.” He heard someone mutter from behind him. He twisted his neck to either side before seeing Santos come up on his right with an amused smile. She had on her jacket and one strap of her backpack slung over her shoulder.
He furrowed his brows at her, feigning naivety. She motioned over to the sight of you now laughing at something Shen said. Robby smiled awkwardly, “I don’t think she would appreciate that.”
Santos snorted, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She leaned back and forth gracefully. “She’s chill with it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Robby breathed out with a chuckle. There was a slight resemblance between you and his intern. He wasn’t surprised you two could hit it off under the right circumstances and if Santos could learn to trust someone outside the workplace, then he was in greater support of it. “Chill with the idea that my residents consider her a heartless individual.”
“It’s a joke, Dr. Robby.”
The small rebellious streak in her eyes simmered when the two looked over once more. Shen had put aside his ice coffee and digital chart as he showed you something on his phone. Your shoulders lightly pressed together, and your head leaned in closer. It could have been attributed to the loud sounds of machines and staff walking by, but it seemed scarcely intimate for you.
“I’ve seen them hang out more.” Santos acknowledged, crossing her arms to mirror the stance of her superior. Robby hummed lightly while still observing the newfound dynamic between you and Shen. “Javadi caught them once at a café walking a golden retriever.”
Robby shook his head. There was no plausible reason to be discussing a hospital staff’s personal life—let alone their romantic one. If you wanted to go on dates with people, even those within the hospital walls that was fully within your rights. There wasn’t much overlap between your positions and if you continued staying at PTMC as an attending, there wouldn’t be any concern of a power imbalance, despite being a couple of years older.
“I think they could work. In their own weird way.” Santos concluded. The sound of Whitaker calling her name pulled her out of the parasocial analysis of her colleagues. It also ruined the illusion Robby was starting to make up in his mind.
With Santos disappearing from his eyeshot, his mind wandered back across the nursing station. He saw Jack pat Shen on the shoulder, mumbling something incoherent. Compliant, Shen pocketed his phone. Once Jack stepped away, Shen collected his things, still speaking with you. There was a smile on your face as you let him brush past you, attending to his duties. You walked in the opposite direction and Robby willfully saw himself moving as well. He kept his head down to remain inconspicuous.
When the two of you rounded the center by the behavioral rooms, Robby saw the slight raise of your eyebrows with a small grin. “Robby, are you avoiding going home or do you just live here?”
“I could say the same about you.” He mused, hands hiding in the pockets of his blue zip-up. He shrugged, shying away, “You aren’t typically found this late.”
Taking a careful sip of the coffee, you hummed, “You kept giving me patients to visit.”
Robby chuckled, shaking his head at the playful blame. It was the current dynamic the two of you settled on. Playful banter that only made sense to the two of you. The past month has forced you two to spend more contact outside the hospital. With the review from Admin, there were reasons for the two of you to continue texting and calling.
The review had closed a week ago and Robby thought there would be a drought after. With the blow up between you and Mrs. McGuire and that of your own colleague, Robby was not sure you would trust yourself to be human in the workplace. Watching you, talking with Shen was seeing the white shell of an egg crack. The yolk wasn’t pouring out, but steeping out through the crack as the part of yourself Robby had seen briefly came to fruition under Shen’s graze.
“I apologize then.” Robby mumbled, scratching the side of his beard while turning his face away.
“I’m messing with you, Robby.” You responded with a slight whisper, before walking over to one of the workstations. You put down the coffee before briefly logging in.
Robby was staring at the back of your head, and he saw you pull up the chart for the patient in North 4. He carefully stepped closer, leaning forward slightly to capture some of your attention. “Have you heard anything?”
He saw the pinch of your brows as you continued typing. He then placed his hands on the side of the desk beside you, leaning in to keep the conversation private. There was enough space between the two of you, compared to how you stood with Shen. Robby didn’t think you’d be fine with an intrusion. “From any of the places you applied?”
You lightly opened your mouth ahing as it hit you what he was referring to. In response, you shook your head. “Still awaiting a response from Presby and Mass General.”
“And what about here?” Robby dragged the words, hoping to ease the conversation slowly.
There was hesitancy in your fingers. Although you were already stretching them in between keystrokes, your hands paused completely before continuing. Carefully licking your lips, you nervously laughed. “I am working on it.”
You eyed him from the corner of your eye, holding back the curl of your lips. Robby shook his head, “I’ve noticed. I’ve been eagerly expecting an email from Admin about my thoughts as ER chief.”
“What do you plan to tell them?” You asked easily, while keeping yourself physically busy.
He could see how interested you were in the response, but something still held you back from taking a leap. PTMC was more than a safe choice, in his opinion. There was a lot of work done outside the hospital that you could benefit from. Educational seminars, academic work, even humanitarian efforts. Robby didn’t have time to smile for the cameras, but you could definitely do the work better than him.
“That this hospital has more to lose than gain if they didn’t hire you.” Robby admitted shamelessly. He didn’t have anything else planned, because that was the only truth Admin needed to know.
He knew they would dig for any liabilities to hiring you. During the internal review, there were a lot of questions of who failed to do what, but he knew they were covering everything that was pertinent to document. Although upset from the publicity that came from the incident, and the fact you had been assaulted while attempting to do your job, Gloria was slightly more uptight than usual. Nothing new in Robby’s eyes, and nothing that should concern you about the hiring procedure.
‘That’s generous.” You commented with an even tone.
He struggled with the same acceptance as you did. With your recent streak of bad luck, you were having an even harder time accepting accolades for your work. Robby didn’t mind reminding you, especially if it meant you’d give yourself grace to make a decision meant to benefit you. “I’m not the only one who believes it.”
With raised eyebrows and a crooked smile, you finally turned to him, staring up to meet him in the eyes. “Did Caleb send you to sniff out my intentions?”
Robby chuckled with a toothy grin, one hand scratching the side of his beard. “No, I guess we just happen to think alike.”
You finished typing a couple more sentences before logging out of the computer. You spun the chair lightly, standing up beside him. He took one careful step back, but there was still little space for anyone to interfere. “Like I told Caleb and Shen, I will submit a formal application for an attending position. I just want to test my options first.”
You shrugged, grabbing your coffee. “I don’t exactly look forward to packing up my life after finally getting rid of all my boxes.”
He saw you shift slightly, ready to leave, but something kept you in place. You stared at him thoughtfully, “Truth is, I haven’t exactly done anything to prove I’m worth keeping around.”
“That opinion is subjective.” He remarked, lightly grinning to prevent you from disheartening yourself.
“If you say so,” You scoffed, pushing the chair into the desk, one hand still grasping the back. “Caleb has tried. Shen and even some of your residents.”
“At the end of the day, it’s my decision to make.”
Offering him a tight lip smile, you slipped around him, barely brushing his shoulder.
The Pitt was at a standstill for once. No one would dare say the Q-word aloud, but everyone was in silent agreement of the fact. There was a lull in traumas and they were making steady progress with their patient in chairs. He thought they were surviving for now. It was only 4pm after all.
He was sitting down at the nursing station, getting some charting and other administrative emails done. It was boring to say the least, but he had put off enough of his duties. He knew he needed to get done as much as he could before leaving for his sabbatical.
Some of it though, didn’t pertain to the work at PTMC. He had a personal interest he currently endeavored himself to prioritize. Making sure his residents were well equipped for their next phase in their education—and although you weren’t his resident (let alone a resident)—he felt as responsible for your future.
After everything that had occurred in his department under his guise, he owed you that much.
If everything with Richman hadn’t occurred, you wouldn’t feel as insecure as you did. You were under the notion that this hospital wouldn’t want you, and Robby wouldn’t tell you, but he felt you were blinded by your own narrative. A narrative that was self-sabotaging.
He knew Caleb would notice. While preparing for the internal review, they had a moment alone and Caleb had confided in Robby what he hadn’t told you.
“I don’t think I’ve seen someone as driven and enamored with her patients as she is, and I don’t think I could trust anyone else to teach the residents besides her.”
When Caleb smiled, Robby knew it was the truth.
Robby didn’t argue that fact. He could trust in you to advocate for your patients. You’d fight him over the right plan of care if necessary. He learned to respect that fact, challenge it when necessary, and relent to your decision when you were right. If there was anything Caleb could equally respect, it was that.
It would be a challenge for Caleb to relearn how to navigate without your help.
Robby continued searching his inbox in relation to you and a new emergency psychiatrist. He didn’t have much of a powerful say as to whether or not you’d be hired for the position, but he knew Gloria would want his input; especially considering he wouldn’t be here after you started as an attending physician. They would need to know he can trust in someone to navigate for three months without his presence.
He didn’t find anything when he searched your name in the search engine.
“Hey Robby.”
When he lifted his head, he heard Lupe approaching him to where he sat. When she mentioned your name, that piqued his interest more. “I have a girl, Stephanie Robles, in chairs looking to speak with her. I tried calling for her, but got nothing.”
Robby sighed out heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I can call her down. Did she state the reason?”
Lupe shrugged, “She said she was told to stop by if there was ever an emergency. Poor girl looks like she’s been through it.”
He furrowed his brows at that. He was wary about the sudden visit. With the aftermath of the Richman case, they were all told to be on high alert for anyone trying to sneak in a statement; but Robby doubted this was the case, from the way Lupe put it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. “I will let her know. Put Miss. Robles in the family room for now.”
Lupe nodded, stalking away with urgency to attend to her duties. Robby clicked on your contact, bowing his head slightly to obscure the outside noise. It rang a couple of times before clicking to life. “Hi, is there an emergency?”
“Sort of.” Robby started off, noting the serious tone in your voice. “Someone came in chairs looking for you by the name of Stephanie Robles. Sound familiar?”
“Yeah, is everything okay?” You huffed out; he could hear wind gushing through the speaker as if you were speed walking.
“I’m not sure. Lupe said she didn't look so great. I had her put Miss. Robles in the family room for you.” Robby informed, standing from the chair to walk over to the family room. He thought it’d be a better idea to meet you there before letting you walk in alone.
“Perfect. I’m on my way down.” You rushed out before hanging up.
There was urgency in your voice and based on what he heard, you were rapid in making your way down. He had only stood by the door for a couple minutes until you came over, practically striding. He had his hands in his jacket pocket, watching you carefully. Your eyes were focused on the room, ignoring his curious looks.
When you caught the brunette girl, curled on the couch, clutching her knees close to her chest, you sighed. The relief was perceptible from where Robby stood, and he was even more interested in what your connection was. With your hands on your hips, you finally acknowledged him. “Thank you. I’m sorry if I missed any previous calls, I was in a meeting with Caleb.”
He hummed, pulling his hands out to rub them together. He would ask what the meeting was regarding, but there were other pressing matters to question. He watched Stephanie, before returning his gaze on you. “She hasn’t been here long, but Lupe was right. She seems like she’s been crying nonstop.”
You frowned, obviously personally afflicted by the information. Even if you wanted to tear your eyes away from the solemn girl, you couldn’t. Something was compelling to keep a close eye on her. Robby hesitated for a moment, before he got the courage to ask. “How do you know her?”
Chuckling nervously, you faced away from the door to focus on Robby. “I lead a support group for survivors of traumatic events like PittFest. After that happened, I thought this would be a great way to connect with the community since I moved.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. He thought the idea was good. The city had been through tragedy before and the only thing that reunified the affected communities was the unison of people. He could see from the way you spoke that it meant a lot to you personally. It was evident in how you cared for Stephanie like she was more than an attendee of the group.
“I didn’t know.” Robby mentioned, shaking his head. His chest ached with shame. Had you not trusted him to tell him as much?
Furrowing your brows, you smiled. “Not a lot of people do. It’s one of those things I wanted to do for my sake.”
“Why’s that?”
There was a brief pause. You sighed, thinking for the appropriate answer. He knew there had to be a reason you didn’t bring it up. The two of you had only recently become friendly, but if it was only professional on your part, it wouldn’t be sacred. You readjusted your badge on your collar. “I guess I had to prove to myself that I wanted to do Psychiatry. Not because I lost the ability to do what I dreamed of doing since I was ten.”
Had he met you under less hostility, he wouldn’t have doubted your passion. He always knew the patients were a priority, even when he thought you were overstepping the ED to do so. He might have seen it differently at first, but he was convinced now.
“All the more reason for you to stay,” He joked, smiling and he could feel the wrinkle around his eyes.
You playfully rolled your eyes, letting your hands fall to your side. You peeked back inside the family room, sighing. “Thank you. I will reach out if I need anything.”
He nodded, taking a step back. You twisted the handle of the door, peeking in first so as not to alarm Stephanie. Robby could see her sit up and when her eyes landed on you, she almost burst into tears of relief. You closed the door behind you and he could make out the muffled voices. He lingered, staring through the window, to make sure nothing immediately alarming were to occur.
You approached her on the couch, taking the spot beside her. Wordlessly, she fell into your arm, letting you embrace her while hiding her face in the crook of your neck. That’s when he walked away. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, and he felt the moment was too intimate for him anyway.
While he was passing by the North station, he caught wind of Dana approaching him. She tossed her hands, grinning. “You do realize we still have people in chairs?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you ran this ship.” Robby joked, pumping his hands with sanitizer.
Dana leaned against the north station, one arm resting on the counter. “How else do you think this place stays afloat.”
“And I greatly appreciate everything you do.” Robby assured, cheesing harder while shaking his head. He observed around the north beds, noticing most of them full except a couple. Then his eyes went back to the family room, desolate from the outside world, the perfect place to isolate from the travesties waiting outside.
Dana noticed him staring off somewhere. She tried following his line of sight with raised eyebrows. “Everything alright, Cap?”
He shook himself, facing Dana with a tight lip smile. “Yes. Do you mind keeping tabs on the family room?”
“Sure. May I ask why?” Dana questioned, not as defiance, but genuine concern with the way his voice quieted.
He put his hand on his hip, rubbing his forehead with the other hand. He sighed out your name, “She’s in there with a visitor, who seems distraught over something. I want to make sure there are eyes on the situation in case of anything.”
Dana agreed, her furrowed brows relaxing. In a motherly fashion, she examined him up and down with an approving grin. “Okay, I can do that. You know, it's nice seeing you two get along.”
He snorted, narrowing his eyes at her. “What are you talking about?”
“I remember when you two used to want to bite each other’s heads off.” Dana chuckled, endeared with the memories like there was something fond about it. Robby was personally glad the two of you could work in peace after he resigned to the concept of a chaotic department. “If she stays, it’ll make answering consults easier.”
Dana patted him on the shoulder before brushing past him. That was an understatement. He kept dreading the idea of having to familiarize himself with someone new, assuming the hospital found someone appropriate for the job. Even then, there was still a gamble at risk. Any doctor could look impressive on paper, it was their bedside manner and teamwork skills that mattered most.
You had paid your dues, and more to gain his respect along with everyone else’s. In his mind, there was no replacing you, and he wanted you to see that before you decided to run off again. He still had some time to do just that.
Robby had meant to keep an eye around the family room. When he did pass by a couple hours later, you were nowhere to be found. With a few back to back traumas, he wasn’t on the floor as much as he wanted to be. You must have slipped away a while ago. It was nearing shift change, and the chances of catching you before you left was slim. Robby always stayed later than necessary, but he had to make sure the night shift was calm to give him some peace of mind.
He had finished up with a trauma almost ten minutes ago. Jack was there watching the patient until Surgery took him upstairs. Robby was making rounds, checking patient rooms and around the hallways for anyone from the day shift. As he finished his rounds, circling back to the nursing station, he caught paramedics transferring a patient in.
Shen followed alongside the bed with Ellis. Robby paused, listening to the obscenities the patient was yelling. Shen and Ellis were attempting to get a report from the paramedics, but the man somehow yelled louder. Robby saw them walking into the open trauma room, and under the light, he saw the restraint on the patient.
Without hesitation, he followed behind a nurse, slipping into the trauma room. He was able to see the restraints more clearly. Shen noticed Robby standing by the door, with a concerned look on his face. “What happened?”
“This man assaulted an officer during an arrest and almost clipped me and my buddy here.” The paramedic announced, hesitating to transfer the patient onto the gurney. There was rattling as the restraints were tugged, echoing through the room.
“Methamphetamine intoxication. Classic signs of excited delirium.” Shen followed, blinking every time he heard the rattling noise. The patient continued yelling and trashing, even with his legs and hands restrained.
EMS and Ellis were exchanging vital signs. He was burning up. His heart was beating too fast and his pressure was sky rocketing. Without a second thought, Robby was gloving up. “Okay. We are going to have to make this quick.”
“We should chemically induce him.”
The response from EMS was drowned out from the sight of you coming in from the opposite side. The force you had pushed the door told him you came running down. “How’s the patient?”
“I didn’t know Psychiatry was paged.” Robby announced, trying to make his way towards you. The paramedics stood in between you and him.
“EMS said he was experiencing excited delirium.” You yelled over the man, watching him still thrash and yell. Grimacing slightly from the noise, you focused on Shen. “What did I hear about chemical induction?”
“We have to transfer the patient now before he goes into cardiac arrest.” Shen explained calmly. He was standing back from the patient, waiting for any indication of the next move.
Robby knew they needed more hands to transfer the patient. While he was still on the EMS gurney, his nurses were doing what they could to get initial vital signs, monitoring him before the worst were to happen. Robby was preparing to call for ketamine, enough so to induce him lightly. They couldn’t treat him if he kept bolstering.
“Just wait.” You called, extending both hands.
“What—“ Shen asked, furrowing his brows at how professional you sounded. It was like you were called to intervene. Everyone in the trauma room watched you skeptically.
“Let me try something.”
Robby couldn’t stop you though. You were now standing at his bedside. The EMT’s had stepped back, refusing to stand in the way of a doctor. Bending at the hip, you were close to the patient. He was still screaming profanities, circling his head to look at anyone in the vicinity.
“Hello,” You spoke up, loud but not demanding. He had heard you, looking you in the eyes before looking away. “You’re in the hospital.”
There was a pause and all Robby kept focusing on was the rattling of the binds. It was like a death march, and you were too close to the danger. He should be standing in between you and the patient, because the last time he had failed to, you were hurt. There was a domino effect of issues after, and he could’ve prevented it. Even though he slipped his way close to you, he still didn’t pull you back.
“No one is trying to hurt you.” You reminded the patient. There was nothing intimidating in your presence. It almost soothed Robby of his worry.
You had easy control of situations, always alert and calm when necessary. The switch between methods was seamless and when Robby heard the patient’s voice quiet, and his bound wrists and ankles ease up, he truly believed you were a miracle worker.
But Robby had experience with chaos. What seemed unpredictable sometimes wasn’t.
In an instant, he saw the patient’s right hand pull at the restraint, even more aggressive than before. That's when it all played out like a movie. The part tied to the gurney popped off, and Robby jumped quickly. He wrapped an arm in front of your body, over your chest, pulling you back quickly. You hadn’t expected the action, tripping over your feet as his mass pulled you in the direction of EMT’s, who also stepped back.
With an arm free, he winded it back, hitting the monitor one of the nurses brought around to get his heart rate and blood pressure. The metal crashed to the floor and a couple of nurses along with Shen attempted to hold his arm back, restraining it again.
Shen eyes flicked between you and Robby, who still had an arm around you, trying to keep you away from the chaotic environment. One of your hands ghosting his arm, convincing yourself of what just occurred. Doors were opening, with more nurses and security coming inside to attend to the emergency.
The patient was transferred with the added staff, everyone holding onto a limb to keep him in place. The minute he was put on the hospital gurney, the binds were adjusted rapidly, permitting him to thrash without harming anyone.
When Robby concluded the area was safe, he dropped his arm, resting his hands on his hips. What the fuck were you thinking?
“Are you hurt?” You asked, raking your eyes over his exposed arm. He had the sleeves of a gray undershirt rolled up his arm. He sensed a burning sensation on his arm, the impact of the leather irritating his skin.
Before you could dote over him, he pulled his arm away, and stared at you. “Out.”
The command was demanding without being loud. Shen and Ellis were watching though, and the hardened stare in his eyes told him he was peeved with the way the situation went. You opened your mouth, but he strided past you, brushing shoulders. He held the door open, watching you expectantly. Without argument, you followed.
He made sure to stand in front of the door as you two stood outside the trauma room. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“He was responding.”
“No—“ Robby cut in, shaking his head vigorously. “He was intoxicated.”
Both your hands fell to your side, head cocked slightly while you stared at him with raised brows. “You can’t be sure he wasn’t responding to me.”
“I know excited delirium.” Robby let out a dry chuckle.
He was annoyed. More so of the potential of a situation than your blatant attempt at doing your job. Had he not been there, had he not seen what was coming undone, you would’ve been struck again. Robby knew you did your job knowing of the potential risk, so it didn’t make sense why’d you throw yourself into the danger.
“He already assaulted an officer. He wasn’t deescalating.” Robby recited, clasping both hands behind his head. He couldn’t look at you without thinking of what could’ve gone wrong. He was more than annoyed. “What were you trying to prove back there?”
When the question stroked you, there was a pause. You had stopped glancing between him and the patient. With your sights straight at him, you were stunned. “Nothing—“
“You stood too close to an agitated patient.” Robby replayed, hoping the situation would alarm you as it did him. Why didn’t you care?
“What are you trying to make up for? Richman?”
You glanced away then, tensing your jaw instead of attempting an argument. It was futile, but he rather heard he was wrong; have you berate him over an absurd accusation than be right for once–because if that was the case, then you were looking for danger. As a punishment, or worst, retribution for what you might’ve seen as shortcomings.
Sighing, you shut your eyes briefly. “Everyone keeps telling me I did the right thing. Even Admin didn’t tear into it during the review, after it cost them some publicity.”
Robby bit his tongue. He wanted to shake you by the shoulder, wake you up to reality. No patient would be like Richman, and after what Admin considered a ‘freak accident,’ there was no reason to put blame on anyone. The doubt and lingering questions you didn’t ask about you staying as an attending in a few months made more sense. There was still a cloud lingering over you and you hadn’t addressed it.
“But what if they’re just telling me that because I only had a broken nose and nothing worse?”
Robby could see your skin shiver. All that was left after was faint scars on your hand from where the scratches were. He would see you absentmindedly touch or gawk at it. He could understand the impulse, but now, he knew it was just an awful reminder.
He shrugged, frowning. “It wasn’t a failure on your part.”
Robby imagined hearing those words. He heard it from Adamson, Dana, even Jack (when he was feeling wise). It seemed redundant at times. He was set on the type of man he was. Not worth the hassle of worrying for. He tried to make up for it, as if everyone were holding it against him. He was sure some of them were, but he did wish for the reminder at times.
“I don’t think anyone sees it that way. Not Admin or Caleb.” He listed off, self-assured because he had to be. For your sake. “I don’t see it that way.”
With a blank stare, you wrapped your mind around his words. He knew when you were listening or not. It was like your brain actively tried to read into words the way he’d assess a trauma in the midst of blood and chaos. You didn’t have to read into anything because Robby had meant it.
A small grin grew on your face. “You’re not giving up.”
He crossed his arms, glancing down at the sensation tingling in his arm. There was much, just red patched under the hairs on his arm. A mark from the impact. He chuckled at the implication of your words. “I don’t plan to, no.”
“I’d like to know I’d be leaving my patients and staff in capable hands.” He responded, glancing up at you curiously. Maybe he could pull it from you, but the situation was like pulling teeth. You were fighting the truth.
“No pressure.” You joked, looking back at the patient.
“I don’t think it’s anything you can handle. I’ve known that since the day I met you.”
With a raised brow, you bit back the coy smile tempting to spread. “Does flattery tend to get you everywhere?”
“Not without some effort.” He shrugged.
There was something mystifying, like the idea of toying with something no longer professional was more than entertainment. You two had tried to keep work about work. Even when the arguments got nasty, it was all still professional. That was until he spoke with Mrs. McGuire.
He could try to tell himself that the conversation they had was professional. That he was offering support for his colleague because that was the unspoken rule, but it didn’t feel like just a professional obligation. For Robby, it was the most personal he had been with a patient. After what happened with Leah, he had vowed to never treat with a personal affliction on his sleeve.
There was nothing objective when Jake came in the bed of a truck, cradling Leah and pleading with her to wake up. He didn’t follow his obligations when Jack argued about the amount of blood he was trying to supply to her limp body. And it didn’t feel impersonal when Jake refused to look him in the eye after notifying him of Leah’s passing.
Since then, he hadn’t heard of Jake, and he couldn’t blame him for it; but Robby promised to leave his baggage at the door.
Except, that day when Mrs. McGuire bordered the line of smiting you for doing your professional obligation, he was infuriated for you. It felt like no matter what either of you did, it didn’t please anyone. You, who had always maintained healthy professionalism with the fellow doctors and genuine empathy with patients; ideal professionalism. He almost envied it.
Robby was known to lash out in a bad mood. Langdon could attest to it. Dana picked it out the second she saw it. Jack would jab him, in hopes to get his point across. Yet, you didn’t let yourself be known by anyone else. Even with the quiet displeasure of how quick your life detoured, you did it with the same dedication. He didn’t see you lash out that resentment to anyone else, and he wondered why couldn’t do the same.
“I got a response from Presby.” You commented, gently gnawing at the inside of your cheek.
He cocked his head slightly, the grin gently coming off as he anticipated elaboration. “What did they say?”
“They made an offer. Still waiting for a couple more before I make my decision.” You shrugged. Would it be so simple to uproot and move? Presby wasn’t too far, but it was like moving to the West Coast for Robby.
PTMC was nice, despite all the shit Robby would complain about. Someone who was articulate and methodical as you could survive. Even when he itched to uproot and leave the dust the horrors he had seen within the walls, a piece of soul didn’t feel complete. “You said you had a meeting with Caleb earlier? Does that have something to do with it?”
You opened your mouth before closing it again. It wasn’t a shock that he picked that up. Truth was, he was relying on his assumption to be correct; because if it wasn’t, he might have to put in more effort. “If you must know, yes, I made an official submission for a permanent position. Still has to go through all the official channels first.”
His chest deflated and suddenly, relief. It was a step. He knew Admin would have a response before some of the other hospitals you could’ve applied to. Most of his correspondence with Admin and Caleb was looking for a psychiatrist to help with the load from the ED. “Perfect. I’ll be looking forward to the email.”
“Don’t get too excited. You’re not the only deciding factor in this.” You warned, chuckling with the sight of his crinkled eyes.
“Well you already have Caleb’s stamp of approval.” He shrugged, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I’d say his opinion carries some weight.”
“I don’t doubt it, but all they're doing is making an offer.” You clarified, shaking your head. “Nothing becomes official until I say so.”
“Why did I get a page for a trauma?” You called, jogging over only minutes since the page came your way.
Robby was already standing outside of trauma 2, hands on his hips, as he seemed exasperated. He motioned his head to the inside of the trauma room. When you stared through the glass, you finally saw the young male--no older than twenty--laying on the gurney. He was obviously distressed, tossing his head from side to side, tears falling down his cheeks unrestrained.
What stood out most to anybody looking was the mangled look of his left leg. The bone was protruding out and it seemed almost impossible to reattach and salvage. You frowned at the sight, clearing your throat then turning back to Robby. He sighed, “19-year-old, Jason Bergs, Motorcycle vs SUV. Partial amputation on his left leg from the accident.”
“Looks bad.”
“That’s not the worst part. He’s refusing treatment because he’s an athlete on a scholarship.” Robby sighed, keeping his voice controlled, but the circumstances were not great.
He was a victim in an accident, too young to be expected to make a heavy decision without counsel. Robby knew from the moment he was wheeled in that he was a patient who would need extensive treatment. The sooner the possible the better, but no one had expected him to fully reject it, when it could very much save his life. “Park had come down, and said there is a high possibility of an amputation. That's when he started rejecting treatment.”
“Not surprised.” You responded, keeping an eye on the patient. Inside, Whitaker and Mohan were becoming a bit restless with the verbal rejections he was making. Garcia was even in the room, taking a back seat as she restrained herself from making an obvious remark. “Does he have any relatives?”
“Dana is contacting them, but I don’t think they’ll make it before the inevitable.” Robby sighed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.
You remained quiet for a moment. Something was oddly familiar in the situation. A young, aspiring individual working hard to accomplish what they had spent years aspiring to do—then have it ripped from their possibilities. He was fighting reality. Robby knew if the kid saw it from the clinical perspective, he would understand the gravity of his physical condition, but he was overwhelmed with the fate waiting for him.
“So, what’s the concern? That he’s incompetent to make rational medical decisions?” You questioned, entering into the clinical aspect of your involvement.
Robby shook his head, crossing his arms. “He made comments about preferring to die rather than amputate his leg. He even told some of the nurses to stop administering the pain medication.”
It was a cry. He wasn't wailing for his parents, or for them to get rid of the pain, he was begging for them to keep the one mangled limb attached. Robby couldn’t make the executive decision, and he didn’t want to provide false hope, but even he could tell what the chances were. Most people would focus on the pain, but while being a teenager with a physical dream, it meant ideally keeping all limbs.
You widened your eyes in horror. “You’re thinking a suicide risk assessment? I think the situation is too dire to perform that—“
“In order to send him up to surgery, we need him to at least agree with the procedure.” Robby interrupted, passionate that came with his predicament. He was disheveled from the arguing back and forth with an emotionally distraught patient. “Garcia doesn’t feel comfortable transferring if he proceeds to be volatile and Park won’t operate until the patient consents.”
It was only 2pm, but he could use a break—or at least some assistance with his current issue. He was exhausted. You stared at him with uncertainty. Time was of the essence and he needed to exhaust all his options, ASAP. Robby chased the look in your eye, moving his head slightly to remain in your line of sight. “Look, I know I’m asking for a lot, but I could really use someone who could empathize with his current situation.”
You glanced at him one more time. He was being earnest with his plea. Robby as of late, didn’t find a reason to argue. It was like the trauma of the Richman cases bonded you. His empathy wasn't pity or just convenience, it was a reaction after watching your challenges. He had watched you be hard on yourself time and time again. He could oppose every judgment you made about yourself, or he could help you see it the way he and your attending do by providing a stage for you to perform.
You pushed through the doors first, holding it for Robby to follow behind you. Heads spun in your direction and something like relief washed over them. Whitaker and Mohan were still on the bedside, their voices quieting. You motioned them over with your head. “Has there been any progress?”
Mohan shook her head while Whitaker fidgeted with his hands. She sighed, “He is still refusing the treatment. Garcia said she can’t wait until he dies on the table to operate.”
Robby glanced over at you. While you let out a small sigh, you acknowledged the three of them, slowly making your way to the bedside. You pulled over a stool, to be leveled with him on the table. Sitting down, you noticed him continuously stare at the ceiling. “Hello, Jason.”
“I already said I don’t want surgery.” Jason groaned, his forehead dabbled with sweat. “Not if you’re going to cut it off!”
His voice boomed off the walls. You didn’t flinch. Robby knew you were typically unfazed, even when you had reservations about a case. His body was tense though, already playing out every worst-case scenario from where he stood by the doors.
With your hands visible on your lap, you sucked in a breath. “Let's slow down a bit.”
“My concern right now is you’re in pain.” You mentioned, speaking softly yet firmly to capture his attention. He had labored breathing, and apart from the machines, you were the only audible person in the room. “I understand you refused the pain medication. Can I ask why?”
“Because I know you guys will do the surgery once I’m knocked out.” Jason accused, spitting the words out with spite.
“The pain medication is meant to block the current pain your body is experiencing. They can administer a dosage that will keep you awake.” You explained, “And trust me, no one here wants to go against your wishes. We are here to aid you in the best way we can.”
Jason's breathing became heavier, a mix of the pain and resentment of the situation. He was in between a rock and a hard place—except there was no visible escape that benefited him at all. “Which means cutting my leg?”
You bat your eyelashes. Robby was now heavily focused on your reaction. Something had struck on your heartstrings, because for a brief moment, you had looked away from him. He imagined you envisioning yourself on the table. From what you’ve shared, the weight of your diagnosis was more than any ambitious surgeon could handle.
There was a choice for medication, which would provide a comfortable life, but you never want to live comfortably. The excitement of being a prosperous neurosurgeon had been stolen from you, and even though Robby was convinced Psychiatry was your calling, he was sure it stung.
“Look, I’m not a surgeon, but what I can say is our surgeons make the best assessment with the most desirable outcome.” You assured, leaning forward to try and reach into Jason’s reason. He was too emotional. Too invested in the future to acknowledge the problem he was currently in. “They aren’t making judgments lightly, and if they think amputation is necessary, it’s because all other options have been exhausted.”
“But Jason, this doesn’t mean you can’t have an equally good quality of life afterward.” You continued softly. Robby grasped his arms tighter, feeling his own chest constrict within itself.
“You can’t tell me it gets better.” His voice wobbled. His lips were trembling and he was fighting the rest of his tears. His cheeks were still stained, but he was withholding himself. “You don’t know what this feels like.”
If time weren’t an issue, Robby was sure you would’ve sat there and told him everything. About how you had wanted to be a neurosurgeon since you were 10, but life had thrown you a curveball that made it impossible. He could see you hesitate with the decision, before you sagged your body further. “You’re right. I have no idea what this feels like.”
“But I do know what it feels like when your life changes so suddenly that you don’t recognize yourself anymore.” You assured, nodding your head to try and remain professional. Nurses and the couple of residents in the room were staring. Robby’s weighty gaze burned on your skin more than the rest.
He was the only one aware of what you were alluding to. It was an intimate detail that told everyone why you were closed off and only clinical in the workplace. It wasn't because of your displeasure of your work, but because you were preparing for horrible fear to repeat itself.
You rubbed your hands on your slacks. “And maybe it won't get better at first, but with time, there are still endless possibilities for you to make the most of your life.”
Although shaky, Jason was taking evener breaths, he was still in obvious discomfort. “I won’t be able to walk anymore.”
“Not the way you did before.” Robby intervened from the foot of the bed. He still had his arms crossed. He looked away from you before you could blatantly notice his staring. “But with rehab, a prosthesis, and a lot of work, there is a very real chance you can walk again.”
“And what if I can’t play soccer?” Jason questioned, choking back tears.
Regardless of whether he could see it or not, you smiled softly. “Then we help you figure out who you are besides soccer.”’
He started nodding his head, more breathless than before. Mohan asked him if they could administer pain meds and he finally agreed. You stepped away to allow them to work without interruption. Robby noticed how you strayed off in the corner, watching Jason more agreeable to the treatment.
Robby had saddled up beside you, staring at you thoughtfully. Keeping your attention on Jason, he positioned himself in front of you. “I don’t think I could’ve convinced him without you. I know Mohan was racking her brain with every method taught in med school.”
When you finally looked up at him, he had a soft smile. His crow’s feet made him softer, and he was genuine with his compliment. You shrugged, offering a closed smile. “He needed someone to tell him the truth, and someone to tell him he could survive it.”
“I couldn’t have done both either.”
His eyebrows twitched. He wanted to add something, but the door across the trauma room opened, and Garcia wandered in. She looked down at the patient, then at you and Robby huddled in the corner. “How are things looking here?”
“Jason, do you consent to the procedure?” Mohan asked, standing over him. From the corner of the room, Robby and you saw him catch his breath.
He nodded vigorously, “Can that doctor come with me? I don’t want to be alone.”
Garcia, Mohan, and Robby looked for you. Taking a step forward you went around the other side of the bed, putting a careful hand on his arm. “Of course. We have someone contacting your parents, so they should be here soon.”
Jason gasped lightly, the tears streaming down his face again. Garcia, rigid and detached, pulled out her spectra link. “Surgery is a go. I’ll get the transfer team down.”
She turned her back to the patient, speaking in a hushed voice. You stared down at Jason's leg. Then, looking up from his leg, Robby raised his eyebrows at you with a silent question. You gently pulled away from Jason, walking back to Robby. “Are you sure about this?”
The last thing you needed to do was reassure him, but he felt morally responsible since he dragged you here to pull him out of a sticky situation. If the case was too emotionally charged, he wouldn't blame you for pulling away. God knows there were times he should’ve.
“I’ll stick around until they get him in the OR.” You whispered back, checking back to Jason over your shoulder. “Once he’s out and awake, I can do a proper suicide risk assessment, just in case. I’ll work with his case manager to follow up if anything of concern comes up.”
Robby agreed silently. Behind him the door opened and Santos stuck her head in, looking up to Robby. “Are you busy?”
Before he could respond, you put a careful hand on his bicep. He glanced down at your hand before meeting your eyes. “We should be fine.”
“The transfer team should be here in a couple of minutes.” Garcia noted, putting her spectralink away.
Pausing for a moment, he took in Jason’s calmer body language. He was redirected to you when you pulled your hand away. He gave one firm nod before following Santos out of the trauma room.
Robby groaned, stretching his hands over his head. The clock was nearing the time night shift would be coming in, but they couldn't come in any sooner. His feet were achy and there was a kink in his back from when he transferred a patient earlier. He tried stretching as much as he could, but he couldn’t get rid of it.
He had spent all day on his feet and he was waiting eagerly for Shen to come in. While staring up at the patient board, he mentally analyzed what the day shift had weeded through. It wasn't a lot. The patient board was still lit up with a long list of patients. He was only glad he was almost on his way out.
The sound of doors sliding and wind gushing in hid under the noise of nurses, doctors, and techs passing around the ED. Robby didn't move his head until he caught a familiar figure walking towards the central station. Jack trudged in, carrying his backpack with one strap. Robby crossed his arms, furrowing his brows. “I thought you had tonight off.”
“I did.” Jack confirmed, he slipped off his backpack, putting it on the desk to dig for his stethoscope. “I switched with Shen. He had some last minute dinner plans or something that came up.”
Robby raised his eyebrows, a bit surprised by the news. Shen was punctual, taking his new responsibility as an attending seriously, even with his Dunkin. He didn’t take days off, except the one occasion he was sick and Robby told him to stay home. He especially didn’t make last minute switches in schedule.
“I think the kid has a new girlfriend. He’s been acting stranger than usual.” Jack offhandedly said, adjusting his badge on his shirt. He approached Robby with a small smirk. “I’ve noticed him hanging around that psych fellow. Do you know if she’s single?”
Robby froze. Why did Jack think he knew anything of your intimate life? Because you worked on the day shift? It was a premature assumption, that Robby was somehow looped into your personal life. He couldn’t have been the only one you got along with, considering some of his residents seemed fond of you. It would be absurd to think he was the only one who knew anything concerning you.
If there was any truth to Jack’s insinuation, Robby would also like to know the truth. There wasn’t ample opportunity for you and Shen’s schedule to align; and if he was willing to take a night off, there had to be something serious between the two of you.
Jack stared at him weirdly, his smirk settling wider on his face. “You good, brother?”
Before Robby could respond, Dana came up beside Jack, looking at the two attendings.”EMT’s en route. Two victims, GSW after a robbery attempt.”
Jack immediately reached over to grab gloves from the desk. After Jack yanked some out the box, Robby followed in suit. Jack stared at him, watching him slip them on. “What are you doing?”
“I’ll leave after this one.” Robby assured, both of them walking over to the ambulance bay. Jack had yelled out to a couple of the residents, telling them to wait on stand-by.
When the double doors opened wide, there was a slight breeze that hit them both in the face. It was only a couple minutes until the first ambulance parked in front of them. Jack advanced first, waiting for the back doors of the ambulance to open up. EMT’s announced vital signs, and the scared teenage boy moved his head in bewilderment.
“Where’s Gabby?!” He called out. Jack and Robby noticed the blood stain on his pant leg. It had already been cut to access the source of the bleeding. “Please tell me she is okay!”
“Who is Gabby? Was she with you when you were shot?” Jack questioned while they brought down the gurney. He was grasping onto the handles, leaning over to speak with the kid. He had a wide eye stare of someone who witnessed something they shouldn’t have at his age.
“Yes! Please, you have to tell me where she is!” He exclaimed, his lips trembling as they began wheeling him inside.
Robby and Jack heard sirens approaching, coming in loudly. They both stared at the direction it was coming at and Robby waved him off. “I’ve got it, Jack!”
The ambulance parked behind the other, and Robby rounded his way to the back. The doors clicked open and the EMT in the back stood up. He heard the voices, describing her blood pressure, the source of the bleeding, and her current heart rate. As they lowered the gurney, he saw the semi-conscious teenage girl. Her brown hair was splayed around her face but what concerned him was the centralized bleeding coming from her abdominal-chest region.
“Are you Gabby?” He asked, staring down at her face. She was stirring a little, her words slurred as she attempted to stay awake.
It was a punch in the gut. The resemblance between her and Leah. Even Matthew, the boyfriend, had the glossy, wide eye stare Jake had sitting on the bed of a truck. When Robby finally saw Jake after endless texts and calls trying to locate him, it felt like breathing for the first time. Then he saw Leah, and he knew something that Jake didn’t know.
The gruesome loss. The blood stains and the coldness touch of life giving up.
He wanted to keep Jake from that, and even when things didn’t work out with his mother, there was a bond between them that worked because of it. All of that went away once Leah was pronounced dead. Robby became the person he always was due to the cost of his job.
That’s why when Gabby was pronounced dead, his hands trembled. He didn’t cry. He didn’t have enough tears to do any of that. Instead, he stood in front of the plaque thanking the frontline first responders who aided during the PittFest mass shooting. It was recently installed and Robby hadn’t been there for the unveiling, obligations be damned. He didn’t need the reminder, but Gloria kept insisting it was one step towards healing, not regressing to the painful memory.
Robby tried steadying his breathing. His eyes skimmed the engraved message, but he was hardly reading what it said. All he knew was he didn’t need ‘thank you’s’ for failing. It was immoral in his opinion.
“Hey, you’re here pretty late.”
He turned his head at the sound of the voice. It was approaching, and when his eyes landed on you, he noted the satin dress hanging around the curvature of your body. You stood out, mostly because it wasn’t everyday a woman sauntered around in a beautiful dress.
Rubbing at his jaw gently, coarse hair scratching his fingers, he hummed. “So are you, it seems.”
You stopped beside him, but instead of looking at what he was staring at, you kept your eyes on him. “There was an emergency with the patient we transferred from here earlier.”
“Are they okay?” He asked reflexively. He could vaguely remember sending patients upstairs. The whole day had become a blur and he couldn’t distinguish what happened before this last trauma.
“Right now, they are.” You responded curtly. There was a lingering question ghosting your lips. He stared down, avoiding the way your eyes were burning holes in him. “Are you?”
He didn’t even bother to respond. There was an understanding that neither of you had to say what was on your mind, because the other picked up so clearly with what wasn't being said. You were acutely aware of what was wrong without seeing him as often as the rest of his staff. Some of them did check in, but nobody lingered their eyes on him like they could offer salvation.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked quietly.
When he finally met your eyes, you seemed anxious for an answer. Maybe it was your professional nature, always trying to figure out someone’s mind before they even opened their mouth. Yet, he didn’t feel scrutinized or cornered enough to be defensive. He was aware there was gentleness he missed, and it lured him in.
“You don’t have any plans after this?” He motioned to your dressy attire.
You stare down at your dress, laughing. If you were tired, he wouldn’t have known how put together you were; unlike him, where his body was driven by exhaustion. “I did at some point. Canceled them when I realized I wasn’t going to make it.”
“At this point, I’d rather go home than to some fancy date.” You sighed, your hands falling lazily to your sides.
He stood still, letting your brush past him to the elevators off to the side. His eyes followed the movement of the dress, noticing it swayed lightly. You looked back at the lack of sound following you. “We can both drown out sorrows with some beer and wine.”
Robby hadn’t thought you’d welcome him inside your home. He had expected to go to the bar by the hospital. Quick and easy. Except when you sent him for the address to your apartment, he was taken aback. He had it in his recently searched location on his maps app, because he had dropped off ailments for when you were sick. He didn’t realize the two of you were close enough for that. He could count the amount of times he had been to Dana’s house with one hand—and he considered her a confidant.
He followed behind you, memorizing the path from the instructions you gave him. He noticed the new ‘Welcome’ mat outside your door. Walking in was a small hallway you led him down, before turning right to where your living room and kitchen were.
It was cozier than he expected. He wouldn’t have known you had just unpacked. There were filled bookshelves, plants, and a decorative rug that made the apartment feel like home. You motioned to the couch, “Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to change out of this.”
You motioned your arms to the satin dress you were wearing. He had noticed it the entire walk up to your apartment. It was hard to ignore. Not that you stood out in a bad way, but it was different from your usual attire. The last time he saw you wear a dress was when Caleb had set you two up for a blind dinner date. He spent a long time thinking about you in that dress as well.
“So a date?” Robby called out, dropping his bag beside your kitchen island, making his way around.
“Yes. Caleb is always telling me I need to open up, be more social!” You responded from somewhere in your bedroom, he assumed. He rather stood awkwardly, unsure whether he should sit down or wait for you to come back.
He had stared at your living room, drinking in all your decorations. A couple frames, flat screen TV, and coffee books on the oak center console. He heard a door close behind him, and you had a small grin on your face. “I agreed to go on a date with a guy. I should’ve known that it wasn’t going to work out.”
Robby nodded, noting the sweats and tank top you were wearing. You wandered over to your kitchen opening the fridge. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket, coming up to the island to lean against it. “Is he someone from the hospital?”
When you turned to face him, you raised an eyebrow at him, curious. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
You extended a canned beer at him. He took it grateful, cracking the seal to break the awkward silence. He noted the second can in your hands, following his action. “Sure.”
He took the first sip while you hesitated, “So, what happened today?”
His eyes were now on his feet. There was a lot that had happened, but he couldn’t put it into words. It required too much context that Robby wasn’t comfortable sharing. It was like asking him to open a Pandora box of all his misery. It was bound to be messy and more trouble than anyone asked for. Your handles cradled the beer, but made no movement to drink it. “I heard about the trauma. Two teenagers, right?”
He furrowed his brows when he gazed at you. The art of you knowing was a mystery to him. You shrugged, “I ran into Kiara before I left. I assume it didn’t end well.”
“One of them died due to the extent of their injuries.” Robby responded, coldly calculated, protecting the source of the grief. He didn’t want to lay it on too thick just yet. He didn’t want to scare you away yet. “She was a 17 year old girl. Gabriella Lopez.”
You took a sip of the beer. He kept twirling the can in his hand, as if he were looking for the best position to hold it. He could see you in the corner of his eye, the way you continued to admire his side profile. “And the other?”
“He had a couple of grazes on his leg. Abbot stabilized the bleeding.” Robby sighed out, immediately picturing Jake. Despite being told to sit down, to stay away from the chaos of the red zone, he had tried to make his way to Leah, seeing the horrific sight of Robby performing CPR on his girlfriend. What should’ve been a fun time at a festival became a horror show and Robby wondered if Jake had the same type of nightmares.
“The worst thing to happen to him was losing his girlfriend.”
Robby’s composure was unraveling. He assumed he didn’t have any more tears to cry but he felt his eyes tearing up. He faced his head away, trying to hide the shame that had been metastasizing in him. You had put the beer done, rubbing them against the fabric on your thighs. “I’m sorry.”
He frowned, repositioning his head in a direction where he could slightly see you. “What for?”
You crossed your arms. “I guess this brought up some bad memories for you.”
That was an understatement. He bit back his tongue, sucking in a sharp breath. You continued after a beat. “I’m guessing something that happened during the PittFest shooting.”
The accuracy didn’t fail to amaze him. You knew him without him having to say a word. It was a relief to be seen without the effort. He was tired of trying, and with your steady stares and words, he could just let himself trust in you to figure out the rest. “Look, you don’t have to talk about it now, but whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
That caught his attention. The firmness in your suggestion. He lifted his eyes, his eyelashes slightly damp from the few tears that sat on his eyes. You planted a hand on the counter, leaning in slightly. Offering a small smile, you drank up his expression. “You didn’t fail anyone then, and you didn’t fail these kids today.”
Coming out of your mouth, he could believe that. He wondered if this was the type of comfort you provided to your patients; or if you had softened for him with the time you spent working with him. He was unrestrained now, and he could confidently say you had managed to break down the wall he thought he put up months ago.
He sniffled lightly. There was still some rosiness on your cheeks. He could tell it was blush applied that you hadn’t taken off. “This date of yours, was it with Shen?”
You didn’t question the redirection. With the corner of your mouth curling, he sensed you liked him questioning his observation. The beers the two of you were drinking had been forgotten. The buzz in the room had nothing to do with alcohol and neither of you were fighting it. “And if it was? He’s single. I’m painfully single. It’s an ideal situation.”
Ideal. Not desirable. It sounded more like a step in a 5-year plan and less of a choice driven by the heart. He didn’t know what romance tasted like with you, but he could imagine it being like this. Banter under the warm kitchen lights, pretending not to notice a spark burning up into a flame. “But not what you want?”
You hummed, straightening his back. The action brought the two of you closer. If he moved just an inch, your chests would touch. Something about that thought made his chest warm. “I don’t know what I want, Robby.”
“Michael.”
He saw the twitch in your brows. He put down the beer still in his hand, “We’re not at work, so you can call me Michael.”
“That hardly seems professional, Michael.”
When the name escaped your lips, it sounded like a purr. You must have known what you were doing, tempting a man with low inhibitions. Anyone who spent enough time with you would feel the tension, and being alone in a room was asking for the burning sensation of heat.
“I think we’re past that.” He responded, his eyes tracing every curvature of your face. The space between your lips and nose. The curving of the corners of your lips.
It was an imposition on his part, to be so close in your intimate space. There was a reason he hadn’t been let in the door before, but today, something must have been different.
You were still leaning against the counter, your hands making no movements. His hand was curled, resting on the cold marble. He tried to focus on that sensation to hide the buzzing bodily heat under his scrub and long sleeved undershirt. It was impossible.
So when you leaned in slightly, he was picking up on something that was unrestrained from you. Stripping you of the title you put before what was personally you.
And he didn't know how to process the sensation of your lips on his. Suddenly, the warmth was an extension of your body latching on to him and even though your chests were still inches apart, he could feel it radiating lower in his body.
You detached yourself, staring at him through your lazy eyelashes. A part of you must have regretted it, but the surge in Robby to continue the connection was fervent. He pressed his body against you, bringing your lips back together like some battle for control.
He pushed you up against the edge of the counter, hands cradling your face. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he had even had a simple hook up. The twitching of his cock had made it apparent it had been a long time.
Soon both your mouths were opening, tongue and saliva mixing like some cocktail of previous suppression. He could taste the lingering barley from the beer, but the sensation of your hands gripping his shoulders was more intoxicating than the alcohol.
His lips kissed down your neck and your breathing was heavy. You craned your neck farther back, giving him access that felt illicit.
“Do you want me to–”
“Don’t stop.”
That was all he needed to hear. He was helping you yank off your top from your head, momentarily pulling away only to continue a trail of his DNA down your chest. His warm breath gave your skin goosebumps and it was until his tongue licked your pebbled nipple that you made an audible moan.
His hands had caged you against your kitchen island. When your hands pushed against his chest, he forcibly pulled himself away.
“The couch.” You jerked your head, pupils blown.
He was walking backwards, letting himself be guided by you as you helped him out of his scrub top and what he wore under it–tossing it aside to decorate the floor instead of his body. All he felt was the back of the couch, stumbling down onto it. You crawled onto his lap, slotting your knees on either side of him. When your lips connected again, it was hard for Robby to decide whether he wanted to focus on your hands traveling down his chest or the taste of you.
Your hands were making quick work of his button and zipper. His hands grasped your before you could unzip it completely. “Are you sure?”
In between the feverish kisses, your lips were smiling. You affirmed, “Just fuck me, Michael.”
He groaned, lifting you to stand. He barely hovered over the couch, just enough to pull out both his pants and underwear to pool at his ankles. While you slipped off your pants and he kicked his shoes to the side, he caught the cute lacy print of your underwear, seemingly one half of a lingerie set.
With amused eyes, he craned his head back while you settled yourself back on his lap. “Did you wear those for Shen? Hoping to get lucky?”
“Shut up.”
You smashed your faces back together. It was hard to distinguish who was more eager.
With your bare chest flushed against his, your fingers grasping at the ends of his hair, his hands gripping onto your hips, it was a blur of movements. He was bridging your pussy near his throbbing cock. It was almost standing with a mind of its own from how desperate he had become in five minutes.
This had to be a record for quickest erection in his fifties.
One hand traveled down between your bodies and his thumb immediately found itself on your clit, rubbing small circles. With the material of the lace against you, it added more pleasure. Your mouth was agape as you attempted to keep a steady breathing. Robby was enjoying the small whimpers that came with your breath ghosting his cheek.
“Are you that desperate?” He chuckled lightheartedly. The pad of his thumb could feel a dampness and he had to assume you were already wet before his fingers got anywhere near your pussy.
“Don’t act like you didn’t want this too.” You whispered, before burying your head in the crook of his neck.
Seemingly still aware of how to use your body, one of your hands tugged at his hard cock. Your hand barely wrapped entirely around him, but determined and with the premature cum on his tip, you jerked him off.
The groan that came from the back of his throat made your body vibrate. He was too inebriated to stop, but knowing the warmth of your pussy was right in his hands, his brain had other priorities.
He pulled his hand away, gripping your hips and rubbing your skin to catch your attention. “I don't have a condom.”
You pulled your hand away, lifting your head to admire the lust blown look in his eyes. “I’m clean and I take birth control.”
Robby nodded, tugging you closer. With ease, he grabbed his cock with one hand, positioning it right at your entrance. Pushing your underwear to the side, he took a steady breath at the bare sight of your pussy. It was glistening with wetness and he knew he was in for a night. Starting out slowly, his tip broke the tension first.
Your hands, that were holding onto Robby’s shoulder for dear life, tensed further. Your nails dug into his skin, but the stinging only made the pleasure better. You moaned loudly, and he suspected it had been an equally long drought for you. He paused when your walls tightened. He wasn’t sure he could push the rest of it in, but the way you looked down mesmerized, he knew he had to try.
“Fuck me–”
“Oh my god, Micheal!”
He was just thrusting the tip into you, working the rest of it in gradually. Your head was thrown back, moaning and gasping for air the further he pushed his cock inside. His own grunts and groans mixed with the sound of your bodies connecting.
“You feel so good, baby.” Micheal grunted out, completely enamored by how close he was to bottoming himself in you. The name slipped out, but in the haziness you both were in, neither of you paid much mind to the words spilling instinctively. “I won’t last long if you keep–fuck–squeezing me.”
Your back arched inward, your bodies impossibly closer. He heard the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in your apartment. He didn't need to look to know he was hammering the entire length and girth of him inside of you. His arms hugged around your middle, pulling you in to wrap your own arms around his neck.
“Michael, I’m so close–” You whined, and he swore he could feel something damp against his shoulder. Whether it was saliva or tears from the overwhelming thrust of his cock going in and out, he was pretty satisfied. He could almost feel your cervix with each push inward.
“Yeah? I’m almost there, baby.” He reassured, cooing in your ear. He was breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Something floral yet fresh.
He was lifting his body from the couch, keeping you in place while he did the work, trying to reach maximum pleasure in the position. With each moan ringing in his ear, he could sense your body was close.
“Micheal, please. Please.” You reverend
His own cock was twitching with the sounds of your quiet voice and the feeling of your walls closing in on him. He sucked in a breath, hands grasping your ribs, feeling your heart accelerate.
“Fuck!” He called out, losing his patience. “Come on. Let go.”
You both moaned loudly reaching your climax simultaneously. Robby released into you, and your body was twitching in his hands. Catching his breath, he slowly relaxed into the couch, your bodies still molding against each other. He could feel the mix of you both running down his thighs.
There was a moment while you two sat in the humidity of the two of you where it was just your hearts filling in the noise.
Eventually you chuckled, slowly pulling yourself away, keeping yourself up with your hands on his chest. He craned his head, resting it back on the couch, smiling in confusion from your reaction. You brushed some of his damp hair from his face, "That's one way to convince me to stay.”
With his cock softening inside you, he was still wasted with the sensation. Now that he thought about it, this was a long time coming. He chuckled, rubbing the back of your head. “All it took was some effort.”
Summary: Steve’s quiet has never scared you, until it starts feeling like the silence you grew up with.
A/N: Ive been on such an angst train recently I apologise in advance, this wasnt even a planned post but anyway I'll be back to focusing on requests tomorrow, hope you have a lovely day lovelys :)
You'd always hated the quiet.
Not the good kind, not the comfortable, easy silence of a Sunday morning with coffee going cold on the counter, or the kind that settled over the two of you in the car when there was nothing left to say because everything had already been said. That silence you loved. That silence meant safety.
It was the other kind that got under your skin. The kind that showed up when someone you loved was upset and decided, for whatever reason, that the safest thing to do with it was disappear into themselves. You'd grown up around that kind of silence. Your mother used to go quiet for days after a bad shift or whenever she was fed up with you, and you learned to tiptoe around her like the air itself might crack if you breathed too loudly You'd learned early that silence wasn't peace. Silence was a held breath. Silence was the calm right before somebody slammed a door.
So when Steve came through the front door that Tuesday evening and didn't say a word, didn't even glance your way as he dropped his keys in the bowl by the door harder than he needed to, something in your chest immediately pulled tight.
"Hey," you said carefully, looking up from the couch where you'd been half-watching TV, half waiting for him. "Bad day?"
He didn't answer right away. He toed off his shoes, left them lying sideways instead of lining them up the way he usually did, and walked past you toward the kitchen without so much as a glance in your direction.
"Yeah," he finally said, voice flat. "Something like that."
You watched him open the fridge, stare into it for a solid ten seconds without taking anything out, then close it again. He leaned against the counter and rubbed a hand down his face, and you recognized the posture, shoulders curled in, jaw tight, eyes somewhere far away. This was Steve shutting a door on himself. You just didn't know why yet.
"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked, keeping your voice light, testing the water.
"Not really."
Okay. Fine. That was fine. People were allowed to not want to talk. You knew that, logically, you'd read enough, been in therapy long enough, had this exact conversation with yourself enough times to know that someone needing space wasn't the same thing as someone being angry at you. But knowing something and feeling it were two very different animals, and right now the feeling was crawling up the back of your throat, fast and familiar and unwelcome.
You turned back to the TV, but you weren't watching it anymore. You were listening, to the fridge door, to his footsteps, to the specific quality of the quiet coming from the kitchen. It felt heavy. It felt like it was waiting for something.
Steve didn't come sit with you. He grabbed a glass of water, drank about half of it standing at the sink, and then said, "I'm gonna take a shower," and left the room without waiting for a response.
You sat there for a second, feeling small in a way you hated feeling. The rational part of your brain was trying to talk you down, he said he had a bad day, that's all, people are allowed to be tired, this isn't about you, but the other part of you, the part that was eight years old and standing very still in a kitchen that smelled like your mothers perfume and unspoken anger, was already spiraling. Already running through the last twenty-four hours to figure out what you'd done wrong. Had you said something at breakfast? Left a mess somewhere? Forgotten to do something you'd promised?
You heard the shower turn on down the hall, and the silence that followed, real silence now, no water running, no Steve moving around, felt unbearable.
You picked up your phone and put it back down. You picked at a thread on the couch cushion. You told yourself you were being ridiculous, that this was Steve, not your mother, that Steve had never once slammed a door or made you flinch or let a bad mood curdle into something aimed at you. You knew that. You knew that. And still your leg wouldn't stop bouncing, and still your stomach felt like it had a fist in it.
By the time he came out of the shower, hair damp and a plain t-shirt clinging slightly to his shoulders, you'd worked yourself into a low, quiet panic that you were doing your best to keep off your face.
He still didn't say much. He grabbed the remote off the coffee table, sat down on the far end of the couch, not close to you, not touching you, which was so unlike him it made your throat ache, and started flipping through channels without really watching anything.
You couldn't take it anymore.
"Steve."
"Hm?"
"Are you mad at me?"
He looked over at you then, and for a second his face did something complicated, surprise, mostly, and then something softer underneath it. "What? No. Why would I be mad at you?"
"I don't know," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to. "You've barely said two words to me since you walked in, you won't sit near me, you keep doing this thing where you go somewhere else in your head, and I just- I don't know what I did, but if I did something, I'd rather you just tell me instead of-" You gestured vaguely at all of him, at the silence, at the space between you on the couch that felt like it had grown into a canyon. "Instead of this."
Steve set the remote down. "Hey. Hey, no- you didn't do anything." He shifted closer, close enough now that his knee brushed yours, and something in you loosened half an inch at the contact. "I'm sorry. I didn't- I wasn't trying to shut you out, I promise. I've just had this thing running in my head all day and I didn't want to bring it into the house and dump it on you the second I walked in."
"I'd rather you dump it on me than disappear," you said, quieter now, some of the panic draining out of your voice and leaving something rawer behind it. "I know that's- I know that's not fair, maybe. You're allowed to need space. I just. I don't do well with quiet like that. When someone's upset and goes silent I always think it means-" You stopped, not sure you wanted to say the rest of it out loud.
"You always think it means what?" Steve asked, gently, the kind of gentle that told you he already had a guess and was giving you room to say it yourself instead of saying it for you.
You picked at the seam of the couch cushion again. "That it's about to turn into something. That the quiet's just- the calm before the storm. Before someone gets mad for real." You shrugged like it didn't matter, even though it very clearly did. "My mom used to go quiet like that. For days sometimes. And it always meant something was coming. So now when someone I care about goes quiet on me, some part of my brain just goes straight to bracing for it. Even when I know that's not- I know that's not you. I know you'd never. It's just automatic."
Steve was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet this time, the kind where you could see him actually taking something in instead of pulling away from it. He reached over and took your hand, turning it over in both of his like he was trying to find the right thing to do with it.
"I didn't know that," he said finally. "About your mom. Not like that, not- not the specifics of what it felt like for you."
"I don't really talk about it."
"I get why." He rubbed his thumb slowly over your knuckles. "For what it's worth, and I know it doesn't erase twenty-some years of your brain being wired a certain way, but when I go quiet, it's never building toward anything like that. It's usually the opposite, actually. It's me trying not to say something sharp before I've had a second to shake it off. I'd rather go quiet for twenty minutes than say something I don't mean because I'm in a mood about something that has nothing to do with you."
"I know that, logically," you admitted. "It doesn't always help in the moment."
"No, I bet it doesn't." He tugged your hand a little, pulling you closer until you gave in and let yourself lean into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders easy and familiar. "Can I tell you what today actually was? Since I clearly did a bad job of not making it a whole thing."
"Yeah. I want to know."
He exhaled, long, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders now that he'd decided to actually let you in instead of trying to carry it alone. "Robin and I got into it with our manager again. The new guy. He's been riding us all week about the schedule, and today he tried to write me up for something that wasn't even- it doesn't matter, it's stupid, but it put me in a mood, and then I spent the whole drive home rehearsing what I should've said back to him instead of what I actually said, which was nothing, because I just stood there like an idiot. And I didn't want to walk in the door and snap at you over something that's actually about some guy named Gary who thinks a laminated binder makes him important."
You couldn't help the small laugh that came out of you, some of the tightness in your chest finally easing. "Gary."
"Gary," Steve confirmed, with real venom. "Anyway. That's it. That's the whole big mysterious mood. Gary and a binder."
"I built an entire apocalypse in my head over Gary and a binder."
"I'm sorry," he said again, and this time it landed different, softer, more aimed at the actual thing instead of just smoothing it over. "I mean it. I didn't think about what walking in quiet like that would look like from where you were sitting. I'll try to just, say something next time. Even if it's just 'hey, I'm in a mood, it's not about you, give me twenty minutes.' That's not hard. I can do that."
"You don't have to perform being fine the second you walk in the door," you told him, tilting your head up to look at him properly. "I don't need you to be in a good mood all the time. I just need to know I'm not the reason for the bad one. Even just a sentence would do it. 'Rough day, not you, need a minute, that's it, that's all I need to hear."
"Rough day. Not you. Need a minute," Steve repeated, like he was committing it to memory on purpose. "I can absolutely say that sentence. That's an easy sentence."
"Good."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you felt the last of the knot in your chest finally come undone, replaced by something warm and a little embarrassed at how quickly you'd spiraled over something that, in the end, really had been about a guy named Gary.
"For what it's worth," Steve said after a minute, voice quieter now, more serious, "I hate that your brain does that to you. The bracing thing. I hate that it's from something real, and I hate that I made it worse tonight without meaning to. I don't ever want you sitting out here doing math on what you might've done wrong when the actual answer is just, I had a bad day and forgot how to use my words for twenty minutes."
"You're allowed bad days," you said. "I promise I'm not asking you to never have a mood again. I just, I panic in the silence. That's on me too, a little. It's not all on you."
"Maybe," he allowed. "But I can meet you halfway on it. That's not exactly a hard ask."
You settled further into him, listening to the TV mumble something in the background that neither of you were actually watching, and let yourself just breathe for a second, really breathe, not the shallow, careful breathing you'd been doing since he first walked through the door.
"Hey," Steve said after a while, low, almost teasing now that the weight of the conversation had lifted. "You want to hear the whole thing I wanted to say to Gary, but didn't, because I have a job I'd like to keep?"
"Obviously."
"Okay, so picture this," he started, and you could feel him relaxing into it, into the version of himself that talked with his hands and got a little too invested in his own stories, and you let yourself relax right along with him, the quiet finally turning back into the kind you actually loved, full, easy, safe, his voice filling up the space instead of leaving it hollow.
By the time he finished, badly, dramatically, throwing in a Gary impression that was mostly just Steve talking through his nose, you were laughing for real, and the tight, bracing feeling from earlier felt like something that had happened to a different version of the evening entirely.
"Rough day," you said again, mostly just to hear him say it back.
"Rough day," he agreed, squeezing your hand. "Not you. Definitely not you."
And this time, when the quiet came back around them a little later, settling soft over the room as the TV played to no one and his fingers traced slow, absent patterns against your arm, it didn't feel like the kind you needed to brace for at all.
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Summary: You've spent your whole life being an afterthought. for a while, he made you forget that.
A/N: Based on THIS REQUEST!!! I dont know how many witnessed my minor crashout over Starved! the Joe request I was working on, BUT Tumblr read it, called me horny and removed it SO imma tweak it and it should be with you in a few days but ive moved all my posts forward so I can continue posting daily, ANYWAY have a great day my lovelies :)
You had learned a long time ago that the trick to being included was to make yourself useful and quiet at the same time. Not so quiet that people forgot you existed, but not so loud that anyone had to think about you longer than they needed to. It was a skill, honestly. You'd been perfecting it since you were a kid, since dinner table conversations that moved around you like you were furniture, since a mother who loved you the way you'd love a coat you kept in the closet, necessary, occasionally reached for, never really looked at.
So when you started dating Steve Harrington, you didn't expect anything to change. You figured you'd get folded into his orbit the way you got folded into everything else, tolerated, present, a plus-one nobody minded but nobody had asked for either.
Except it didn't happen like that.
The first time you came to game night at Mike's, you sat a little apart from the group, the way you always did, waiting to see if anyone would notice if you left. Steve noticed before you'd even finished the thought. He didn't say anything dramatic about it. He just shifted his chair back six inches so it was touching yours, draped his arm over the back of it, and kept arguing with Dustin about something you didn't understand and didn't need to. It wasn't a big gesture. That was the thing about Steve, he didn't do big gestures, not really. He did small ones, over and over, until you stopped flinching every time someone's attention landed on you.
He learned how you took your coffee without asking. He noticed when you went quiet in a way that meant you were spiraling instead of just being quiet, and he'd find some excuse to touch your hand, or ask you something small and specific enough that you had to come back into your body to answer it. He introduced you to people as his girlfriend before you introduced yourself as anything at all, like he wanted to make sure nobody got the chance to make you feel like an afterthought, not even for a second.
It scared you a little, actually. How good it felt. You kept waiting for the catch.
You told yourself you weren't waiting for it. But you were.
The Tuesday it happened, the party had gathered at Mike's to map out a plan, something about a pattern in the gate activity that Dustin swore meant something, spread out on the Wheeler basement floor in a mess of graph paper and highlighted notes. You sat next to Steve like always, half in the conversation and half just watching it happen around you, the way you did when you weren't sure your voice was wanted yet.
But you'd noticed something. The pattern they kept circling only worked if you assumed the timing was consistent, and it wasn't, you'd caught it twice while they argued over Dustin's theory, a gap that threw the whole thing off by almost a day each time. It nagged at you long enough that you finally spoke up.
"I think the timing's off," you said, leaning forward to point at the two dates that didn't line up. "Look, here and here. If you shift the interval to account for that, the whole pattern still holds, it just means the next one's not for another two days, not tomorrow like you're planning for."
There was a beat where you thought maybe you'd actually landed on something. And then Mike glanced at the paper for half a second, said, "I don't think that's it," and kept talking to Dustin like you hadn't said anything at all. Dustin didn't even glance up. Lucas asked Max something unrelated. The conversation just closed back over the space where your sentence had been, seamless, like water settling after a stone sinks. They kept the plan the same, tomorrow, like Dustin had originally called it, and moved on to arguing about who'd bring the walkie-talkies.
You sat back. Nobody had been cruel about it, that was almost the worst part, there was nothing to point to, no moment you could hold up and say that, that's what hurt. It was just that your idea hadn't registered as a real idea. It had registered as noise from the girl who came with Steve.
You told yourself it didn't matter. You told yourself you didn't actually need to be right, that this wasn't about being right, that you'd only said something because you thought it might help and it was fine, genuinely fine, if it turned out you were wrong or it didn't land. But some old, tender part of you had lit up hoping, just for a second, that this might be one of the times you got to matter to the group on your own, not as an extension of somebody else. And watching that hope get waved off without even the dignity of an argument stung more than you wanted to admit.
You didn't say anything else for the rest of the night. You nodded along, passed someone a pencil when they asked, laughed at the right moments so nobody would look twice. It was a skill. You were good at it.
Steve caught your eye once, halfway through, some silent you okay? passing between you, and you gave him the smallest nod, the one that meant later, not here, don't make this a thing. He let it go, which you were grateful for in the moment and would replay bitterly in your head a few hours later, how easily later had turned into never brought up at all, how the version of you that didn't want to cause a scene had, once again, made sure nothing got said.
By the time you left Mike's, the sting had settled into something quieter and heavier, sitting low in your chest the whole walk to Steve's car. You didn't bring it up on the drive. You told yourself it wasn't a big deal, that the party just got tunnel-visioned when they were deep in a theory, that it wasn't personal. But some part of you, the part that had spent a lifetime cataloguing every time it got overlooked, filed it away anyway, right where it could fester quietly until something else came along and gave it an opening.
That something else came along about an hour later, in Steve's living room, over a conversation that had nothing to do with the Upside Down at all.
The fight happened on a Tuesday, which felt insultingly mundane for something that ended up cracking your chest open. Steve had come over to your place after school like he did most days, and he'd been off from the second he walked in, jaw tight, answers clipped, the kind of tired that had nothing to do with sleep. You knew Robin had told you Steve had a rough shift at work, some blow-up with his dad on the phone before that. You knew, logically, that his mood had nothing to do with you.
Knowing that and feeling it were two different things.
"You've been weird for like an hour," you said, when you couldn't stand the silence anymore. You didn't mean it as an attack. You meant it as an opening, a door held ajar in case he wanted to walk through it and tell you what was wrong.
"I'm fine," Steve said, in the voice that meant the opposite.
"You don't have to be fine. You can just tell me."
"I said I'm fine." He dragged a hand through his hair, and something about the sharpness of the movement made your stomach drop. "Can you just- not do the thing right now?"
"What thing?"
"The thing where you need me to perform being okay for you every five minutes so you can relax." He said it fast, like it had been sitting loaded in his mouth for a while and your question had just pulled the trigger. "I had a garbage day, I don't have the energy to manage your feelings about my feelings right now."
It landed exactly where it was aimed. You felt your face do something you couldn't control, that old, familiar flinch, the one that used to show up at dinner tables, the one your body remembered even when you didn't want it to.
"Okay," you said quietly, because quiet was what you knew how to do when things got sharp. "Sorry."
"Don't do that either." Steve's voice cracked up a notch, frustration chasing itself in a circle now that had nothing to do with logic anymore. "Don't just- shut down and apologize like I kicked a puppy. I'm allowed to have a bad day without you needing constant reassurance that we're fine."
"I don't need constant reassurance-"
"You kind of do, though." And there it was, the thing that would sit in your chest for days after, long after he wished he could take it back. "I love you, but sometimes it's a lot, okay? You need me to notice everything, remember everything, be on top of how you're feeling every single second, and today I don't have it in me, and I'm sorry, but it's a little clingy, and I can't- I can't be everything for you all the time."
You opened your mouth to say something, but he wasn't finished, the words tumbling out now like he'd lost whatever grip he'd had on the dam. "And it's not just this. It's- you barely even try with the guys, you know that? Tonight you said one thing at Mike's and then you just went quiet for the rest of the night, like always, and I get it, I get that it's hard for you, but it's hard for me too, watching you act like everything anyone says is aimed at you. Mike wasn't trying to be a jerk earlier, he just didn't think your theory tracked, and you disappeared for two hours over it like he'd insulted you personally. Not everything is a personal attack. Sometimes people just disagree, or they're busy, or they forget to ask how your day was, and it doesn't mean anything, but you act like it's proof of something every single time."
"That's not-" Your voice came out smaller than you wanted, throat already tightening. "I wasn't making it a big deal. I didn't even say anything."
"You didn't have to say anything, I could feel it coming off you the whole car ride." Steve dragged both hands down his face, some of the anger already curdling into something closer to exhaustion. "I just- I want you to actually be part of the group. Not just show up because you're with me and then shrink into the corner the second something doesn't go your way. It's exhausting watching you brace for everyone to hurt you before they've even done anything."
Something in you wanted to laugh, except it would've come out broken instead of funny. You'd spent the entire ride over telling yourself, on a loop, that it hadn't been personal, that Mike was just focused, that nobody had meant anything by it, the exact speech you gave yourself almost daily, every time a door closed a little too fast or a conversation moved on without you in it. You worked so hard to talk yourself out of taking things personally that hearing Steve accuse you of doing the opposite, of treating every slight like a wound, felt like being punished for the one thing you actually tried to manage.
The word landed and just sat there. Clingy. You'd been called worse things by people who mattered less, and it had never hurt like this, because none of them had spent the last several months being the first person to ever make you feel like you were allowed to take up space. And now the person who'd built that feeling in you was the one tearing a hole through the floor of it.
"Okay," you said again, except this time your voice wasn't quiet so much as very, very careful, the tone of someone gathering their things off a table before it gets kicked over. "Got it."
"Wait, that's not-" Steve seemed to hear it as it left his mouth this time, the way it must've sounded from the outside. "That's not what I meant."
"You said what you meant." Your hands weren't quite steady, but you weren't going to give him the satisfaction, or yourself the humiliation, of falling apart in front of him. "I think you should go."
"Come on, don't-"
"I'll see you later, Steve."
You walked to the front door yourself and held it open, because it was your house and he'd have to be the one to leave it. He hesitated for a second on the threshold, like he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it and stepped out into the evening instead. You didn't slam the door behind him. You wanted to, some petty animal part of you wanted the noise, wanted him to feel the size of what he'd just done. But you'd spent a lifetime learning how to close a door quietly, and old habits, it turned out, came back fast.
You didn't cry until you heard his car pull out of the driveway, and then you cried the ugly kind, the kind that comes with the shame of having believed something too much. You'd known better. You'd known, somewhere in the back of your mind since the very first week, that this was too good to hold, that eventually the version of you that was too much would surface and remind everyone why you'd learned to disappear in the first place.
You didn't call anyone. It didn't even occur to you as an option, not really, you'd spent so long being the one who processed things alone, quietly, without asking anyone to hold space for it, that reaching out felt like a muscle you'd never built. You went up to your room instead, your own house suddenly feeling too big and too quiet around you, your mom working the late shift like always, nobody to hear you if you let the crying get loud. You sat down on the edge of your bed and just stayed there, turning the word over and over until it lost its shape: clingy, clingy, clingy, until it didn't even sound like English anymore, just a sound that meant too much, too much, too much.
You thought about all the small ways you'd let yourself believe things were different with Steve. The chair he moved six inches closer without being asked. The way he said your name like it was worth saying. You'd built something out of those small moments, something you'd let yourself trust, and it had taken exactly one bad day and four sentences to make you doubt every brick of it.
You didn't cry as hard as you thought you would. Mostly you just felt tired, the specific tired of having to talk yourself down from a feeling you'd had a hundred times before and hoped you'd never have to sit with again, the feeling of being someone people kept around out of obligation rather than choice. You told yourself, eventually, in the flat, exhausted voice you used when you were too worn out to argue with your own head anymore, that Steve had had a bad day and said something ugly, and that those two things weren't necessarily the same as the truth. You didn't fully believe it. But you let yourself hold the possibility of it anyway, curled up on top of your covers with your shoes still on, waiting for the ache in your chest to get tired before you did.
Steve showed up at your door around nine, which you knew because you heard the knock and your stupid heart leapt before your brain could catch up and remind it that it was supposed to be angry.
You almost didn't answer. You stood in the hallway for a full minute, arms crossed, doing the math on whether opening the door made you exactly the kind of needy he'd accused you of being, unable to hold a boundary for even a few hours. But that felt like punishing yourself for his mistake, so you opened it.
Steve looked wrecked. tired and sorry in the plain, unglamorous way people looked when they were guilty.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"Can I come in? Or- you can say no. I just want to say something, and then if you want me to leave, I'll leave."
You stepped aside. He came in and didn't sit down, like he didn't think he'd earned the couch yet.
"I've been driving around for like an hour trying to figure out how to say this without it sounding like an excuse," he started, "so I'm just gonna say the true part first and then get to the rest of it. What I said was really messed up. And it wasn't true. Any of it."
You didn't say anything, just watched him, arms still crossed, guarding something.
"My dad called before I came over," he said. "Said some stuff about how I'm never gonna make anything of myself, working retail, no direction, all his greatest hits. And I hate that it still gets to me, but it does, every time, and today it got under my skin worse than usual. And then you asked me what was wrong, which, you always ask, because you care, because that's just who you are, and instead of just telling you the truth, which would've taken ten seconds, I decided to make it about you instead. Because it was easier to be mad at something in front of me than to sit with the thing actually hurting."
"That doesn't really-"
"I know it doesn't fix it. I'm not saying it to fix it. I'm saying it because you deserve to know none of it was about you actually needing too much. You don't need too much. You ask if I'm okay because you love me, and instead of being grateful for that, I used it as a weapon because I was in a bad mood, and that's on me, not you." His voice cracked slightly, and he pushed forward before he could lose the thread. "You're not clingy. I don't even know why I reached for that word, I think I knew it would hurt, and I said it anyway, and I've hated myself for it every minute since."
"It hurt," you said quietly, "because it's the thing I've been scared of the whole time. That eventually I'd be too much. That the version of me that notices everything and needs to check in and gets scared when people go quiet would finally be the thing that made you tired of me. Everyone else got tired of it eventually. My whole life, I've been- extra. Tolerated. And you were the first person who made me feel like I wasn't, and then today you took that away in like four sentences."
Steve's face did something complicated, guilt and grief tangled together. "Can I tell you something, and I need you to actually hear it, not just let it bounce off?"
You nodded, throat too tight to speak.
"You're not extra to me. You've never been extra to me. Every single thing you think is too much, the checking in, the noticing, the needing to know we're okay, those are the things I love. You're not hard to love. You've just never had anyone stick around long enough to prove that to you, and I am so sorry that today, of all days, I made it feel like I was going to be one more person who didn't."
You felt your composure slip, the careful wall you'd built over the last few hours finally giving out. "I don't want you to just say the right things because you feel guilty."
"I'm not saying the right things. I'm saying the true things, and they happen to also be the right things, because you're not actually the problem here, I am." He took a step closer, slow, giving you room to stop him if you needed to. "I'm gonna do better with my bad days. I'm gonna tell you what's actually wrong instead of blowing it up at you. And you don't have to apologize for needing to know we're okay. I want you to ask. I want to be the person who always tells you the truth when you do."
You let him close the distance then, let yourself fold into him the way you hadn't let yourself do with anyone in years, hiding your face against his chest while he wrapped both arms around you like he was trying to make up the difference all at once.
"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter, into your hair. "You've spent your whole life not being put first. I don't ever want to be one more person who made you feel that way. Not when I've spent the last few months trying to be the opposite of that."
"You are the opposite of that," you admitted, voice muffled against his shirt. "Most of the time."
"I'll work on all of the time."
You stayed like that for a long while, not saying anything else, just breathing each other in until your heartbeat slowed down to match his. Eventually he pulled back just far enough to tilt your chin up, searching your face like he needed to see for himself that you believed him.
"For the record," he said, thumb brushing gently under your eye where a tear had escaped without your permission, "I like that you need me. I like being needed by you. I just had a bad day and forgot how to say that in a way that didn't sound like an insult."
You managed a small, watery laugh. "You're bad at fighting."
"I'm bad at fighting," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'm better at this part, though."
"The apologizing part?"
"The making sure you know you matter part." He guided you over to the couch, tucking you against his side once you'd both sat down, one hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together like it was the easiest thing in the world. "You're not an afterthought here. Not to me, not to Robin, not to any of them. You never have been. I just did a really bad job of showing it today."
You let your head rest against his shoulder, the tightness in your chest finally starting to loosen for the first time since that Tuesday afternoon.
"I'm still a little scared," you admitted. "That it'll happen again. Not the fight, I know people fight. Just- the part where you say I'm too much and mean it."
"I know." Steve pressed his lips to the top of your head. "I can't promise I'll never have a bad day again. But I can promise I'm not gonna let you carry the blame for it when I do. You're allowed to need people, especially me. I want to be the person you get to need."
The phone rang before you'd even settled into the quiet, the landline in your hallway shrieking loud enough to make you both jump. Steve kissed your temple and went to grab it, since it was closer to him than to you, and you heard Dustin's voice come through frantic and tinny even from across the room, something about the gate reading wrong, about numbers not lining up, about how they were about to head out to the spot they'd marked for tomorrow and everything had just started going haywire an hour early.
"Wait- say that again," Steve said, and something in his tone made you sit up. "It's happening now? Tonight?"
You didn't need to hear the rest of it. You already knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, exactly what had gone wrong, they'd planned around tomorrow's date instead of tonight's, the same gap you'd tried to point out on Mike's basement floor hours earlier, the one nobody had bothered to double-check.
"It's tonight," you said, loud enough for Steve to hear over Dustin. "Tell him it's tonight, not tomorrow- I told you guys the interval was off, remember? It shifts it up a day. If they're seeing activity now, that's exactly what I said would happen."
Steve relayed it word for word, and you heard the scramble on the other end, Dustin swearing, someone shouting for Mike, the sound of the party mobilizing a full day earlier than they'd planned because the girl they'd waved off in the basement had been right the whole time.
By the time everyone regrouped, breathless, half-dressed for a fight they weren't ready for, arriving at the gate site with minutes instead of hours to spare, Mike had the decency to look almost sick about it. "You said this," he admitted, catching your eye across the yard, "and I just- I didn't even really look at it. That's on me. Good catch. Seriously."
It wasn't a grand apology. It wasn't the party suddenly treating you like you'd always belonged. But it was something, an acknowledgment, out loud, in front of everyone, that your voice had been worth listening to the first time. Steve's hand found yours in the chaos, squeezing once, and you caught the small, fierce pride on his face that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with I told you she was right.
You didn't get to dwell on it long, the night dissolved into flashlights and static and the kind of adrenaline that didn't leave room for feelings until it was over, but hours later, once the gate had been sealed back up and the party had scattered home to sleep off the scare, you ended up back on your own couch anyway, Steve staying behind with you, exactly where you'd started the evening.
"Mike's gonna be insufferable about owing you an apology for a week," Steve said, tucking the blanket around you both.
"I didn't do it to be right," you murmured, already half asleep against his chest.
"I know." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But it's nice, isn't it? Being right and being heard, both at the same time, for once."
You fell asleep on your couch that night, tucked into his side under a blanket that smelled like his cologne anyway, his fingers idly tracing patterns against your arm long after you'd drifted off. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, the quiet didn't feel like something to be afraid of. It just felt like being home.
*Sometimes the sun isn’t a destination, but the person walking right beside you*
A slow…slow-burn journey of two sensitive souls learning to navigate a complex world.
Olivia was a shadow of her former self. A dancer from Italy who had lost her passion.. Teaching others how to move while her own life was standing still.
Across the world, Hyunjin was a light that belonged to anyone but himself. Beneath the fame was a boy who felt himself slipping away.
Their paths cross first in the digital world.. Two strangers looking for a way back to themselves. Eventually a new job will lead Olivia straight into his orbit.
Michael Robinavitch x Chronic Pain!Reader x Jack Abbot
synopsis: Your boyfriends are drowning in an understaffed ED while you drown in a pain flare
warnings/Notes: discussions of chronic pain and migraines as well as treatment. everyone's journey with chronic pain is their own. Flangst, my favorite. This is much longer than i intended.
wc: 5.4k
You hadn’t seen your boyfriend in three days, which was a feat really when you considered you had two of them and you all lived in the same house.
Flu season was a bitch for patients and doctors alike. You knew that. They were covering shifts for sick colleagues so you tried not to complain, tried not to add to their burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, you felt like you could disappear and they wouldn’t even notice. They hadn’t even sought you out to say hello or goodbye or thanks for the food. It was hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’d been in a pain flare for days and hadn’t felt like doing half of things you had been.
You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.
All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.
The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”
So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.
So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.
Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.
He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.
As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.
When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.
“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.
Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”
“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”
Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.
Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.
She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”
“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”
He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”
Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”
Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”
Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”
Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”
“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.
Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”
Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”
“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”
Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.
Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”
She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”
Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.
“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.
Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”
“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”
“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”
Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.
Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.
I’m fine, came not even a minute later.
He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.
You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?
God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.
I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.
Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.
I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.
Okay. Goodnight Michael.
No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?
Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.
The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.
Please talk to me.
Please don’t leave us.
I love you.
Just give us a chance
All four messages were left on read.
Jack tried next.
Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.
He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.
Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.
He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.
I love you. I miss you.
He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
What’s that?
Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.
Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?
Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.
Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.
I don’t want normal.
What?
When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.
Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.
You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.
Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.
I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.
I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.
He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?
Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.
Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.
“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.
Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”
Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.
She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”
“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.
She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”
Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”
“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.
“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.
“Five is all yours.”
Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.
As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”
They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”
Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.
Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”
“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.
Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”
“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.
Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.
“Well?” Jack asked.
Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”
“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”
Another tear ran down your face in answer.
Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”
Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.
Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”
“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.
You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”
The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”
“Go!” you yelled then winced.
Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”
When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”
“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.
“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.
“Yeah.”
You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.
But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.
You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.
It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.
Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.
You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.
Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.
Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”
“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”
She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”
“Yeah, I know.”
She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”
“Another icepack?”
“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”
You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”
“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”
“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”
She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”
“That’s not their fault.”
“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”
Another tear ran down your cheek.
“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.
“Yes, please.”
She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.
Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”
“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.
He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”
“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”
Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.
“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.
“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.
You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”
You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.
“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.
You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.
A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”
You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.
“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”
“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.
You cracked your eyes to look at him.
“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”
Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.
Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”
“It started before I even left the house.”
“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.
“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.
“Yes.”
You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”
“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.
Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.
You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”
She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”
“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.
She gave you a nod and left.
“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.
“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”
“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”
“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”
Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.
“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.
You blinked at him.
“This round working? Can we take you home?”
“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”
You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”
You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”
“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.
He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”
“Better. Much better.”
“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”
“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”
He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.
You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”
Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.
Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.
You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”
Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”
“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.
You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.
“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.
You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”
“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.
“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”
“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”
You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”
“I am.”
His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.
“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.
Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”
You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”
“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”
You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.
And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.
Standing there in the light of the window
Wearing that same smile
Man, it's been a while
But I knew it, I knew you
When your former childhood best friend climbs through your bedroom window with a bruised and battered face, you take care of him but you aren't quite sure if you can forgive him.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 6.4k
contains: eventual fluff, angst, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, description of physical injuries from canon level violence, steve being a dick, elements of king!steve, mild bullying, mention of sex, unrequited (but not really unrequited) love, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: this was meant to be a blurb but i got into the story too much to keep it that way!
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You met Steve Harrington at five years old—the day that your family had moved to Hawkins. Elizabeth Harrington had knocked on your door with a plate full of freshly made brownies and a young boy with his arms wrapped tightly around his mother’s leg.
It took barely any time at all for you to be introduced to each other. Before you knew it—your mom and his mom were letting you guys run riot while sipping on homemade lemonade in your backyard. His dad and your dad later became business partners. And you and Steve Harrington? Your lives intertwined and you became inseparable. He chased after the boys who pulled your pigtails in the park and you held his hand after the first time his dad had ever properly yelled at him. He was your best friend and you were his.
And somewhere along the way, you had fallen in love with him. You hadn’t planned on it, in fact, you had actively tried to stop yourself from developing any sort of feelings for your best friend. But it just sort of—happened. You constantly thought of excuses to go over to his house just to see him, you spent way too much time on baking his birthday cake and you had cried yourself to sleep after he had told you his first kiss had been Lucy Hayes behind the bike sheds.
You told yourself you’d get over it. That being best friends was enough.
But then high school happened. High school—where Steve had slipped into the popular crowd with ease while you remained in the shadows. Where Steve went to parties while you stayed home to do extra credit.
You slowly felt him slipping away from you. He stopped sneaking in through your bedroom window to watch R rated horror movies that he had stolen from his parents VHS collection, he stopped knocking on your door in the morning to take you to school and he didn’t come to the annual trip to the lake house the summer after freshman year, opting to stay home and throw a massive party instead.
You told yourself it was fine—that you were just growing apart but you’d eventually find your way back to each other.
But then in your sophomore year, he invited you to one of his parties and your friendship came crashing down over a game of truth or dare.
You had never seen the Harrington house look so messy.
The front yard was littered with beer bottles and red solo cups, there were several smashed glasses in the kitchen and you swore you even saw a couple rolls of toilet paper hanging from the chandelier in the foyer.
All you could think as you sat on the couch in the basement, squeezed between Steve and a very intoxicated Carol was that you hoped for Steve’s sake that Elizabeth and Danny Harrington never saw their house in this state. You were pretty sure Steve would be grounded for life if they did.
You felt Steve shift beside you as he leaned back to take a long swig from his beer, eyes flickering over to you briefly before he looked away.
You weren’t entirely sure why Steve had invited you to his party, he had hardly said a word to you all evening and you felt like some pathetic lost puppy waiting for him to come back to you. You had a feeling that he had only invited you to alleviate some of the guilt he may have felt for ditching you last week to hang out with Tommy but you were beginning to wish that he hadn’t asked you at all. Parities were not at all your thing but you had wanted to try because it was Steve and your feelings for him made you do things you didn’t want to do sometimes. Especially when he looked so stupidly handsome in that green shirt of his.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Steve asks you with a gentle nudge of your arm. The subtle contact sends a jolt through you and you have to force yourself to act natural as you turn to look at him.
“No, thank you, I’m—”
“—of course she doesn’t want a drink,” Carol slurs from beside you, leaning over you to talk to Steve. You shrink backwards against the couch, mostly to put a little distance between you and Carol and the smell of vodka coming from her that was almost overwhelming. “She hasn’t—” she hiccuped. “She hasn’t drank all—” she hiccuped again. “All night. She’s such a square.”
You don’t say anything but you feel your face grow hot in embarrassment as Carol talks about you like you weren’t sitting right next to her. The worst part was that Steve didn’t even stick up for you. You hate the fact you weren’t surprised by that.
Your leg begins to bounce, you were trying to quickly think of an excuse to leave. Not that you really needed one, Steve didn’t seem particularly bothered by your presence.
“Steve, I need to—”
The sound of jeering cuts you off and the words quickly die on tongue as Tommy and a few more of Steve’s friends stumble down the basement stairs.
All you wanted to do was leave but Tommy was already squeezing himself between you and Carol and you had no choice but to move closer to Steve, your thigh pressed against his and his arm flush against yours.
The uncomfortableness you felt was churning horribly in your gut, your leg was still bouncing nervously and yet, Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask if you were okay, despite his legs lingering on your knee as it bounced anxiously.
“Who’s up for a game of truth or dare?” Tommy asks, one arm slung around Carol while the other nudges you with a gleeful smile. “Maybe it’ll get Little Miss Goody Two Shoes over here to loosen up a little.”
“Tommy, let’s not—” Steve begins but the laughter around the room cuts him off. He glances at you, as though he was trying to reassure himself that you were fine—that this was fine.
You watched as Steve’s friends dared each other to take a shot of hot sauce, to strip off their clothes and jump naked into Steve’s pool. Your stomach turned as you heard them ask each other the most intrusive questions about each other's sex life and at parts, even Steve laughed.
And then, it was your turn.
You shifted uncomfortably, Tommy’s elbow digging into your ribs as you looked to Steve for help. But he was too busy smiling over at one of the cheerleaders to even register your discomfort.
“Truth,” you say finally, figuring that it was the safest option. At least then they couldn’t dare you to skinny dip in the pool.
“Are you a virgin?” Carol asks you bluntly.
Your face warms, the answer is written on your face and all you wanted was for Steve to notice your discomfort, for him to help—
“I take that as a yes,” Carol mutters audibly as some of Steve’s friends laugh, making your face feel as though it was burning from shame. “Not surprised by that—”
“—Carol,” Steve says in a half arsed attempt to rein his friend in as you shift in your seat once again, your eyes flickering down to your lap as you avoid eye contact with everyone in the room.
“What?” Carol asks Steve as Tommy struggles to keep in his laughter beside you. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“—could you just—”
“—oh c’mon, Steve. We just wanna get to know her. S’only fair. You lost your v card last month so we were just curious about hers.”
Your entire body turns cold. Everything around you blurs, you feel a strange mix of feeling both too hot and too cold as you turn to look at Steve—who you find was already looking at you. Of course you were jealous, of course you were upset about Steve losing his virginity to someone who wasn’t you and of course it felt as though someone had twisted a knife in your gut at the mere thought of it. But it wasn’t just that—it was also the fact he hadn’t told you about it. It made that distance you had felt between you and Steve feel too loud to ignore.
“Oh, are you jealous?” Tommy asks, nudging you as he takes note of the look on your face with glee. “You see that, Stevie? She’s jealous she didn’t get there first—”
“—dude,” Steve interrupts, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks away from you. “Don’t be a dick.”
Despite the fact that Steve had finally stood up for you, you couldn’t help but feel it was half hearted. Almost as though Steve’s heart wasn’t really in it, as though he was more concerned about what his friends would think of him than whether or not they were making you uncomfortable.
Tommy shrugs, the slight smirk tugging on his lips that told you he was absolutely not done being a dick.
“Fine. Whatever,” Tommy mutters with a quick glance your way that Steve doesn’t catch. “Your turn then, Steve.”
There was a brief pause where Steve didn’t say anything. You could feel his eyes on you and for a moment, you wondered if he was about to ask you if you wanted to leave, if he was finally going to put you before his stupid friends. But then Steve shifted beside and you knew that he had looked away.
“Dare,” he says.
You knew almost instantly that Tommy or Carol was going to give him a dare that would somehow upset you. Perhaps he’d dare Steve to make a move on that cheerleader right in front of you, maybe they’d even go upstairs and—
“I dare you to kiss the person sitting to your right,” Tommy says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watches Steve’s expression shift. Because the person sitting to Steve’s right—was you.
The first thing that you registered in response to Tommy’s dare was the laughter from his and Steve’s friends, it was Carol’s small glance towards you and the way Steve had gone completely still beside you.
“No,” Steve says simply without even so much as a glance towards you. “Not her. No way.”
The way he said, the finality in his voice made something stir in your gut. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation—you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was a sick connotation of all three that was stirring in your stomach.
Not her, he had said. Like you were the very last person he would ever want to kiss, as though kissing you was in some way repulsive, even. The laughing didn’t help, Steve’s friends muttering to each other about your inexperience made it worse and all the while—Steve Harrington, your best friend since you were five years old, didn't say a damn thing.
And that was your breaking point.
You stand up from the couch, your legs feeling wobbly despite the fact you had only drank lemonade all evening. Your entire body felt hot from embarrassment but now also from the anger that was beginning to rear its ugly head. The anger you had felt towards Steve that you had quietly buried after months of him letting you down, months of cancelled plans, months of him putting his desire to be liked over his friendship with you. You suddenly felt so angry that your hands shook slightly and you knew you had to leave because you were seconds away from bursting into tears.
“Oh, look how upset she is Steve,” Carol cooes cruelly, gleefully watching you as Tommy tries (and fails) not to laugh. “She looks like she’s going to—”
“—fuck you, Carol,” you spat, white hot anger burning through you now as you turn to look at Steve a final time. You see the panic settle in his eyes as he half rises to his feet—before you walk away from him—walk away from him and his stupid friends, his stupid hair and his stupid handsome face.
You push through the sea of bodies that had congregated in Steve’s living room, not caring that someone had smashed one of Elizabeth’s priceless vases or the fact that there was a large stain in one of the rugs. All you cared about was getting out of Steve’s house and as far away from him as possible.
You were almost successful. You were halfway down his driveway when the sound of Steve calling out your name as he stumbled after you reached your ears.
“Wait—” he calls out, almost frantic as he manages to catch up with you, his fingers slipping around your wrist in an effort to stop you from leaving. “Let me just—”
“—just what, Steve?” You snap, unable to keep the anger and hurt out of your voice as you turn to face him fully. You almost wish you hadn’t because the look on his face was so desperate that the thought of pulling away from him almost hurt.
“I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve says quickly, his chest heaving as he looks back at you. In all the years he had known you, of all the years of friendship he had only seen you angry once before. That time you had spent all day making cupcakes for a bake sale just for Steve to accidentally drop an entire batch of the perfectly iced cakes. You had been so annoyed at him you didn’t talk to him for almost two days.
But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the look on your face as you stare at Steve and wait for him to explain himself.
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, I just—”
“—oh my god, do you seriously think I’m pissed off about the dare?” You ask, unable to keep the anger out of your voice as you wrench your arm away from him.
Steve looks slightly hurt at the loss of contact and opens his mouth to respond but you’re quick to cut him off. “I don’t give a fuck about the dare, Steve. If the thought of kissing me grosses you out then it—it’s whatever.”
“But I—”
“—I’m pissed because—because you let your ‘friends’ treat me like shit and you didn’t say a damn thing about it!”
Steve looks stunned and that only makes the anger coursing through you grow hotter.
“I tried but they—”
“—well, you didn’t fucking try hard enough!” you exclaim angrily, your voice breaking as the first of your tears started to fall. You felt pathetic, humiliated as tears spilled down your cheeks but most of all—you were heartbroken that your best friend and the guy you were head over heels in love had become a stranger to you.
Something in Steve’s expression shifts at the sight of your tears. His face softens as he says your name and takes a tentative step closer but you step back. The dejected look on his face when he realises you had stepped away from him seemed to break something in you.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he tried to explain and you could almost feel his panic—the way he was looking at you, the way his fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for you. “I didn’t think they’d go that far—”
“—but they did and you didn’t s-stop them,” you say, your bottom lip quivering slightly as you harshly wipe away your tears with the sleeve of your cardigan.
“I’m so—”
You knew he was about to say sorry—you knew it by the look on his face and you knew that if he did, that you would want to forgive him. The way you had forgiven him for every other transgression over the past few months because he was your best friend and you loved him.
And so, you had to stop him before you forgave him once more.
“—you’re a coward, Steve,” you say in a voice laced with anger, hurt and every emotion you had been bottling for the past few months while Steve Harrington quietly forgot about you. “You’re a coward and I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”
The silence that greeted your words was one of the loudest you had ever heard.
You weren’t even sure if you meant it but you couldn’t take it back now.
Steve looked as though his entire world had come crumbling down around him, as though your words had been a dagger that you had driven directly through his chest. You knew it would hurt him, you knew it would upset him and perhaps that was exactly why you had said it.
“Oh,” Steve says thickly, swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat as he looked back at you, his big, puppy dog-like eyes almost pleading with you to take back the words that had just left your lips. “I—I see.”
I see. That was all he had to say. After well over a decade of friendship, after years and years of always having your back, years of ‘I’ll always be here’ and seeing each other's worst and best days—it would all end over two little words.
You waited. You waited for Steve to argue with you, for him to beg for your forgiveness like he had the last time you were mad at him. But he didn’t say a damn thing.
“See you around, Harrington,” you mutter, his surname feeling foreign on your tongue as turn around and walk away from him before you could burst into tears.
And the days that followed, Steve didn’t even try to talk to you.
And so, from a distance you watched as Steve Harrington morphed into King Steve. You watched him be a completely different person, watched as he continued to surround himself with people like Tommy and Carol. You heard the parties he threw next door when his parents were out of town that carried on until the early hours or had to be shut down by cops, you heard the way girls he slept with spoke about him and eventually you heard all about him and Nancy Wheeler.
You couldn’t deny that hearing about Steve’s life through rumours hurt. Nor could you deny that the ending of your friendship had devastated you in a way that you hadn’t been expecting and that watching Steve carry on as normal, seemingly completely unaffected by the end of a decade-long friendship, hurt just as much.
You had almost knocked on his door on his birthday but had stopped yourself. You told yourself not to dwell on the past, told yourself that things changed despite the fact your feelings for Steve never seemed to waver and the fact that you still loved him despite everything.
But that all changed one night in your senior year.
You were drifting in and out of sleep, the rain hammering down outside, smacking loud against your window kept rousing you. But it wasn’t until a particularly loud smack against the glass that you finally jolted awake.
You blink, rubbing your eyes sleepily as you glance towards the window to see if it was hailing.
But you nearly scream at the sight of a shadowy figure standing on the garage roof just outside your window.
You open your mouth to yell for your mom but when you realise it was Steve Harrington—drenched to the bone, rapping his knuckles harshly against the glass—all thoughts of yelling out leave you.
Instead, you don’t move. You barely even breathe. You were in some sort of state of shock at the sight of him at your bedroom window after all these years.
You manage to stand on legs that feel wobbly and unsure of themselves, walking cautiously over your carpet and towards the window.
And when you finally see his face clearly through the window pane—at the dark bruise covering his eye, the blood spatter over his face and look of quiet desperation in his eyes, you unlock your bedroom window without much thought.
Steve stumbles into your room, water dripping down from his hair and his clothes onto your carpet. But you’re too busy gasping at the state of his face to worry about that right now.
“H-hi,” he stammers out, his teeth chattering and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold.
Hi? Was that all he had to say after years of silence? After forgetting about you like it was easy? After he didn’t fight for you?
You had the urge to yell, to scream at him but the sight of his beaten face stops you.
“Steve, your face—”
“—that bad, huh?” Steve asks, trying to smile but instead wincing in pain.
“Sit down,” you tell him, watching as Steve’s eyes flicker around your room, taking in everything that had changed over the past almost two years—the colour of your walls, the posters you had hung up, the polaroids of you and Steve you had taken down. “I um, I’ll get something for your face.”
Steve nods, wincing again as he sits down carefully on the edge of your bed, trying not to completely soak your sheets with rain water as he does so.
You take a deep breath before you turn and leave your bedroom to grab the first aid kit from your family bathroom. You’re careful to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake your parents who would certainly have a few questions about why your former best friend is sitting on your bed with a bruised and battered face.
You walk quietly back into your bedroom with the first aid kit in your hand to find Steve hadn’t moved from the edge of your bed. But he was holding your stuffed teddy bear in his hands—the one he had won for you at Hawkins Fair when you were twelve years old, the one he had called ‘Little Stevie’ before handing it to you with a bright smile on his face.
You close the door softly behind you and Steve glances up, carefully placing Little Stevie back down onto your bed.
“You still have him,” Steve murmurs quietly as you sink down onto the bed beside him.
Your face warms and you hope it isn’t noticeable as you open up the first aid kit.
Truthfully, you hadn’t thrown out anything that was connected to Steve Harrington. The polaroids were tucked away safely in your jewellery box and even that shell necklace he had made you when he was seven was in a memory box in your closet. You just couldn’t bring yourself to throw anything away after the end of your friendship but you also couldn’t look at them anymore without something inside of you breaking every time you looked around your room. Little Stevie was the only thing you hadn’t put away—because truthfully, you couldn’t sleep without it.
But you don’t tell Steve that.
Instead, you let the silence surround the two of you as you pull out several small gauze pads and antiseptic. Steve lets you work silently as outside, the rain continues to fall, the wind howls and there’s a distant rumble of thunder.
You start first by pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a gauze pad before you gently dab it over the small gash on his cheek. He winces and hisses in pain but he doesn’t pull away.
“What happened?” You ask him quietly a few minutes later, the cuts and blood wiped from his face as you carefully inspect the bruise around his eye.
The sight makes something tighten in your chest. Though you hadn’t talked to Steve in two years, of course you heard the arguments that happened next door. Usually after one of Steve’s parties had left the Harrington home in a state. Steve had never had the best relationship with his father as Danny Harrington expected only the best from his son and Steve had never been able to live up to that, even from a young age. But though they argued, you had never thought it would escalate to something physical.
“It—it wasn’t your dad, was it?”
“No,” Steve says quickly, too quickly which makes you look at him carefully, wondering whether or not he was lying for your sake. “Really. It wasn’t my dad. I swear. It—it was Billy Hargrove."
You blink. You hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, ever since Billy Hagrove had strolled into Hawkins High like had already owned the place he and Steve had sort of rivalry going on but you weren’t aware it was bad enough for Billy to do something like this.
“But why—”
“—it’s a long story,” Steve says, jaw tight and looking away from you briefly.
“That’s it?” You ask him, pulling away from him as you look from his face to the bloody gauzes that sat in your lap. “You come into my room after two years of ignoring me—”
Steve’s expression falters and he says your name but you shake your head, getting to your feet and causing the first aid kit to fall to the floor at your feet.
“—no Steve, it—it’s bullshit! Okay? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to watch you slowly decide to just not give a shit about me anymore?”
Steve swallows at the sound of anger in your voice. He knew it had been coming and he knew he deserved it but he didn’t know what to say. Because there was no excuse, he knew that he had hurt you in immeasurable ways and he knew he most likely did not deserve your forgiveness. But he wanted—needed—to try anyway.
“I know I—”
“—and now you show up years later with a busted face and expect me to—”
“—I thought Billy was going to kill me tonight.”
That shuts you up. Your eyes widen and you look at Steve with a horrified expression and in your stunned silence, Steve decides to keep talking.
“I had a moment where he was landing hit after hit after hit I thought—I thought ‘this is it’ and all I could—all I could think about was—it was you.”
You’re completely taken aback, you were so stunned that you almost forgot to be angry. Almost.
“All I could think about was how—how I never got to make things right with you and how much time I wasted caring about stupid shit like being popular. Caring too much about what other people thought of me when it really didn’t matter. When I already had someone who liked me for me. And instead I—I treated you terribly, I strung you along and I should never have done that. Not to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
Your eyes stung and you had to look away, not wanting Steve to see how close to tears you were. Because the truth was that you missed him. You missed so much that it was almost a physical ache in your chest. You missed the way Steve could make you laugh even when you really didn’t want to, the way he used to sometimes snort a little when he laughed really hard and the way you could be completely yourself around him.
Steve says your name again but you don’t look at him, instead you sniffle and look down at the first aid kit you had dropped, at the various medical supplies that were now scattered over your floor.
But before you could even think about picking them up, Steve is already doing it for you. You swallow, taking the opportunity to wipe your eyes as Steve bends down, carefully putting the gauze, the bandages and antiseptic bottle back into the box.
He snaps it shut, placing the kit onto bed beside him before he finally looks back at you.
“I’m really fucking sorry,” he tells you, the sincerity in his face making your throat tighten. “For everything. For being an idiot, for trying to be someone I’m not. For letting you down, for making you feel like I didn’t give a shit about you. I’m sorry for not standing up for you that night. I’m sorry I didn’t try and fix things after and I—I’m sorry for not saying all this sooner.”
You nod, your bottom lip trembling slightly as you look back at him, slowly sinking back down onto the bed beside him. “You really hurt me, Steve.”
Steve swallows at that, his eyes turning glassy as he looks back at you. “I know. I was—a colossal idiot. There’s no excuse for it. I hurt you and I wish I could take it all back but I can’t. All I’ve wanted to do these past few years is make things right with you but—but you were right, I was a coward. I was scared—terrifed—that you hated me or—”
“—I could never hate you,” you tell him.
Steve’s eyes soften and he looks back at you with a hopeful expression.
“Really?”
You nod, flexing your fingers against your bedsheet nervously as you look at him. “Really. I was hurt, upset and I was angry but I never hated you. I don’t think I could ever hate you. Not even for a second. I just—I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to become like Tommy or whoever else you were hanging out with because I know that’s not really you.”
“I was still an asshole,” Steve says thickly, the shame evident on his face as he looks down at his lap. “I still did things and said things that hurt people and I can’t take any of it back.”
“No,” you agree quietly. “You can’t.”
It’s quiet then between the two of you—the only sound is that of the thunder rumbling outside. There’s a flash of lightning outside your window but still, neither of you say anything.
“I’m sorry too,” you tell him quietly as you look down at your lap. “For saying I didn’t want to be your friend anymore. That—that wasn’t true I just—I knew I would forgive you straight away if I didn’t.”
Steve shakes his head, corners of his mouth twitching as he hesitantly lifts a hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch alone sends something hot and electric coursing through your body. “Please don’t be sorry,” he tells you. “I should have grovelled for forgiveness and I didn’t. I was—fuck—I was such an idiot that night. I didn’t have your back the way I should have done and I’ll never forgive myself for that. For upsetting you, for making you cry, for letting people talk about you like that.”
“You have no idea how much I think about that night and hate myself for what I did and what I didn’t do. How fucking stupid I feel for letting the best thing that has ever happened to me walk away without a fight.”
You turn to look at him, your expression softening slightly. “Steve—”
“—no, I mean it,” Steve insists, turning to face you fully now as he grabs one of your hands and squeezes it gently. Water drips down from his hair and onto your skin but you couldn’t care less as his touch warms something in you. “You are and I’m sorry it took me losing you and almost dying to realise that. I was just—I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was stupid. So stupid. And I think—I think I was scared to be honest with myself.”
Your brows furrow at that while your heart pounds against your chest. “Honest about what?” You ask him quietly.
Steve looks at you for a long moment before he reaches for your other hand. You let him take it as the look in his eyes keeps you rooted to the spot.
“That I was starting to fall in love with you and I got scared.”
All the air leaves your lungs at that admission. Out of all the things you had expected Steve to say when he climbed in through your bedroom window, you had never in your wildest dreams expected him to say that.
“I was—shit—it’s so fucking stupid now that I think about it but I just—those feelings scared the shit out of me. I mean—you were my best friend and yet, I was always fucking thinking about you. And so, I did all stupid shit to try and forget about you and it never worked. I partied, I listened to Tommy when I fucking shouldn’t have, I messed around because I thought I’d get over you.”
“I even lost my fucking virginity while wishing it was you beneath me the entire time. Nothing worked—nothing ever worked and so I—I thought distance would help but it didn’t and I let you down. I made promises and didn’t keep them. I made you think you were unimportant to me when you were the most important person in my life.”
“Steve—”
“—and that night—the night when Tommy gave me that dare—I didn’t kiss you because I was grossed out by you. God no, far from it—of course I wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t wanna do it if it was just a dare.”
“Steve—”
“—I just—I wanted it to be real and not at a party, not in front of Tommy and Carol or any one of those other assholes and—”
“Steve!”
Steve shuts up almost instantly. His eyes were wide and his hands were still holding yours tightly as though he was trying to ground himself.
You look back at him—at the guy you had loved for longer than you could remember—and you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore.
“You know—I never threw anything away,” you tell him quietly. “I just—I couldn’t bear to look at things that reminded me of you because it hurt too much. Because missing you was like—it was like a constant physical pain. Something I couldn’t get rid.”
“Really?” Steve asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you say. “I even kept the shell necklace.”
Steve blinks once, twice before he laughs and the sound brings you the sort of warmth that even fire couldn’t ever bring you. You felt it in every pore, every nerve, every cell in your body. It made you feel lighter, made the storm outside feel insignificant.
“Why would you keep that?” Steve asks, still laughing quietly to himself. “It was so heavy and—”
“—because you made it for me,” you say simply with a small smile. “And that—that meant it was important to me.”
Steve blinks. He looks back at you with an unreadable expression as his thumb drags itself across the skin of your hand and seems to steal the air from your lungs.
“I made you it because the shells reminded me of you,” Steve murmurs fondly, eyes seeming to shine as he looks back at you. “I thought the shells were pretty and—I thought you were pretty too. Prettier than the shells, obviously.”
Your face feels hot and it was near impossible to fight back the smile on your face now.
“You told me you were practising for art class,” you say quietly, head tilting to the side as you look back at him.
Steve smiles a little before shaking his head. “I lied. I was trying really hard to impress you but seven year old me had no game.”
You laugh then and you see the way Steve’s eyes light up, the way he can’t help but smile when he hears your laugh, when he was finally the reason behind it again.
“You didn’t have to do anything to impress me Steve,” you tell him after a moment with a soft smile. “You already did.”
There was silence again and then—
“Do you mean—”
“—yeah,” you breathe out, unable to look away from him as you squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I—I’ve been in love with you for a really long fucking time, Steve.”
The moment that follows felt as though it lasted for a lifetime. Steve was looking at you, seeming to forget how to breathe and you begin to wonder if you had been too forward when one of Steve’s hands slips out of yours to gently cup your face.
“The feeling’s pretty fucking mututal,” he murmurs before his lips seal over yours in a kiss that took your breath away.
Everything seems to slow down around you. You were vaguely aware of the first aid kit clattering to the floor as you kiss him back with no hesitation. your fingers sliding into his still damp hair while his hands gently cradle the back of your head.
You’re already breathless, unable to think of the world that existed out of Steve Harrington’s lips against yours—no thoughts about the rain splattering against the window or of the lightning that flashed across the sky outside. Because everything seems so dull in comparison to Steve’s lips moving against yours, against his hands that you were holding you like you were something sacred.
He was the first to pull away—catching his breath as his eyes couldn’t help but flicker down to your lips that were wet, swollen and so inviting that he already wanted to dive back in again.
But he also knew he had to earn your forgiveness first and that wouldn’t involve being twisted in the sheets together.
“Let me take you out tomorrow night,” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently wiping away a smear of his saliva from your lips and trying not to give in. “Make up for lost time, yeah?”
You smile a little as you consider his offer, your eyes flickering over the bruise on his face. “Let’s wait until the bruise fades first, yeah?”
“Oh,” Steve says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face as he looks back at you. “Yeah um, totally I—”
“—but I wouldn’t be opposed to a movie night,” you say with a small smile. “If you were to come up to my bedroom window again with a few movies I probably wouldn’t say no.”
Steve blinks but then—he smiles and he looked so devastatingly handsome that it was difficult to not pull him in for another kiss.
“It’s a date,” he tells you, leaning in to press a gentle but firm kiss to your forehead. “Little Stevie can join us too.”
You laugh and Steve can’t help but join you—thanking his lucky stars that you had opened your window for him.
Summary: After the morning at your apartment, Jack brings you back to his house, where the quiet feels almost impossible. Between police updates, hospital footage, protective order paperwork, and Robby making it very clear that you are not coming into work, the day keeps asking you to be brave. Jack keeps asking you to take it one thing at a time. And somewhere in the middle of all the calls and forms and cold coffee, something good becomes real. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Yours.
Author’s Note: This chapter is softer, but Trent is still very much part of the situation. I really wanted this one to sit in the aftermath — the exhaustion, the paperwork, the calls, the way relief can feel heavy too. But more than anything, I wanted Jack and Reader to get a few moments where the good thing is allowed to matter. They are taking care of each other now. One thing at a time.
The kind of slow where your body came back before your mind did, one piece at a time. Warm sheets. A solid weight behind you. An arm around your waist.
Quiet.
For one strange second, you did not know where you were. The ceiling was wrong. The light was wrong. The room smelled like clean laundry and coffee and Jack, not your apartment, not your sheets, not the flowers still sitting on your kitchen counter like the morning had not split open around them. Your body went tight before your mind caught up.
Jack’s arm did not tighten. He did not pull you closer. He did not say your name too fast or ask you what was wrong, like fear needed explaining before it was allowed to exist.
He just stayed there, warm and steady behind you.
Then his voice came low near your ear, rough with sleep. “You’re at my place.”
Your breath caught. His thumb moved once against your side.
“Door’s locked,” Jack said. “I’m here.”
You closed your eyes. The panic did not disappear all at once. It loosened.
A little.
Enough that you could feel the mattress underneath you again. The pillow beneath your cheek. Jack’s chest against your back. His breathing was slow and even, like he was giving you something to follow.
You swallowed. “What time is it?”
Jack shifted just enough to glance past you toward the nightstand. “A little after three.”
Your eyes opened. “In the afternoon?”
His mouth brushed faintly against your shoulder. Not a kiss. Almost not even on purpose.
“Yeah,” he said.
You stared at the soft light on the wall. “I slept that long?”
“You needed it,” Jack said.
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “That feels suspiciously like something a doctor would say.”
Jack’s voice warmed. “Could be worse.”
You turned your head slightly toward him. “How?”
“I could start talking about hydration,” Jack replied.
A tiny sound left you. Not quite a laugh. Close enough that Jack’s hand stilled at your waist for half a second, like he had heard it and wanted to keep it.
You rolled carefully onto your back.
Jack lifted his arm enough to let you move, then settled it loosely over your stomach once you were facing him. Still careful. Still giving you space.
He looked tired. That was the first thing you noticed. His hair was mussed from sleep, his eyes heavy, one side of his face faintly creased from the pillow. He looked softer like this. Less controlled. Less like the man who had stood between you and the door with his body squared toward danger.
More like the man who had stayed.
Your throat tightened as tears gathered in the corners of your eyes.
Jack noticed immediately. “Hey.”
You shook your head. “I’m okay.”
His brows lifted slightly.
You sighed. “I’m getting there.”
“That one, I believe,” Jack said.
Your mouth twitched. Jack’s thumb moved once over your stomach, slow through the fabric of your shirt. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The room held quiet around you. Afternoon light softened the edges of his dresser, the chair in the corner, and your still-packed bag at the foot of his bed. Your phone sat on the nightstand beside a glass of water you did not remember him putting there.
Nothing was demanding anything from you. Not for one second. No report number. No statement. No dispatcher asking you to repeat your address.
Just Jack looking at you like you were allowed to take your time coming back to yourself.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Long enough for your stomach to dip with something that was not fear. Then his gaze came back to yours.
“Can I kiss you?” Jack murmured.
The question moved through you slowly. Soft. Careful. Not because he was unsure of himself. Because he wanted you to be sure.
Your breath shook. “Yes.”
Jack’s expression changed. Just slightly.
Then he leaned in.
The kiss was soft. So soft it almost hurt. There was no urgency in it. No pressure. No attempt to turn the moment into something bigger than you were ready for. Just Jack’s mouth against yours, warm and careful, his hand staying exactly where it was over your stomach.
You lifted your hand to his face. Your fingers brushed the rough edge of his jaw.
Jack made a quiet sound into the kiss. Not hungry. Not restrained.
Relieved.
Like this mattered too. Like gentleness counted. Like your body wanting him, even softly, even carefully, was something worth protecting.
When he pulled back, he did not go far. His forehead rested against yours. You kept your eyes closed.
“Hi,” Jack said quietly.
A small laugh slipped out of you, fragile but real. “Hi.”
His thumb moved once over your stomach. “You okay?”
You opened your eyes. Jack was watching you. Not searching for the answer he wanted. Waiting for the one that was true. You thought about it. Your body still felt heavy. Your mind still felt fogged at the edges. Somewhere beneath your ribs, the morning sat like a bruise.
But Jack’s room was quiet. His door was locked. His mouth had just been on yours. And for the first time since the knock, Trent was not the loudest thing in your head.
“Right now?” you asked.
Jack nodded once. “Right now.”
You swallowed. “Yeah. I think so.”
His face softened. You looked down at where his hand rested over you, then back up at him.
“I like this,” you said quietly.
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “This?”
You nodded. “Waking up here. With you.”
Something in his expression shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. But enough. Enough to make your chest ache.
“I like this,” you said again, softer.
Jack was quiet for a second. Then his hand moved from your stomach to your side, warm and careful.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
You believed him. That might have been what got you. Not the words. Not even the kiss. The fact that you believed him without having to talk yourself into it.
Your eyes burned, and you rolled toward him before the tears could fully gather. Jack opened his arm immediately. You tucked yourself against his chest, your forehead pressing to the soft, worn fabric of his shirt.
He held you loosely at first. Then, when you did not pull away, he held you a little closer. You breathed him in. Soap. Sleep. Jack.
After a while, you felt his mouth brush the top of your head.
“You hungry?” Jack asked.
You made a face against his shirt. Jack huffed softly. “That’s a no.”
“It’s a complicated no,” you said.
“Mm,” Jack hummed.
You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Don’t do doctor voice.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.
You raised a brow. “You thought it.”
His mouth curved. “I did think it.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Rude.”
“Accurate,” Jack said.
You groaned and dropped your face back against his chest.
Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, once, then again. “Coffee first?”
That was easier. Coffee was not a meal. Coffee did not require your stomach to know what to do with itself yet.
“Yeah,” you said. “Coffee first.”
Jack pressed one more kiss to your hair, then started to shift. You tightened your fingers lightly in his shirt before you realized you had done it. He stopped immediately.
You closed your eyes. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jack said.
“I know we have to get up,” you murmured, embarrassed.
Jack shook his head. “We don’t have to do anything that feels like too much.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack settled back enough to look at you. “We’ll get up. We’ll make coffee. We’ll check your phone. We’ll deal with whatever needs dealing with.”
You nodded once. His eyes stayed on yours.
“One thing at a time,” Jack said.
You let the words settle. One thing at a time. Not the whole day. Not the whole mess. Not Trent, and the truck, and the police report, and the hospital, and the protective order, and the part of your brain that still kept listening for sounds that were not there.
Just one thing. Coffee. Jack. Afternoon light.
You took a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Okay.”
He kissed you again before he got up. Quick this time. Soft. Like punctuation. Then he pulled away, and you watched him sit up on the edge of the bed, running one hand over his face before reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
His shoulders looked tired. His back looked tired. Even his silence looked tired. Something in your chest twisted. Not guilt this time. Not exactly.
Awareness.
He had stayed awake longer than you had. You knew it without asking. He had listened for sounds, checked messages, handled calls, made sure there was water by the bed, and probably watched the door even after he had locked it. Jack looked back and caught you watching him.
“What?” he asked.
You shook your head. This time, it was almost true.
“Nothing,” you said.
His brows lifted. You gave him a tired look. “Coffee, Jack.”
His mouth curved, small and warm.
“Coffee,” Jack agreed.
He stood, then paused beside the bed and held out his hand. Not to pull you up. Not to hurry you. Just there.
Waiting.
You looked at it for a second. Then you slid your hand into his. Jack’s fingers closed around yours. Firm and steady.
And when you got out of bed, it was not because Trent was in jail, or because paperwork was waiting, or because the world outside Jack’s room had become simple.
It was because Jack was making coffee. Because his hand was around yours.
Because, for one more quiet second, that was allowed to matter most.
Downstairs, Jack’s house looked different in the afternoon.
Quieter, maybe.
Or maybe you were quieter inside it.
The kitchen was warm with late-day light, the counters clean except for a mug by the sink and a towel folded over the oven handle. Jack moved through the space like he knew exactly where every small thing belonged, pulling two mugs from the cabinet, opening the fridge, reaching for the coffee without asking where anything was because, of course, it was his kitchen.
You stood near the island and watched him. For a second, it felt strange to be upright. Strange to be in a room with sunlight in it. Strange to have slept through hours of a day that had apparently kept going without you.
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You want to sit?”
You shook your head. “I’m okay.”
Jack gave you a look. You sighed. “I’m okay standing.”
“That’s more specific,” Jack said.
You leaned your hip against the island. “Do not start with me this early.”
Jack turned back to the coffee maker. “It’s three in the afternoon.”
“Emotionally, it’s early,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Fair.”
The tiny joke settled between you. Small. Easy. Almost normal. You held onto it longer than you probably needed to. Jack set a mug in front of you a minute later, made exactly the way you liked it. He did not ask. You did not comment. It should not have mattered, the quiet ease of it. The way he knew without making a show of knowing. The way your coffee simply appeared in front of you, warm and familiar and right.
It mattered anyway.
You wrapped both hands around the mug. The warmth helped.
Jack leaned against the counter across from you, his own mug in one hand. “Food?”
You made a face before you could stop yourself. His brow lifted slightly. You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your mug. “Do not use doctor voice.”
“I said one word,” Jack said.
“You thought it in doctor voice,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m asking if you can eat something.”
You looked pointedly at his mug. “Have you eaten?”
Jack paused. That was answer enough.
“Jack,” you said.
His expression stayed carefully neutral. “I had coffee.”
“That is not food,” you said.
“Neither is emotional deflection,” Jack said.
You stared at him. He stared back. For one second, the two of you stood on opposite sides of the island, tired and stubborn and pretending this was a normal argument about food instead of the first thing either of you had almost eaten since that morning.
Then your mouth twitched. Jack saw it, and his did too.
You set your mug down. “Fine. Something small.”
“Something small,” Jack agreed.
You pointed at him. “You too.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Bossy.”
“You love it,” you said.
The words left your mouth before you could think better of them. Not love. Not like that. Not yet. Just a phrase. A joke.
Except it hung there for half a second longer than it should have.
Jack’s face changed. Barely. Enough to make your pulse trip.
Then his mouth curved, soft and careful. “I don’t hate it.”
Your face warmed, and you looked away first. Jack let you.
He moved to the fruit bowl on the counter like it required great concentration. “Apple or banana?”
You glanced over. “That’s the menu?”
“For now,” Jack said. “I’ll make something real later.”
“You say that like you’re in charge of all future meals,” you said.
Jack picked up an apple. “I’m in charge of making sure you don’t survive on coffee and spite.”
You reached for a banana. “Spite has nutrients.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Jack said.
You lifted your brows. “You don’t know that.”
“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.
“You’re very annoying,” you told him.
Jack rinsed the apple at the sink, his mouth curved. “Also true.”
You peeled the banana slowly, leaning against the island while Jack dried the apple with a paper towel. It was ridiculous, how much the smallness of it helped. Standing in his kitchen. Coffee on the counter. Fruit in your hand. Jack across from you, taking a bite of an apple because you had told him to eat too.
You took a bite. Your stomach did not love it. But it did not reject it either. Jack noticed, because Jack noticed everything, but he did not make a big deal out of it.
He just took another bite of his apple and nodded toward your phone on the counter. “Your screen lit up.”
Your stomach tightened. The almost-normal moment thinned. You followed his gaze. Three missed calls. Two voicemails. A text from Robby. A text from an unknown number that, based on the preview, looked official.
Jack watched your face. “One thing at a time.”
You nodded, but the banana suddenly felt heavy in your hand.
Jack set his apple down, reached toward your phone, then stopped. “Can I?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack turned the screen toward you instead of picking it up first. “Looks like the officer left a voicemail. Robby texted too.”
You swallowed. “What did Robby say?”
Jack glanced at the screen. “Just checking in. Says no need to answer right away.”
Your throat tightened. “That sounds like him trying very hard not to sound like he’s worried.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That is exactly what that is.”
You took a breath. “Officer first?”
“I think so,” Jack said.
You picked up your phone. Your hand shook, but not as badly as that morning. That felt worth noticing. The voicemail was short. Professional. The officer from your apartment said she had an update: Trent remained in custody for the time being, and she wanted to talk through next steps when you were ready.
When you lowered the phone, the kitchen felt too quiet again.
Jack watched your face. “You want me to call with you?”
You nodded immediately. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Jack said.
He came around the island, but he did not crowd you. He stood beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, close enough that you could lean if you needed to. You called the number back. The officer answered on the second ring. You put her on speaker because holding the phone to your ear suddenly felt too much like the 911 call.
“This is Officer Ramirez,” she said.
You cleared your throat. “Hi. This is—”
She said your name before you could finish. “Hi. I’m glad you called back. Are you somewhere safe right now?”
Your eyes moved to Jack. He was watching you. Not speaking for you. Waiting.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m at Jack’s house.”
Jack’s hand settled lightly at the back of your chair. Not heavy. Not possessive. Just there.
“Good,” Officer Ramirez said. “I wanted to update you on a few things from this morning.”
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Okay.”
“Trent is still in custody right now,” Officer Ramirez said. “He’ll have a bond hearing, but for the moment, he has not been released.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s hand did not move.
“The property damage to Mr. Abbot’s truck was witnessed by responding officers,” Officer Ramirez continued, “so that portion is documented clearly. We also have your 911 call, your statement, Mr. Abbot’s statement, and the notes you provided.”
You stared down at your coffee. The notes. The door. Jack’s truck. All of it sounded different in her voice. More official. Less like a nightmare you had dragged into someone else’s day.
“We’re also requesting any available footage from your apartment building,” Officer Ramirez said. “Hallway cameras, exterior cameras, anything that may show him at your door or near the vehicle.”
Jack’s thumb moved once at the back of your chair. You swallowed. “Okay.”
“That will help establish the timeline,” Officer Ramirez said. “Given what happened this morning and the prior contact you described, I would recommend starting the protective order paperwork as soon as possible, ideally while he’s still in custody.”
Your stomach dipped. There it was.
The next thing.
Jack’s voice stayed quiet beside you. “What does she need to do?”
Officer Ramirez answered him, but her tone stayed directed toward you. “I can connect you with a victim advocate who can walk you through the forms. You can start some of it electronically, and depending on the county process, you may need to appear in person or by video for a temporary order. The advocate can explain that part.”
You looked at Jack. His eyes stayed on yours. Still not deciding for you. Still waiting.
You pulled in a breath. “I want to start it.”
The words came out quieter than you meant them to. But they came out. Jack’s hand stilled against the chair.
Officer Ramirez’s voice softened. “Okay. I’ll send you the contact information and the case number again. I’ll also note that you’re requesting assistance with filing.”
You nodded, then remembered she could not see you. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Officer Ramirez said. “And I know this is a lot, but you did the right thing calling.”
Your throat tightened. Jack looked down at the counter. You could tell he heard it too. Not because he needed to hear it. Because part of you still did.
“Thank you,” you said again.
Officer Ramirez paused for half a second. “One more thing. He is still in custody, but if that changes, do not respond to any contact from him or anyone connected to him. Screenshot it, save it, and call us. If he appears at your apartment, your workplace, or anywhere you are, call immediately.”
Your fingers tightened around the counter. “Okay.”
“Is Mr. Abbot still with you?” Officer Ramirez asked.
You looked at Jack. “Yes.”
“Good,” Officer Ramirez said. “I’ll send the information shortly. You can call me back if you need anything clarified.”
The call ended a minute later. For a while, neither of you said anything. The kitchen went quiet around the soft hum of the refrigerator. Your coffee sat untouched on the counter. The half-eaten banana rested beside it. Jack’s hand remained at the back of your chair. Trent was still in custody. There was footage to request. Evidence to gather. A protective order to file.
All good things.
All things that should have made you feel better. Maybe they did. A little. But mostly, you felt tired in a new way. Like relief had weight too.
Jack finally spoke. “What are you thinking?”
You stared at the surface of your coffee. “I thought I’d feel better.”
Jack was quiet for a second. Then he said, “You might later.”
You looked at him. His face was steady. Not dismissive. Not disappointed that the news had not fixed you. Just honest.
“You think?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth softened. “Yeah.”
Your eyes burned a little. You blinked it back because you were tired of crying. Jack seemed to see that too, because he did not touch your face or ask if you were okay. He just reached for his mug and took a sip. Then he made a face.
You frowned. “What?”
“Cold,” Jack said.
The laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Rusty. Real. Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug.
You narrowed your eyes. “Did you do that on purpose?”
He set the mug down. “Let my coffee get cold for emotional support?”
“You would,” you said.
“I would not,” Jack said.
“You absolutely would,” you said, smiling.
Jack’s mouth curved. “I’m making a fresh pot.”
“Convenient,” you said.
“Necessary,” Jack replied.
You watched him turn back toward the coffee maker. Officer Ramirez’s words were still there. Custody. Bond hearing. Protective order. Footage.
But Jack was there too. Barefoot in his kitchen, making more coffee because both mugs had gone cold while the world tried to become manageable.
And somehow, for the moment, that mattered more.
The fresh pot helped. Not because coffee fixed anything. It did not. But the motions helped. Jack rinsing the mugs. You tossing the banana peel into the trash. The machine sputtering to life again. The smell of coffee filling the kitchen like the day could still have normal parts if you gave it enough time.
Jack poured both mugs again.
This time, you both drank before they could go cold. You were halfway through yours when his phone buzzed on the counter. Your eyes went to it before you could stop yourself. Jack noticed.
“Robby,” he said.
You nodded, but your fingers tightened around your mug.
Jack looked from the phone to you. “I can call him back later.”
You shook your head. “No. It’s okay.”
Jack did not move. “You sure?”
You took a breath. “Yeah.”
He still waited. You looked up at him. “It’s okay if he knows.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I know.”
You looked down into your coffee. “And if this is about work or the hospital, I probably need to know.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
He picked up the phone and answered it, keeping his voice even. “Hey.”
Robby’s voice came through low and concerned, not loud enough for you to catch every word. Jack listened for a second. Then his eyes flicked to you. Your stomach tightened.
“What?” you asked.
Jack lowered the phone slightly. “He has an update from the hospital.”
You set your mug down. “Put it on speaker.”
Jack studied your face for half a second. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you said.
Jack tapped the screen and set the phone on the counter between you. “You’re on speaker.”
“Hey,” Robby said, his voice gentler now. There was a brief pause. Then Robby said your name, careful and warm. “How are you doing?”
You let out a small breath. “I don’t really know how to answer that.”
“That’s fair,” Robby said.
Jack leaned his hip against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours.
Robby continued, “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to let you both know security pulled the footage from the day Trent showed up at the ER.”
Your whole body went still. Jack’s arm brushed yours again, deliberate this time.
You swallowed. “They have footage?”
“They do,” Robby said. “Parking lot, entrance, part of the hallway. Enough to show he came onto hospital property and confronted you after he had no reason to be there.”
You stared at the phone. The kitchen seemed to narrow around it.
Robby’s voice stayed steady. “Administration is filing a trespass complaint and issuing a formal ban from hospital property. If he comes back, security calls the police immediately.”
Your throat tightened. For a second, you could not speak. Jack’s hand settled lightly at the back of your chair. Robby waited. He did not fill the silence.
Finally, you managed, “They’re doing that?”
“Yeah,” Robby said.
The answer came firm. No hesitation.
Robby continued. “He came into my ER to harass one of my nurses. Yes, they’re doing that.”
Your eyes burned. Jack looked down at the counter, jaw tight. Not angry at Robby. Angry at the reason Robby had to say it. You pressed your lips together.
Robby’s voice softened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You blinked hard. “I know.”
Jack glanced at you. You let out a shaky breath. “I mean, I’m trying to know.”
“That counts,” Robby said.
A small, broken laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Jack’s mouth barely curved.
Robby continued, “Security is also sending the footage information to the officer on your report. It should support the protective order paperwork.”
You nodded, then remembered again that he could not see you. “Okay.”
“And you are not expected in tonight,” Robby said. “Or tomorrow, if you need it.”
Your stomach dipped. “Robby—”
“No,” Robby said, not harsh, but firm enough that you stopped. “Don’t do that.”
You closed your mouth. Jack looked at you like he absolutely agreed, but was smart enough not to say it while Robby was already doing it for him. You narrowed your eyes at him. Jack’s brows lifted in silent innocence.
It almost made you smile.
Robby sighed through the phone. “I’m serious. We’re covered. Lena knows. I know. You can send documentation later if HR needs it, but right now, I need you not to worry about this place.”
Your fingers tightened around your mug. “That’s hard.”
“I know,” Robby said. “Do it anyway.”
Jack muttered, “Subtle.”
“I heard that,” Robby said.
Jack did not look sorry. “You were supposed to.”
Despite everything, a real laugh slipped out of you. Small. Brief. But real. Both men went quiet for half a second. Not in a way that made you feel watched. In a way that made you realize they had both heard it and both decided, without saying so, that it mattered.
Robby’s voice was softer when he spoke again. “There she is.”
Your eyes burned again. “Don’t.”
“Okay,” Robby said immediately. “Not doing that.”
Jack’s hand moved once at the back of your chair. You looked down at your coffee and breathed through the tightness in your chest.
Robby cleared his throat. “I’ll text Jack if anything else comes through on my end. Security has a photo of Trent. He’s banned from the building. If he sets foot on hospital property again, they will call the police. No debate.”
You swallowed. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me for keeping my staff safe,” Robby said.
Your mouth trembled. Jack looked at the phone. “Robby.”
“What?” Robby asked.
Jack’s voice stayed gentle but firm. “Let her thank you.”
There was a pause. Then Robby’s voice softened. “You’re welcome.”
You wiped quickly under one eye with the heel of your hand. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Robby said. “And hey?”
You looked at the phone. “Yeah?”
“You were right to call,” Robby said.
The words landed differently this time. Officer Ramirez had said it. Jack had said it. Now Robby was saying it too. Three people. Three voices. None of them asking you to make it smaller.
Your throat tightened, but your voice held. “Okay.”
Robby seemed to understand that was all you could manage.
“I’ll let you go,” Robby said. “Jack?”
Jack looked down at the phone. “Yeah.”
“Take care of her,” Robby said.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “I am.”
You looked at him. He was already looking at you.
Robby added, “And let someone take care of you too, jackass.”
Jack’s mouth tightened like he was trying not to smile. “Goodbye, Robby.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robby said.
The call ended. For a few seconds, the kitchen was silent. Then you looked at Jack. He looked back at you.
“The hospital has footage,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
You tightened your fingers around the mug. “And they’re filing trespassing stuff.”
“They are,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “And he’s banned.”
“He is,” Jack said.
Your fingers tightened around the mug. “So it was bad.”
Jack’s face changed. Not with surprise. With the careful look he got when something mattered, and he did not want to say it wrong. He stepped closer, stopping just in front of you.
“It was bad when you asked him to stop, and he didn’t,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. He held your gaze.
“Everything after that is evidence,” Jack said.
Your eyes filled. Jack did not rush to wipe the tears away. He just stayed there. Letting you have the sentence. Letting it be true.
The coffee was warm in your hands. The kitchen smelled like apples, caffeine, and afternoon light.
Trent was still in custody. The apartment building had footage. The hospital had footage. The police had reports. The world, piece by piece, was starting to agree with what your body had known for too long. This was not nothing. You had not made it up. You had not made it too big.
Jack’s hand settled lightly over yours on the mug.
“Breathe,” Jack said quietly.
You did. Not deeply. Not perfectly. But enough.
Then Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“One thing at a time,” he said again.
You nodded. This time, you believed him.
The victim advocate called twenty minutes later.
Jack had eaten the rest of his apple, though you suspected he had done it mostly because you kept looking at it. Your phone buzzed on the counter, and both of you looked at it.
You picked it up and glanced at the screen. “Unknown number.”
Jack set his mug down. “Could be the advocate.”
You nodded, but your hand still tightened around the phone. Jack noticed. “You want me here?”
You looked at him immediately. “Yes.”
His face softened. “Okay.”
You answered before you could talk yourself out of it. “Hello?”
The woman on the other end said your name gently, then introduced herself as a victim advocate with the county. Her voice was calm. Not overly sweet. Not pitying. Just calm.
You put her on speaker and set the phone on the island between you and Jack.
“My boyfriend Jack is with me,” you said. “Is that okay?”
The words were out before you realized what you had said.
My boyfriend.
Your eyes snapped to Jack. For half a second, your whole body went still. Not because it was wrong. Because it was true too quickly. Because you had said it out loud to a stranger on an official phone call, like it was a fact. Like he was a fact.
Jack’s face changed. Barely. But you saw it. The softening around his eyes. The tiny shift in his mouth. The way his hand stilled against the counter like the words had landed somewhere deep enough to make him forget what he was doing.
The advocate answered before either of you could.
“That’s completely fine,” she said. “You can have whoever you want with you.”
Your throat tightened. Whoever you want. Not whoever you needed to justify. Not whoever the situation required. Whoever you wanted.
Jack stepped closer. Not enough to interrupt or to take over. Just enough that his shoulder brushed yours. You looked up at him, still a little alarmed. Jack’s mouth curved, small and warm.
Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Brief.
Certain.
Your breath caught.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. No teasing. No correction. No making you say it again when you were already raw and tired and trying to file legal paperwork at his kitchen island. Just Jack looking at you like the word had not scared him at all. Like maybe he had been waiting for it.
Your pulse tripped.
Then his hand settled lightly at the back of your chair.
The advocate continued, “I’m going to walk you through the process, okay?”
You looked from Jack back to the phone. Your voice came out softer than before. “Okay.”
The advocate explained the steps in a voice that made them sound smaller than they felt. Temporary protective order. Petition. Incident dates. Prior contact. Evidence. Hearing. Service. Conditions. No contact. No coming to your apartment. No coming to your workplace. No third-party messages. No calls. No texts. No notes. No showing up.
Every phrase sounded like a door closing. Not loudly. Not violently. Just firmly.
Jack slid a notepad in front of you without a word.
You looked at the phone. “No. I want to keep going.”
Jack’s hand moved once against the edge of the counter. Not touching you. Close.
The advocate spoke again. “Okay. I’m going to send a link to the petition. You can fill it out electronically. If you get stuck, I can stay on the line.”
Your phone buzzed with the link a second later. Jack pushed his laptop toward you from across the island.
You stared at it for a second, then looked at him. “You already had it ready?”
The advocate waited politely while you opened the link. Then the form appeared. Your name. Trent’s name. Relationship. Address. Employer. Prior incidents. Most recent incident. Reason for request.
You stared at the blank boxes. For a second, all the words you had been saying since that morning disappeared.
Jack’s voice came low beside you. “One box at a time.”
You breathed in. Then you started. You typed your name. You typed Trent’s. You typed your address, and your fingers slowed over the keys.
Jack noticed. “Want me to do it?”
You shook your head. “No. I can.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
So you did. You typed the apartment number you had said to dispatch. The building entrance. The place Trent had come to after being told not to. Then you moved to the next box. The advocate stayed on the line while you worked. She did not rush you. Jack did not rush you. No one rushed you.
That almost made it harder.
You were so used to trying to get fear over with before someone noticed.
This time, everyone was letting it take up space. So you wrote it down. The coffee outside your door. The notes. The calls. The messages. The day he came to the ER. The way he had cornered you at work like your job was just another place he could reach you. The knock. The pounding. The handle. His voice through the door.
Jack standing between you and him.
The 911 call. The sirens. The truck. Every little thing you had tried to survive quietly became part of the same pattern on a screen. At one point, your fingers stopped moving.
Jack looked over. “What do you need?”
You stared at the cursor blinking in the box. “I don’t know how to make it sound right.”
The advocate’s voice came gently through the phone. “You don’t have to make it sound polished. You just have to say what’s true.”
Your eyes burned.
Jack’s voice was quieter. “Start there.”
You swallowed. Then you typed.
I am afraid he will come back.
The sentence sat on the screen. Plain. Ugly. True.
Your breath caught. Jack’s hand covered yours where it rested beside the laptop. You did not look at him. If you did, you thought you might stop. So you kept typing.
I have told him not to contact me. He came to my apartment anyway. He tried the door handle while I was inside. He showed up at my workplace. He left notes at my home. Police responded this morning. He was arrested after officers saw him damaging Jack Abbot’s truck outside my building.
When you finished the paragraph, your hands were shaking. Jack did not tell you it was okay. He did not tell you to calm down. He just pushed your coffee a little closer. You took it because the mug gave you something to hold.
The advocate spoke after a moment. “That is clear. That is helpful.”
You let out a breath. Jack’s thumb moved once over the side of your hand. The next part asked about locations you wanted protected. Your apartment. Your workplace. Your car. The hospital. Jack’s house.
You froze on that thought.
Jack noticed immediately. “What?”
You looked at him. “Your house.”
His jaw tightened. Not with hesitation. With understanding.
“He knows you’re involved,” you said.
Jack looked at the screen, then back at you. “Add it.”
Your throat tightened. “Jack—”
“Add it,” he said again, voice even. “If he tries to come here, I want it documented that he was told not to.”
The advocate spoke gently. “Including a safe residence where you’re staying can be appropriate. You can also ask for protection around any location where you may reasonably be.”
You looked at Jack. “I hate putting your house in this.”
Jack held your gaze. “I don’t.”
You stared at him. He leaned closer, his voice low enough that it felt separate from the phone call.
“This is where you are,” Jack said. “This is where you’re safe. Add it.”
Your eyes burned, but you nodded. You typed his address. Jack watched you do it. No flinch. No resentment. No hesitation. Just there.
When the form asked about evidence, the advocate walked you through uploading screenshots.
Messages. Call logs. Photos of the notes the officer had already taken. The report number. Jack’s truck damage would be attached separately through the police report. Hospital security would send footage through official channels.
By the time you hit save, your shoulders ached. Your head hurt. Your coffee was cold again. The advocate walked you through the next steps. She would review the petition. Officer Ramirez’s report would be attached. The evidence would be logged. You might have to appear by video for the temporary order.
She would call back as soon as she knew the time. You thanked her. Jack thanked her too.
When the call ended, you sat very still in front of the laptop. The petition was saved. Not granted yet. Not finished. But started.
Official and real.
Jack sat on the stool beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours.
For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The form was still open on the screen. Everything he had done, reduced to boxes and paragraphs and uploaded files.
You rubbed your thumb against the side of your mug. “I thought filing it would feel bigger.”
Jack followed your gaze to the laptop. “How does it feel?”
You thought about it. “It feels weird,” you said.
Jack waited. You looked back at the form. “Like it’s too simple for how bad it felt.”
His face changed. Careful. Understanding.
“Paperwork usually is,” Jack said.
You looked at him. He held your gaze. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.”
Your throat tightened. You nodded once. The house was quiet around you. For once, the quiet did not feel empty. It felt like a pause. Like the day had given you a place to put something down before asking you to pick up the next thing.
Jack leaned back against the counter and looked at the laptop again. Then his mouth curved.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Jack’s gaze slid to yours, warm and entirely too pleased. “Boyfriend, huh?”
Your face warmed immediately. “Jack.”
His smile widened. “No, I’m just making sure I heard that right.”
“You heard it,” you said.
His brows lifted, all faux innocence and terrible smugness. “Did I?”
You gave him a look. “You know you did.”
Jack leaned closer, clearly enjoying himself now. “I was under a lot of emotional stress. Might need you to clarify.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Then the nerves hit. Silly, maybe.
After everything. After sleeping in his bed and crying into his shirt and calling him your boyfriend on speakerphone to a county victim advocate. Still, your fingers tightened around your mug.
“If that’s okay,” you said.
Jack’s expression changed immediately. The smugness did not vanish completely. It softened. Settled into something warmer. More serious.
“If that’s okay?” he repeated.
You looked down. “I know we didn’t really talk about it. I just said it, and maybe that was—”
“Sweetheart,” Jack said.
You stopped.
Jack waited until you looked at him again. Then his mouth curved, slow and devastating.
“Yes,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack leaned closer, forearms resting on the island between you, eyes fixed on yours.
“Boyfriend,” he said. “Fuck yeah, boyfriend.”
A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it. Wet. Startled. Real.
Jack looked delighted with himself. And with you. Mostly with you.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
“I’m your boyfriend,” Jack said, still smiling. “Apparently.”
Your face warmed again, but this time it did not feel like panic. It felt like being wanted. Like being claimed only because you had offered the word first. Like Jack holding it carefully and then grinning because he was allowed to have it.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you asked.
Jack pretended to think about it.
“No,” he said. “Probably not.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed. Jack’s hand found yours beside the mug. His thumb moved once over your knuckles. Then his voice softened.
“Hey,” he said. You looked back at him. “I liked it,” Jack said.
Your chest tightened. “The boyfriend thing?” you asked.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Yeah,” Jack said. “The boyfriend thing.”
You swallowed hard. “Good,” you whispered.
Jack’s smile came back, smaller this time. Still cocky. Still Jack. But so warm it made your chest ache.
“Good,” he said.
The laptop was still open beside you. The petition was still unfinished in the ways that mattered. Trent was still in custody. There were still calls to answer and forms to submit, and whatever came next was waiting somewhere beyond the quiet of Jack’s kitchen.
But for one second, none of that got to be the center of the room. For one second, it was just Jack’s hand over yours. His thumb moving over your knuckles. His stupid, pleased smile. Boyfriend. Your boyfriend. And the ridiculous, impossible warmth of realizing that even in the middle of all this, something good had still managed to become real.
For a while, the two of you just sat there.
The laptop stayed closed on the island. Your phone stayed quiet. Jack’s hand stayed over yours, his thumb moving slowly over your knuckles like he was not in a hurry to be anywhere else.
The boyfriend thing still sat between you.
Warm. Ridiculous. Real.
You looked down at his hand, then at the half-empty mug beside the laptop. Your coffee had gone cold again. You almost said something about it. Then your stomach made a quiet, unhappy sound.
You froze. Jack’s eyes flicked down. Then back up.
You looked at him. “Do not.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. “I was not.”
“You looked like a man about to say something medically smug,” you said.
His smile deepened. “Medically smug?”
“Yes,” you said. “It’s a whole face you have.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “I have a medically smug face?”
“You absolutely do,” you said.
His eyes warmed. “And what does that face say?”
You gave him a flat look. “It says, ‘I told you your body needed food, sweetheart.’”
Jack stared at you for half a second. Then he laughed. Not a big laugh. Not loud. But real enough that it reached his eyes. The sound moved through the kitchen, low and warm, and something in your chest loosened just to hear it.
You tried not to smile. You failed.
Jack saw it. “I wasn’t going to say sweetheart.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what you’re denying?”
“That was the inaccurate part,” Jack said.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed. Then your stomach pulled again, less quiet this time.
You looked away with a sigh. “Okay. Maybe I’m hungry.”
Jack’s face softened immediately. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just pleased in a way he tried very hard to hide.
You pointed at him. “Do not be happy about that.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’m not happy.”
“You’re extremely happy,” you said.
“I’m calmly encouraged,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “That is worse.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. You reached for your phone and tapped the screen. 5:42. You stared at the time. For some reason, that did more to disorient you than anything else had. Almost six. The same day. Still the same day. This morning, you had been in your apartment with Jack on your couch. This morning, Trent had been on the other side of your door. This morning, you had whispered your address to a dispatcher while Jack stood between you and the sound of the handle rattling.
And now it was almost dinner.
You sat in Jack’s kitchen with paperwork filed and coffee gone cold and his thumb still moving over your hand. A whole day had happened inside half a day.
Jack noticed the shift in your face. “What?”
You turned the phone slightly toward him. “It’s almost six.”
Jack’s gaze moved to the screen. “Yeah.”
You swallowed. “That feels impossible.”
His expression changed. He did not try to fix the feeling.
Jack only nodded once. “I know.”
You set the phone down. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a car passing outside. Your body felt heavy. Your head hurt. Your eyes felt tired. But underneath all of that, there was hunger. Small. Tentative.
Human.
You looked around Jack’s kitchen, then back at him.
“Can I make you dinner?” you asked.
Jack blinked once. Then his face shifted into immediate resistance. “You don’t have to do that.”
You looked at him. “I know.”
“I mean it,” Jack said.
“So do I,” you said.
His eyes searched yours. “You need to rest.”
“I did rest,” you said.
“For a few hours after a traumatic incident,” Jack said. “That’s not exactly a vacation.”
You leaned back slightly. “Are you trying to out-stubborn me?”
You looked down at your joined hands. For a second, the teasing faded. Not because it was gone. Because this mattered more.
“I’m not trying to pay you back,” you said.
Jack went still. You kept your eyes on his hand over yours. “I know I can’t.”
“Sweetheart,” Jack said quietly.
You shook your head. “No, let me say it.”
Jack stopped. He waited. You swallowed hard. “That’s not what this is.”
His voice stayed gentle. “Okay.”
You looked back up at him. “You’ve been standing between me and everything since this morning.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
“The door,” you said. “The police. The calls. The paperwork.”
Jack looked like he wanted to interrupt. You lifted your hand slightly. “Please don’t.”
Jack closed his mouth. Your throat tightened. “Your truck got fucked up because he wanted to punish you for being with me.”
His expression sharpened. “That is not your fault.”
“I know,” you said quickly.
Jack’s face did not ease.
“I know it’s not my fault,” you said again, softer. “I’m trying to know that.”
Jack breathed out through his nose.
You kept going before you lost your nerve. “But it still happened near you because of me. Because you stayed. Because you didn’t run when things got hard or scary or complicated.”
His eyes stayed on yours. You could see the words land. You could see him take them in.
You pressed your fingers against the side of your mug. “You stayed like it was obvious.”
Jack’s face changed. Careful. Quiet. Almost wounded by the idea that it could have been anything else.
“It was obvious,” he said.
Your eyes burned. You looked away for half a second, then forced yourself back to him. “That’s why I want to make dinner.”
Jack’s brows pulled together slightly. You gave him a small, tired smile. “Not because I owe you. Not because I’m trying to earn anything. I just want to do something good for you.”
His throat worked. You added, quieter, “Because you’re here.”
Jack did not speak. Your fingers tightened around the mug again. Then, because apparently this was who you were now, you said, “Because you’re my boyfriend.”
Jack’s eyes warmed immediately. The corner of his mouth lifted.
You pointed at him before he could say anything. “Do not.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
“I was thinking something,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Something smug?”
“Something accurate,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. His smile widened. “About being your boyfriend.”
Your face warmed. “Jack.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping into that flirtatious, entirely too pleased register. “You keep saying it.”
“You keep reacting like that,” you said.
Jack’s brows lifted. “Like what?”
“Like a smug idiot,” you said.
Jack’s grin deepened. “A smug idiot with a girlfriend.”
Your breath caught. Girlfriend. The word hit softer than you expected. Not like a joke. Like a hand settling carefully over something tender. Jack saw it. His expression softened at the edges, though the smugness stayed because he was still Jack.
You looked down, suddenly shy. “So dinner?”
Jack’s hand tightened lightly around yours. “Dinner.”
You glanced up at him. “Is that a yes?”
Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “That’s a yes.”
You studied his face. “You’re going to hover, aren’t you?”
Jack’s expression turned innocent. “I live here.”
You pushed back from the island. “You can live here from over there.”
He rose too, slower, still watching you. “Over where?”
You pointed toward the other side of the kitchen. “There.”
Jack looked at the space you indicated. “That is also my kitchen.”
You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw it and looked pleased with himself.
You crossed toward the fridge, then stopped with your hand on the handle. “Do you have actual food, or is this a bachelor doctor situation?”
Jack looked offended. “I have actual food.”
You opened the fridge. Then you looked back at him.
Jack lifted a brow. “What?”
You stared at him. “You have three kinds of mustard.”
“That is actual food-adjacent,” Jack said.
“You have eggs, Greek yogurt, two takeout containers, and enough condiments to survive an apocalypse,” you said.
Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I also have chicken.”
You searched the fridge again and found it. “Okay. Points for chicken.”
“I accept,” Jack said.
You opened a drawer. “Pasta?”
Jack nodded toward the cabinet beside the stove. “Pantry.”
You found a box of pasta, then parmesan, garlic, butter, and a bag of broccoli in the fridge. You set everything on the counter with more satisfaction than the situation probably deserved.
Jack watched you. “You have a plan.”
“I have a plan,” you said.
His eyes moved over the ingredients. “Pasta?”
You looked at him. “You say that like you’re surprised I can make something from your sad little fridge.”
“My fridge is not sad,” Jack said.
“Your fridge is emotionally unavailable,” you said.
Jack laughed. A real laugh. Low and warm and surprised out of him. The sound loosened something in your chest. You looked at him before you could stop yourself. He noticed.
His smile softened. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
Jack gave you a look. You smiled faintly. “I just like that.”
His voice gentled. “Like what?”
“You laughing,” you said.
Jack’s expression shifted. You looked away before it could get too big.
Then you picked up the parmesan and held it out to him. “Here.”
Jack took it. “What am I doing with this?”
“You’re grating it,” you said.
He looked down at the block of cheese. “I’m allowed to help?”
“You’re allowed to take direction,” you said.
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused. “Dangerous thing to say to me.”
Your face warmed. “Kitchen context, Jack.”
His mouth curved. “Sure.”
You pointed at the cutting board. “Grate the cheese.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.
You turned away too quickly, but you could feel him smiling. For the next few minutes, the kitchen changed around you. Not magically. Not completely. The fear was still there. The paperwork still existed. Your phone still sat on the island, close enough to hear if it rang. But there was garlic beneath your knife. Butter softening in a pan. Jack grating parmesan beside you with an expression of exaggerated concentration.
You handed him the broccoli. Jack looked at it. “Now what?”
You pointed toward the sink. “Wash it.”
Jack looked at you. “That one I knew.”
“Good,” you said. “I’m proud of you.”
He rinsed the broccoli. “That sounded condescending.”
“It was affectionate,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed.
Jack set the broccoli on the cutting board beside you. “What else?”
You glanced around the kitchen. “Set the table.”
His brows lifted. “The table?”
“Yes, the table,” you said. “We’re not eating standing over the counter.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “You have strong opinions about dinner.”
“I’m a woman under stress with access to garlic and pasta,” you said. “Obviously.”
Jack laughed again. This time, you let yourself enjoy it. He moved to the cabinet for plates. You turned back to the stove. The butter melted. The garlic hit the pan. The smell bloomed through the kitchen, rich and warm and immediate.
For the first time since the knock that morning, your body remembered something other than fear. Hunger. Not much. But enough.
You stirred the garlic and breathed in.
Behind you, Jack set plates on the table. Then silverware. Then napkins. Then he came back and stood too close behind you.
You did not even turn around. “You’re hovering.”
Jack’s voice came from just over your shoulder. “I’m observing.”
“You are breathing on my neck,” you said.
“That’s not illegal,” Jack said.
You looked back at him. “It might be in this kitchen.”
His mouth curved. Then his eyes dropped to the pan. “Looks good.”
“You haven’t eaten it yet,” you said.
“I have instincts,” Jack said.
You pointed the spoon at him. “Your instincts live at least two feet away until dinner is done.”
Jack lifted both hands and stepped back. “Yes, chef.”
The words should not have done anything. They absolutely did. Your stomach dipped. Jack saw that too. His smile went slow.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not weaponize kitchen obedience.”
“I would never,” Jack said.
“You absolutely would,” you said.
His gaze stayed on yours. “Yeah.”
You turned back to the stove before your face could give you away. Jack’s quiet laugh followed you. And somehow, impossibly, the sound of it settled into the kitchen beside the garlic and the butter and the late afternoon light.
The day was still the day. Nothing about this morning had disappeared. But Jack was setting the table. You were making dinner. Your boyfriend was grating parmesan in his own kitchen with a smug little smile on his face. And for a few minutes, the good thing got to be louder.
Dinner turned out better than you expected.
Not because you doubted yourself, exactly. More because Jack’s kitchen had given you chicken, pasta, garlic, parmesan, broccoli, and three kinds of mustard, and you had been operating on adrenaline, half a banana, cold coffee, and the emotional equivalent of a system crash.
Still, somehow, it worked.
The pasta was creamy and warm, the chicken browned at the edges, the broccoli tossed with garlic and enough butter to make Jack raise his eyebrows in silent approval when he thought you were not looking. You were looking. You plated his food first and set it down in front of him at the table.
Jack looked at the bowl, then up at you. “This looks really good.”
You sat across from him. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“I have eyes,” Jack said.
“You also have a boyfriend bias,” you said.
His mouth curved immediately. “I do.”
Your face warmed before you could stop it. Jack looked much too pleased with himself.
You pointed your fork at him. “Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.
You tried not to react. You failed a little. Jack noticed. But he let you pretend he did not, which was generous of him, considering how smug his face looked. He took a bite. For one second, he said nothing. Your stomach dropped.
You sat up straighter. “What?”
Jack looked at the bowl. Then he looked at you.
His voice was quiet and serious enough to make your nerves spike. “That’s really fucking good.”
Relief hit so fast you almost laughed. “Don’t do that.”
Jack frowned. “Compliment your food?”
“Pause like you’re about to deliver bad news,” you said.
“I was appreciating,” Jack said.
“You were creating tension,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “Was I?”
“Yes,” you said. “And you don’t have to lie because I filed a protective order today.”
Jack took another bite. “I’m not that generous.”
A laugh slipped out of you. It came easier this time. Less broken. Less surprised. Jack watched you for half a second, something soft moving through his face, then he looked back down at his bowl and kept eating. That did something to you. You looked down at your own food and took a bite before your throat could get too tight.
The first taste startled you.
Not because it was good, though it was.
Because your body wanted it. Because hunger, real hunger, moved through you after a day spent bracing against fear. You took another bite. Jack noticed, but he only cut into a piece of chicken and said nothing. For several minutes, dinner was just dinner.
Forks against bowls. The quiet scrape of Jack’s chair when he shifted. The low hum of the refrigerator. The soft dimming of the kitchen as the light outside started to fade. Your phone stayed on the island. The laptop stayed closed. The paperwork stayed wherever paperwork went after you had given it everything you could for the moment.
Jack took another bite, then glanced up at you. “You okay?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
His brows lifted slightly. You thought about lying. Then you looked at his emptying bowl and decided not to.
“I think this is what I wanted,” you said.
Jack’s face softened. “Dinner?”
You shook your head. “No.”
He waited. You looked at him across the small table. “You sitting down. Eating something. Not watching the door for once.”
Jack’s hand stilled around his fork. Your voice stayed soft. “That’s what I wanted.”
For a second, he did not speak. Then he looked down at his bowl and took another bite like maybe that was easier than answering. You let him have that. A minute later, he stood with his bowl.
You looked up. “Are you done?”
Jack shook his head. “Seconds.”
The word landed harder than it should have. You tried to hide it. Jack saw it anyway.
His voice gentled. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
He stood beside the stove, spooning more pasta into his bowl. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You looked down at your own food. “I just like that you want more.”
Jack was quiet. You glanced up. His expression had softened in that dangerous way again. The kind that made everything in your chest feel too visible.
Then Jack lifted the serving spoon slightly. “It’s really fucking good.”
You smiled down at your bowl. “Okay.”
He came back to the table. “And I’m hungry.”
Your smile grew. “Okay.”
Jack sat again. “And my girlfriend made it.”
Your breath caught. He took another bite like he had not just casually rearranged the room around you. You stared at him.
Jack looked up, all false innocence. “What?”
“You’re abusing the title,” you said.
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Already?”
“Yes,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Good.”
By the time dinner was done, the kitchen had gone soft around the edges. Not clean. Not perfect. There were pans on the stove, plates on the table, parmesan on the counter, and a suspicious amount of garlic on one cutting board. You stood and reached for your bowl.
Jack looked at you. “No.”
You froze. “No?”
Jack stood too. “Dishes can wait.”
“I cooked,” you said.
“And I’ll clean later,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Later when?”
“Later,” Jack said.
“That is not a time,” you said.
“It is tonight’s time,” he said.
You looked at the sink, then back at him. “Jack—”
He leaned one hand on the table. “Sit on the couch with me.”
Your protest died somewhere embarrassingly fast. Jack saw it happen.
His mouth curved. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You rolled your eyes. “Cocky.”
“Accurate,” Jack said.
You pointed toward the sink. “Those dishes are going to be gross later.”
“I’ve survived worse,” he said.
You looked at him. His expression stayed warm, but something quieter moved beneath it. You thought of the morning. The door. The sirens. The truck. The forms.
Then you let the bowl stay on the table.
“Fine,” you said.
Jack’s mouth softened. “Fine?”
You lifted your chin. “I will sit on your couch.”
“My couch is honored,” Jack said.
“You’re very annoying as a boyfriend,” you said.
Jack’s smile turned slow. “As a boyfriend?”
You felt your face warm. “Do not.”
He stepped closer. “I’m just clarifying.”
“You’re fishing,” you said.
“I am,” Jack admitted.
You stared at him. He stared back. Then, because he was impossible and because you apparently liked impossible, you smiled. Jack’s face changed like he had won something. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed two wine glasses from the cabinet.
You leaned against the table and watched him. “Wine?”
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You want some?”
You lifted a brow. “You’re giving me alcohol after everything that happened today?”
“One glass,” Jack said. “Food in you. Boyfriend supervision.”
You laughed. “Boyfriend supervision sounds fake.”
Jack pulled a bottle from the small rack near the counter. “It’s very serious.”
“You made that up,” you said.
“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.
“That does not make boyfriend supervision real,” you said.
Jack worked the cork free. “It does in this house.”
You watched him pour red wine into one glass, then the other. Something warm and reckless moved through you.
You tilted your head. “Careful.”
Jack paused, the bottle hovering over your glass.
You met his eyes. “Red wine gets me into all kinds of trouble.”
For one second, Jack went very still. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately.
When his eyes came back to yours, they were darker than before.
Without looking away, he tipped the bottle and poured a little more into your glass.
Your stomach dipped. You stared at him. “Jack.”
His mouth curved as he set the bottle down. “Good to know.”
You picked up your glass, trying very hard to look unimpressed. “That was reckless.”
Jack handed you the wine. “I made an informed decision.”
You took the glass from him. “Did you?”
His fingers brushed yours. “Yeah.”
You swallowed. Jack picked up his own glass and nodded toward the living room. “Couch?”
You took a small sip of wine. It was smooth and rich and a little too fitting for the look on his face.
You lowered the glass. “Couch.”
The living room was dimmer than the kitchen, washed in the blue-gray light of early evening. Jack clicked on one lamp, warm and low, then set his glass on the coffee table. You sat beside him, close but not quite touching. Your phone sat on the table too. Screen down. Quiet. Jack noticed where your eyes went. He did not say anything. He only reached over and rested his hand on your knee.
You looked down at his hand. “Boyfriend supervision?”
Jack’s thumb moved once. “Exactly.”
You leaned into the couch. “You’re very cocky for someone who became a boyfriend today.”
Jack looked at you over his wine glass. “I’ve been overqualified for the position for a while.”
You laughed immediately. Jack’s mouth curved. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His eyes stayed on you. “That was not nothing.”
“That was just very you,” you said.
Jack set his wine down. “You like very me.”
You took another sip to buy yourself a second. “Unfortunately.”
His hand warmed over your knee. “Unfortunately?”
You looked at him. “Tragically.”
Jack leaned closer. “Devastating for you.”
“Terrible,” you said.
His gaze dropped to your mouth again. This time, he did not hide it. Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb slowed on your knee. “Can I kiss you?”
The question softened the heat without killing it. Your throat tightened.
“You don’t have to ask every time,” you said.
Jack’s eyes came back to yours. His voice went low. “Today I do.”
Everything in you went quiet. Not scared. Not frozen. Quiet. Like some part of your body had needed him to say exactly that.
You leaned closer, your voice softer. “Yes.”
Jack kissed you like he had been waiting.
Not rushing. Not taking. Waiting.
His mouth found yours softly at first, warm from wine and dinner and the smile he had been fighting all night. His hand stayed on your knee, careful, while yours moved to the front of his shirt. You gripped the fabric. Jack made a low sound against your mouth. The sound went through you fast. Too fast.
You kissed him harder. His hand slid from your knee to your thigh, still careful, still giving you room to move away if you wanted to. You did not move away. You shifted closer. Jack let you. He let you set the pace, let you angle your body toward his, let you decide when soft was not enough anymore.
The next kiss was deeper. Hotter. His mouth opened under yours, and your fingers tightened in his shirt as heat moved through you, sharp and welcome and so much better than fear. Jack’s other hand came up to your jaw. His thumb brushed along the edge of your face, steadying without holding you still. You made a small sound against his mouth.
Jack pulled back half an inch. “You okay?”
You nodded, breath uneven. “Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”
You kissed him again instead of answering. Jack’s hand flexed on your thigh. There he was. Still careful. Still Jack. But warmer now. Hungrier. His mouth moved against yours like he could feel the line you were drawing and wanted to follow it exactly.
You shifted again, your knee pressing into the couch beside his hip. Jack’s hand moved to your waist, not pulling, just there in case you wanted the balance. You did. You moved into his lap slowly, giving yourself time to change your mind. You did not.
Jack stayed very still beneath you until you settled over him. Then his hands found your hips. Firm and careful. Reverent enough to make your chest ache and confident enough to make your stomach flip.
He looked up at you, eyes dark and warm. “Hi.”
A laugh broke out of you, breathless and unsteady. “Hi.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “This okay?”
You looked down at him, at the open want on his face, at the restraint still threaded through his hands. “Yes,” you said. “This is okay.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Then he kissed you again. The angle changed everything. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, and his arms came around you more fully, holding you close but not trapping you. His mouth was hotter now, less careful at the edges, still controlled but only barely.
You could taste the wine on him.
The whole ridiculous miracle of being wanted by someone who had seen you scared and shaking and still looked at you like this. Like you were not broken open. Like you were here. Like you were his girlfriend in his lap on his couch, and that was allowed to matter more for a minute.
Jack’s hand moved slowly up your back. You leaned into him. He smiled against your mouth.
You felt it and pulled back just enough to glare at him. “What?”
Jack’s breathing was rougher now. “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That was a smile.”
“Was it?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack’s hands settled at your hips again. “I like this.”
Your face warmed. His eyes stayed on yours. “I like you here,” Jack said.
The words were simple. Low. Devastating.
You swallowed. Then you leaned down and kissed him again because answering that out loud felt too big. Jack met you halfway. The kiss turned messy in the best way, your hands in his shirt, his fingers pressing into your hips, your body finally remembering that wanting could be safe, that heat did not have to come with fear attached to it.
You rolled your hips without fully meaning to. Jack’s grip tightened. Just once. Enough that you felt the restraint in him snap taut.
He broke the kiss with a rough breath. “Careful.”
You stilled immediately. “Too much?”
His eyes opened. Dark. Focused.
“No,” Jack said, voice rough. “That’s the problem.”
Your stomach flipped. “Oh,” you said.
His mouth curved, smug even through the heat. “Yeah. Oh.”
You stared at him for half a second. Then a laugh slipped out of you. Soft. Breathless. Almost disbelieving.
Jack’s hands loosened on your hips immediately, his thumbs brushing over you in slow, grounding strokes. You looked down at him, your heart beating hard for reasons that had nothing to do with panic. Then you leaned back slightly, just enough to breathe. Jack watched you, chest rising beneath your hands.
You brushed your thumb over the open collar of his shirt. “Told you.”
His eyes narrowed faintly, mouth curving. “Told me what?”
You leaned closer until your mouth hovered near his. “Trouble,” you whispered.
Jack’s smile went slow. Wicked. Warm. So pleased with you it made your whole body ache. His hands settled more firmly at your hips.
“I poured accordingly,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. Then you laughed into his mouth when he kissed you again. Jack swallowed the sound like he wanted to keep it. His hands tightened at your hips, careful but firmer now, and you let yourself sink closer. Into the warmth of him. Into the solid press of his body beneath yours. Into the impossible fact that this day had held police and paperwork and fear, but it had also held this.
His mouth moved against yours, slow and deep, tasting faintly of wine. You kissed him back harder. Jack made a rough sound low in his throat. The sound went straight through you. Your fingers slid into his hair before you could think better of it, and his grip flexed once at your waist.
Not stopping you. Not rushing you. Just feeling it. Feeling you.
You pulled back only far enough to breathe. Jack’s eyes opened, dark and warm and fixed entirely on you. His chest rose beneath your hands. For a second, neither of you spoke. The living room was quiet around you. The lamp threw soft light across his face. Your phone stayed silent on the coffee table. The wine sat forgotten beside it.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “You okay?”
You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah.”
His mouth curved. “Good.”
You looked at him, still sitting in his lap, your hands braced against his shoulders, your body warm in a way that had nothing to do with panic.
“Good?” you asked.
Jack’s smile turned smug. “Very good.”
You huffed a laugh. “You’re so annoying.”
His hands slid slowly along your sides, settling again at your hips. “That hasn’t stopped you yet.”
You leaned closer. “Maybe I have questionable taste.”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “Maybe.”
You kissed him again before he could look too pleased with himself. This time, he smiled into it. You felt it. You loved it. That was dangerous, too. Not bad dangerous.
Not the kind that made your body go cold.
This was the kind that made everything in you wake up. The kind that made you want to press closer, breathe harder, forget the closed laptop in the kitchen and the paperwork saved inside it and the fact that this morning had almost swallowed you whole.
Jack’s hand moved up your back. You arched into him without meaning to. His breath caught. Then he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice rough.
You opened your eyes. “What?”
Jack breathed out slowly. “We should slow down.”
Your stomach dipped for a half second. Jack caught it immediately. His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing gently along your jaw.
“Not because I don’t want you,” he said.
Your breath caught. His eyes stayed on yours. “I do.”
The words landed low and warm. Simple. Unmistakable.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your skin. “A lot.”
Your lips parted. He gave you a look. A tiny warning. Soft. Amused. Still heated.
“Don’t look at me like that after I just said we should slow down,” Jack said.
A laugh slipped out of you, breathless and startled. “Sorry.”
“You are not,” Jack said.
“No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”
His mouth curved. You let your forehead rest against his again. For a moment, both of you just breathed. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. Jack’s arms settled around you. Holding. Not trapping. Not taking. Just holding. The heat did not vanish. It settled. Changed shape. Became something warm enough to stay with.
Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. For a moment, both of you just breathed. Then your throat tightened.
“I don’t want him to ruin this,” you said.
Jack’s thumb stilled at your back. You swallowed and kept your forehead against his. “Us.”
For half a second, Jack did not move. Then his arms tightened around you. Not hard. Not frantic. Certain.
“He doesn’t get to ruin us,” Jack said.
Your eyes burned, but not in the same way as before.
“He’s already in so much of it,” you whispered.
Jack turned his head enough to press his mouth to your temple. “Then we make more.”
Your breath caught. His hand moved slowly over your back.
“More of this,” Jack said quietly. “More good. More us.”
You closed your eyes. The words settled somewhere deep. Not a promise that everything would be easy. Not a denial of what had happened. Just a promise that Trent did not get to be the only thing that mattered. You nodded against him. Jack kissed your temple again. Then he kissed your cheek. Then near the corner of your mouth.
Your laugh came out small against his shoulder. “You’re very committed to this.”
Jack’s voice warmed. “Follow-up care is important.”
You lifted your head and looked at him. For one second, you just stared. Then you laughed. A real laugh. Tired. Soft. A little wrecked around the edges. Jack watched you like the sound was worth everything.
“Unfortunately, that was funny,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Unfortunately?”
You settled against him, your cheek near his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”
Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back. “Too late.”
You closed your eyes. The dishes were still in the sink. The paperwork was still waiting in Jack’s kitchen. Trent was still in custody. Jack’s truck was still somewhere with two ruined tires and a long scratch down the side. None of it had disappeared. But Jack’s arms were around you. His mouth was warm against your temple. His laugh was still caught somewhere in his chest.
And for once, the good thing was not waiting politely outside the bad thing.
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Pairing: Jack Abbot x Michael Robinavitch x f!Reader
Series Description: Jack Abbot and Michael Robinavitch are your soulmates, but you're not going to let them find that out. Eight months and one hit and run later, they might have some opinions about that.
Tags/Warnings: A/B/O, Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury (Reader gets in a car crash) Significant Age Difference (40s/50s with 20s), Reader is a psych nurse who works in the pitt, Jack and Robby are in an established relationship, both Jack and Robby go a bit feral in this chapter
Wordcount: 7.8k
Author's Note: I can't quite believe how well this story has done- thank you all so much for the comments and support, it's really helped motivate me. I really hope this lives up to yall's expectations- I'm very open to feedback!!! Also yes I'm back on nights that is the only reason I was able to find the time to edit this lol
Part 1 Part 2
Barely ten hours later, Jack found himself back in the Pitt, the smell of coffee and antiseptic stinging in his nose as he went to the nurses' desk to find Robby.
He'd slept better than he slept most days, lulled by the steady chatter of the police scanner. But no amount of sleep ever made up for the exhaustion that came from a job like this- exhaustion that had followed him from med school to the army all the way to now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt rested- really, truly rested- but he'd learnt long ago how to function without it- how to push through the haze and focus on whatever was in front of him.
Like now. Finding his mate. Figuring out what fresh hell the night shift had in store for him.
He found Robby at the nursing station, leaning against the desk as he frowned down at the tablet in front of him. He looked tired, but not unusually so- just that familiar, soul-deep weariness that came with running an ER day in and day out. His glasses had slipped down his nose slightly, resting precariously against the bump where it had been broken one too many times, and Jack felt the brief, automatic urge to push them back into place, or smooth away the lines between his brows.
Instead, he just made his way over and settled himself next to Robby, bumping his shoulder.
"Evenin'," he greeted.
"Evening Jack," Robby replied, tilting his head to look down at him over the rim of his glasses, "Back so soon?"
"Oh, you know me," Jack said, "Can't stay away from this place."
Robby snorted softly and returned to his chart while Jack dropped his bag and leaned down onto the desk, resting on his forearms as he scanned the department.
"How's it been?"
Robby shrugged, still focused on the tablet. “There’s been more of that drug you mentioned. We managed to get a sample to the lab, but even they couldn’t tell us what it is. We do know it’s being cut with fentanyl - and it’s getting passed around like goddamn party favours.” He paused, and Jack glanced over. Robby had straightened slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. "Had three fentanyl OD's this afternoon. Lost one of them."
Oh.
"How old?"
"Seventeen."
Oh.
"Shit," he murmured, leaning into Robby's space to try to catch his eye. Robby wouldn't meet it. "I'm sorry Mikey. That's never easy."
"Yeah, well-" Robby pushed off the desk and started walking, clearly unwilling to talk about it anymore. Jack let it go.
But Jack knew he'd take that death home with him, just as he'd taken every death home with him since he started this goddamn job- especially the kids. No matter what Robby told the residents, you never really got used to the ones you couldn’t save.
Especially the kids.
They walked in silence for a few moments before Robby started again.
"How d'you sleep?" he asked.
“Better than usual. Never enough.” Jack shrugged as they passed North 5. "But I'm ready to go."
Robby's mouth twitched in a half-smile. "You always are, brother."
They moved through the department, rounding informally as they went, checking in with residents and nurses in passing. It was the last hour of the day shift, and the ER had that familiar, slightly frantic edge to it- everyone pushing to wrap things up so they wouldn’t have to stay late. They would anyway. They always did.
As they walked, Jack found himself keeping an eye out for you. You were someone who liked to come in early, settling yourself before your shift officially started. More often than not, by this point, you’d be by the coffee machine in the break room, nursing a cup and trying to drag yourself awake. Jack liked those moments- the quiet, half-asleep conversations before the department tipped over into chaos. He wondered, absently, if he’d catch you there today, if he might get the chance to ask how you’d slept. He thought he’d like that.
"Looking for something?" Robby asked mildly, but with a slight twist to his mouth that betrayed his amusement.
"I'm… just seeing who's clocking in for overtime."
"Oh-hoh," Robby laughed, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were coming for my job, brother."
Robby barked a laugh, glancing down at him with an easy, familiar fondness- finally meeting his eye again. "Have it. I'd like to see you and Gloria go head-to-head over schedules. Could get Ahmad to bet on that."
Jack grinned and shook his head. “Nah. I'll leave you to handle that particular nightmare."
"Mm-hm," Robby muttered, stepping aside to let a group of nurses rush past with a gurney. "Just one of my many talents." They walked a few more steps before he added, quieter, “She’ll be here.”
And there it was: that mutual understanding that existed when it came to you. Just a small thread in their bond, almost too fine to notice, but always present. Jack didn't need to respond. He just let it settle as it always did- understood, left alone, but never quite forgotten.
And then they moved on.
“So, we actually have some free beds,” Robby said, already shifting gears as he launched into handover.
Jack focused on listening, filing it all away into his tired mind: ICU full, no surprise there; two psych beds open upstairs; all ORs staffed and running. Trauma Bay One was closed for deep cleaning.
Just a normal Thursday.
But even as Robby finished handover and the clock hit 19:05, you still hadn't shown up.
Now that was unusual. You were always early- twenty minutes, minimum. Ten if something had gone wrong. Jack glanced around the nurses' station- although most nurses were handing over to their night shift counterparts, the day shift psych nurse was still sitting at her computer, typing something up- with no you.
Odd. He and Robby exchanged a look, then, without a word, started another slow pass through the department. Jack even ducked into the staff lounge for a coffee on the off chance you'd decided coffee was a necessity even if you were late, but there was no sign of you there either. By the time they circled back, the psych nurse was bundled into her winter coat, checking her watch with an impatient huff.
Still no you.
Robby had a slight downturn to his lips- not quite a frown, but approaching one.
"I wonder where she is." he commented, glancing around.
“Probably traffic,” Jack said, not believing it for a second. But if Robby worried, Robby would stay- and Robby needed to go home. Jack wasn’t about to let what was, realistically, probably nothing derail his mate's already fragile sleep schedule.
"You want me to-"
There it was.
"I want you to go home," Jack cut in.
"But if something's wrong-"
"It's probably nothing." Jack said firmly, "but I'll have Lena give her a call anyway."
Robby didn’t look convinced. His eyes drifted past Jack again, scanning the corridor like he might have missed something. It was that same stubborn streak- only this time it wasn’t just about the job. It was about you.
But Jack waited him out. He was good at that.
Slowly, reluctantly, Robby started pulling on his coat, packing his things away with the kind of deliberate delay that made Jack want to roll his eyes. Robby made a half-hearted attempt at conversation with a couple of nurses, but Jack glared at them until they left them both alone. Eventually, there was nothing left to stall over.
“You sure you don’t want me to stick around?” Robby tried, one last half-hearted attempt.
“Yes. I can’t remember the last time you left on time; let’s keep it that way.” Jack tipped his head toward the exit. “Go home, Mikey. Get some sleep.”
Robby hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But call if you need anything.”
Jack gave his hand a quick squeeze, then watched him disappear down the hall. A little bit of his heart followed him out.
Jack let out a quiet breath, then turned his mind back to the situation. Shift to run, errant nurse to track down. He turned to Lena, who was already typing away at her computer at the centre of all the chaos of the nursing station. She glanced up as he approached, one eyebrow lifting.
“You heard from our favourite psych nurse?” Jack asked, keeping his tone deliberately casual. No need to cause panic.
Lena shook her head. “Nothing. Unlike her, isn't it?"
Jack frowned, trying to ignore the discomfort in his stomach. If something was wrong, Jack was sure you would've called in to let Lena know.
“Can you give her a buzz? See where she’s at?"
Lena nodded, already reaching for the phone. "Already on it," she smiled a little at Jack, "I'll track her down, Cap; don't worry."
Jack felt a brief, familiar flicker of relief. Lena was good- damn good- and fiercely protective of her nurses. If something was off, she’d get to the bottom of it.
She raised a second eyebrow at him.
Right. Shift to run.
He turned away to the group of night shifters who were gathering around for huddle. It was a good lineup tonight- Ellis and Toomarian on, Henderson as senior. With Lena running the floor, things were in good hands.
He got through huddle as quickly as possible, passing on all the little things he needed to have a functioning ER.
“Remember,” he said, the words automatic even as part of his mind stayed elsewhere, “trust your gut, and trust each other. We’ve got a good team tonight.”
A few nods- impatient more than anything. They wanted to get moving. Fair enough.
He wrapped it up quickly, watching them break and scatter, then lingered just long enough to make sure nothing immediately needed him.
Nothing did, so he made his way back to Lena.
19:25.
“Any luck?”
Lena shook her head, a faint crease forming between her brows as she wrote something down on a chart. For Lena, that was as close to concern as it got.
“Rings through. No answer.”
Jack winced, then pushed the reaction down. You'd probably slept through you alarm or something- wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last.
And yet.
Just like the traffic excuse, something just didn't feel right.
“Keep trying,” he said. “And if you can’t get her, maybe try her flatmate. Hayley? Hazel?”
“Hannah,” Lena corrected immediately. “She brought in brownies from her that one night shift.” She flicked him a look over the top of her glasses. “Hey. You worry about your residents and I'll worry about my nurses, okay?"
Jack raised his hands in surrender, backing off with a huff of quiet amusement.
The night moved on from there.
EMTs burst through the doors not 5 minutes later, calling out stats as they wheeled in a trauma, and Jack snapped into motion. There was something almost comforting in it- the chaos, the immediacy. The world narrowed to vitals and interventions, to what was right in front of him. No space for unanswered calls when someone was bleeding out on your table.
They kept coming after that, one after another, the next hour blurring into a relentless sequence of controlled crisis. Stab wound. Car crash. Gunshot. Fast. Messy. Exactly the kind of work that demanded everything and left no room for anything else.
They came in fast and messy- just how he liked them. His residents were doing well tonight, and he felt a sense of satisfaction as he talked Toomarian through a tricky intubation.
The second he had a moment to breathe- 20:30- he went looking for Lena, lifting an eyebrow in question the moment he found her.
“Nothing,” she said immediately. Her expression had tightened. “Got hold of her flatmate. Said she left for work at the usual time. She should be here.”
Was it bad that Jack felt a grim sense of satisfaction that his gut feeling was correct? Maybe. Probably.
“If she’s not here in thirty minutes, we report her missing,” he said decisively. It might be early, but this didn’t add up- and it was cold as hell out there.
He wasn’t taking chances. He could see it in the way Lena's eyes kept darting to the door, could hear it in the hushed whispers of the other nurses as they worked around him.
You were well liked in the Pitt: funny, good at your job and fiercely protective of your fellow staff members. That you were missing was throwing them all off.
As Lena walked off, Jack took a moment to lean against the wall and just breathe. His leg was already starting to ache- too damn early in the shift for that- and his head felt crowded, thoughts slipping, again and again, back to you.
Damn it.
He dragged in a breath, then another, forcing himself- finally- to use the grounding exercises his therapist had been pushing on him for months. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. Slow. Controlled.
It helped. Just enough that when Toomarian reappeared at his side, asking to present a case, Jack was able to turn back to the work with something like focus, locking onto it with the same single-minded intensity as before.
It lasted just long enough to feel stable.
"Jack!"
Lena’s voice cut through the department hard enough to snap his attention up. She was hurrying toward him, face pale in a way that immediately made something in his stomach tighten.
“What?” he asked instantly.
She swallowed, stopping just short of him. “Just got a call from EMT.”
That alone wasn’t unusual. The look on her face was.
Jack’s stomach dropped a fraction. “What is it?”
Lena hesitated- just long enough to matter- then forced the words out. “Hit-and-run. Downtown. Young woman. Police found her on the roadside- alone."
She didn’t say your name. She didn’t need to. Still, he needed to check.
"Did you get a description?"
She nodded. "It matches."
For a moment, everything tilted. The noise of the department seemed to fall away, narrowing down to that single point.
You.
Hurt.
Bad enough for an ambulance. Bad enough for Lena to look like that.
"ETA and status?" he got out, voice rough.
“Three minutes,” Lena said quickly. “GCS six. Multiple rib and limb fractures. Probable internal bleeding. Severely hypothermic-core temp eighty-five. She’s been down in the snow for two hours at least."
Two hours.
The number landed heavy, sickening in its weight. Two hours of lying on the freezing ground, bleeding and hurt and alone and waiting for help that never came- and he had been here, moving from patient to patient like it was any other shift.
It was horrible. It was cruel. And it was completely fucking unnecessary.
Rage rippled hot and sharp beneath his skin at the asshole who’d left you there like trash on the side of the road- he cut it off hard. There wasn’t time for this. Not now.
“Alright,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Let’s get ready. Trauma 2, full team. I want X-ray and CT standing by, O-neg on a rapid infuser. Full hypothermia protocol- Bair hugger and warm fluids ready. Page Garcia-tell her to be ready for the OR.”
Lena was already moving before he finished, shouting out orders. The department snapped into motion around them, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate: quieter, sharper. A colleague coming in like this was never just another case. This was one of their own.
Jack let himself notice for a full five seconds before he turned away, heading straight for the ambulance bay. The cold hit him the second he stepped outside, sharp enough to steal his breath, but he barely registered it through the adrenaline. His focus narrowed to the sound growing in the distance- a distant wail that gradually filled the space around him until it was all he could hear, echoing in time with the frantic beat of his own heart.
God, he needed to get it together.
He’d worked in war zones with less than this- less equipment, less backup, less time. He'd stood over bodies with nothing but his hands and his wits and whatever supplies he could scrounge up from the nearest wrecked vehicle. This was nothing new. And yet, none of it made a damn difference in this moment.
Even though he could only claim you as a colleague, maybe as a friend at most, he knew this bone-deep, visceral fear was far beyond what he'd feel for any other nurse. No, this fear was something he only ever felt for Robby.
And that scared him.
He tried the breathing again.
In. Hold. Out.
In. Hold. Out.
Come on, Abbot, just fucking breathe. Don't think about the woman lying in the cold, scared and alone while blood leeches into the snow around her. Don't think about her blue lips and shallow breaths or the way she might have reached out, hoping someone would see her. Don't think-
It wasn't working. Panic was crawling up his throat, sharp and paralysing, the kind he hadn't felt since the desert, since the roadside where everything fell apart. His mind flashed with images that didn't belong there but felt terrifyingly real: your face pale and bloodless, your body crumpled and still against the cold ground.
That was when his army instincts kicked in- a soldier's response that came too late for himself but just in time for you. He shut it down. Whatever his mind was reaching for- fear, rage, something softer, more dangerous- he pushed it into a locked box he'd built years ago in a place that had been hotter, louder, dustier and just as unforgiving. He would feel it all later. If later came at all.
Instead, he forced his focus back where it belonged, to the medicine, running protocols in his head- hypothermia, massive transfusion, TBI management- lining everything up so there would be no hesitation when you came through those doors.
Seconds stretched, but he counted them anyway, steadying his breathing, locking himself into the rhythm of it.
Then the sirens screamed, and the ambulance burst through the bay in a spray of snow and gravel. Before the doors had even opened, Jack was moving forward, eyes locked on the rear of the vehicle, already taking you in.
"Female," the paramedic called out, half-barking as they rolled you off the ambulance, "approximate age thirty, found in roadway. Hit-and-run driver unknown. No ID on scene. BP 70/30, heart rate 110, o2 sat 85 on fifteen litres. GCS six. Pupils unequal, sluggish. Abdomen’s rigid- we’re thinking splenic rupture. Uneven chest movements. Multiple fractures, ribs and all four limbs. Core temp 86 now- we've been trying to warm her up, but it's slow going."
Yeah, he could fucking feel that as he reached for your wrist to check the radial pulse, which was weak, fast and thready. Your skin was ice cold, waxy and pale. Blood had soaked through the blankets they'd wrapped around you, seeping out and dripping onto the gurney as they moved you from the rig. Jack risked a glance at your face- slack, unresponsive, blood matted in your hair- and some part of him just cracked at the sight. He tightened his grip for just a second, forcing himself to feel the pulse beneath his fingers as a sign that you were alive- then he let go.
"What's the drip?" He kept his voice steady, sharp, clinical- all he could afford to be right now.
"Warm saline, wide open. We've given two units O-neg too but her blood pressure's still tanking."
"Why didn't you intubate?"
"Tried," the paramedic grunted. "Jaw's too stiff from hypothermia."
Jack nodded, already adjusting the plan in his head as they started moving inside.
“Trauma Two,” he called, “Let’s move.”
The team was already waiting as they rolled you through the doors, swarming in from all sides with practiced speed. He noticed Garcia somehow already standing by, and he nodded to her gratefully as he took his place as trauma lead.
“Alright, let’s get those clothes off. Full head-to-toe. EFAST now. I want cross-matched blood started immediately- Ellis, start a central. Lindsey get the rapid warmer going- let's push some heat into her.”
Everyone moved in unison, cutting away your clothes with practiced speed as the gurney locked into place. As more of you were revealed, Jack’s stomach clenched even harder.
Deep purple bruises flowered across your ribs, your limbs twisted unnaturally, the breaks clear and ugly even before X-ray. Your skin was too pale, your breathing laboured and shallow- the left side of your chest barely moving. Your abdomen was distended- he probed it tentatively, feeling the firmness underneath that screamed internal bleed. Broken ribs on both sides.
"Alright, watch the chest wall," he called to the team, "ribs are shattered. We could puncture a lung just looking at her wrong."
He kept scanning your body- noting the way your head lolled too loosely to one side, the unnatural angle of your right arm. He reached for your face, tilting your head back slightly to check your airway, to see if anything obstructed it, but his breath caught for half a second as he found himself looking down at you properly.
He'd grown used to seeing you at work- composed, smart and always a little amused behind that dry wit of yours. But this? You were reduced to this: cold and broken beneath him. The image burned itself into his memory, raw and vivid in a way that made his chest ache.
It was too close. Too much.
Jack forced himself to look away, blinking hard to clear his head. He found Lena at the end of the gurney, her eyes wide with worry as she glanced up at him.
He nodded once, tightly, then lifted his voice again.
"EFAST now- let's see how much blood we're dealing with. I want a chest tube on the left and I want to get her intubated before she drops any further- but watch the jaw, they couldn't get it in the field."
"Abbot," Ellis said, standing ready with a central line kit, "There's a soulmark cover. I need it off for the central line."
"Scent blocker too," Lena cut in from the head of the table, where she was holding your head steady, "You need it off?"
Jack hesitated, but only for a second.
"Yes," he said quickly, hating the word even as it left his mouth. "Get 'em both off."
Soulmarks and scent were private, intimate- and exposing yours in front of the whole trauma team felt wrong on a level that made his skin crawl. But there wasn't a choice. He needed access, and he needed to know what they were dealing with- even if that meant watching them peel back your most vulnerable secrets under the glaring lights of the trauma bay.
He saw Lena nod, her fingers quick as she peeled the covering away and then ripped the scent blocker off.
The effect was immediate. The scent hit him like a physical force- sharp, acrid, saturated with fear. Omega. Distressed, hurt, scared omega.
Jack’s breath caught hard in his chest as something instinctive surged up- hot, violent and utterly irrational. Someone had hurt you. Broken you. Left you out there to die.
The urge to tear something apart flared fast and bright. For a half second, he felt himself slip and then he wrenched it back, forced himself to focus.
Around him, the room had fallen into a hush, and Jack opened his eyes to find everyone frozen- Ellis with the ultrasound raised mid-air, other members stopped in motion, staring in shock. He glanced down, following their eyes.
And everything stopped.
Because there, staring up at him from your chest was a mark. Robby's mark. His mark. The one Robby had touched so many times, kissed and traced in the privacy of their bed, thinking it was just theirs- but there it was, stark against your skin for everyone to see. Identical in every way.
Time seemed to fracture. Jack felt the ground tilt beneath as sound became a useless, broken thing. Someone let out a shaky breath; another cursed under their breath- low and sharp. His own pulse roared in his ears.
Soulmate. You were his soulmate.
And he hadn't known. He hadn't- fuck. He had no idea.
In the space of half a second, he went from fear to disbelief, then straight into an all-consuming panic that tore through him with the force of a goddamn freight train. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. All he could see was you- broken, bleeding, dying- his mate. The word echoed in his skull, a foreign concept suddenly made real and devastating. This wasn't just a colleague anymore; it wasn't just a woman he respected and admired from afar. This was the one person destined for him and Robby, the piece of their bond they never knew was missing. And you were lying on a trauma table, slipping away while he stood frozen in horror, helplessly watching your life drain away onto the sterile white sheets beneath you.
“Alright, that’s enough.”
Garcia was there suddenly, stepping into his space without hesitation, snapping her fingers once in front of his face. Jack blinked at her, slow to process the words. She wasn’t yelling, but it felt like she was.
“You need to get it together,” she said sharply, “or you need to get out.”
“What?” The word felt strange in his mouth, disconnected. His mind was still on you- pale, broken, your scent everywhere, your soulmark burning into his vision like it had been branded there.
Garcia nodded once, like that confirmed something she already knew.
“Abbot. You are compromised.”
Jack frowned.
Compromised.
The word didn’t fit- not the way she was saying it. Like he was unreliable. Like he wasn’t functioning. He was functioning. He was fixing it. They were fixing you.
"Abbot," she said again, firmer. "Step back. You are delaying her care."
No he wasn't. He was helping. His brain was just catching up with his body, that was all. There were things that needed to be done- tubes to place, fluids to run, blood to transfuse- though right now he couldn't quite remember which came first. The plan was all jumbled, scattered across his mind like the pieces of gravel he could see embedded in your legs.
"Right, I'm taking over." Garcia all but shoved him out of the way, taking over with all the assurance only someone of her skill could. "Ellis, keep prepping that central line. Henderson, intubate. Toomarian, tell me what's going on with that abdomen." The team around him responded without question, falling into step behind her as she started calling out instructions.
Jack blinked, dragging his attention toward her with effort. “What? No- I’m- ” He shook his head once, like that might clear it. It didn’t. “I’m fine. I can do this.”
"You're not fine!" she called over her shoulder, too busy monitoring the intubation to look up, "That is your soulmate on the table, Abbot, and I do not have the time or patience to argue with you about treating her. I swear, you'll thank me later."
It wasn't that he was arguing, exactly; it was that every instinct he had was telling him to stay, to fix this, to be here for you. But Garcia had stepped between him and you, a small but unmovable wall as she kept giving orders.
And Jack Abbot wasn't used to being kept out of a trauma. He worked them- and for good reason. He knew what he was doing in a trauma bay, even with the ground shifting beneath his feet.
He moved, almost unconsciously, trying to angle for a better view around her. You'd been rolled slightly onto your side so Henderson could intubate. They were securing your airway now- Jack could see the tube going in, the breath sounds crackling over the ventilator. He tried again, moving around the edge of the bed to get a look at your vitals board on the other side. Still shockingly low BP- still barely responding to fluids.
"Dr Abbot."
A nurse- Lindsey?- was standing in front of him now, one hand on his chest, pushing him back. He looked down at the hand- then back at her, confused. Why was she blocking him? He was only trying to help, to do his job.
"Dr Abbot," she said, voice a little softer, eyes watching him carefully. "You should step outside."
"I don't need to step outside," he insisted, though the words felt thick and clumsy. The room was getting crowded- so many people around him now, moving fast but not letting him any closer. He could still see you over their shoulders; blood was being pumped in fast now, but still your BP wasn't budging.
He just- he just needed you. To touch you, to calm you, to tell you everything was going to be alright because he was here now and he was never, ever going to let anything hurt you again-
"Someone get security." he heard Garcia say, her voice hard but oddly distant, like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel. "He's not going to leave."
Leave? Why would he leave? Jack shook his head, trying to get his feet under him. No. He was fine. The world just needed to stop spinning for a minute and he'd-
Hands landed on him a second later- firm, practiced, impersonal. Someone at his shoulder, another catching his arm. Their touch was clinical but unwelcome, an intrusion that Jack's instincts registered as threat even through the haze of panic clouding his mind. Jack let it happen for all of three full steps before his body caught up, muscles tensing under restraint as years of combat training surged to the surface.
“Wait-” The word came out strained, his focus snapping back to you as the distance between you widened by inches. “No, just- give me a second, I need to- ”
The need to get back to you surged again, sharper this time, cutting through everything else. He twisted against their grip, not fully aware of it until they tightened their hold in response.
“Jack,” someone said- Lena, maybe- but it didn’t quite reach him.
All he could track was the space opening up between him and the bed.
Wrong.
The thought hit hard and immediate, overriding everything else. Wrong to leave. Wrong to step away. Wrong to let anyone else between him and-
“I need to be in there,” he said, still trying to keep his voice steady even as panic clawed at the edges of it. “I need to-"
He pulled again, harder this time, breath unsteady, control slipping in a way that felt both distant and terrifyingly close. He twisted hard against the guards’ grip, muscle memory kicking in on instinct. He knew how to do this- how to shift his weight, how to break a hold, how to turn someone else’s strength against them. And for a second it worked- the hold loosened, just slightly- and then his balance went.
The prosthetic didn’t give the way his body expected. His footing slipped half a beat off, just enough to throw everything out of sync, just enough to cost him the advantage.
And then he was being dragged back, back toward the door before he fully registered it. He could hear Lena and Darius, the night shift head of security, and Jack knew he'd fucked up if Darius had been dragged into it. Still, all he could focus on was you, on the life fading from your eyes as you lay there on that bed.
"No-"
His arms were wrenched behind his back, tight enough to hurt, and he was dragged into the corridor, the glass doors slamming shut between him and the trauma bay. He kept his eyes on you, unwilling to look away even for a moment, until Darius stepped in front of him. He was a mountain of a man, ex-military like Jack, with dark eyes and an unflinching expression. For a split second, something sharp and reactive surged up-an instinct to push past him, to remove the obstacle- but Jack blinked hard, forcing it back. He wasn’t in the field anymore. And Darius was not an enemy.
They'd sat in too many VA meetings together for that.
Jack let out a shaky breath and forced himself to meet Darius’s eyes. Tried to sound rational even though the inside of his head was anything but.
"You need to listen to me," he gritted out, voice taut. "I am the night shift attending in charge of this ER. That is my patient."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the queen of England," Darius shot back, deadpan. His hands stayed firm at Jack’s wrists, keeping the pressure steady as Jack struggled to regain control.
Jack pressed on, desperate and unthinking. "I am the most qualified person in this damn ED-"
"Not in this state you’re not," Darius cut in, unimpressed. His eyes flicked down once, tracking something Jack couldn't see- his breathing, the shaking of his hands- and Jack flushed hot with shame. He knew what he must look like. It wasn't good.
Darius’s voice shifted then, slightly less hard. More like he was trying to talk him off a ledge instead of off a patient. "Jack. My man. Listen to me." Darius turned them both so Jack was facing away from the doors, forcing his focus away from the chaos inside. Jack fought it, craning his neck to catch even a glimpse of you- then gave in, grudgingly, when Darius didn't budge.
He stared at the wall opposite instead, trying to even out his breathing while Darius kept talking. "You're not doing yourself or her any favours right now. Whatever is happening in there- they've got it."
"She's my soulmate." It came out broken, but he needed Darius to know- to understand that what was happening in that room wasn't just another patient. It was everything.
Darius’s expression barely flickered. He'd seen enough soulbonds play out in his own time- the best and the absolute worst- to know what this looked like.
"I know," he said, calm as ever. "But you're a doctor first, and this is a hospital. Let them do their job."
Jack exhaled roughly, body sagging a little in Darius’s hold as the fight ebbed out of him. Not because he believed it- because there wasn't another option. He couldn't push his way back in there without making things worse.
"Jack?" Lena was standing at his side, cautious in a way she rarely was. He turned to her, then took in the rest of the corridor properly for the first time. The department was oddly quiet, staff keeping a wide berth as they sneaked glances his way. Some of the nurses were whispering amongst themselves, but when he caught their eye they quickly looked away.
Scared. They were scared of him- or at least of what they'd just seen. He swallowed, forcing down the bitterness of it. He hadn't meant to-
Fuck.
"Jack," Lena repeated, anchoring his gaze on her, "I've called Robby. He's on his way in."
Robby. Jesus, Robby. In all his panic, Jack hadn't even thought to call his mate.
"He's-" his voice cracked, and he swallowed, hard. He hated his voice for coming out so unsteady. "Did you tell him?"
"About the soulmarks or about you making a scene?" she asked, trying for a smile but failing miserably. He shook his head once.
“Both,” she answered anyway. “I called her flatmate and her parents too. Flatmate’s on her way. Parents are in the UK, so…” She let it trail off.
Jack nodded jerkily, grateful for her quick thinking. He'd forgotten all about anyone else, the other people who loved you and would want to know what was happening. He hadn't thought beyond the four walls of the trauma bay and he hated himself for it.
“Alright.” He drew in a slow breath, forcing it deeper the second time when it hitched. “Alright.”
He turned back to the window, locking himself into stillness by sheer force of habit, of training. One breath in. One out. Again.
Darius eased back another step. “You good here, boss?” he asked quietly.
No. Not even close. But he wasn't going to go feral again. "I'm fine."
Darius hesitated for a moment before stepping back, giving him space but staying within reach. "I'll be right here if you need me."
Jack acknowledged it with another nod, his eyes already fixed back on your too-still body, half eclipsed by the flurry of staff working on you. Every rise of your chest was a victory, every bleep of the monitor a blessing.
In.
Out.
Still alive.
His shoulders ached. Something along his ribs protested every time he breathed too deeply, and he knew, distantly, that he’d feel all of it later when the adrenaline dropped.
But it didn't matter. Nothing outside that room did.
In.
Out.
Was that a fucking chest tube?
He narrowed his eyes, tracking Garcia’s hands as she worked- incision, insertion, already securing the line to suction. Good. That was good.
In.
Out.
The doors of the ambulance bay banged open, and Robby strode in like a whirlwind, his eyes searching the scene before landing on Jack. Robbie took him in at a glance- the dishevelled hair, the wild eyes, the lingering scent of rage and terror- then he was at his side in seconds.
“Jesus, Jack,” His hands came up, firm and grounding, framing Jack’s face. "The fuck happened?"
Maybe Jack didn't deserve it after the shit he'd just pulled, but he leaned into the touch anyway.
"Hit and run." his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw. “Two hours, at least, alone in the cold before someone found her,” he forced out the words, squeezing his eyes shut at the flash of images that came up with them. “Broken ribs, broken limbs, ruptured spleen at least. GCS 6. Left lung collapse-"
Robby made a soft noise in his throat and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Jack's shoulders and holding him tight. Jack buried his face in Robby's neck, breathing in the scent of vanilla and woodsmoke, trying to get out that acrid, bitter scent of terrified omega.
"She alive?" Robby asked after a few beats.
"Think so," Jack replied, his voice muffled against Robby's coat, "They dragged me out. Said I was compromised."
"You were." Robby said without hesitation, stroking a hand over his hair. "And they were right to do it."
He knew that. He did, but it still made something resentful roll through his stomach as he nodded.
"She’s our soulmate," Jack whispered then, like saying it out loud would confirm it and sink it in further, as if the truth of it wasn't already splitting him open. Robby drew back, taking in the way Jack still trembled, the way his eyes kept darting back to the trauma bay.
"You're sure?" he asked, as if there was any room for doubt after the scene Jack had caused.
Jack pulled back slightly, just enough to look Robby in the eyes. "I'm sure."
Robby exhaled slow through his nose, then dropped his gaze to the window behind Jack, his arms tightening around him. There was nothing gentle about the way Robby watched the scene through the glass- no softness, just that same grim resolve Jack knew too well.
"Fuck."
Jack closed his eyes again, leaning his forehead against Robby's shoulder. “Yeah,” he breathed.
There wasn't anything else to say.
They both turned their attention back toward the trauma bay then, Robby with his arm still draped over Jack's shoulders, keeping him anchored while they watched the team work. The frantic activity hadn't slowed, though the panic had edged back into something more controlled- the absence of a feral alpha probably helped, Jack thought grimly. Garcia was at the centre of it all, running the case like she always did- calm, precise, unflappable. Logically, he was aware they were damn lucky she happened to be covering the night shift at all. Emotionally, he was still working his way past being pulled out of the bay at all.
Jack fixed his attention back to you, back to any bit of you that was still visible beyond the scrum of people at work. He tried not to let his gaze snag on the broken angle of your arm or the blood still seeping through the bandages on your chest, focusing instead on the small movements- the rise and fall of your ribcage as the ventilator pushed breaths into you, the way someone adjusted your blankets so that only a sliver of you was exposed. Small signs that you were alive and that people were still fighting to keep you that way.
Beside him, Robby went still. Jack didn't realise anything was wrong at first- because everything felt wrong right now- until Robby's hands slid off his shoulders and he straightened, stepping closer to the window. His hand twitched upward like he meant to press it to the glass but stopped just short, fingers curling against his palm instead.
Oh. Right. The soulmark.
Jack swallowed hard, watching as Robby stared through the glass- not at you, but at your chest. At the familiar mark that had belonged to them and only them for so long, now laid bare for Robby to see. Jack waited for the same ferocity that had taken him to rip through his mate- and it came, only differently. Not feral aggression- just something sharp and pained and unguarded in his eyes, an open wound of realisation.
Robby breathed your name- soft, almost silent, like a curse or a prayer. It was hope and agony wrapped into one, and the weight of it nearly took Jack to his knees again. Then-
"Lena!" Robby called out, sharper than he probably intended.
Lena appeared at his side almost instantly, her face tight with apprehension. "Yeah, Robby?"
"Walk me through it," he said, voice heavy. "Everything."
And so she did. In rapid fire detail, walking Robby through every intervention since you arrived: the intubation, the chest tube, the massive transfusion protocol already underway. There was still no response from you, but your vitals were climbing ever so slightly.
“Spleen's gone,” she said. “We're just packing her abdomen now to stop the bleed- they'll take her up as soon as she's stable enough for transport. Pulmonary contusion on the left, broken ribs on both sides, skull fracture with a small subdural- neuro is aware and standing by.” She paused, glancing between the two of them. “They'll be taken her up as soon as they've packed her abdomen."
Robby nodded once. Then again, sharper, like he was trying to force the information to settle.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
For a second, it looked like he might hold it together. Then Robby turned and slammed his palm into the wall.
"Fuck!" The sound echoed down the corridor, too loud for the hour, too raw- and the whole department was watching them, again.
"Hey!" Darius, still nearby, made a warning noise, stepping forward instinctively. "Don't you start too, man. We just got your mate under control."
"Yeah, alright!" Robby bit back, the anger turning to seething frustration. He hit the wall again- softer this time but no less frustrated - and then leaned forward, both hands braced against the plaster as if it was the only thing holding him upright. "Damn it!" he bit out, "Damn it all to hell. Why didn't she say anything?"
And that was the question, wasn't it? Because you had to have known. Neither he nor Robby were shy about changing in front of their coworkers, not with how often they got blood on their clothes. You must have seen their marks. And said nothing.
Jack rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to make sense of it but failing. "I don't know, Robby," he said finally, stepping forward to rest a hand on his back. He wasn't sure which of them needed comfort more right now. "I don't know."
Just then, the doors to Trauma 3 open and a stretcher came barrelling out, Garcia and the team racing alongside as they made their way to the elevators.
You looked so fucking small on the gurney, almost swallowed by the blankets and tubes and lines crisscrossing over you. There was still blood on your face, your mouth held unnaturally open around the ventilator tube, your torso an odd, bulging shape where they had packed the wounds. But you were breathing- they had made sure of that- and that small, mechanical rise and fall was all Jack could hold onto.
"Garcia!" Robby shouted, stepping away from Jack with renewed purpose as he rushed after the team. "I want updates ever fifteen minutes, you hear me? Fifteen minutes, or I'm coming in that OR myself."
Garcia didn't break stride, didn't even turn to look at him as she barked back. "Get back in your own department, old man!" she snapped. "I've got it under control." The doors to the elevator closed before Robby could respond, leaving him standing there, staring at the closed doors like he could will them open again. Then he exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, energy with nowhere to go.
Jack stepped in beside him, silent for now, knowing better than to say anything until Robby was ready. Robby muttered something under his breath- curses, Jack thought- then turned to face him, the grief and rage in his expression plain.
"Alright." He breathed out slow, like he was locking it down one piece at a time. "Alright." His hand came up, cupped the back of Jack's neck. Firm. Anchored them both in the present. "We wait."
There was nothing else to do.
Series tag List: @sirens-and-moonflowers @daisynotquake @3-smi @yl90 @midnightalbatross @elibansndnd @obi-wansgirl @xaestheticalien @blobsquaredagain @kneelforloki @bloodink94 @joelabbot @fleur-4-fleur @hollowrose12
Series Summary: You’re a traveling nurse on rotation at the Pitt. Dr. Robby lives across the alley, watching you from his window. What starts as tension builds into something neither of you can ignore, even when it hurts.
Part One: Across the Alley (3.4k) ❀
Part Two: Sweetheart (4.2k)
Part Three: To Be Wanted (2.54)
Part Four: Settled (6.6k) ♡
Bond (Complete)
Series Summary: You're the first omega ever to join the beta- and alpha-dominated PTMC emergency department. Over time, you find yourself relying on your alpha boss, Dr. Robinavitch, for more and more personal tasks. He becomes your friend, your protector, and, if the two of you can figure it out, even more.
Chapter One: Personal (2.4k)
Summary: Starting your residency at PTMC, you fall into step with your attending, Dr. Robby and ask him to do you a personal favor.
Chapter Two: Gourmet (4.0k) ☆
Summary: You heat comes on for the first time since working at the Pitt and Robby takes it upon himself to keep you safe.
Chapter Three: Preening (4.0k) ❀
Summary: Back at work, Robby's treating you -- and himself -- differently. And, when a patient attacks you, he goes feral to keep you safe.
Chapter Four: Starlit (2.7k) ❀
Summary: You make Robby a home-cooked meal and ask for his help with something personal.
Chapter Five: Drive (4.0k) ❀
Summary: You and Robby travel back to your hometown to stay with your parents under the guise of him being your boyfriend.
Chapter Six: Mine (6.5k) ♡
Summary: At your parents' anniversary party, Robby plays his part of your boyfriend a little too well, triggering your heat early and forcing you to confront your relationship head on.
Chapter Seven: Bite (4.5k) ♡ ❀
Summary: Robby takes care of you during your shared heat and rut and you officially become mates.
Bundle (Ongoing)
Series Summary: This companion series to bond features a collection of moments of you and your alpha, Dr. Robby, going through your first pregnancy together, no matter what it holds.
Chapter One: Wonder (4.1k)
Summary: When your scent begins to change, your alpha Robby realizes you're pregnant before you do.
Chapter Two: Sensitive (2.8k)
Summary: After a ribbing from your alpha friends, Robby laments that he hasn't yet found the right engagement ring for you.
First (Robby x Reader & Jack x Reader) (Ongoing)
Series Summary: A love triangle develops between you and the ER cowboys, with Jack becoming infatuated after you hook up while you fall for Robby in earnest.
Chapter One: Consult (6.4k)
Summary: On a recommendation from one of your nurses, you ask Dr. Jack Abbot to take your virginity in the name of sexual experience.
Chapter Two: Hypothetically (3.5k)
Summary: When a TORCH virus hits Pittsburgh, you lend your time and expertise to the Emergency Department, putting you in close contact with both Robby and Jack.
"Yours" Universe
Presented in chronological order.
Yours (14.3k) ☆
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Daddy (5.2k) ♡
Summary: With your daughter learning to speak, you start to call Robby 'daddy.'
One Shots
Special Treatment (6.7k) ⚠︎
Summary: How Robby treats you vs. your attacker after an assault.
Caught (2.9k) ♡
Summary: Your roommate (and long-time crush) Dr. Robby walks in on you masturbating when he wasn’t supposed to be home
Human Resources (11.0k) ♡ ☆
Summary: After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.
An Untenable Situation (3.3k) ♡ ⚠︎
Summary: You’ve been secretly seeing your dad Jack’s best friend Robby for the better part of a year. When he walks in on the two of you in your childhood bedroom, you’re all finally forced to confront it.
Whole (1.6k) ⚠︎
Summary: Getting pregnant has never been a part of your plan, especially right when it feels like your life is about to start.
Bags & Bows (3.1k) ♡
Summary: The one where Robby kind-of-accidentally-on-purpose steals your panties.
A Taste of His Own Medicine (2.0k) ⚠︎
Summary: When Robby gets a little too reckless, you scare him straight.
If (8.7k) ⚠︎
Summary: Robby’s always kept his five daughters close to his chest, but a serious accident sends them all out of orbit. An exploration of family dynamics, forgiveness, gratitude, and connection.
Mouthing Off (3.3k) ♡
Summary: You and Robby are always fighting as the two day-shift attendings, to the point of screaming matches on the ED floor. After a particularly brutal back-and-forth, it seems like using each other to get off is the only way to settle things.
Ficlets & Blurbs
outdoor sex & humiliation (500) ♡
hurt/comfort after miscarriage nightmare (700) ⚠︎
omorashi (no sex just piss) (1.0k)
semi-public corruption kink (1.1k) ♡
pregnant wife, protective robby (1.3k)
magic horny cookies breeding (1.4k) ♡ ❀
anal sex, gags, & noncon (1.4k) ♡ ⚠︎
sissification (1.6k) ♡
rabbot x reader breeding (2.1k) ♡
you wear a tail plug (2.5k) ♡ ❀ ☆
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
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Summary: After a night of restraint, public declarations, and one lethal promise of later, Brendon finally takes you home — and proves that his control is not coldness. It is attention. It is patience. It is precision. And it might ruin you forever.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex, penetrative sex, soft dom Brendon Park, praise, light biting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, protected sex, aftercare, age gap romance, power/control dynamics but fully consensual, Brendon being devastatingly competent, Biscuit cameo
Author’s Note: Well. Here we are. This chapter is the payoff to “later,” and I am both proud of it and emotionally unwell about it. Brendon Park is not loud about wanting you. He is not messy about it. He is not careless for even one second. He is focused. He is patient. He asks still? like it means more than consent, because with him, it does. It means are you with me? are you safe? are you still choosing this?
And yes, Biscuit is still the smallest orange menace in Pittsburgh.
The room was dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the windows and the low lamp on the dresser. Brendon’s bed was made, because of course it was. Dark sheets. Clean lines. Nothing extra. Nothing out of place.
You barely had time to take it in before Brendon turned back to you. His hands settled at your waist. He guided you backward until your legs met the foot of the bed.
Then he pressed down.
Not hard. Not rough. Enough.
You sat.
Your breath caught as the mattress dipped beneath you. Brendon stood in front of you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his thighs, tall and quiet and devastating in his dark suit.
For a second, he only looked at you.
Your bare shoulders. Your parted lips. Your hands curled against the edge of his bed.
His eyes lifted back to yours. “Stay there.”
Your stomach dropped. Then flipped. You nodded once, too quickly.
His brow moved. Barely.
Your face warmed. “Yes,” you said.
Brendon’s gaze held yours for one more second. Then his hands went to his jacket. You watched because he had told you to stay, and because you could not have looked away if the room had caught fire.
He slipped the jacket from his shoulders with controlled precision, one side, then the other, the fabric pulling cleanly down his arms. He folded it once and set it over the back of the chair beside the dresser.
Your fingers tightened against the mattress. Brendon noticed. His eyes flicked down. Then back up. He said nothing. That made it worse.
His hands moved to his cuffs next. One button. Then the other. He rolled one sleeve up his forearm, slow and exact, exposing the warm line of his wrist, the tendons shifting beneath skin, the veins visible when his fingers flexed.
Your mouth went dry.
Brendon rolled the other sleeve. Same pace. Same control. Like he knew exactly what watching his hands was doing to you. Like he had known all night. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
Brendon’s gaze dropped. Then his eyes returned to yours.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. His voice was quiet. Unraised. Absolute.
You went still.
He held your gaze until your knees relaxed apart again. Heat rushed through you so fast you almost looked away. Brendon did not let you. Not with his hands. With his eyes.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The word landed low and deep. His fingers went to the first button of his shirt. You stopped breathing. Brendon unbuttoned it slowly. Then the next. Then the next. White fabric opened inch by inch, revealing skin and shadow, the center of his chest, the controlled rise and fall of his breathing.
Not perfectly controlled now. You saw it. The smallest change. The first crack. His chest moved harder than it had in the living room. His jaw was tight.
His eyes stayed on you.
He was making you watch, but he was watching you too.
Every shift. Every breath. Every place your body betrayed you before your mouth could. Your fingers curled harder into the edge of the mattress.
Brendon opened another button. You swallowed. His gaze dropped to your throat. Then his mouth changed. Not a smile. Something darker.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
Your eyes snapped back to his. He finished the last button. For a moment, he did not take the shirt off. He only stood there with it open, sleeves rolled, mouth serious, and chest bare beneath the parted fabric.
Your thoughts scattered.
Brendon stepped closer. The inside of his knee brushed yours. You tilted your face up automatically. His hand came to your jaw. Firm. Careful. He held you there, looking up at him from the edge of his bed while his thumb moved once beneath your lower lip.
“You can touch me when I tell you,” Brendon said.
Your pulse jumped. Your fingers tightened against the mattress.
“Yes,” you said.
Brendon’s gaze held yours. Then he drew his hand away. He took one step back. Not far. Enough. Then he pulled the shirt from his shoulders and laid it over the chair with his jacket.
Your breath left you.
Brendon stood over you in dark trousers, chest bare, composed enough to ruin you and affected enough that you could see the restraint working under his skin.
He watched you look. He let you. Your gaze moved over him slowly, helplessly, across the clean lines of his shoulders, the controlled rise of his chest, the tension in his abdomen every time he breathed. His hand flexed once at his side. You saw it. So did he. His eyes sharpened.
“Hands where they are,” Brendon said.
Your palms pressed into the mattress. Brendon stepped between your knees. The inside of his thigh brushed yours, and your breath caught again, smaller this time, weaker.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. To your bare shoulders. To the black top. To the rise and fall of your chest. His hand lifted, but he did not touch you right away. He let his fingers hover near the delicate chain at your throat, close enough that your body reacted to the almost of him.
Then he touched the necklace.
Lightly.
One finger beneath the chain.
He followed it to the hollow of your throat, then lower, over the top edge of your shirt without crossing it.
You stopped breathing.
Brendon noticed. “Breathe.”
You dragged in a breath.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Again.”
You obeyed.
His thumb moved once along your collarbone.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The praise went through you slowly, hot and heavy. His hand returned to your jaw. He tilted your face up a fraction more, studying you like he had all night and no reason to rush. Then he leaned down. Not to kiss your mouth. His lips touched the side of your neck. Your eyes closed.
His mouth moved slowly, deliberately, down the line he had opened for himself earlier, kissing beneath your jaw, then the side of your throat, then the sensitive place just above your collarbone.
His teeth grazed there. Soft. Precise.
Your hands twitched against the mattress.
Brendon’s mouth paused. “Hands.”
Your fingers pressed harder into the bedding.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His mouth returned to your neck. The next drag of his teeth was a little firmer. Still careful. Still controlled. Enough to make your body jolt.
Brendon’s hand caught your waist before you could move too far.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His mouth shifted against your skin. Not quite a smile. Not enough to help you. “Good.”
Then he sank slowly to his knees in front of you.
Your breath stopped.
Brendon’s hands settled on your knees. Warm. Steady. Certain. He looked up at you from between them, shirtless and composed and devastating, his thumbs moving once against your skin like he was testing how much patience you had left.
None.
You had none.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Open,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your mind caught up.
Your knees parted beneath his hands.
Slowly.
Not because he forced them.
Because he asked like a man who already knew the answer.
The slit in your skirt fell open across one thigh.
Brendon’s gaze dropped.
Your face went hot.
His hands slid higher, over your knees, up the outside of your thighs, pushing the satin with them by slow degrees. Not rushing. Never rushing.
You gripped the mattress harder.
Brendon watched the fabric gather under his hands. Then he looked up at you.
“You wore this for me,” Brendon said.
Your throat went dry. “Yes,” you said.
His thumbs pressed into the soft skin above your knees. “Good.”
The praise hit harder this time.
Your breath shook.
Brendon’s hands kept moving, sliding higher beneath the fall of satin, warm palms dragging over your thighs until your skirt bunched around your hips. He did not look away from you when he did it. That was the worst part. No. That was not true. The worst part was how calm he looked while taking you apart.
His fingers reached the edge of your underwear. Paused. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Can I?” Brendon asked.
Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”
His jaw shifted once. Then his fingers hooked beneath the fabric and dragged it down your thighs. Slow. Controlled.
Unbearably precise.
You lifted your hips without him asking.
His eyes darkened. “Good.”
The word nearly made you whimper.
He pulled your underwear over your knees, past your ankles, then set it aside with the same quiet care he had given his jacket. Like everything had a place. Like he had already decided yours was here. On the edge of his bed. Open for him. Shaking before he had even put his mouth on you.
Brendon’s hands returned to your thighs. He spread them wider. Not much. Enough. Your body went tense with anticipation. His thumbs moved once, slow arcs against your skin.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You forced your eyes down to his. He was still on his knees. Still composed. Still watching you like there was nothing in the room more important than the way you were breathing.
“Do you want me to stop?” Brendon asked.
“No,” you said, too fast.
His eyes sharpened.
Your fingers twisted in the bedding. “No. Don’t stop.”
Brendon held your gaze for one more second. Then he leaned in. His mouth touched your inner thigh first. Not where you wanted him.
Not yet.
Your breath broke anyway. Brendon kissed you there once. Then higher. Slow. Measured. His hands held your thighs open while his mouth worked upward by degrees, each kiss closer, each pause crueler, until your entire body had gone tight with waiting.
“Brendon,” you breathed.
His eyes lifted. He did not answer. He only moved closer.
His mouth found you.
And every thought you had disappeared.
Not all at once. Piece by piece.
First, the room went.
The low lamp on the dresser. The dark sheets beneath your hands. The city light cutting soft shapes across the floor.
Then your body forgot how to hold itself politely. Your spine curved. Your fingers twisted in the bedding. Your thighs tensed beneath his hands.
Brendon noticed all of it.
His palms tightened against your thighs, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you open for him when your body tried to close around the first clean stroke of his tongue.
Your breath broke. “Brendon.”
His eyes lifted. He did not stop. That was worse.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, dark and focused, his mouth still on you, his hands still holding you exactly where he wanted you. The sight of him like that should have been impossible. Too much. Too intimate. Too controlled.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s mouth left you.
The sound you made was immediate and helpless.
His fingers replaced his mouth before you could miss him for more than a second.
One slow stroke. Then another. Your breath caught hard as he pushed two fingers inside you, measured and careful, watching your face the whole time.
Your hands fisted in the bedding.
“There,” Brendon said.
Your hips shifted toward his hand before you could stop yourself.
His other palm pressed your thigh down.
“No,” Brendon said.
Quiet. Absolute. Your body went still except where his fingers kept moving.
In. Out. Slow. Controlled.
Your head fell back again, mouth open, breath breaking on every careful thrust of his hand.
Then the mattress shifted.
Brendon moved up your body without pulling his fingers from you.
Your eyes flew open.
He came over you slowly, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh, his bare chest close enough that the heat of him changed the air. His hand kept working between your legs, steady and devastating, while his other hand slid up your side, over your ribs, to your throat.
Not pressing. Just there. Then his fingers moved to your jaw.
He gripped you firmly and tilted your face down. “Look.”
Your eyes dropped.
His hand was still between your thighs. Your skirt was bunched around your hips. Your legs were open around him. His fingers moved in and out of you with the same precise rhythm, the same focused control, while he watched.
And then you watched too.
A broken sound left you.
Brendon’s hand flexed once at your jaw.
“There,” he said again.
You could not look away. Not from his hand. Not from the way your body took him. Not from the way his fingers disappeared inside you and returned slick and sure, over and over, while he stayed above you, forcing you to see exactly what he was doing to you.
Your face burned. Your body tightened. Brendon noticed both.
His gaze moved from his hand to your face. “Still?”
“Yes,” you said, the word barely holding together.
His fingers curled. Your whole body jolted.
Brendon’s grip on your jaw kept your face angled down. “Again.”
You did not know if he meant the answer or the sound or the way your body had moved for him. It did not matter. His fingers did it again.
Your breath broke harder.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His eyes darkened. For the first time, his control shifted. Not gone. Never gone. But thinner now. His breathing had changed. His jaw was tight. His gaze kept dropping to where his fingers moved inside you, then lifting back to your face like he wanted both. Like one view was not enough.
The knowledge made you shake.
He watched that too. Then he released your jaw.
For one terrifying second, you thought he might stop.
He did not.
Brendon moved back down your body, his fingers still inside you, dragging another sound from you before his mouth reached your thigh.
He kissed you there once.
Then higher.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Keep your legs there,” Brendon said.
Your thighs trembled. You obeyed.
His mouth returned to you while his fingers kept moving, and the combination tore through you so sharply your hand flew to his hair before you could think better of it.
You froze.
Brendon stopped.
Only his fingers stayed still inside you, holding you right on the edge of too much.
Your chest heaved. His eyes lifted. You started to pull your hand back.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. He shifted his head once, pressing into your touch like both permission and command.
Your fingers slid into his hair. Careful at first. Then tighter when his mouth moved again, and his fingers resumed that slow, brutal rhythm.
Brendon made a low sound against you. Barely there. Enough. It went straight through you.
His control did not break.
It sharpened.
His mouth grew more insistent, his fingers deeper now, still precise, still measured, but with a hunger under it that had not been there before. Like letting you touch him had given him something he had been holding back from himself, too.
Your hips tried to move.
This time, he let you have a fraction of it. Only a fraction. Enough to make you desperate. Not enough to let you take over. His name left you again. Then again.
Less like a word each time.
More like the only thing your body remembered how to say.
Brendon’s fingers curled inside you. His mouth stayed exactly where you needed him.
“Good,” he said against you.
Your stomach tightened. The praise hit exactly where his mouth had been working you open, and your body went taut all at once.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
He looked up. He knew. His hand found yours, tangled in his hair. He pulled it free gently, then threaded his fingers through yours and pressed your joined hands down against the mattress beside your hip.
He held you there.
Anchored you.
Then his mouth returned.
Your entire body bowed. The first wave hit hard enough to steal your voice. For one suspended second, there was nothing but pressure and heat, and Brendon’s hand locked with yours, his fingers still inside you, his mouth still moving, his other hand holding your thigh where he wanted it while you came apart for him.
You heard yourself then.
A broken sound.
His name.
Maybe yes.
Maybe nothing coherent at all.
Brendon did not stop until your body started to twitch away from him.
Then he lifted his head. Slowly.
For a few seconds, he stayed exactly where he was.
On his knees. Between your thighs. His fingers still threaded through yours, his other hand firm against your leg, holding you open even as your body softened and shook around him.
You could not make your breathing even. You could not unclench your hands. You could barely make yourself look at him.
Brendon looked at you anyway.
His gaze moved over your face, your parted mouth, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your body still trembled at the edge of his bed. Not smug. Not smiling. Focused.
Like he was taking inventory. Like every reaction mattered.
His thumb moved once against the back of your hand. Your breath hitched.
His eyes sharpened. “There,” Brendon said quietly.
The word should not have undone anything else in you. It did.
He pressed one final kiss to the inside of your thigh. Soft. Almost tender.
Your fingers tightened around his. Brendon released your hand only when he was sure you would not reach for the mattress to hold yourself together.
Then he stood.
The movement was controlled, but his breathing was not as even as it had been before. You noticed. So did he. His hand came to your jaw, thumb brushing once beneath your lower lip.
“You okay?” Brendon asked.
Your voice barely worked. “Yes.”
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
Your pulse jumped, even now. Especially now.
“Yes,” you said.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then he leaned down and kissed you.
You tasted yourself on him.
Your hands lifted before you could stop them. This time, Brendon let you. Your palms slid over his bare chest, and the first contact made his breath catch against your mouth. There. Small. Almost nothing.
Everything.
Your fingers spread over warm skin, feeling the tension beneath, the hard beat of him under your palm, the way his composure thinned when you touched him back.
Brendon broke the kiss just enough to breathe. His forehead hovered near yours. Your hand moved lower, over his ribs, his stomach. His jaw tightened.
“Careful,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His eyes were dark. Not warning you away. Warning you what would happen if you kept going. Your fingers reached his waistband. Brendon went still. You looked up at him from the edge of the bed. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you slid your hand lower and pressed your palm over him through his pants.
The sound that left him was quiet. Rough. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
But you heard it. Your body warmed everywhere. Brendon’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Firm enough to stop you.
His eyes held yours. “Is that what you want?”
Your throat went dry. You nodded.
His grip tightened by a fraction. “Words.”
Your breath shook. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Yes, what?”
The question was low. Precise. Devastating.
You swallowed.
“I want you in my mouth,” you answered.
Brendon’s jaw shifted. For the first time, his control did something visible. Not breaking. Adjusting. He released your wrist.
“On your knees,” Brendon said.
You moved. Brendon stepped back just enough to give you room, and you slid from the edge of the bed to the floor in front of him. The carpet was soft beneath your knees. Your skirt was still bunched high around your hips. Your body was still shaking from his mouth.
He looked down at you.
Dark dress pants. Bare chest. Hair slightly disturbed by your hands.
Still composed enough to ruin you. Still affected enough that you knew he wanted this too.
Your hands went to his belt. Brendon did not help you. Not yet. He watched while your fingers worked at the buckle, then the button, then the zipper. You were not graceful with it. Your hands shook once.
Brendon noticed.
His hand came to your jaw. He tilted your face up before you could look away.
“Slow,” he said.
Your breath caught. You nodded once.
His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip. “Good.”
The word steadied you and ruined you at the same time. You opened his pants carefully, your fingers still not quite steady, then pushed both layers down just past his hips.
Just enough.
Then you reached for him.
Brendon’s breath changed when your fingers wrapped around him.
Your eyes lifted. His gaze was fixed on your hand. Then on your face. The heat in his expression made your pulse trip.
You leaned forward.
Brendon’s hand slid from your jaw to the back of your head. Not pushing. Just there. A weight. A promise.
You licked him first. Once. Slow. Your tongue brushed over him, and his fingers flexed against your hair. You did it again. Then you looked up.
Brendon’s eyes were dark.
“Open,” Brendon said.
Your mouth parted immediately. His hand tightened at the back of your head.
Then he guided himself into your mouth.
Slow and careful.
Enough that you could feel every inch he gave you. Enough that your hands curled around his thighs for balance. Brendon watched your face the entire time. His jaw was tight. His breathing had gone low and uneven.
He stopped before it was too much. Held there. Let you adjust. Your eyes watered slightly.
His thumb moved once at your temple.
“Still?” he asked.
You hummed around him.
His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened again, darker than before.
“Good,” Brendon said.
His hand stayed at the back of your head. He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Controlled. Measured. Gentle enough that you could take him. Firm enough that you knew he was the one setting the rhythm.
Your fingers tightened against his thighs. Brendon’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted back to your eyes.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You did. He moved again. In. Out. Slow at first.
Then a little deeper. A little firmer. Still watching. Still careful. Still making you feel every second of what you had asked for. Your body went warm and loose with it, the weight of him on your tongue, the hand in your hair, the quiet sounds he almost swallowed before they could escape him.
Almost.
Not all of them.
One slipped free when your tongue moved against him. A rough breath. A broken edge of control. Your pulse jumped. Brendon felt the change in you. His hand tightened slightly.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your eyes lifted to his. His chest moved harder.
“You don’t get smug,” Brendon said.
The words were quiet. Nearly flat. But his eyes were burning. You made a small sound around him. His jaw went tight. Then he moved again. This time, the rhythm changed. Not harsh. Not careless.
But firmer now.
Deeper.
His hand held your head exactly where he wanted it, guiding you through every slow thrust, giving you enough to overwhelm you without ever taking more than you could give. Your eyes watered more. You breathed carefully through your nose.
Brendon watched all of it. Every blink. Every sound. Every place your fingers dug into his thighs.
“Good,” he said.
The praise hit low, even like this. Especially like this. Your body reacted before you could hide it. Brendon saw. His eyes darkened further.
“That’s it,” Brendon said.
He pushed in again, slow and deep, then held there for one suspended second while your throat worked around him. Your hands tightened. His hand at the back of your head softened immediately. He eased back. Let you breathe. Your mouth slipped from him with a broken inhale.
For a second, the room was nothing but your breathing and his. Brendon looked down at you. His hand moved from the back of your head to your jaw. His thumb brushed your lower lip.
“Enough,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. You shook your head before you could stop yourself. His eyes sharpened. You looked up at him, mouth wet, chest rising too fast, knees pressed into the carpet.
“Not enough,” you whispered.
Brendon went very still. The words landed. You watched them hit him. Then his hand slid into your hair again. His voice dropped.
“Again,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught.
Then he guided himself back into your mouth. Slow at first. Controlled. Like he was reminding both of you who decided the pace.
His hand stayed in your hair, firm at the back of your head, not forcing, but guiding. He gave you enough to make your eyes water again, enough to make your fingers tighten against his thighs, enough to make your whole body remember that you were still sensitive and open and shaking from what he had done to you moments before.
Brendon watched you take him. Every inch. Every blink. Every careful breath through your nose. His jaw was tight. His chest moved harder now, the clean lines of his control starting to show strain. He pulled back, then pushed in again, a little deeper this time, and the sound that left him was low enough to feel private.
Your pulse jumped.
His hand tightened in your hair. “Look at me.”
You did. The moment your eyes found his, he moved again. Slow. Deep. Precise. Your mouth stretched around him. Your throat worked, and Brendon’s control cracked just enough for his eyes to close. Only for a second. Then they opened. Dark. Focused.
“You wanted this.” His voice was rougher now.
Your fingers dug into his thighs. You made a small sound around him. Brendon’s breath left him harder.
“Yes,” he said, almost to himself. “Good.”
The praise went straight through you. Your body reacted before you could hide it, your thighs pressing together, the heat between them sharpening again despite how thoroughly he had already taken you apart.
Brendon noticed. His gaze dropped to your thighs. Then back to your face. His mouth tightened. He pulled out slowly, giving you room to breathe. You dragged in air, mouth wet, chest rising too fast, eyes still fixed on him. Brendon looked down at you for one long second. His hand stayed in your hair. His thumb moved once, almost gently.
Then his expression changed. Not softer. Decided.
“Enough,” Brendon said.
Your fingers tightened against his thighs. “No.”
His eyes sharpened. The word had come out before you could stop it. Small. Wrecked. Honest. Brendon’s hand slid from your hair to your jaw. He tilted your face up.
“No?” he asked.
You swallowed, still on your knees in front of him, your skirt bunched around your hips, your body warm and shaking and nowhere near satisfied with being done touching him.
“No,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your lower lip. Your mouth parted under the touch. His eyes followed it. For a second, you thought he might say again. For a second, you thought he might put himself back in your mouth and keep you there until neither of you could pretend he was controlled anymore.
Instead, his jaw shifted.
“Up,” he commanded.
Your stomach flipped. You blinked up at him.
His hand stayed on your jaw. “Now.”
You moved. Not entirely steady. His hands caught you under your arms and brought you to your feet as it cost him nothing, though his breathing said otherwise. The second you were standing, he turned you toward the bed. Your knees hit the mattress. His hand settled between your shoulder blades.
“On the bed,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You crawled onto the dark sheets, skirt still pushed high, top still in place, hair mussed from his hands, and your mouth still swollen from him. Behind you, Brendon stepped out of his pants and underwear the rest of the way.
You heard the fabric shift.
The quiet sound of it hitting the floor. Then nothing. The silence made your pulse climb. You looked back over your shoulder. Brendon stood at the foot of the bed, bare chest rising and falling, dark eyes fixed on you with such focused heat that your fingers curled into the sheets.
He looked at where your skirt had ridden up. Then at your face. “Turn over.”
Your breath caught. You did. Slowly. You rolled onto your back, the sheets cool beneath your overheated skin. The skirt twisted around your hips. Your thighs fell open a little from the movement, and Brendon’s gaze dropped immediately.
Your face warmed. He saw. He stepped closer. One knee pressed into the mattress. Then the other. The bed dipped beneath his weight. Brendon moved over you with the same controlled precision he did everything else, one hand braced beside your head, the other settling at your waist.
He did not kiss you right away. He looked at you. Really looked. Your bare shoulders. Your swollen mouth. Your chest rising too fast beneath the black top. Your skirt bunched around your hips. Your thighs open beneath him.
His jaw tightened. “You’re beautiful.”
The words were quiet. Almost flat. Like he did not need them decorated to make them true. Your throat closed. “Brendon,” you whispered.
His eyes stayed on yours. “I know,” he said.
Then he kissed you.
Not softly. Not carefully. Not after the way he had looked at you and said beautiful like it was a diagnosis. His mouth took yours, deep and controlled, one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You opened for him immediately, and he made a low sound against your mouth when your hands slid up his chest.
He let you touch him now.
Finally.
Your palms moved over bare skin, over the hard line of his shoulders, the tension in his arms, the heat of him above you. His body was solid over yours, all restraint and muscle and focus, and your fingers dug into him because you could.
Because he had let you.
Brendon’s hand slid from your waist to the top edge of your shirt.
He broke the kiss just enough to look at you. “Off.”
Your breath caught. Then you lifted your arms. He pulled the black top up slowly, carefully, his knuckles brushing your skin as the fabric rose. Your body arched without meaning to, chasing the contact, and his eyes sharpened. The shirt disappeared over your head.
He set it aside. Not tossed. Set aside. Of course. Then his gaze came back to you. You were still in your strapless bra, the smooth fabric sitting close against your skin, your necklace crooked at your throat, your skirt bunched around your hips, your body trembling beneath him.
Brendon looked at you for one suspended second. Your breathing changed. His jaw shifted.
Your pulse jumped. Your hands moved behind your back, but his hand caught your wrist before you could fumble with the clasp.
“No,” Brendon said.
You went still. His eyes held yours. “I’ll do it.”
The words went straight through you. He slid one hand beneath your back and lifted you just enough, his other hand finding the clasp with calm, devastating efficiency. One quiet release, and the tension gave. Your breath caught. Brendon did not pull it away immediately. He let the loosened bra rest there for one second, his eyes on your face, his hand still warm beneath your back.
Then he drew it down slowly and set it beside your shirt. Your chest rose and fell beneath his gaze. Brendon’s hand returned to your side. Slow. Palm warm against your ribs. His thumb moved once beneath the curve of your breast, not touching where you wanted him yet.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. His eyes lifted to yours. “Breathe.”
You dragged in a breath. His thumb moved higher. Your breath broke.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then his mouth lowered. The first kiss landed high on your chest, just beneath your collarbone. Warm. Slow. Almost gentle. Almost. His hand slid beneath your back again, lifting you into him as his mouth moved lower. His lips traced a careful path over your skin, unhurried and exact, like he was learning what he had only let himself look at before.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s mouth closed over you. Heat shot through you so sharply your fingers found his shoulders. He did not stop you. Not this time. Your nails pressed into warm skin, and his breath changed against you. Small. Noticeable.
Enough to make your whole body go soft beneath him.
His tongue moved slowly, then his teeth grazed just enough to make you jolt.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His hand tightened beneath your back, holding the arch.
“There,” Brendon said against your skin.
Then he did it again. A careful drag of teeth. A slow kiss after. A soft bite that made your thighs tighten around his hips. His mouth moved to the other side with the same devastating attention, giving you no place to hide from the heat building under your skin again. He kissed your chest, your sternum, the sensitive underside of your breast, then back up, his teeth catching lightly enough to make your breath stutter.
Not rough. Not careless. Precise.
He warmed you back up like he had all the time in the world. Like he had not been on the edge himself minutes earlier. Like his mouth on your body was not making his own breathing lower and rougher by degrees.
Your hands slid into his hair. Brendon let you. For a moment. Then his hand left your back and closed gently around your wrist. He guided your hand down to the mattress beside your head.
Pinned it there.
Your pulse jumped.
Brendon lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. “Stay there.”
Your fingers flexed beneath his palm.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His gaze held yours. Then his mouth returned to your chest, and you understood that he was not done making you ready for him. His other hand moved lower. Slow over your ribs. Your stomach. Your hip. Then between your thighs.
Your breath caught before he even touched you.
His eyes stayed on yours as his fingers found you again, warm and sure, moving with the same controlled attention he had put everywhere else.
Not inside you this time. Not yet. Just slow pressure where you were still sensitive from his mouth. Your back arched. His palm over your wrist pressed you gently back into the mattress.
“Easy,” he murmured.
You tried.
You really did.
But his fingers moved in a slow circle, exact and steady, and your body was already too open for him. Too aware. Too trained now to respond to every small shift in his pressure. You made a broken sound. His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“There,” he said.
He did it again. Same pressure. Same rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips. He watched your face while he touched you, like he wanted to see the exact second the pleasure stopped being bearable and started becoming something you had to survive. Your free hand gripped his shoulder.
Brendon let you have that. His fingers moved a little slower. Deeper pressure. Not enough to push you over. Enough to bring you close to the edge again. Enough to make your breath come in pieces.
“Brendon,” you said, your voice thin.
His hand stilled for one second. Your body clenched around nothing. His eyes sharpened.
“Yes,” Brendon said quietly.
Then his fingers moved again. Your head tipped back. His hand left your wrist and came to your jaw, turning your face back to him before you could disappear into it.
“Look,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His fingers kept moving. Slow. Steady. Cruel.
You watched his face as he watched yours, bare chest above you, dark eyes fixed on every reaction he pulled from your body. Your breathing broke. His jaw tightened.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His fingers slowed. You made a helpless sound. Brendon’s mouth brushed yours. Barely.
“Good,” he said.
Then he stopped. The loss of contact hit so sharply that your hips shifted after his hand. Brendon caught your thigh.
“No,” he said.
Your breath came hard. His hand slid up your leg, over your hip, settling there with firm pressure while he reached toward the bedside table.
The drawer opened with a quiet slide. Your whole body went tight. He looked back at you, condom packet in his hand.
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
Your throat went dry. “Yes,” you said.
He did not move. Not yet. Your fingers tightened against his shoulder. “Yes, Brendon.”
That did it. His jaw shifted once.
He tore the packet open. The sound was small. Sharp.
Final.
Your body went still beneath him.
Brendon rolled the condom on with controlled efficiency, but there was nothing casual about the way he did it. His breathing had changed. Lower now. Rougher at the edges. His eyes stayed on you like looking away would cost him something.
When he moved back over you, your whole body answered.
One hand braced beside your head.
The other slid down your thigh.
He guided your leg up around his hip, placing you exactly where he wanted you. Your knee bent. Your thigh opened. His hand stayed there, firm and warm, holding you around him.
Then his other hand found yours. He took it from his shoulder and pressed it into the mattress near your head. Pinned. Not hard. Not painful. Enough.
Your fingers spread beneath his. His palm covered the back of your hand. Your breath caught.
Brendon looked down at you. “Okay?”
Your body was already trembling. “Yes,” you said.
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
“Yes,” you said again, softer. “Please.”
The word changed him. Barely. A tightening in his jaw. A harder breath through his nose. His hand on your thigh flexed once. Then he reached between your bodies. You felt him guide himself to you. Your breath stopped. Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Breathe,” he said.
You dragged in air. His hand tightened over yours.
Then he pushed in.
Slowly. Carefully. Devastatingly.
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. The stretch stole it from you, sharp and deep and overwhelming enough that your fingers curled beneath his palm.
Brendon stopped immediately. Not all the way in. Not even close.
His forehead dipped toward yours. His voice was low. “Still?”
Your eyes burned. Not from pain. From too much. From him above you, holding your hand down, your thigh wrapped around his hip, his body pressing yours into the mattress like he had decided the whole world could narrow to this.
“Yes,” you breathed.
His eyes searched yours.
You nodded once. “Yes.”
Brendon believed you. He moved again. Another slow inch. Your body tightened around him. His eyes closed. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to see what it did to him. Then they opened again.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Your breath broke.
He pushed deeper.
Your back arched, but his hand at your thigh held you down, pressing you into the mattress, keeping the angle exactly where he wanted it. His other hand stayed over yours near your head, fingers lacing with yours now, holding you there while he filled you by slow degrees.
Too slow. Too much. Not enough.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His mouth brushed yours. Not quite a kiss.
“Take it,” Brendon said.
The words went through you like heat. Your body gave around him. He felt it. His hand tightened over yours.
“There,” he said.
Then he sank the rest of the way in. Your whole body went still. So did his. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. You felt everything. The weight of him above you. The stretch of him inside you. The steady pressure of his hand pinning yours near your head. The firm hold on your thigh. His chest moving against yours. His breath against your mouth.
Brendon’s jaw was tight enough to look painful. You whispered his name. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to yours.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You did not know what he wanted. His hand pressed your thigh a little higher around his hip. His body shifted deeper. Your breath shattered.
“There,” Brendon said.
Oh. That. He wanted that sound.
He wanted the way your body tightened around him when he pressed into you just right. He wanted you open and pinned and watching him while he learned exactly how to ruin you. Your free hand found his shoulder. Your nails dragged lightly over his skin. His control slipped for half a second. His hips moved. One slow thrust. Deep. Measured.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s hand left your thigh long enough to grip your jaw. He brought your face back to his. “Look.”
Your eyes opened. His hips drew back. Then pushed in again. Slow. Harder this time. Your body moved beneath him, but he kept you where he wanted you, one hand holding yours to the mattress, the other returning to your thigh and pressing it high around his hip.
You could not look away.
Not from his face.
Not from the way his composure cracked in tiny, brutal pieces every time he drove into you. Not from the way he watched you take him.
Brendon started slowly. Not gentle. Controlled.
Each thrust deep enough to make your breath catch, measured enough that you felt the whole of him every time he moved. He did not rush toward his own pleasure. He built yours with it, finding the angle that made your hand clench beneath his, the rhythm that made your thighs shake, the pressure that made your voice break.
“There,” he said again.
His hips moved. You cried out. His hand tightened over yours.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then he did it again. And again.
The room changed around you.
The cool sheets beneath your back warmed with the heat of your body. The city light blurred at the edges. The air between you grew thick, close, made of breath and skin and the quiet, rhythmic sound of his body moving into yours. Your chest stuck lightly to his every time he lowered himself closer. His skin was warm.
Then hot.
A fine sheen of sweat gathered along his throat, at his chest, where your hands slid over him and could not find purchase for long. Your own body felt overheated beneath him, your skin damp where his palm held your thigh, where his chest brushed yours, where your bodies met again and again in a rhythm that was too steady to escape.
Brendon’s breathing roughened. Not loud. But lower now. More uneven. Each exhale hit your mouth, your cheek, the side of your throat when he dropped his head closer. His control was still there, but you could feel the strain of it in every precise thrust, every flex of his hand over yours, every hard set of his jaw as your body tightened around him.
Your thoughts slipped.
First around the edges. Then faster. You knew his name. You knew his hand. You knew the press of his body over yours and the deep, devastating drag of him inside you.
Everything else became impossible to hold.
“Brendon,” you said. It came out broken.
His eyes opened. You had not realized they had closed. His gaze found yours, dark and focused, and his hips slowed immediately. Not stopping.
Slowing.
Making you feel him. Making you come back to him.
“Stay with me,” Brendon said.
Your fingers clenched beneath his palm. “I am,” you tried.
His eyes sharpened. “No.”
Your breath caught.
He shifted his weight and pressed your thigh higher around his hip. The new angle made your whole body jolt. His mouth came close to yours.
“Here,” Brendon said.
Then he thrust into you again. Your cry broke against his mouth.
“There,” he said.
He did it again. Same angle. Same depth. Your body tightened hard around him. Brendon’s jaw flexed. For one second, his rhythm faltered. Only one. But you felt it. You saw it in his face. The slip. The crack. The way your body was affecting him no matter how tightly he held himself. Your free hand slid up his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, damp skin warm beneath your palm.
His breath hitched.
You felt powerful for half a second.
Only half.
Then his hand left your thigh, closed around your wrist, and pinned that hand beside the other near your head. Both hands now. Held. Your pulse kicked. Brendon looked down at you.
“Careful,” he said.
The word was quiet. Rough. Your body clenched around him. His eyes darkened. He lowered his head, mouth brushing the side of yours.
“You like that,” Brendon said.
It was not a question.
Your breathing fell apart.
His hips moved again, harder now, still controlled but deeper, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress with every thrust. The bed shifted beneath you. Your shoulders pressed into the sheets. Your hands stayed pinned above you, his fingers locked around your wrists, his body caging yours without making you feel trapped.
Held.
There was a difference.
Brendon knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too. The heat built too quickly. The pressure of him. The sweat-slick drag of his chest against yours. The way he watched your face. The way he heard every sound and used it.
You turned your head to the side, overwhelmed.
Brendon stopped.
Your whole body protested the loss of rhythm. His hand left one wrist and came to your jaw. He turned your face back.
“Don’t hide,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His face was close. Too close. Not close enough.
A drop of sweat slid down the side of his neck. His chest rose and fell hard against yours. His hair had lost some of its control, one piece falling forward, and the sight of him like that, still precise, still focused, but visibly affected, almost undid you more than his body did.
“I can’t,” you whispered.
Brendon’s thumb brushed once along your jaw.
“You can,” he said.
Then he kissed you.
He kissed you as he started moving again, swallowing the first broken sound that left you when he found the angle immediately. His hand returned to your wrist, pinning it beside the other, and his hips settled into a rhythm that felt designed to take you apart slowly.
Not frantic. Not careless. Relentless.
Your body went soft beneath him. Then tight. Then shaking.
Brendon felt the change. His mouth left yours. His breathing was rough now. Controlled, but barely.
“Not yet,” Brendon said.
Your eyes flew open. His hips slowed before you could fall over the edge. A ruined sound left you. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
“Not yet,” he repeated.
You stared up at him, trembling and furious and so overwhelmed you could barely form words.
“Brendon,” you pleaded.
His jaw tightened. That hit him. You saw it. For one second, the control went thin enough that his hips pressed deeper, like his body had answered before his restraint could catch up.
Then he stopped himself. His forehead lowered near yours. His breath was hot against your mouth.
“Turn,” Brendon said.
Your mind struggled to catch up. His hands softened around your wrists. He kissed your jaw once, brief and firm. Then he moved off you just enough to guide your body with him.
“On your side,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your thoughts did.
Brendon moved with you, one hand at your waist, the other guiding your thigh as he shifted you onto your side. For one dizzy second, he was gone from inside you, and the loss made your whole body tighten.
You made a small sound. Brendon heard it. Of course he did.
His hand slid over your hip. “I know.”
The words were quiet. Barely comfort. Mostly promise.
He settled behind you, his chest coming to your back, his body hot and damp against yours. The sheets shifted beneath you. Your skin stuck lightly to his where he pressed close, sweat and heat making every point of contact feel too intimate to survive.
His arm slid beneath your neck, not trapping you, just giving you somewhere to rest. His other hand caught your top thigh and lifted it back over his hip. The angle opened you. Your breath caught.
Brendon’s mouth brushed the back of your shoulder. “Keep your leg there.”
Your fingers curled against the sheet. “Yes.”
His hand left your thigh long enough to reach between your bodies.
You felt him guide himself back to you.
Your eyes closed.
Brendon’s hand came to your jaw immediately, fingers firm along the line of it, turning your face back enough that you could see him from the corner of your eye.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes opened.
His mouth was near your ear. His breath was rougher now, warmer, not as controlled as it had been when he first brought you into the bedroom.
“Look,” Brendon said.
Then he pushed back inside you.
Your whole body jolted. The angle was different like this. Deeper somehow. Closer. More devastating because he was behind you and around you and still watching your face while your body took him again.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His jaw brushed your temple. His hand stayed at your face, holding you turned toward him while his hips settled flush behind you.
For a second, he did not move. Neither did you. You could feel him everywhere. Inside you. Against your back. At your jaw. Around your thigh.
His chest rose and fell against you, sweat-damp skin dragging lightly over yours with every breath. Then his hand slid from your jaw to your throat. Not pressing. Just resting there. A steady weight.
His mouth touched your ear. “Still?”
Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”
His hand flexed once against your throat.
Then he moved.
Slow at first.
One deep thrust from behind, controlled enough that you felt every inch of him leave and return. Your thigh tightened over his hip. His arm tightened around you in response, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Then again. Deeper.
Your mouth opened around a sound you could not stop. Brendon’s hand moved from your throat back to your jaw, turning your face more fully toward him.
“There,” he said.
His hips moved again. Your whole body trembled. You understood, dimly, why he had shifted you like this. You could not get away from him. Not because you were trapped. Because there was nowhere his body was not. His chest pressed to your back. His thigh between yours. His hand at your jaw. His mouth at your neck. His cock moving inside you with the same precise rhythm he had used to take you apart with his fingers.
And then his other hand slid down your stomach. Your breath caught before he even reached between your thighs. Brendon noticed.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Easy.”
You tried.
You failed.
His fingers found you again, and the first slow circle of pressure made your entire body clench around him. Brendon’s hips faltered. Only once. His breath hitched against your ear. You felt it. You heard it. Your fingers twisted in the sheet. His hand at your jaw tightened by a fraction.
“Don’t,” Brendon said.
You could barely breathe. “Don’t what?”
His fingers moved again. Your body jerked. His hips drove in deeper, and the sound that left you broke apart in the quiet room.
His voice was rougher when he answered. “Don’t make me rush.”
Your eyes closed. That did something to you. Something ruinous. Brendon felt the way your body tightened around him. His mouth found the side of your neck and stayed there, lips warm against sweat-damp skin as his hips resumed their rhythm.
Slow. Deep. Precise.
His fingers kept moving between your legs, matching the pace of his thrusts until the two sensations became impossible to separate. Every time he pushed into you, his fingers circled. Every time he drew back, his hand softened just enough to make you chase him.
Too much. Not enough. Everywhere.
You were not thinking anymore.
Not really.
Your body was doing that for you now, opening around him, trembling against him, taking whatever rhythm he decided to give. Brendon’s breathing was rough against your ear. Still controlled. But barely. You could feel the effort of it in the tension of his arm around you, in the way his jaw brushed your cheek, in the way his fingers pressed a little harder when your body clenched around him.
“Brendon,” you said.
It barely sounded like his name. His hand at your jaw turned your face again. His mouth came close to yours.
“Here,” Brendon said.
His fingers changed pressure. Your vision blurred.
“There,” he said.
He thrust into you again, deeper than before, and his fingers kept working you at the same time. Your whole body went tight. Your hand flew back toward him, searching for anything to hold onto. His shoulder. His hair. His wrist. Brendon caught it. He brought your hand to his forearm where it was wrapped around your body and pressed your palm there.
“Hold,” Brendon said.
You did.
Your fingers dug into his arm. The muscle shifted beneath your hand as he held you against him, as he fucked you slow and deep from behind, as he rubbed you with the kind of careful cruelty that made every breath sound broken. Sweat gathered between your bodies. Your back slid against his chest. His mouth moved along your neck, not kissing now so much as breathing against you, biting once when your body clenched too hard around him.
The nip made you cry out.
Brendon groaned. Quiet. Rough.
The sound went straight through you.
His hand stilled for half a second between your legs. His hips did not. He thrust into you once, harder than before, and his control showed its first real fracture. Not a break. A crack.
Enough.
Your body reacted instantly. “Again,” you gasped.
Brendon went still behind you. Only for a second. Then his hand returned to your jaw and tilted your face back toward him. His eyes were dark. Sweat shone at his temple. His hair had lost more of its control. His mouth was serious, but his breathing was not.
“Again?” Brendon asked.
Your fingers tightened on his arm. “Please.”
His jaw shifted. The word had landed. You knew it. You felt it in the way his hips pressed deeper, in the way his hand between your legs resumed with more purpose, in the way his mouth came to your ear.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then he gave it to you.
The rhythm changed. Still precise. Still his. But firmer now, his body moving against yours with enough force to rock you into the mattress, his hand holding your jaw so you could not turn away, his fingers rubbing you through every deep thrust.
You broke.
Not fully. Not yet. But something in your mind slipped loose. The room narrowed to sweat and pressure and Brendon’s voice at your ear.
“Breathe.” He said against your ear.
You dragged in air.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You tried.
His hips drove into you, deep enough to make your fingers clamp around his forearm.
“There,” he said.
Your body tightened.
His mouth pressed to your shoulder, his breathing rough against your skin. “Good.”
Your eyes burned. Too much. Too good. Too close. Your thighs shook around his. Your fingers clamped around his forearm, and Brendon’s mouth pressed to your shoulder like he needed somewhere to put the sound he would not let out.
You felt him losing control in increments. A harder breath. A rougher thrust. A shorter pause between commands. His hand between your legs became less teasing and more determined, giving you the pressure your body had been begging for while his hips kept the same deep, devastating rhythm behind you.
“Brendon,” you said, wrecked now.
His hand tightened at your jaw. “I know.”
Your thighs shook. He felt it. His hand at your stomach pressed you back harder against him, and the angle changed just enough to make your whole body go tight.
You made a broken sound.
Brendon’s breath caught against your ear. “There,” he said again.
His fingers moved faster. Not frantic. Never frantic. Determined. Your body gave one helpless jolt against him. His thigh stayed firm beneath yours, holding your leg where he had put it, keeping the angle exactly where he wanted it while he fucked you from behind and rubbed you through every deep, controlled thrust.
The room disappeared. The bed. The city. The sweat cooling and gathering again between your bodies. Everything narrowed to his hand, his voice, his cock moving inside you, his mouth at your ear, his chest hot against your back.
You could not get enough air. You could not get away from the sensation.
You did not want to.
“Brendon,” you said, barely a word now.
His hand left your stomach and came to your jaw, turning your face back toward him. His eyes caught yours from over your shoulder. Dark. Focused. Almost undone.
“Come,” Brendon said.
It hit you like a command your body had been waiting for.
Your orgasm broke hard and fast, tearing through you before you could prepare for it. Your head fell back against his shoulder. Your hand locked around his forearm. Your body clenched around him so tightly his hips stuttered once behind you.
Brendon made a rough sound against your neck. Small. Almost swallowed. But you heard it. You felt it. His fingers kept moving, slower now, dragging you through it while his hips pressed deep and stayed there. He held you against him, jaw tight, breath uneven, one hand firm at your face and the other between your thighs, not letting you disappear into the pleasure without him.
“That’s it,” Brendon said, his voice rough at your ear.
Your body shook.
He held you through every wave. When you tried to twist away from the overstimulation, his hand eased immediately, but his arm around you stayed firm.
“I’ve got you,” Brendon said.
Your breath broke on something that might have been his name. Brendon kissed the side of your neck once. Slow. Grounding.
Then he went still behind you. Not finished. Not even close. You could feel it in the hard press of him still inside you, in the way his breathing had gone uneven, in the strain of his arm around your waist.
He had held back.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Brendon,” you whispered.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. His voice came low. “Turn over.”
Your stomach flipped, even wrecked as you were. He pulled out slowly, careful enough that your whole body trembled with the loss. His hands stayed on you, steadying you through it, one at your hip and one at your stomach.
Then he turned you carefully. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Decided.
Onto your back again.
You blinked up at him, dazed, sweat cooling on your skin where his body had been pressed to yours. Your legs felt unsteady. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. Your body was loose and shaking and still somehow reaching for him again.
Brendon moved over you.
The bed dipped beneath his weight. His hand slid behind your knee and lifted your leg back around his hip. His other hand found yours immediately, threading your fingers together and pressing your joined hands into the mattress beside your head.
There. Again. Face-to-face.
His chest hovered over yours, sweat-damp and warm, his breathing low and uneven. His eyes searched your face.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
Your throat tightened. Because this was what he meant. Watching you. Holding your hand. Making sure you were with him before he gave himself what he had been holding back.
Your answer came as a whisper. “Yes.”
Brendon’s jaw shifted once.
Then he guided himself back inside you.
Your breath left you in pieces. Even after everything, even after his mouth and his fingers and the way he had made you come against him on your side, the stretch still stole the air from your lungs. Your body was too sensitive now, too open, too aware of every inch of him as he pushed back into you.
Brendon’s hand tightened over yours. His jaw flexed. For a second, he did not move. He stayed there, buried deep, chest hovering over yours, breathing rough through his nose while your body adjusted around him again. Your eyes found his. He was looking at you like he was trying to hold himself together by force. Like focus was the only thing keeping him from losing the careful control he had carried all night.
“Brendon,” you whispered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted. His hips moved. Slow once. Deep. Your head tipped back against the sheets. His hand tightened over yours.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened again. He was closer now, his mouth almost touching yours, his chest damp where it brushed yours.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You did. His hips drew back. Then pushed in again. Harder this time. Your breath broke. His eyes sharpened.
“There,” Brendon said.
Then he did it again. And again. The rhythm changed by degrees. Not suddenly. Not carelessly. Brendon did nothing carelessly. But the patience started to thin. Each thrust came deeper than the last, steadier, heavier, driving you down into the mattress while his hand held yours near your head and his other hand kept your thigh high around his hip.
You could feel the shift in him. The way his breath left him rougher. The way his chest lowered closer to yours. The way his fingers dug into your thigh like he needed something to hold onto. The way his control did not vanish, exactly. It narrowed. Focused.
Became this.
His body over yours. His hand locked with yours. His hips moving hard enough now that the bed shifted beneath you, dark sheets twisting under your back, your skin slick with sweat where he pressed against you. You were ruined.
Completely.
There was no cleaner word for it. Your body had gone loose and trembling beneath him, then tight again every time he hit that place inside you that made your thoughts white out. Your free hand clung to his shoulder, nails dragging over sweat-damp skin, and every time you tried to form his name, it broke apart before you could finish it.
“Bren—”
His hips drove in deep. The rest of the word disappeared. Brendon’s mouth found your jaw. Not a kiss. A breath. A place to put himself for half a second before he lifted his head again and watched your face.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You barely understood him. Your eyes were wet. Your mouth was open. Your chest moved too fast beneath him. His hand on your thigh slid higher, pressing your leg farther around his hip, changing the angle until your whole body jolted. A broken cry left you. Brendon’s jaw tightened.
“Yes,” he said, rougher now.
His hips moved faster. Not frantic. Never that. But harder. Deeper. The controlled precision was still there, but underneath it was something hotter, something strained, something that made his breath catch when your body clenched around him.
You felt it every time.
The little breaks in him. The almost-groan against your mouth. The hard exhale at your ear. The way his hips stuttered once when your nails dragged down his back. The way his hand tightened over yours so sharply that your fingers spread beneath his palm.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The word was lower now. Less smooth. Almost wrecked. Your body reacted to it instantly, tightening around him, and his eyes closed for one dangerous second. Only one. Then they opened again. Dark. Unsteady. Focused on you like he could not afford to look anywhere else.
“You hear me?” Brendon asked.
You tried to nod. His hand left your thigh and came to your jaw.
“Words,” Brendon said.
Your voice barely worked. “Yes.”
His thumb pressed beneath your lower lip.
“Yes, what?” Brendon asked.
Your body clenched around him again because the question should not have done anything to you. It did.
“Yes, Brendon,” you said, wrecked and breathless.
His control slipped. A real slip this time. His hips drove into you hard enough that your hand clenched beneath his and your whole body shifted up the bed. Brendon caught you immediately, pressing you back down with his weight, his mouth close to yours, his breathing rough and uneven.
“There,” he said. Then again. “There.”
Again.
Your vision blurred at the edges. The room had become heat and sweat and the deep rhythm of his body moving into yours. The lamp. The city. The clean lines of his bedroom. All of it vanished beneath the press of him over you, inside you, around you. Your body did not feel like yours anymore. It felt like something he had learned. Something he knew how to open.
Something he knew how to ruin.
He shifted his hand from your jaw to the side of your neck, then back to your thigh, dragging your leg higher, holding you exactly where he wanted you while he fucked into you with a rhythm that made your breath come in small, helpless sounds.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His forehead dropped near yours. His hips did not stop. “Still?” he asked.
Even now. Even like this. Even with sweat on his chest and his breath breaking and his body losing its perfect rhythm by fractions. Your throat tightened.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”
Then he kissed you.
It was not clean. Not controlled the way his kisses had been earlier. It was deeper, rougher, his mouth catching yours while his hips kept moving, swallowing the sounds he dragged out of you. Your free hand slid into his hair, and this time he did not stop you. He let you pull. Let you hold. Let you feel the way he was coming apart in the only way Brendon Park seemed capable of coming apart. Quietly. Precisely. Devastatingly.
His rhythm grew harder. Faster. The sound of it filled the room now, low and intimate and obscene beneath your broken breathing. Sweat gathered between your bodies. Your chest slid against his. His hand pinned yours above your head, fingers threaded tight, while his other hand moved between you again. Your entire body jolted.
You gasped, though your hips lifted into the touch.
Brendon’s eyes found yours. His fingers moved over you, steady despite the roughness of his breath, despite the strain in his face, despite the way his hips were starting to lose that perfect measured pace.
You shook beneath him. “I can’t,” you said.
His hand tightened over yours. “You can,” Brendon said.
His fingers kept moving. His hips drove deeper. Your body tried to arch, but his weight held you down, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you beneath the heat and force of him.
“There,” he said, voice rough at your mouth. “That’s it.”
Your eyes burned. You were too sensitive. Too full. Too close. Too overwhelmed by the fact that he was still watching you, still touching you exactly right, still giving you more when you had already given him everything your body knew how to give.
“Brendon,” you pleaded.
His face changed. The sound of his name like that did something to him. You felt it in the way his rhythm faltered. In the rough sound he pressed into your cheek. In the way his fingers tightened around yours. His mouth came to your ear.
“I’ve got you,” Brendon said.
Then he stopped holding back. Not fully. Not recklessly.
But enough.
Enough that the next thrust drove the air out of you. Enough that your hand twisted beneath his. Enough that your body clamped down around him and the pleasure finally broke over you again, sharp and deep and blinding. You came with his name in your mouth.
Brendon’s hips stuttered. His head dropped. A rough sound broke out of him before he could bury it completely against your neck. He kept moving. Slower now. Deeper. Dragging it out while your body shook beneath him, while your thigh trembled around his hip, while his fingers stayed between your legs until the pleasure turned too sharp and your body twitched away.
He stopped touching you immediately. But he did not stop moving. His hand returned to your thigh. His other stayed locked with yours.
His face lifted from your neck. His eyes found yours. He looked wrecked. Not undone in the way you were. Not loose or helpless.
Wrecked in Brendon’s way.
Jaw tight. Hair damp and disordered. Chest shining with sweat. Eyes dark and almost desperate, like he was holding the last of himself together by looking at you.
Your voice came out broken. “Brendon.”
His hand tightened over yours. “Stay,” Brendon said.
One word. Rough. Almost gone. You held his gaze.
You stayed.
He thrust once. Deep. Then again. His breath broke. His forehead lowered to yours, his mouth brushing yours without quite kissing. His body pressed you into the mattress, heavy and hot and shaking now in small, controlled tremors.
“Good,” he said, but the word barely held its shape.
Your fingers squeezed his. His eyes closed. This time, they stayed closed. His hips drove in one final time, deep enough that your breath caught all over again, and then his whole body went taut above you.
Brendon came with his forehead against yours, his hand locked around yours, his other hand gripping your thigh like he needed the anchor.
No loud sound. No dramatic collapse. Just a rough breath. A hard shudder. The last clean edge of his control snapping silently through his body while he held himself over you and let you feel every second of it. For a moment, neither of you moved.
The room was nothing but breath. Heat. Sweat. His body still over yours. His hand still holding yours. Your heart still trying to survive him.
Then Brendon shifted carefully. Not away. Never abruptly. He eased his weight off you first, one controlled movement at a time, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip, then to your waist, like he was checking each place he had held you. Your body gave a small, involuntary tremble.
Brendon noticed. His eyes moved over your face. “Okay?”
Your voice came out thin. “Yes.”
His thumb brushed once against your waist. “Still?”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Yes.”
His mouth softened by half a degree. Then he moved. Practical even now. He disappeared only long enough to deal with the condom, then came back with a damp washcloth and a glass of water. He cleaned you gently, quietly, one hand steady at your knee when your body twitched from sensitivity.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
Brendon looked up immediately. “No.”
The word was flat. Final. Your throat tightened. He finished with careful hands, then set the washcloth aside and handed you the water.
“Drink,” Brendon said.
You took the glass with both hands because you did not quite trust your fingers. He watched until you swallowed. Only then did he take it from you and set it on the nightstand.
You shifted, reaching for your shirt. Your body immediately reminded you that moving was a terrible idea. Your thighs trembled when you pushed yourself upright, and you tried to hide it by reaching too quickly, but Brendon’s hand closed around your wrist before you could make it convincing.
Not tight. Just there. You looked at him. His eyes moved over your face, then down your body, clinical enough to be annoying and intimate enough to make your cheeks burn.
“You can stay,” Brendon said.
Your heart gave a stupid, tender kick. You blinked. “I can’t.”
His brow moved. “Why?”
You looked down at the sheets, suddenly shy in a way that made no sense after everything he had just done to you. “I’ve never left Biscuit overnight,” you admitted.
Silence. You risked a glance up. Brendon stared at you. Not judging. Not amused. Just processing. Then his expression settled.
“Okay,” Brendon said.
Your chest tightened. “Okay?”
He stood and reached for his trousers. “Then we sleep at your place.”
You stared at him. Your voice came out soft. “Brendon.”
He looked back at you while buttoning his pants with infuriating calm, shirt still off, hair damp and mussed from your hands.
“What?” he asked.
You tried to find words for it. For him. For the fact that he had wanted you in his bed and, instead of making you feel silly for caring about your tiny orange cat, he had simply changed the plan. You failed. Brendon crossed back to the bed and held out your shirt.
“Arms,” he said.
Your laugh came out shaky. “You’re dressing me now?”
His eyes flicked over you once. You watched the smallest shift happen at the corner of his mouth. Almost smug. Almost.
“You’re not steady,” Brendon said.
Your cheeks went hot. “That is your fault,” you said.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
No apology. None. The heat in your face got worse. A few minutes later, you crossed the hall in your rumpled skirt, your black top, and bare feet, with Brendon behind you carrying your shoes in one hand and his keys in the other.
You were absolutely walking a little funny. You knew it. He knew it. The entire hallway probably knew it. Brendon said nothing. Which somehow felt worse.
You glanced back at him. “Stop being smug silently.”
His eyes met yours. “I’m not,” Brendon said.
You sighed, “You are the loudest silent smug person I’ve ever met.”
This time, his mouth did move. Barely. A dangerous almost-smile. Your stomach flipped. You turned back around before he could see what it did to you.
Biscuit was waiting at the door when you opened it. He looked at you. Then at Brendon. Then at you again. Then he sat down with the offended dignity of someone who had been abandoned for several entire hours.
“Oh, stop,” you told him softly.
Biscuit chirped. Brendon stepped into 6B behind you and closed the door.
“No,” Brendon said.
Biscuit sat straighter. You looked over your shoulder at Brendon. He looked back at you, calm and shirtless and barefoot in your apartment like this, too, was a place he belonged. Your heart did something quiet and irreversible. Brendon’s hand settled at your waist. Steady. Certain.
Summary: After everything with Trent, Jack asks you one question he is terrified to get wrong: was last night really about him, or was it just because he was there when everything went bad? The answer changes everything. So Jack does what Jack does best—he slows down, makes it clear, and shows you exactly what it feels like when a man means it. Dinner first. Then the kiss.
Warnings: stalking/harassment aftermath, references to previous threatening behavior, protective Jack, age gap, emotional vulnerability, first date tension, kissing, suggestive ending, Jack Abbot being devastatingly competent.
Author’s Note: This one is for everyone who wanted Jack to do this properly. The man said dinner first and unfortunately for everyone’s blood pressure, he meant it.
Xoxo, Del
| Chapt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 |
You woke to quiet.
Not the sharp kind. Not the waiting kind.
Just quiet.
For a second, you stayed still beneath the blanket in Jack’s guest room, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the house settled around you.
No knocking. No voices. No coffee cup outside a door.
No Trent.
Your phone sat on the nightstand beside you, still plugged into the charger that had somehow become yours without anyone saying so. The screen was dark. You reached for it anyway. No missed calls. No new texts. Nothing from the police. Nothing from Lena. Nothing from anyone.
Your breath left you slowly. It should have felt like relief. It did. Mostly. But relief was strange when it had nowhere to go. It sat in your chest beside everything else. The exhaustion. The memory of Trent’s voice in the ambulance bay. Jack’s hand closing around his wrist. Jack in the consult room, crouched in front of you, voice low and furious. “He reached for you. And I was so fucking angry.”
Your throat tightened.
Then, because apparently your brain had no interest in mercy, the kitchen came back next. Jack’s hand near your face. His fingers brushing your cheek. The soft, impossible distance between you. Fuck. The word had been quiet when he said it. Ragged. Like pulling away had hurt.
Your eyes closed. You could still feel the almost-kiss like something warm beneath your skin. Not quite pain. Not quite want. Something worse because it was both.
Across the hall, Jack’s door was still halfway open. You had checked before you fell asleep. You checked again now, turning your head toward the hallway. Still open. Halfway. Not more. Not less.
Exactly Jack.
Your face warmed before you could stop it. You rolled onto your back again and pressed both hands over your eyes. This was ridiculous. A man had tried to grab you at work less than twenty-four hours ago, security had escorted him out through the ambulance bay, and somehow, the thing making your stomach flip was Jack Abbot stopping himself from kissing you in his kitchen.
You stayed like that for another minute. Maybe two.
Then the smell of coffee reached you.
Of course.
You dropped your hands from your face and stared toward the hallway. Jack was awake. Which meant you had to leave the guest room eventually. Which meant you had to see him. Which meant you had to find out if he was going to pretend nothing had almost happened.
Your stomach twisted.
You threw the blanket back before you could talk yourself into hiding there until your next shift.
The house felt different in the early afternoon. Softer than it had last night. Less haunted by the almost-kiss and more quietly aware of it. Your bag sat near the dresser. Your scrubs were folded in the drawer. Your face wash was still in the bathroom. Your charger was still plugged into the wall. All the little signs of a temporary arrangement that had stopped looking temporary days ago. You changed into the soft clothes you had packed, brushed your teeth, washed your face, and spent entirely too long looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
You looked tired. You looked like you had slept badly. You looked like someone who had almost been kissed by Jack Abbot and then had to spend the night pretending that did not matter.
You pointed at your reflection. “Get it together.”
The reflection did not look convinced.
By the time you stepped into the hallway, the coffee smell was stronger. So was the sound of movement from the kitchen. A cabinet opening. A mug being set down. The low hum of Jack moving through his own house like he had every right to be composed. You followed the sound.
Jack was at the counter with his back half-turned to you, one hand braced near the coffee maker, the other holding a mug. He was dressed in sweats and a soft shirt, his prosthetic already on, his hair slightly damp, as if he had showered. He looked normal.
Mostly.
You stopped at the edge of the kitchen. Jack noticed you immediately. His shoulders shifted once before he turned around. “Morning.”
You leaned one hip against the doorway. “Morning.”
His eyes moved over your face. Careful. Not too careful. Just enough that you knew he remembered exactly where you had both left things. Then he looked back at the coffee. “You sleep?”
You stepped farther into the kitchen. “A little.”
Jack glanced over, one brow lifting faintly. “A little?”
You gave him a look. “Enough.”
His mouth barely moved. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting before coffee,” you said.
That earned you the smallest curve of his mouth. Jack turned back to the counter, picked up the mug he had made for you, and held it out. You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his.
Barely.
Not enough to mean anything. Enough that both of you noticed. Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand around the mug. Then to your mouth. Only for a second. A quick, helpless flicker of attention that he corrected almost immediately.
But you saw it. Your pulse climbed. Jack looked back at your eyes like nothing had happened, like he had not just stared at your mouth in the middle of his kitchen while handing you coffee he had made exactly the way you liked it.
You wrapped both hands around the mug. “So.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “So.”
The silence stretched. Not awkward. Worse. Aware. You took a breath, then asked, voice soft, “Are we going to talk about last night?”
Jack’s hand stilled near his own mug. For one second, nothing moved. Then his mouth barely curved. “Oh, absolutely we are.”
Your breath caught.
Jack reached for his coffee. “I just need caffeine first.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small. Unsteady. Real. Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug, and something in his eyes warmed at the sound. Then he took a slow sip. You crossed your arms. “Was that dramatic pause medically necessary?”
Jack lowered the mug. “For me? Yes.”
You stepped into the kitchen. “That bad?”
His gaze held yours. “I didn’t sleep much.”
Your amusement softened. “Because of Trent?”
Jack set the mug down. Quietly. Deliberately.
“No,” Jack said.
Your pulse kicked. Jack’s expression stayed steady, but his voice changed. Lower. Closer to honest.
“Because of you,” Jack said.
The words landed gently. Somehow, that made them worse. Your fingers curled against your arm. Jack looked down for half a second. “That came out wrong.”
You swallowed. “Did it?”
He was quiet. Then he looked back at you. “No,” Jack said.
The kitchen went still around you. Coffee maker. Morning light. Two mugs. The island between you. Everything ordinary and charged at once. Jack dragged one hand over the back of his neck, then dropped it like he regretted the movement. “I need to ask you something.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m going to do it badly.”
Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at your mouth. “Okay.”
Jack gave you a look. The smile stayed. His expression softened by a fraction before the nerves came back. He looked down at the mug, then back up at you. “Last night.”
Your stomach flipped. You did not look away. “Yeah?”
He breathed out through his nose. “Was that because of the night we had?”
His voice stayed low. “Because I let you stay here?”
“No,” you said again.
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Because I was there when everything went bad?”
You looked at him for a second. Then you laughed softly. Not because it was funny. Because he looked so serious. So careful. So Jack. Like he could stop a man from touching you without blinking, but could not ask whether you wanted him without looking like he was walking into a live wire.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “What?”
You shook your head. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on yours. “I’ve had a crush on you since my first day at PTMC.”
For one full second, Jack Abbot had absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. No dry answer. No correction. No quiet little cut of sarcasm to save himself. Just silence. His hand still rested on the counter beside your mug. His eyes stayed on your face. You almost smiled. Almost. Then nerves caught up, and you looked down at the island between you.
Jack’s voice came rougher. “Since your first day.”
You glanced back up. “Yes.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “You could have said something.”
You gave him a look. “My first day, you walked into the ED in SWAT gear after getting shot.” Jack blinked. You lifted your eyebrows. “You were intimidating.”
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then he looked away like he needed a second. “It was a graze,” Jack said.
You pointed at him. “That is not the reassuring part of the story.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “It barely caught me.”
“You walked into the ED in SWAT gear after getting shot,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “Grazed.” You stared at him. He sighed through his nose. “Fine.”
You crossed your arms. “Fine?”
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face, softer now. “I can see how that might have made an impression.”
You huffed a small laugh. “An impression.”
His mouth curved, barely there. “Apparently.”
The smile slowly faded from your face. Not because the moment turned bad. Because it turned honest. You looked down at the counter, suddenly more nervous now that the words were out.
You exhaled slowly, “So no. Last night wasn’t because I was scared. Or because you let me stay here.”
Jack went still again.
You looked back up at him. “It’s been you for a while.”
His expression changed. Just slightly. Enough to make your chest tighten. Jack went quiet. Not the careful kind. The caught kind. You shifted under his stare. “What?”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m trying to decide if telling you mine makes this better or worse.”
Your heart kicked. “Yours?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “Timing.”
You forgot how to breathe for half a second.
Then he looked down, then back at you. “It wasn’t your first day.”
You tried not to let disappointment show.
Jack noticed anyway. His expression softened by a fraction. “Don’t get me wrong. I noticed you.”
You blinked. “You did?”
Jack gave you a look. “Obviously.”
Your face warmed.
His mouth barely moved. “I’m a man. With eyes.”
That startled a laugh out of you. Jack’s eyes warmed at the sound, but he kept going before you could make him regret being honest.
“But that wasn’t the problem,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “What was?”
His expression went still. “The night after the Simmons trauma.”
You searched your memory. “The kid with the crush injury?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
Your chest softened. “That was a bad one.”
“It was,” Jack said.
The room quieted around the memory. Then his eyes came back to yours. “I was tired,” Jack said. “More than I wanted anyone to notice.”
You stared at him. He looked mildly annoyed by the admission, which made it feel even more honest. Jack continued, “You noticed anyway.”
You looked down. “I brought you coffee.”
“You brought me coffee,” Jack said. “And half a turkey sandwich.”
You winced. “It was a questionable sandwich.”
“It was terrible,” Jack said.
A small laugh escaped you. His expression softened. “You set both down beside me and told me to eat something before Lena started threatening me with an IV bag,” Jack said.
You pressed your lips together. “That does sound like me.”
Jack’s voice came quieter. “Then you walked away before I could thank you.”
You glanced up. “Did you want to thank me?”
Jack held your gaze. “I thought about it for three days.”
Your breath caught. He looked at you like he could still see it. The coffee. The bad sandwich. The fluorescent light. You noticed what he had not said.
Jack’s voice dropped. “That was when I knew.”
You swallowed. “Because of coffee?”
His mouth barely moved. “It wasn’t the coffee.”
The words landed low in your chest. You stared at him. Jack stepped closer, slowly, giving you every chance to move away. You didn’t. You asked, “Then what was it?”
Jack’s voice came quieter. “You.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Jack stepped around the island. Slowly. Carefully. Nervously, you realized. Jack Abbot, who could walk into a trauma bay without blinking, looked nervous standing in his own kitchen with you. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Your pulse climbed. His hand lifted. For one breath, you thought he was going to kiss you. For one breath, you thought he had finally stopped fighting it.
Then Jack went still. His hand hovered between you. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and focused and suddenly, devastatingly sure.
Jack said, “Alright.”
You blinked. “Alright?”
His mouth barely moved. “We’re going to do this right.”
Your pulse was still somewhere in your throat. “Do what right?”
Jack lowered his hand, not away exactly, but enough that the space between you felt deliberate. “This.”
You stared at him. “Jack.”
“I’m taking you out,” Jack said.
Your brain stalled. “Taking me out?”
His eyes did not leave yours. “On a date.”
The words landed with ridiculous force. A date. Not coffee at his kitchen counter because you were already there. Not sleeping down the hall because there was a reason no one wanted to name too closely. Not safety dressed up as convenience.
A date.
You swallowed. “You’re asking me on a date after almost kissing me?”
Jack’s expression did not change. “Yes.”
You stared at him. His mouth barely curved. “I’m aware I’m doing it out of order.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Are you?”
Jack stepped back half a pace, like distance was the only reason he was still capable of forming sentences. “I am.”
You crossed your arms because it was either that or reach for him. “Okay, so let me get this straight.”
You ignored him. “I have spent almost a week sleeping at your house.”
Jack opened his mouth. You lifted a finger. “I sang Sabrina Carpenter in your truck.”
His mouth closed. You lifted another finger. “I made you pancakes.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. You lifted a third finger. “I fell asleep on your couch with your arm around me.”
His eyes darkened by a fraction. You lifted a fourth finger. “You watched Love Island with me.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Under protest.”
“You wanted resolution,” you said.
Jack looked away for half a second. You pointed at him. “Exactly.”
His eyes came back to yours, warmer now. You dropped your hand. “And after all of that, you won’t kiss me until after you’ve taken me on a date?”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said, “Yes.”
You blinked. “Yes?”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Yes.”
You stared at him. His expression was steady now. Still nervous underneath it, maybe. But steady. Certain. Infuriatingly sure of himself.
Jack said, “That is exactly what I’m saying.”
Your face warmed. Your pulse was absolutely not normal anymore. “You realize that’s ridiculous.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “No.”
Your brow arched, “No?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “I’m taking you to dinner first.”
Your pulse jumped. His voice dropped. “Then I’m going to kiss you properly.”
You forgot what air was supposed to do. Your fingers curled against your arms. He held your gaze. You stared at him for a second. “Properly.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Yes.”
You swallowed. “And what does properly involve?”
His mouth barely curved. Not a smile. Worse. Something steadier. Something sure.
“You say yes,” Jack said. “I take you out. I open the door for you.”
Your stomach flipped.
“I pull out your chair,” he continued. “I sit across from you. I pay the bill.”
You crossed your arms tighter, mostly because you needed somewhere to put your hands. “You pay the bill?”
Jack gave you a look. “Yes.”
Your brow furrowed, “I can pay for my own dinner.”
“I know you can,” Jack replied. You blinked. Jack’s voice stayed calm. “That’s not the point.”
Your face warmed. He stepped closer again, slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. Jack said, “The point is I asked. So I’m paying.”
Your throat went a little dry. He held your gaze.
“I walk you to your door after,” Jack said. “I don’t assume I’m coming in. I don’t make you explain what you do or don’t want. I wait.”
Your heart beat hard against your ribs. He looked at you like he wanted every word to land exactly where he put it.
“No dating app bullshit,” Jack said. “No half-effort. No making you wonder what I meant.”
The kitchen went quiet. You managed, “So you’re showing me how this goes.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Yes,” he said.
Your breath caught. His voice dropped, rougher now. “I’m showing you what it feels like when a man means it.”
For a second, you had no words at all. None. Then you breathed, “Jesus, Jack.”
His eyes warmed. Just enough. “Dinner,” Jack said.
You blinked, dazed. “What?”
His mouth curved faintly. “This is the part where you say yes.”
You stared at him for half a second. Then you laughed, unsteady and breathless. “Yes.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Not much. Jack never gave much away unless he meant to. But satisfaction moved through his face like warmth. “Good,” he said.
The word should not have done anything to you. It did. You pointed at him, mostly because you needed somewhere to put your hand. “Don’t say it like that.”
Jack reached for his coffee like he had not just rearranged your entire nervous system in his kitchen. “Like what?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Like you knew I was going to say yes.”
His eyes flicked to yours over the rim of the mug. His mouth barely moved. “I hoped.”
You shook your head. “That is not what your face said.”
Jack took a sip of coffee. Slow. Unbothered. Terrible. Then he lowered the mug. “Seven.”
Your stomach flipped again. “Seven?”
Jack set the mug down. “I’ll make a reservation.”
You blinked. “You already know where?”
Jack nodded once. “Yes.”
You muttered, “Of course you do.”
His brow lifted. “Problem?”
You answered too fast. “No.”
His eyes warmed. You looked away before he could see too much, which was pointless because Jack saw everything. You added, “No problem.”
Jack nodded again. “Seven works?”
You tried to sound normal. “Seven works.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Good.”
There it was again. Good. Like a hand at the back of your neck. Like a door opening. Like a promise. You pulled in a breath. “Okay.”
Jack watched you. “Okay?”
You looked toward the hallway. Your bag was still in the guest room. Your charger was still plugged into the wall. Your face wash was in the bathroom. Your clothes were folded into the drawer like they had a right to be there. Every little piece of you that had landed in Jack’s house over the last several days suddenly felt very loud.
You looked back at him. “I want to go back to my apartment.”
Jack went still. Not visibly. Not to anyone who didn’t know how to read him. But you knew. His fingers tightened once around his mug. Then they relaxed.
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Okay.”
You gave him a look. “That was very convincing.”
Jack set the mug down. “I said okay.”
You crossed your arms. “You said okay like you hated it.”
His mouth barely moved. “I don’t have to like it to respect it.”
Your chest softened. You hated that a little. You loved it more. Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “If you’re sure.”
You nodded. “I am.”
His eyes searched your face. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Your voice softened. “I know.”
Jack waited. You glanced down at your hands, then back at him. “But I want to get ready in my own apartment.”
His expression stayed quiet. Listening. You exhaled. “I want to pick out my own clothes and overthink everything and pretend I’m not nervous like a normal person going on a normal date.”
Jack’s expression changed at the word nervous. A little softer. A little pleased. You huffed. “Don’t look like that.”
His mouth barely curved. “Like what?”
You pointed at him. “Like me being nervous is doing something for you.”
Jack held your gaze. “It is.”
Your breath caught. He did not even have the decency to look sorry about it. You shook your head. “Dangerous.”
Jack’s smile deepened by half an inch. “You’ve mentioned.”
You fought your own smile. “I’m serious. I want it to feel normal.”
His amusement softened into something steadier. You continued, “I want to leave here. I want to go home. I want to get ready.”
Jack stayed quiet. You held his gaze. “And then I want you to pick me up because you asked me on a date, not because I was already sleeping down the hall.”
Jack nodded. Once. Firm. Respectful. “Okay.”
This time, he meant it differently. You exhaled. Jack’s voice gentled. “I’ll drive you home.”
You said, “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You gave him a look.
Jack gave it right back. “I’m still driving you home.”
You opened your mouth. Jack lifted one hand slightly. “And before you argue, I’m not saying that because I think you can’t take care of yourself.”
Your mouth closed. He held your gaze. “I’m saying it because I want to know you got inside safely, and because after what happened yesterday, I’m not going to pretend I’d be fine dropping you off and driving away.”
Your chest tightened. You hated how reasonable he was when he was being impossible. You sighed, “You can drive me.”
Jack nodded. “Good.”
You pointed at him again. “But you leave after.”
His brows lifted. “I know.”
You held his gaze. “I mean it.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I heard you.”
You nodded your head once, “I’m doing this properly too.”
That made him pause. His eyes moved over your face, slower now. Not assessing. Listening.
You swallowed. “You said you’re showing me how this goes.”
Jack’s voice softened. “I am.”
You lifted your chin. “Then I get to show up for it.”
Something in his expression softened so much it made your chest ache. Jack’s voice came quieter. “Yeah.”
The kitchen went still again. Then his mouth barely moved.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “You do.”
Your pulse climbed. For a second, neither of you looked away. Then Jack reached for his coffee and cleared his throat like a man saving himself from saying too much before noon.
“Seven,” he said.
You smiled. “Seven.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll pick you up at your door.”
You tilted your head. “At my door?”
His eyes warmed. “That is generally where picking someone up happens.”
You laughed. Jack looked pleased with himself. Smug, maybe. Hot, definitely. You hated him a little for it. You liked him a lot more. You rolled your eyes, “Fine. My door. Seven.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’ll be there.”
Your stomach flipped. You believed him. That was the problem.
You believed every single word.
The drive to your apartment was quieter than the drive to Jack’s had been the night before. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. Your bag sat by your feet, your hands rested in your lap, and Jack kept one hand on the wheel with the kind of focus that made you suspect he was concentrating very hard on not saying at least six things.
You looked over at him. “You’re quiet.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the road. “I’m trying not to talk you out of something I already agreed to respect.”
Your chest softened. You looked out the windshield, watching the familiar streets pass by in the afternoon light. “I’m sure.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You glanced at him. “You hate it.”
His jaw shifted once. “I don’t hate that you want to go home.”
You waited.
Jack turned onto your street. “I hate why it feels complicated.”
That landed softly. You looked down at your hands. “I do too.”
Jack pulled up outside your building, put the truck in park, and cut the engine. For a second, neither of you moved. Then he looked at you. “Do you want me to check inside?”
You swallowed. Part of you wanted to say no just to prove you could. Part of you wanted to say no because you hated that the question had to exist. But Jack did not rush you. He did not reach for your bag. He did not open his door. He just waited.
You breathed in through your nose. “Yes.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
He got out first, came around to your side, and opened your door before you could reach for the handle. You looked at him. Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’m practicing.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. “For tonight?”
His eyes warmed. “For tonight.”
The laugh stayed with you as you grabbed your bag and stepped out. It helped. A little. Jack walked beside you into the building, close enough to be there, not close enough to crowd. At your door, he waited while you unlocked it. The click of the lock sounded too loud. You pushed the door open, then stopped.
Jack’s voice was quiet behind you. “Stay here.” You looked back at him. He lifted one hand slightly. “Only if you want me to check.”
You nodded. “I do.”
Jack stepped in first. Not like he owned the place. Not like Trent, who had decided knowing where you lived meant he had a right to be there. Jack moved like someone who understood the difference. He checked the living room first, then the kitchen. He looked at the windows, the lock on the balcony door, the hallway, the bathroom, and your bedroom. He did it without making a show of it. Without touching anything he didn’t need to touch. Without making your apartment feel like evidence.
You stood just inside the doorway and watched him move through your space with careful restraint. When he came back down the hall, his expression was calm. “You’re clear.”
You exhaled. You had not realized you were holding your breath until then. “Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Of course.”
He stopped a few feet from you. The door was still open behind you. The hallway waited. The whole afternoon seemed to hold itself still.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay.”
Jack’s eyes searched your face. “Okay?”
You lifted your chin. “You have to go now.”
His mouth barely curved. “I know.”
“I mean it,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said again.
The fact that he did know made something in your chest ache. He did not argue. He did not linger by pretending he needed to check another lock. He did not make you comfort him for leaving. He just stepped toward the doorway. Then he paused.
Jack looked back at you. “Call me if anything feels off.”
Your voice softened. “I will.”
“I mean anything,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. “Jack.”
His expression did not change. “A noise. A text. A weird feeling. Anything.”
You nodded. “I will.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’ll come back.”
Your chest tightened. There was no hesitation in his voice. No performance. Just fact. You swallowed. “I know.”
His eyes softened. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. For a second, you wanted him to. Then Jack glanced down the hall, exhaled through his nose, and stepped fully into the doorway.
Jack looked back at you. “Lock this behind me.”
You leaned against the edge of the open door. “I was going to.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You studied his face. “You’re very calm for someone who hates leaving.”
His mouth barely moved. “I don’t hate leaving.”
You lifted your brows. Jack looked at you for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose. “I hate wanting to stay.”
Your fingers tightened on the door. Jack held your gaze, steady and quiet and too honest for the narrow space between you. Then he stepped back. Because you told him to. Because he meant it. Because this was him showing you how this went.
You swallowed. “Jack?”
He paused in the hallway. “Yeah?”
You let your eyes drop to his mouth. Just once. Then you looked back at him. “For the record, I’m going to want you to kiss me after dinner.”
Jack froze. Completely.
For one perfect second, he had nothing. No dry answer. No careful correction. No controlled, competent, infuriatingly composed response.
Nothing.
You smiled. Small. Sweet. Terrible.
“Seven,” you said.
Then you closed the door in his face.
For one second, you stood there with your hand still on the knob, heart pounding so hard it felt ridiculous. Then, from the hallway, Jack exhaled. A low, disbelieving sound. Almost a laugh. Almost a curse. You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling too hard.
Jack’s voice came through the door, rough and amused. “Lock it.”
You laughed under your breath and turned the deadbolt. The lock slid into place. Jack stayed there for another second. You could feel him on the other side of the door. Then his footsteps moved away down the hall. Slow. Measured. Like a man doing exactly what he promised. Like a man who had just had his own rules used against him. Like a man who would be back at seven.
Then the apartment went quiet. Really quiet. For the first time in days, the silence did not feel like a warning. It felt like yours. You checked the lock once. Then the windows. Then the hallway, even though Jack had already checked it, because this was your apartment and you needed your hands to believe what your head was trying to tell you.
Everything was where it should be. Your blanket was still on your bed. Your book was still facedown on your nightstand, abandoned mid-chapter. Your water glass sat beside it. Your apartment was still yours.
The thought settled something in you.
So you changed into something soft, set an alarm, and climbed into your own bed for the first time in days. You expected to lie there awake. You expected every sound in the hallway to pull you back to the surface. You expected your mind to circle the rose on your windshield, the coffee outside your door, Trent’s hand reaching for your arm in the ambulance bay.
But your body was tired. Your bed was familiar. Your door was locked. And Jack had left when you told him to. Sleep found you easier than you thought it would.
When you woke, the light had shifted across the room, warm and low, and for a second you stayed still beneath the covers, letting yourself feel it. Home. Your own sheets. Your own walls. Your own quiet. Then your alarm went off. Seven. Jack. Dinner. Your stomach flipped so hard you sat up too fast.
“Oh my God,” you whispered to the empty room.
Then you remembered Jack standing in your doorway. ‘I hate wanting to stay.’
Then you remembered his voice in the kitchen. ‘I’m taking you to dinner first. Then I’m going to kiss you properly.’
Your face warmed. Slowly, deliberately, you got out of bed. This was not throwing yourself together before a shift. This was not scrubs, badge reels, and coffee in a travel mug. This was not survival. This was getting ready. For Jack. And if Jack Abbot wanted to be noble and gentlemanly and devastatingly patient, then fine. Fine. You could be patient too.
You showered. You took your time. You moved through your apartment with more intention than you wanted to admit. The soft black sweater came first. It slipped just enough off one shoulder to feel dangerous without looking like you had tried too hard. Then the jeans. Then the black ankle boots were waiting by the door. Then gold earrings, because apparently you had decided to be cruel.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. It was not too much. It was not casual. It was exactly the kind of outfit a woman wore when a man had decided he was going to be noble about kissing her, and she had decided to make that as difficult for him as possible.
A smile pulled at your mouth. Small. Terrible. Absolutely unhelpful. You made one final adjustment, then checked the time. 6:57.
Your pulse jumped. Three minutes. You stared at the clock like glaring at it would make you calmer. It did not. At 6:59, you gave up pretending you were not listening for him.
At exactly seven, there was a knock at your door. Not a text. Not headlights through the window. A knock.
Because Jack Abbot, apparently, meant every word.
You let yourself take one breath. Then another. Then you walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
Jack stood in the hallway. And for one perfect second, neither of you said anything. He was dressed for dinner. Dark jacket. Clean shirt. Good jeans. Watch at his wrist. Simple. Grown. Devastating in a way that made you briefly resent every man who had ever owned a graphic tee. But that was not what made your breath catch.
In one hand, Jack held a small bouquet.
Not roses. Nothing red.
Daisies, baby’s breath, and soft pastel blooms wrapped in plain paper.
Your eyes moved from the flowers to his face. Jack’s jaw shifted once. “I almost didn’t bring them.”
Your hand stayed on the door. “Because of the rose?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
Something in your chest softened. He held the bouquet out, but not too far. Not forcing it into your hands. Just offering. Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “I didn’t want him to ruin that for you.”
For a second, you could not quite speak. Then you reached for the bouquet. The paper crinkled softly beneath your fingers. Small white petals. Pale yellow centers. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath. Nothing sharp. Nothing dramatic. Nothing demanding.
Just flowers.
Given at your door by a man who had asked first. You looked down at them, then back up at him. “Thank you.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You’re welcome.”
You glanced over your shoulder into the apartment. “Come in for a second?”
Jack went still. Only slightly. Only enough for you to notice.
You lifted the bouquet. “I want to put these in water.”
His eyes held yours for one beat too long. Then Jack nodded. “Okay.”
You stepped back to let him in. He crossed the threshold carefully, like he remembered exactly what it meant to be invited this time. Not to check the windows. Not to make sure you were safe.
Just because you had asked him to come in.
You moved into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Jack stayed near the edge of the room, hands at his sides, watching you like he was trying very hard to behave in a space where you had just let him back in. You found a glass vase, filled it at the sink, and set the flowers inside.
They looked soft there. Sweet.
You adjusted one of the daisies with your fingertip. “There.”
Jack’s voice came from behind you. “Looks good.”
You turned. He was not looking at the flowers anymore. He was looking at you. This time, really looking. The sweater. The jeans. The black ankle boots. The gold earrings. The fact that you had gotten ready with purpose. His jaw shifted once.
You leaned back against the counter and tried very hard not to smile. “You’re staring.”
Jack’s eyes came back to yours. “I know.”
Your stomach flipped. He cleared his throat. It did not help. His voice came lower than usual. “You are beautiful.”
The words landed softly. No performance. No app-boy exaggeration. No hungry, careless line meant to see what it could get him.
Just Jack.
Standing in your kitchen at seven because you invited him in, with flowers on your counter and restraint written all over his face.
You swallowed. “Thank you.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. For a second, neither of you moved. The space between you felt smaller than it had a moment ago. Warmer. Louder. You could have stepped forward. He could have too.
You both knew it.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Then he looked away, just enough to pull himself back. Your pulse kicked. He breathed out through his nose, almost like he was annoyed with himself. You tilted your head. “Still doing this properly?”
Jack looked back at you. His mouth barely curved. “Trying.”
The single word did terrible things to your nervous system. You smiled, slow and entirely unhelpful. “Is it hard?”
Jack held your gaze. His voice came rougher. “Yes.”
Your fingers curled against the edge of the counter. His eyes darkened by a fraction, but he did not move closer. He stayed exactly where he was. Because dinner came first. Because he had said it would. Because apparently Jack Abbot’s self-control was both the hottest and most infuriating thing you had ever seen.
You pushed off the counter before you could do something stupid. “Then we should probably go.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Probably.”
You stepped toward him, bouquet behind you on the counter, door behind him, dinner waiting somewhere outside this apartment. Jack offered his hand. Not demanding. Not assuming.
Just there.
You looked at his hand. Then at him. Then you took it. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady. You pulled the apartment door shut behind you and locked it.
Jack waited.
When you turned back, his thumb moved once over your knuckles. Barely there. Enough.
“Ready?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him. The flowers were in water. Your door was locked. Dinner came first. After dinner, he was going to kiss you properly.
You smiled. “I’m ready.”
Jack’s eyes held yours for one charged second. Then he opened the door to the stairwell for you. Because of course he did.
At his truck, Jack opened the passenger door for you. You paused and looked at him over the roofline. “Still practicing?”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “No.”
You lifted your brows. His eyes stayed on yours. “This part counts.”
Your stomach flipped. You climbed in before your face could give you away. Jack closed the door gently, came around to the driver’s side, and got in beside you. The cab felt different tonight. Same truck. Same seats. Same faint smell of coffee and whatever clean soap Jack used.
But different.
Jack started the engine, then glanced at you. You settled back against the seat and watched him pull away from the curb. “So where are you taking me?”
His eyes stayed on the road. “Dinner.”
You turned your head slowly. “That was very informative.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I thought so.”
You sighed, “Jack.”
“Italian place,” he said. “Quiet. Good food. You’ll like it.”
You looked at his profile in the passing streetlights. “You sound very sure.”
Jack glanced over. “I am.”
Your stomach did something embarrassing. You looked forward again. For half a minute, neither of you spoke. Then your hand drifted toward the radio.
Jack noticed immediately. His voice came calm and dry. “For the sake of my self-control, do not put on Sabrina Carpenter.”
Your hand froze. Then you looked at him. “Excuse me?”
Jack kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You heard me.”
You settled back in your seat, fighting a smile. “I sang.”
Jack nodded once. “You did.”
He glanced at you for half a second, then said, completely deadpan, “Something about coming right on you.”
Your mouth fell open.
Jack looked back at the road. “I won’t be forgetting that anytime soon.”
Heat rushed up your neck. “Jack.”
He looked over. “What?”
You stared at his profile. “You cannot just say that like you’re reading discharge instructions.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m a doctor.”
You laughed, helplessly, and Jack’s eyes softened before he could hide it. Then his gaze dropped briefly to the line of your sweater, the bare angle of your shoulder, the place where black knit slipped just enough to make his self-control look increasingly theoretical. He looked back at the road. Quickly.
Very quickly.
You smiled to yourself. “So no Sabrina.”
“Not tonight,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Because dinner comes first?”
His fingers tightened once on the steering wheel. Then he exhaled through his nose.
“Because dinner comes first,” he agreed.
The words settled between you. Warm. Promising. Absolutely not helping either of you behave.
You leaned back in the seat and let him drive.
The restaurant was tucked on a quiet corner a few neighborhoods over, the kind of place you would have walked past twice before realizing it was there. No neon sign. No crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk. Just warm light in the windows, dark wood around the door, and the low, inviting hum of conversation inside. Jack pulled into a spot along the curb and put the truck in park.
You looked out the windshield. “This is very nice.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “That was the idea.”
You glanced at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack turned off the engine and looked over at you. “Yes.”
The answer came too easily. Too honestly. Your stomach flipped. You reached for your seatbelt, mostly because you needed to do something with your hands. Jack was out of the truck before you could open your door.
Of course he was.
By the time you reached for the handle, he was already there, opening it from the outside.
You looked up at him. “You’re serious about every single part of this.”
Jack held the door and offered his hand. “I told you I was.”
You took his hand. His palm was warm against yours, his grip steady as you stepped down from the truck. He did not let go immediately. Neither did you. For one breath, you stood there on the sidewalk, close enough to see the slight shift in his jaw when his eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then he looked back at your eyes. Dinner first. You could practically hear him thinking it. You smiled.
Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “What?”
You squeezed his hand once before letting go. “Nothing.”
His mouth barely curved. “That was not nothing.”
You started toward the restaurant door. “You’re very suspicious.”
Jack stepped ahead of you just enough to open the door. “I have reason to be.”
You paused beside him. “Do you?”
His eyes held yours. “Yes.”
The word landed low. Warm. Promising. Then Jack opened the door and let you go inside first. The restaurant smelled like garlic, warm bread, tomato sauce, and something rich enough to make your stomach remember you had not eaten anything real since Jack’s kitchen. Low lights glowed over small tables. Framed black-and-white photos lined the walls. Somewhere farther back, someone laughed quietly over the soft clink of silverware.
It was not flashy.
It was not trying too hard.
It was exactly the kind of place Jack would choose because the food was good, the tables were not six inches apart, and no one had to shout to be heard.
The hostess looked up from her stand with a smile. “Two?”
Jack stepped beside you. “Reservation for Abbot.”
Your heart did something ridiculous at the sound of it. Reservation.
The hostess checked the list, then smiled. “Right this way.”
Jack’s hand came to the small of your back. Light. Brief. Barely there. Still enough to make your entire body notice. He guided you through the restaurant without crowding you, his touch disappearing before you could decide whether you wanted to lean into it. That was the worst part. He kept doing things properly.
He kept making it hotter.
The hostess led you to a small booth near the back, tucked against the wall beneath a warm pendant light. Quiet. Private without feeling hidden. Jack waited until you slid in before taking the seat across from you. You watched him settle in, jacket falling open, sleeves neat at his wrists, watch catching the light when he reached for the menu.
He looked infuriatingly comfortable here.
Not relaxed, exactly. Jack was too aware of you for relaxed. But composed. Capable. Date Jack, apparently, did not fumble. Date Jack had reservations. Date Jack opened doors. Date Jack looked at you across warm light like he was absolutely aware he was making a point.
You picked up your menu. “You’ve been here before.”
Jack glanced over the top of his menu. “A few times.”
You looked at him over yours. “With dates?”
His eyes lifted to yours. You regretted the question immediately. Not because you did not want to know. Because you did.
Jack studied you for one second too long. “Not like this.”
Your fingers tightened around the menu. You looked down. “That was a very good answer.”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “It was true.”
That was worse.
The server came by with water and a basket of bread, saving you from whatever your face was doing. Jack ordered calmly, politely, with the kind of easy competence that made you realize he probably knew how to be kind to service staff even when he was exhausted. When the server left, Jack reached for the bread basket and offered it to you first. You stared at him.
His brow lifted. “What?”
You took a piece of bread. “Nothing.”
Jack set the basket down. “You keep saying that.”
You pointed the bread at him. “You keep doing things.”
His mouth barely curved. “That is generally how dates work.”
You shook your head. “No. This is different.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “Different how?”
You looked around the restaurant, then back at him. “You have a reservation. You opened every door. You offered me bread first.”
Jack’s expression stayed dry. “I’m a monster.”
You laughed before you could stop it. His eyes warmed. That warmth always did something to you. It made him look less untouchable. Less attending. Less controlled. More like the man who had slept on his own couch so you would not feel alone. The man who made coffee the way you liked it. The man who almost kissed you and stopped because he wanted the wanting to mean something clean.
You tore off a piece of bread and looked down at it. “I’m not used to it.”
Jack went quiet. When you looked up, his expression had shifted. Not sad. Not pitying. Just attentive in that way that made it impossible to hide behind jokes for long.
His voice softened. “Used to what?”
You tried to shrug. “This.” Jack waited. You huffed a small breath. “Effort.”
His jaw shifted once. You looked down at the bread again, suddenly wishing you had said something easier. “That sounded depressing.”
Jack’s answer came quietly. “It sounded honest.”
Your eyes lifted to his. He held your gaze across the table. “There’s a difference.”
Your chest tightened. For a second, the restaurant blurred around the edges. Warm lights. Low voices. Jack’s hands resting near his water glass. His attention fixed on you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
You swallowed. “You’re very good at this.”
His mouth barely moved. “Dinner?”
You gave him a look. “Making it impossible to stay normal.”
Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then back up. “Good.”
Your pulse kicked. You sat back. “You’re getting smug.”
Jack reached for his water. “I’m aware.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re smug about it.”
Jack took a sip, then lowered the glass. “Yes.”
You stared at him. He looked back like he had no intention of apologizing. You shook your head. “Dangerous.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You keep saying that too.”
You leaned slightly forward. “Because it keeps being true.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “You okay?”
The question was soft. So soft it almost undid you. You blinked. “Yeah.”
Jack studied your face. “Really?”
You looked around the restaurant again. At the warm light on the table. At the bread basket between you. At the door he had opened. At the man across from you who had asked, waited, listened, left, returned, and brought flowers that were not red because he remembered exactly what had hurt.
You looked back at him. “Really.”
His expression eased. Just a little. You smiled. “I’m nervous.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “I know.”
You narrowed yours. “You like that.”
His mouth barely curved. “I do.”
You held his gaze. “Why?”
Jack leaned forward slightly, forearms resting near the edge of the table. “Because this is the kind of nervous you should have had.”
Your throat tightened. He held your gaze. Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “Not scared. Not bracing. Not wondering if I’ll listen.”
You breathed in slowly.
He continued, “Just nervous because you want it to go well.”
The words settled somewhere deep. You looked down before he could see too much. Too late, probably. Always too late with Jack.
You reached for your water and took a sip. “You are way too good at saying devastating things over bread.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I’ll try to pace myself.”
You set your glass down. “You won’t.”
“No,” Jack said. “Probably not.”
The server returned to take your order, and Jack looked to you first. You ordered, and he listened like even your pasta choice mattered. Then he ordered his own, added an appetizer for the table, and handed the menus back.
When the server left again, you looked at him. “You ordered an appetizer.”
Jack picked up his water. His eyes flicked to yours. “You like bruschetta.”
You blinked. He took a drink. You stared at him. “How do you know that?”
Jack set his glass down. “You stole half of Lena’s in the break room two weeks ago.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Jack looked pleased. Not obviously. But enough.
You pointed at him. “That is unsettling.”
His mouth barely curved. “It was observational.”
You shook your head. “That’s worse.”
His eyes warmed. “You liked it.”
You leaned back. “The bruschetta?”
Jack held your gaze. “That I noticed.”
Your face warmed. You looked down at the table.
Jack’s voice softened, just a little. “I notice you.”
Your fingers curled around your napkin. That was the thing about Jack. He did not need to say very much. He just had to say it like that. Like it was simple. Like it had been true for longer than you knew.
You lifted your eyes back to his. “I’m starting to understand why dinner had to come first.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “You’re making a very strong case for yourself.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Good.”
There it was again. Low. Certain. Dangerous.
You leaned forward just enough to lower your voice. “Careful, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Across the little table, between the candle and the bread and all the manners he had armed himself with, Jack looked at you like dinner was the only thing standing between him and the rest of the night.
His voice came quiet. Rougher. “I am being careful.”
Your breath caught.
Jack held your gaze. Then he added, “That’s the problem.”
The appetizer arrived then, and you had never been more personally offended by bruschetta in your life. Jack leaned back as the server set the plate between you, the corner of his mouth barely moving like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
You waited until the server walked away before looking at him. “Saved by tomatoes.”
Jack reached for one of the pieces. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”
You picked up your own piece. “No?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “No.”
The word landed too low for something said over toasted bread. You looked down at your plate because looking at him directly felt like a mistake. “You’re very comfortable making dinner dangerous.”
Jack took a bite, chewed, and swallowed before answering. “You started it.”
You looked back up. “Me?”
His brow lifted. “The door.”
Your face warmed. Of course he was going to bring that up. You set the bruschetta down. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Jack’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “You closed a door in my face after telling me you were going to want me to kiss you.”
You pressed your lips together.
His mouth barely curved. “That was not subtle.”
You picked up your water. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
Jack’s eyes darkened by a fraction. For one second, the table felt too small again. Then he looked down at the plate between you and reached for another piece like he was choosing survival. You smiled into your glass. Dinner, apparently, was going to require discipline from both of you.
The conversation softened after that. Not cooled. Never cooled. But softened. You asked him how he found the restaurant, and Jack told you Robby had recommended it years ago after declaring Jack’s takeout habits “a cry for help.” You laughed so hard Jack’s eyes warmed over his water glass, and he admitted, under pressure, that Robby had not been entirely wrong.
Jack asked about the book on your nightstand, the one he had noticed facedown earlier when he checked your apartment. You accused him of snooping.
Jack shook his head. “I was checking windows.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And judging my bookmark habits?”
His mouth barely moved. “A little.”
You pointed a piece of bread at him. “I knew it.”
Jack leaned back. “You abandoned it facedown. The spine didn’t deserve that.”
You stared at him. “I’m sorry, are you defending the structural integrity of my paperback?”
Jack’s expression stayed dry. “Someone has to.”
You laughed again, easier this time. Normal. That was the dangerous part. Not the flirting. Not the way his eyes occasionally dropped to your mouth and came back like he was punishing himself.
The normalcy.
The fact that dinner with Jack felt less like performing for someone and more like stepping into something that had already made room for you.
The entrees came out hot and fragrant, and Jack moved your water glass slightly to make more room before the server set your plate down. Small. Automatic. Infuriating. You looked at him after the server left. “You know, the worst part is that I don’t think you’re even trying.”
Jack glanced up from his plate. “Trying to do what?”
You gestured at him with your fork. “All of this.”
His brow lifted faintly. “Be decent?”
“Be devastating,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Jack went still. Only for a second. But you caught it. His eyes lifted to yours, focused and quiet.
Your face warmed.
His voice came lower. “For what it’s worth, I’m trying very hard.”
Your fork paused. You looked back up. Jack held your gaze across the table. “Just not at being decent.”
Your stomach flipped. The restaurant kept moving around you. Forks against plates. Low conversation. Someone laughing two tables over. But none of it seemed to reach the little booth beneath the warm light.
You swallowed. “Jack.”
His jaw shifted once. “I know.”
You breathed out slowly. “Do you?”
Jack leaned forward slightly, voice quiet enough that it belonged only to you. “Yes.”
Your fingers tightened around your fork. He held your gaze. “Dinner first.”
You hated him. You absolutely did. You smiled despite yourself. “You’re saying that to yourself more than me.”
Jack looked down at his plate for half a second. Then back at you. His mouth barely curved. “Yes.”
A laugh broke out of you, soft and helpless. Jack’s expression warmed, and for a few minutes, the pressure eased again. You ate. You talked. You found out Jack was opinionated about restaurant lighting, hated QR code menus with the passion of a man personally betrayed by technology, and had once gotten into an argument with Robby over whether a salad counted as dinner.
You said, “It depends on the salad.”
Jack looked personally disappointed. “No.”
You laughed. “What do you mean, no?”
Jack set his fork down. “A salad can be part of dinner. It is not dinner.”
You leaned back in the booth. “That is such a fifty-year-old man opinion.”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “Careful.”
You smiled. “What? You are.”
Jack reached for his water. “I’m aware.”
You tilted your head. “Does it bother you when I say it?”
His hand stilled around the glass. Not long. Just enough. Then he looked at you. “No.”
You studied him. “No?”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “No.”
Something in your chest softened at the quiet honesty in it. You set your fork down. “Good.”
His eyes warmed. You smiled a little. “I like that you’re older.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. You leaned forward, just enough to lower your voice. “I like that you know what you’re doing.”
The air changed. Instantly. Jack’s eyes went still. The kind of still that told you every word had landed. You watched his hand tighten once around his water glass before he released it.
Then he looked at you across the table, voice low and controlled. “You need to be careful with that one.”
Your pulse jumped. You held his gaze. “Why?”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Because I’m trying to get you through dinner.”
Your breath caught. There it was. Not the gentlemanly version. Not the polished date version. The man underneath all that restraint, showing through for half a second.
You sat back slowly. Not retreating. Just giving yourself room to breathe. Jack watched you do it, eyes dark and attentive and still somehow patient. You reached for your wine glass, then seemed to remember you had ordered water, which was honestly rude of reality.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved faintly. “You okay?”
You glared at him. “No.”
His eyes warmed. “Good.”
You pointed at him. “That one sounded smug.”
Jack picked up his fork again. “I know.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling. And when he smiled back, small and real and almost private, you felt the whole shape of the night shift under your ribs. Dinner first. Then the door.
Then the kiss.
And maybe, if you were both very lucky and Jack stopped being so infuriatingly noble, more than that.
By the time the plates were cleared, you had learned three things. Jack hated QR code menus. Jack believed salad was a supporting character, not a meal. And Jack Abbot, when he was trying very hard to behave, was almost impossible to survive.
The server came by with the dessert menu tucked against her apron. “Can I interest you two in dessert?”
Jack looked at you first. The server smiled politely, waiting. You glanced at the menu in her hand, then back at Jack. “Are we dessert people?”
Jack’s brow lifted faintly. “We?”
Your face warmed. The word had slipped out before you could stop it. His mouth barely curved, but he did not make you suffer for it. He looked at the server. “What’s good?”
The server’s face brightened. “The tiramisu is probably our most popular. The lemon cake is great too.”
Jack looked back at you. “Tiramisu?”
You tried to sound casual. “I could be convinced.”
His eyes warmed. “That means yes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re getting very comfortable interpreting me.”
Jack’s voice stayed dry. “You’re not subtle when you want something.”
You stared at him. The server laughed under her breath. Traitor.
Jack ordered the tiramisu with two forks, then handed the dessert menu back like he had not just exposed you in public.
When the server walked away, you leaned across the table slightly. “That was rude.”
Jack leaned back in the booth. “That was efficient.”
“You called me out in front of a witness,” you said.
His mouth barely moved. “She already knew.”
You sat back. “Unbelievable.”
Jack reached for his water. “You still want the tiramisu.”
You looked away. Jack’s expression went deeply smug.
You pointed at him without looking back. “Do not say it.”
His voice came low and amused. “Good.”
Your head snapped back toward him. “Jack.”
His eyes warmed over the rim of his glass. He was enjoying himself. That should not have made you want him more. It did.
The tiramisu arrived a few minutes later, soft and dusted with cocoa, two forks laid neatly beside the plate. Jack slid one fork toward you before taking his own.
You took a bite. Then your eyes closed. The sound you made was small. Soft. Completely involuntary.
Across the table, Jack went still.
You opened your eyes. He was watching you. Not the dessert. You. His gaze had dropped to your mouth, fixed there for one charged second before he dragged it back to your eyes.
You swallowed slowly. “What?”
His eyes stayed on yours, darker now. “You made a sound.”
Your face warmed. You looked down at the plate. “It’s good.”
Jack did not look at the plate. “I gathered.”
The low, dry edge in his voice did something dangerous to your spine. You picked up another bite, mostly because if you looked at him too long, you were going to forget you were in public. The mascarpone was soft on your tongue, sweet and rich, and you tried very hard to have a normal reaction to dessert.
You failed.
Jack watched the fork leave your mouth. Careful. Quiet. Not moving. But watching. You felt the weight of his restraint from across the table. Then a little mascarpone caught on your finger when you adjusted the edge of the dessert with your fork.
You glanced down. You could have used your napkin. You should have used your napkin. Instead, you lifted your finger to your mouth and licked it clean.
Jack’s hand tightened once around his water glass. Just once. But you saw it.
His voice came lower. “That’s not fair.”
Your pulse jumped. You set your hand back in your lap and tried to look innocent. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours across the table. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
His jaw worked once. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth again, slower this time, like he knew he should not and was doing it anyway.
“You know what,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped. For a second, neither of you moved. The restaurant carried on around you. Low voices. Silverware. A server laughing near the bar. The little candle on the table flickered between you like it had no idea what kind of damage was being done over dessert. Jack leaned back slightly, like distance was the only thing keeping him civil.
His voice came rougher. “Dinner first.”
You looked at the space where the empty dinner plates sat before the server had cleared them. Then you looked back at him.
“Dinner is done,” you said.
Jack went very still. The words landed between you. Not loud. Not dramatic. Worse. True. His eyes held yours for one long second. Then his mouth barely curved.
“Dessert counts,” Jack said.
You huffed a laugh, but your pulse was not funny anymore. “That is very convenient for you.”
Jack picked up his fork. You watched his hand. The way his fingers curled around the handle. The way his wrist shifted. The way he took a bite like he was doing something normal, like there was anything normal about sitting across from him while he delayed kissing you on a technicality.
He looked at you as he pulled the fork from his mouth. Slowly enough to ruin you. Not exaggerated. Not obscene.
Just Jack.
Controlled. Aware. Completely unfair. Your breath caught before you could stop it. His eyes warmed.
Jack set the fork down with deliberate care. “See?”
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “See what?”
His mouth barely moved. “Not so easy from that side of the table.”
Your fingers tightened around your napkin. You looked down, because apparently dessert had become a public safety hazard.
Jack’s voice softened, but it did not get safer. “Sweetheart.”
Your eyes lifted. He held your gaze.
“Dessert,” Jack said.
You stared at him. Then you took one more careful bite, just to be cruel. Jack watched you do it. Then he exhaled through his nose and reached for the check the second the server passed close enough to flag down.
You watched him do it. “That was fast.”
Jack slid his card into the folder without looking at the total. “Necessary.”
Your pulse was still doing something deeply unhelpful. “Necessary?”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “If we stay here much longer, I’m going to forget why dinner had to come first.”
Your breath caught.
Jack looked back down at the check like he had not just pulled all the air out of the booth. The server returned, took the folder, and left again. Jack waited. Composed on the outside.
Not composed at all underneath.
You could see it now. The little restraint lines. The way his fingers rested too still near his water glass. The way his gaze kept touching your mouth and pulling away. He really was trying.
That was the problem.
The server came back with his card and the receipt. Jack signed, added the tip, and closed the folder. You watched him. “You didn’t even let me pretend to argue.”
Jack stood and held out his hand. “No.”
You looked up at him. “No?”
His mouth barely curved. “I told you I was paying.”
You took his hand and slid out of the booth. “You’re very committed to the bit.”
Jack helped you to your feet. “It’s not a bit.”
The words were quiet. Simple. They hit harder because of it. You stood close to him for one second too long. Close enough to smell his soap. Close enough to see the little flicker in his eyes when you did not immediately step back.
Then Jack reached for your bag, giving his hands something ordinary to do. You let him. Because he was doing this properly. Because you wanted him to. Because every gentlemanly thing he did made you think about what would happen when he finally stopped being one.
Jack guided you toward the front with one hand at the small of your back.
Light. Brief. Controlled.
The restaurant door opened into cool evening air, and you stepped out ahead of him, breath catching slightly at the change.
Jack followed, the warmth of him close behind you. For a second, both of you stood on the sidewalk beneath the restaurant’s low light.
Jack looked down at you. “Cold?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His eyes held yours. “You sure?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m sure.”
Jack did not move. Neither did you. The street was quiet around you. A car passed at the corner. Somewhere behind the restaurant door, silverware clinked against plates.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
This time, he let it stay there a second longer.
Your pulse jumped. Then he looked back at your eyes.
His voice came low. “Truck.”
A small laugh escaped you. “That sounded like an order.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “It was a survival tactic.”
You turned toward the curb before your knees could do something embarrassing.
Jack walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed, not close enough to touch. The restraint of it made your skin feel too warm for the evening air.
The truck waited at the curb beneath the low spill of restaurant light.
Your boots sounded against the sidewalk. Jack’s steps stayed steady beside yours. Every foot between the restaurant door and the passenger side felt longer than it should have.
Dinner was over. Dessert was over. The check was paid. He had opened every door. He had remembered what you liked and waited and watched and behaved until the word barely had any meaning left. He had done exactly what he said he was going to do.
Properly.
You reached the passenger side of the truck, but before Jack could move around you and open the door, you turned.
He stopped immediately.
You leaned back against the passenger door and looked up at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “What?”
Your pulse kicked at the sound of his voice. Low. Careful. Too controlled. You let your gaze drop to his mouth. Just once. Then you looked back at him.
“Dinner’s over, Jack,” you said.
For one second, he went completely still. Not confused. Not hesitant. Still like every disciplined thing in him had just been given permission to stand down. Then he moved.
Jack surged forward and kissed you.
No careful almost. No polite first-date brush of his mouth. No hovering hand, no tortured pause, no quiet fuck before he pulled away. He kissed you like he had been waiting all day to do it and every second of restraint had cost him something.
Your breath caught against his mouth.
Jack’s hand came to your jaw, firm and warm, angling your face up as his other hand found your hip. He pressed you back into the truck door, not hard enough to hurt, just enough that you felt the solid line of him in front of you and the cold metal at your back.
You made a small sound into his mouth.
Jack’s fingers tightened at your hip.
The kiss changed.
Deepened. Went hotter. Hungrier. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of control that felt more dangerous than losing it would have. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to use. Exactly when to slow down. Exactly how to make you chase him for more.
So you did.
Your hand fisted in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and Jack went with you on a rough breath. The sound he made was quiet. Almost nothing. It still ruined you.
His thumb brushed along your jaw, steadying you while his mouth did the opposite. Warm, firm, devastatingly sure. He kissed like he had meant every word at dinner. Like this was not a question anymore. Like he had asked, waited, paid attention, walked you out, and now he was finally letting you feel what all that restraint had been holding back.
Your knees went unreliable.
Jack felt it.
His hand at your hip slid more securely around you, anchoring you against the truck and him at the same time.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. Not enough to move away. His forehead hovered near yours, his breath warm against your mouth.
For a second, neither of you said anything. You could hear the quiet drag of his breathing. Feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. Feel his thumb still resting at your jaw like he had forgotten how to let go.
Jack’s mouth brushed yours again. Barely. A warning. A promise.
You tightened your fingers in the front of his jacket and kissed him once more. Slow. Deep. Enough to feel the way his control frayed when you pulled him back in.
Jack made a rough sound against your mouth, and his hand flexed at your hip.
You broke the kiss first.
Jack followed you half an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened slowly, dark and fixed on yours. You swallowed, breathless.
Then you said, “Take me home, Jack.”
Jack went still.
For one second, the street disappeared.
The restaurant. The truck. The cold air. All of it.
His hand stayed at your hip. His thumb stayed near your jaw. You watched the words land. Watched him understand exactly what you meant. Watched the last of his gentlemanly restraint fight for its life. Then Jack reached behind you to open the passenger door.
