pink princess

And there was the purple mark on his neck, next to his collarbone that he had to make a conscious effort hiding.

Spencer cleared his throat “Can we focus on the case?” he said, voice a bit higher-pitched than normal. 

“Sure,” JJ said with a knowing smile. 

He stared at his file the whole meeting. It wasn’t his fault. He was on a day-off and got a sudden call that he wasn’t prepared for. He was supposed to spend the morning with you like intended, to be able to keep kissing you and stay in bed with your body flushed against his– 

“Reid”

Spencer’s head snapped to see Hotch waiting for an answer… to a question he ignored…

“Uhm… sorry c-can you repeat?”

“I said… Do you remember the last time this MO was used?”

Spencer nodded “Yes, in 1986 in the same area we found four bodies killed in the same way, with the same puncture wounds to the chest. The unsub had never been found”

He felt Derek’s amused eyes on him. He just knew. What gave it away? The half fucked up tie? The way he walked in with his cheeks still flushed? The dilated pupils when he thought of you instead of working? 

Could they blame him? Last night he finally got to what he had wanted for weeks… you.

//

“Thank you for walking me home,” you smiled, still gripping his hands.

You and Spencer were standing on your doorstep. It had been your first ‘real’ date after weeks of talking : a nice dinner after seeing a play together. You hadn’t stopped smiling since the start of the night. 

“Of course,” he answered. Spencer’s eyes flee yours most of the time, but right now, they were looking straight into yours.

His big brown eyes. 

It truly was what you had noticed at first about him. And you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at the moment. You bit your lower lip to stop yourself from grinning. “Do uhm… do you want to step inside?”

You both knew what that meant. One step in and the two of you will be one.

Spencer simply nodded. But you didn’t move, didn’t want to step away. With your hand reaching behind you to open the door, you stayed in front of him. He got closer and you felt your cheeks heating up.

You had the time to hear the ‘click’ of your door opening before his lips were on yours. You closed your eyes as you leaned into it. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders to try to pull him closer somehow, because you weren’t close enough for your liking. A breath left his lips and you answered with a small, muffled sound. He walked you inside, still kissing you.

Spencer closed the door behind him without leaving you. Your hand cradled his cheek, angling his head to kiss him deeper. His hand trailed from your hip to slide under your top. Your skin shivered at the contact of his cold fingers on you. 

“Spencer,” you whispered. Your other hand was gripping the hair on the back of his neck and you swore you heard him let out a sound at the slight tug. It only made the knot in your stomach tightened. 

Spencer broke the kiss, breathless. You took a second to take in his appearance: his red cheeks, the hair that had fallen in front of his forehead, the top button of his shirt that you had somehow opened in the process. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and his hand stayed there, on your cheek. 

“Hi,” you breathed out before letting out a giggle.

“Hi,” Spencer answered. He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in. Your fingers found the hooks of his pants to pull his hips closer. He leaned in again to start a new kiss. 

You kicked off your shoes, your lips still attached to his. You only broke the kiss to whisper a quick “The bedroom’s on the right” and let him lead you there. 

With your back against the mattress and his body hovering over yours, the world blurred and all you saw was him.

//

Spencer’s eyes darted the jet, trying to avoid Derek’s questioning gaze. He knew how fucked he was, as soon as there was one break, the questions will start. If that jet ‘meeting’ to talk about the strategy could last the whole flight, he wasn’t going to complain. 

Unfortunately, the chat ended. He glanced at his file, pretending to already start the geographical profile.

“Reid”

Shit.

“Yes?” he looked up to see Morgan sitting next to him. 

Derek grinned. “So you’re not gonna tell me what happened this morning?”

“Nothing happened,” Spencer answered too quickly.

Derek let out a chuckle “Sure, kid. You came here looking like a mess and you were late.”

Spencer swallowed “You’re imagining things”

“No. I think you have someone you want to hide” Spencer’s face was so transparent and telling that he couldn’t even hide it. He tried though, but he failed miserably “Come on! Just tell me I’m right”

“Fine–”

Derek grinned from ear to ear “There we go. What’s the girl’s name?”

“I don’t want to talk about it–”

“Talk about what?” Emily asked as she sat across Spencer

“Reid’s got a girlfriend” Derel said way too loud. 

And that got the whole jet’s attention. Even Hotch turned his head with a raised eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I… well yes but it’s not the point,” he was stumbling over his words. He could die on the spot at the way all their eyes lighted up. “Can we focus on the case?”

The team went back to their files but Spencer noticed the way their gaze lingered. He wanted to keep it for himself. At least for a little while, so he has time to make sure things were serious between the two of you. He hadn’t meant to… but the call caught him off guard while he was supposed to spend time with you.

//

Spencer rolled around and let out a sigh. He felt something against him, he opened his eyes and remembered. He remembered last night, the thrill and pleasure, falling asleep next to you, your head resting against his naked chest, his hands on your hips–

“Spencer?” you whispered as you woke up. 

“Yes?” he whispered, wrapping his arm around your middle. He wasn’t used to this, waking up next to somebody else. But it had been a nice surprise when he woke up, that was sure. His heart melted at the sleepy smile you offered him. 

You pressed your head to his neck and left a peck there “Slept well?”

“Definitely,” Spencer answered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” you said with a grin “That was a good night.”

He laughed, his cheeks heating up. “Yeah… it was”

You lifted your head to see him so flustered. With his red cheeks and big eyes and his disheveled hair from last night. “Cute,” you whispered before pressing your lips to his. How were you supposed to keep your hands to yourself when he looked this cute. 

Spencer melted into the kiss, his hand cupped your cheek to pull you closer. With your hips now pressing against his, he couldn’t resist you. He turned you around, now hovering over you. He kissed you again, harder. 

You hooked your leg over his hip and heard him let out a sound against your mouth. Your arms snuck around his shoulders while his hand started to trail down. You closed your eyes when his lips locked with your neck. That was so good. 

Spencer muttered your name and that only made you want more. You were ready and let out a whimper when his hand found you– 

A phone rang. Spencer froze. He glanced at the nightstand to see his cell ringing. “Sorry–”

He detached himself from you to answer the call. “Hotch? I… Y-yes. Yeah I’ll be there”

You chuckled, amused at how unsatisfied he looked. “Don’t laugh,” he said, trying to hide his small smile “It sucks”

“It does,” you said, pecking his lips “But you have people who need you”

“And what if I need you?” he answered which made it harder to keep your hands off of him. 

“Then you’ll have me when you’re back,” you whispered against his mouth. Spencer smiled and offered you a quick kiss

“I really need to go”

“You don’t seem to be moving”

Spencer let out a small sigh and got up and you weren’t going to stop yourself from staring. “You’re just making this harder,” he whined as he had to quickly get dressed. 

“I see that” you chuckled.

He shook his head, swallowing at the sight of you still sitting on your bed. “I uhm… Well since I’m here I don’t have my car… can you drive me to work?”

“Oh- yeah sure”

The ride was silent, Spencer focusing on trying to look normal and absolutely not unsatisfied. You left him a block away as he told you he didn’t want to deal with his colleagues’ teasing. He definitely had a good reason to worry about it

//

Spencer had finally managed to focus on the case. He had indeed been right and the unsub from 1986 was the same as now so the stakes were high. After two intense days of chasing after the man, they caught him. Spencer sat in their assigned room at the police station. He hadn’t taken the time to breathe properly. He looked at his phone to see a text from you 

‘Hi :) Tell me when the case’s over, maybe I can give you a ride home since you don’t have your car’

Spencer smiled without even meaning to

‘Hi, I would love that. Caught the guy so I should be back at the BAU by 8pm’

You instantly answered with ‘You’ll have a private driver waiting for you :P’

“Now, Reid. You can’t tell me it’s not her you’re texting”

Spencer turned around to see Derek “I wasn’t going to lie about it”

“So why didn’t you tell us on the jet?”

“I just… you were all staring and I hadn’t planned on talking about her”

“The hickey on your neck was talking for you” Derek said, loving messing with him. Spencer was so flustered, his cheeks redder than ever “Anyway… how’s it going?”

Spencer smiled “It’s going great. Except for the impromptu phone call,” he chuckled. “But uhm… yeah it’s doing great, we’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks”

“And you didn't tell us?” Derek joked, faking offense

“Well it wasn’t anything at first, the other day it was our first date. Well; no but like our first date that we stated out loud was a date. Does that make sense?” 

“Sure,” Derek answered with a chuckle “Well I’m happy for you, kid,” he said as he got up before patting his back and leaving. 

Spencer was left alone and he stared down at his lap, smiling from ear to ear. He just wanted to get back to you. 

After the long wait on the jet and the last bit of work he had to do in office, he was finally free. He saw you, standing next to your car in the parking lot. You grinned when you saw him. His arms wrapped around you and smiled into your hair “I missed you”

You stepped away from him so you could kiss him. His lips against yours and his hands on your hips. It wasn’t even a heated kiss, just one that said you had missed each other. But it was enough for his team to cheer. 

You frowned as you turned your head to see… all his colleagues standing there, smiling. Even one of them gave Spencer a thumbs up. “What’s going on?”

“Uh… I might have not been very ‘put together’ when I arrived from your house”

You chuckled “No way”

“Can we just go?” he asked, a bit embarrassed.

You got into the car “They look nice, I should meet them someday,” you said as you saw a woman– wearing the most extravagant clothing you had seen in a while– looking ecstatic. 

first, a startled register of his environment and then, a confused glance at the very naked girl draped over his body. his arms come up, hovering, sputtering, and then politely putting his palms over your shoulders. nudging you to look up at him.

jesus christ, those eyes. 

“hi.”

so quiet. “hey, handsome.”

he lets out a long, contemplative sigh, thinking, thinking, thinking. when does this guy ever stop thinking? “we kissed,” he says it like a fact, but with questioning lilt that makes it sound otherwise. 

you prop an elbow on the bed, joint wedged into the space above his shoulder so you can see him better. the blanket keeping you decent slips a bit and spencer unconsciously tucks it more securely under your arm. you catalogue that for later. 

“we did a lot more than that. forgive me for being untoward but we fucked,” you clarify, innocent with your chin in the heel of your palm.

spencer groans, he groans! “don't be crude.”

“we're naked.”

“i know that,” he murmurs, disgruntled, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to your jaw and falling back into the pillow. you sport an amused little smile when you see the pout on his lips. 

you slept with spencer reid.

your coworker, your friend, the man you’d been terribly smitten with for who knows how long (7 months and 3 days.)

spencer reid who lingered by your side for hours last night, unassuming, unbothered, who smiled softly at your wine induced flush whenever he’d lean in to hear you better, who sat with you while you tipped your chin up at the sky to point out stars and asked him to name them, who pressed a sobering kiss to your lips in rossi's backyard after a clumsily delivered compliment.

you’re so pretty.

your response is a blur, forgotten, but you do remember how he drove you home with his hand idly playing with your fingers over the center console. how he tried but inevitably failed to be a gentleman as you led him up to your apartment, shared, hushed giggles echoing down the hallway and quite gracefully falling into bed leaving a very telling breadcrumb trail of clothes. 

and now, half a second of thought passes on whether you should ask him or surprise him. the latter wins and you dip down and kiss the corner of his mouth. you’re not evil, he deserves some warning before you really plant one on him. he wastes no time, bringing his lips to yours with those big hands cradling your face. 

his lips press against yours gingerly in a sweet, lingering kiss, followed by another and another. mouth slotted over yours, like perfect puzzle pieces, his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you grant him entrance, letting him gently lick into your mouth. you let out a small, needy sound at the warmth of his tongue against yours, melting into him. it makes him chuckle quietly.

“spence,” you gasp against his lips.

a subtle shudder makes its way down his spine at the desperation in your voice, the same need slowly fogging up his own brain, remnants of last night catching up. 

“i know, angel,” he cups your neck, what is happening?

“can i admit something?”

spencer smiles at you, boyish and stupid spread across his face, “please do.”

“you kiss nice, had i known you were this good of a kisser i would’ve done it ages ago,” you mumble, forcing words out to keep a sliver of your dignity.

he laughs again, a small pleased sound that makes you feel good. “you do too. you are wildly better than anything i have ever imagined–”

“you’ve imagined me?” you turn timid in a way that you hate but spencer kisses you and it melts away.

“of course i have. you’re wonderful.”

spencer pulls your leg over his and sits the two of you up, thighs bracketing his hips. the blanket falls unabashedly into the space between your bodies, pooled dangerously low over his lap. you thank whatever god there is for the enticing view of the scattering of light hair that trails beneath the covers.

you’re surprised with the ease in which spencer's hands drag down your sides, like he's done it a million times before. he pushes the pads of his thumbs into the area above your hipbone like he knows you’ll twitch when he does, and you do. damn his eidetic memory and damn his perfect mouth when he attaches his lips to your jaw, angling you as he lightly works the skin. he's careful enough not to leave a mark somewhere visible but it doesn't stop him from reminding himself he can do it elsewhere, somewhere more concealed.

“pretty girl,” he coos, kissing over your pulse point, below your ear, “lay back, please.” please. he murmurs against your skin, nodding behind you. he pecks your cheek, rather sweetly considering your state of undress and swiftly returns to your neck like he can’t believe he pulled away.

now wait.

you forget about your own hands through all of this, hanging limply over his right shoulder and heavy by your side. you thread your fingers into his hair and path something more devious for the other. spencer jolts when your fingertips graze over his cock, you’d think he’d expect it but he reacts like it's completely sudden. it scares you momentarily, were you too forward? but then he looks at you with something beggy and glazed over in his eyes and it motivates you to ease the shelter of the blanket fully off, baring him.

spencer pinks, tips of his ears to the top of his chest. you inch off his lap and sit in front of him. you watch the features in his face twist into realisation and cut him off before he can say something polite, "i wanna taste you, spence.”

you’ve stunned spencer reid. for the first time in his fucking life he doesn’t know what to say. so he pushes out a, “yeah? fuck, okay. yeah.” an embarrassing stutter of words but it's enough to reassure you. 

a firm finger pokes him square in the chest, not so hard that it hurts but enough to have him lean back against the headboard. he follows dutifully, letting the pillows take him, allowing him some semblance of solid ground beneath him. because he's convinced he might pass out at the sight of you settling between his outstretched legs, looking sinfully unaware of just how much you affect him.

although the effect itself becomes glaringly obvious when his cock twitches, two pairs of eyes darting down immediately. you can't tell if he's bigger than what you remember from last night, but you do know that you want him in your mouth immediately.

your head dips down, a slow hand curling around the base of his length, guiding it to your lips. the head, flushed and red, meets soft and plush, a light kiss against him. and spencer thinks he might die. your lips part, taking the tip into your mouth, tongue laving against his slit. your eyes flutter shut when a bead of precum settles over your tastebuds, slightly salty. you glide down, the weight of him in your mouth is deliriously good.

at some point between drawing back and swirling your tongue around his tip, spencer tangles his hands in your hair. fingertips soft over your scalp, he doesn't push, just holds you. your head bobs down again, forming a steady rhythm. your eyes start to water when he nudges at the back of your throat, breath faltering as the hair low on his stomach begins to tickle your nose. he immediately pulls you off with a gentle hand fixed to your jaw.

“you don’t have to do it all.” the concern in his eyes is sickening as he wipes off the saliva smeared to the corner of your mouth. you smile at him, a little sheepish, tilting into his palm. “i know.”

you press a kiss to his wrist and return to the task at hand, cock standing proud over his abdomen and possibly redder than when you left it. you lean down, letting a little dribble of spit fall from your lips to his length. decidedly, you wrap your fingers around him, letting the saliva act as a lubricant. you press a thumb to a vein running along the side of his cock, tracing it with every up and down of your hand. he lets out a shuddering exhale in response. 

you hope the look you give him is sultry at best, you don't know that his vision is starting to blur at the corners when your head dips down again. only to mouth at the tip this time, a sloppy makeout around the flushed head as your hand continues to work at the rest of him.

“god, angel. you’re so-” he cuts himself off with a moan when your wrist twists. “so good at that.”

you let the words get to your head, a burning heat that creeps up your neck. emboldened, you take more of him into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you go. spencer can't help the way his hips buck up and you almost gag again. you pull off with a breathless giggle, wiping your mouth while spencer regards you with that same sickening concern, except now there's guilt in his comforting touch when he inspects your face. he doesn’t find this funny at all.

you hold his wrist as you laugh again and put on your most reassuring voice, "i'm okay.”

a skeptical purse of his lips. you gravitate forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “i promise,” you whisper, followed by a nip at his skin. it elicits a gasped sound from the depths of his chest.

he pulls you into a kiss, relishing in the ever so slight taste of him on your lips as he turns the two of you around, you let him lay you down this time. the moment feels kismet when his fingers trail lower. one hand keeping him propped up and the other parting your folds. you're unbelievably wet, the lingering effects of last night and spencer on your tongue leaving you as much.

“oh, spencer.” your hips rise to his touch when he dips a finger into your entrance and he's immediately determined to make you say his name like that again. the way you gush around him as his finger curls up allows him to add another one to the mix. you think he’s ruined you forever with how fast the peak builds, a heavy, honey-like pressure pushing down on your stomach as his fingers move, relentless between your thighs. you stop him before he can put his thumb to your clit with an urgent gasp, knowing that if you come now you won’t be able to keep going, “fuck me.” swallow, “please.”

spencer pulls his fingers out, kissing your chin when your head tips back at the emptiness. he can't help the tug at the corner of his lips, eyes possibly filled with too much affection when your thighs give a needy squeeze around his hips. “i got you,” he whispers, pulling you closer with two firm hands at your hips. 

he pushes in, and it's an easy fit, you’ve been ready for what feels like forever. but where he lacks in overwhelming thickness he makes up for in length so it truly just keeps going. your hands brace at his side when he finally bottoms out. “i swear you weren’t this big,” you huff against his shoulder, almost exasperated. 

spencer laughs, though it skirts the edge of something aching, “ha-ah, you’re boosting my ego, sweetheart.”

“good,” you hum, eyebrows pinching when he begins to move. your walls flutter around him, adjusting, you don’t know how you took it last night without his rearranging you from the inside out. “you’re so- feels so good, spence.”

he whines into your neck, the speed of his hips increasing with every subsequent clench around his cock, he doesn’t know if he can handle this much praise. lewd noises fill the room, moans and flush inducing wet squelches echoing off the walls and forming into something tangible between your bodies. it's not enough, something's missing, you need him even closer. 

“baby, wait. flip me over.”

baby.

he hesitates before turning your body under his. upon re-entering you, it all clicks into place. you melt in satisfaction, cheek smushed against the pillow with your mouth stupidly hanging open. he gives an experimental roll of his hips, slow and deliberate, hitting places you never deemed possible.

“there?” he asks when you simultaneously mumble an incoherent y-uhuh, there, he lays over you and starts fucking you into the sheets.

his chest molds perfectly to your back, head fitted somewhere between your shoulders with his lips attached to the nape of your neck. he murmurs things, things you can't possibly comprehend with how deep he is, you swear you could feel him in your throat. your hips push back, meeting his thrusts with every persistent plap. sweat blooms. a light sheen everywhere your skin touches him, you feel warm all over. you feel him all over. spencer. spencer. spencer. 

spencer snakes a hand under your body with an unwitting amount of familiarity when he starts rubbing circles into your clit

you feel it again, pulsing, a pleasant ringing in your ears that drowns everything out except his voice. “gonna cum for me again? huh, angel? just like last night?” quiet encouragement, awe, tinged with a bit of condescension, it sends sparks down your spine, setting off fireworks between your legs. 

your head tips over to his arm, where it's planted beside you on the pillow, to sink teeth into flesh. canines dig into muscle, and if you were any more coherent, you would’ve drawn blood. your scream muffles against him, legs twitching out and shaking under his body, spencer blankets you with a heavy grounding pressure as your orgasm crests. his lips press to your cheek when you look over your shoulder at him, eyebrows imploringly upturned, he follows right after you and he is beautiful. 

he slumps, heavy. but the good kind. you welcome the pressure and the closeness for a minute while your breathing evens out. in and out.

“i need to pee, reid."

“oh please, don't call me that when i'm still inside you.”

you laugh into the pillow, shoulders shaking while he pulls out. funny boy. you pull a shirt over your head and watch as spencer stumbles trying to put on his underwear. he trails behind you quietly as you walk into the attached bathroom and pretend to ignore the pout he tries to hide when you close the door. 

you feel a little stupid talking to him from the toilet but it makes it somewhat easier to ask him. “can we do this again?” your voice muffles through the wood. 

he squeaks something panicked, “i don’t know if i can–”

you push an amused smile into your knuckles, “not now, spencer. at some point, in the near future.”

“yeah?” he asks, sickeningly hopeful. “would you let me take you to dinner first? preferably not at rossi’s house?”

spencer hears the flush and then the door clicks open. you have your hands joined behind your back, he takes a step forward.

“i’d really like that.”

you’ve got an expression on your face that doesn’t warrant a confirmation, still, spencer asks. “yeah?” 

you lean forward and kiss him, a few seconds too long. “it’s a date.”

“Come on, you big baby,” you'd murmur under your breath while you stitched up one of his wounds (a skill your father Tony had taught you). “If you keep moving, it’s only going to hurt more. Aren't you a superhero?” 

Peter would shake his head and scoff, “Why did I even bother coming here?” but let you continue to work on him anyway. 

You'd tease him as you patched him up, poking at his bruises and making snarky remarks. Though in the end, you'd always cover him in Hello Kitty band-aids and hand him a pack of Oreos you'd kept under your bed. 

“For being such a good patient,” you'd smile as you handed him a cream-filled cookie. “And for coming back alive.” 

One time you'd even kissed a scrape on his knee, declaring it would make his “boo-boo go bye-bye”. Peter hoped you couldn't tell how red the action made his ears. 

But those days are gone. It’s been over four years since everything changed. And it seemed like you'd changed too.

“Can you stop looking at me?” 

Your voice- the voice of the current you, that is- snaps Peter out of his nostalgia. He averts his gaze away from your glaring form. He didn't realize he'd been looking at you that long.

You give him an ice-cold glare, pulling your hoodie tighter over your shoulders.

“Asshole,” he hears you whisper. 

“Sorry,” he quickly murmurs back.

A part of Peter’s heart cracks. He knew you wouldn't know him, but that didn't stop a small part of him from believing that if he just stared at you long enough, willing you to remember him, remember everything, you'd look back at him with a wide, toothy smile as you'd always done.

The familiar sound of the 7 trailing down the tracks grabs his attention. 

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” the train's automatic announcement blares.

When he glances back to where you’d been standing, you’re gone.  Peter lets out a heavy sigh, blowing his curls away from his forehead. Figures, he thinks to himself. He’d been too scared to say anything to MJ, so why would it work out with you? His ride back home feels even longer than usual, the 7 leisurely humming along the track as memories of you flood his mind.

Peter still remembers the first time you met. Tony was giving him a tour of the Avengers Compound after declaring him his intern and unofficial Avenger post-Germany and post-Vulture. 

Tony was proudly showing off the sprawling expanse of the compound’s living room when your voice cut through his bragging explaining.

“Daddy! Happy won’t take me into Manhattan for that new Japanese restaurant.”

Peter’s head shot up to meet your pouting face as you leaned over the staircase above them, swinging your legs impatiently.

Chuckling, Tony shook his head and pointed at you.

“Don’t be alarmed, Parker. This is just my spawn. Or I guess the more socially acceptable term is child.” 

You rolled your eyes at your father’s sarcasm (they had that same mischievous glint as Tony’s, unmistakably his kid, unmistakably his) as you skipped down the stairs to meet him. 

“Daddy,” you groaned. 

“Angel,” Tony nodded back, pulling you into a hug and kissing the top of your head. “I’ll get Happy to take us to that restaurant you’re talking about later, okay? I’m giving this guy a tour of the compound first. Just one more hour.”

You nodded, shifting your focus to Peter, who suddenly felt small under your intense stare. You narrowed your eyes at him, tilting your head as if there was some familiarity about him. Peter opened his mouth to introduce himself with his semi-fake intern alibi, but you beat him to the punch.

“Oh hey. You’re that Spider-Kid person from Germany, right?” 

Peter blinked, stumbling over his words and scrambling for a cover-up like usual. “W-well, I don’t know about that-”

You interrupted him before he could even defend himself. 

“Oh yeah, Daddy showed me that vlog you made. It was pretty cool when you stole Uncle Steve’s shield. Though it was less cool when Daddy made that comment about your aunt-”

Peter winced at the thought of you seeing that video. 

“Um, how did you know about that-?”

Tony raised a hand. 

“It’s okay, kid. My spawn-”

You elbowed your father in the side, frowning.

“-my angel here knows everything that goes on in that part of my life. Including you.”

You turned away from Tony to extend your hand to Peter and introduce yourself, the Stark surname proudly attached to your name. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Spider-Boy,” you grinned. 

“It’s, uh, Spider-Man. But you can call me Peter. Peter Parker,” Peter sheepishly replied, giving you a firm handshake. 

“Peter…” you tested the name on your tongue. “I like that.” 

That was the first time you gave him that wide, toothy smile he’d become familiar with, the one that made his heart race just a bit faster and made his ears burn red. 

Tony eyed Peter, then you, then back to Peter with crossed arms and a displeased expression.

“Hey, Parker?” Tony called, not even bothering to look at the boy. 

“Yeah?” Said boy chirped. 

Tony’s face turned dark as he pointed a finger at Peter’s chest, a look Peter had only ever seen him give to his enemies.

“You better not do any funny business with my kid. Or I swear, every single Avenger will be on your ass.”

“Mr. Stark, I swear I was not thinking about doing that-” Peter threw his hands up in surrender as Tony backed him against the walls of the compound living room.

“Yeah? Don’t think I didn’t see that stupid grin on your face; how do you think I ended up with them in the first place-”

“Daddy.” 

Your stern tone is enough to have Tony immediately off Peter, his usual carefree expression returning to his face as you gave him a disappointed look.

“Angel, I wasn’t actually going to do anything to him, you know how I get-”

“I do,” you swiftly cut off Tony, which Peter gawked at; you’d cut off your father, Tony Stark, for Gandolf’s sake! 

Walking past Tony, you casually looped your arm through Peter’s. Peter swallowed at the action, praying his ears wouldn’t turn red again.

“Do you like sushi, Peter?” you asked with a sweet expression, as you guided him away from your irritated father. 

Peter nodded. 

“Yeah.”

Your face lit up at that. 

“Daddy, Peter’s coming with us to dinner tonight!” you yelled over your shoulder to Tony, who could only groan in response.

And that’s how Peter ended up at a Michelin-star omakase restaurant with you and Tony. You’d eagerly pressed him for the details of his life (well, the details you didn’t already know) while Tony watched carefully. At the end of dinner, you forced Peter and Tony to take a selfie with you. “Smile!” you’d said as you took the photo. Peter did. Your father did not.

Ned hardly believed him the next day (“What do you mean you met the Stark heir? Were they cute?”) and May scolded him for coming home past curfew (“Does Mr. Stark really need to keep you so late? Surely he knows you have school tomorrow, hon.”)

But most importantly, that was how Peter ended up with your number. A crumbled-up sticky note you’d passed to him under the table when Tony wasn’t looking.

Text me! We’re friends now :) The note declared, and Peter’s heart swelled when he read it under the safety of his bunk bed.

In his current, semi-depressing studio apartment, Peter turns your note over between his fingers as he lies in his half-made bed. Your handwriting was now faded, time wearing away at the black pen ink.

He wonders if he texts the number you’d written, if you’d answer. If it was even your number still. He half considers the idea before pushing it aside, shoving the note back into his nightstand drawer along with his other memories of the past. 

You didn’t remember him. You shouldn’t remember him. It was for the best, for you and for him. 

Still, a nagging part of Peter wonders. Wonders why you seemed so…sad. Broken down, more like. He’d thought making you and everyone else forget him would make everyone happier. But now, you seemed like even more of a stranger to him than he was to you. 

Peter sees you again the next week on the 7 train platform. You’re in another uncharacteristically plain outfit like the last time he’d seen you, headphones still firmly on your ears. He decides he won’t look at you that long this time, but you’ve already noticed him.

“You seriously have a staring problem,” you call out to Peter, eyes still focused ahead. 

“And you have unusually good catching-people-staring instincts,” he instinctively counters, still used to the banter he’d have with you all that time ago. 

You peer at Peter from the corner of your eye, the slightest hint of curiosity in your expression. 

“Funny,” you say dryly. “But could you tell me why you’re still looking at me like a creep when I told you to stop last time?” 

Scrambling for an answer and not wanting to lose this moment with you, Peter blurts out the first thing that he can think of. 

“I, uh… you have cool clothes on?”

His comment makes you pause, your icy wall coming down for a moment as you stare down at what you’re wearing. One of your dad’s old band tees from his youth, a random pair of jeans you’d dug through a thrift bin for, and a well-worn pair of sneakers your adoptive mom, Pepper, had gotten you a while back when she decided you needed “practical shoes” over your designer ones, which were slowly getting holes in the bottom. In your eyes, you looked like a mess. But this guy somehow thought you still looked cool. You can’t help but snort. 

“You tell every person on the subway that?” you ask the mousy-haired stranger, smirking wryly. 

“Only the cool-looking ones,” he answers without hesitation, looking at you with his big brown eyes. 

There’s something in his gaze you can’t quite place. He’s staring so deeply at you, straight to your soul like he can see the core of your very being. Like he knows something about you that you don’t. Your instincts are telling you to be hesitant, like always, that strangers are nothing but trouble to you. But there’s this nagging part of you that won’t stay quiet, asking what it is about this guy? Again and again and again until you let yourself relent. 

“What was your name again?” you find yourself asking before you can ponder more, your mouth moving before your brain.

Peter brightens up at that, quickly extending a friendly hand out to you. 

“It’s, um, Maynard. Maynard Reily,” he bites back an eager smile as he introduces himself to you for the second time (though you don’t know that).

Slowly, you take his hand, giving it a light shake and introducing yourself back. Peter waits for you to proudly append the Stark name to yours, as you’d always done with a puffed chest, but you don’t.

“...Pots,” you say instead, using the surname of your mother. 

Peter’s breath hitches at that. You’d always been a proud Stark, no matter how much your family’s name got dragged through the mud. Though he supposes he can’t blame you. After all, he’s using a fake name as well. Touché.

“...it’s nice to meet you, Maynard,” you continue, hand still shaking Peter’s. 

“Yeah. Nice to meet you too,” Peter nods and offers you a friendly expression that makes you think he looks like a puppy wagging its tail. “So, uh-”

The sound of the 7’s arrival interrupts him. He watches the train roll into the station, watches the busy passengers file off. When he looks back to where you were standing, you’re still there. Almost like you’re…waiting. For him.

“Come on,” you beckon to him as you step onto the train car. “Are you getting on, or not?” 

Peter grins at that, nearly tripping over himself as he follows after you.

When Tony had finally agreed to buy you that midtown apartment you’d been begging for (it was closer to your private school, and you were getting sick of being upstate), it became Peter’s new crash spot as Spider-Man. He got hungry on patrol from swinging too much? He arrived at your apartment window, and you already had a pot of instant ramen ready for him. He had to pee really badly but didn’t want to go in a cafe or bodega? You opened your window without question and gestured to the bathroom without another word. And of course, you were his safe space when he was too hurt and too afraid to go to a hospital, or Tony, or May, always waiting and armed with Hello Kitty band-aids and teasing remarks. 

Sometimes, he’d just lay around your apartment in his suit, telling you he was taking five before going back into action. 

“Should I be worried that Spider-Man is lying on my bean bag instead of saving the day?” you asked him one of those times, prodding at his side with your foot as you ate one of the shawarma you’d ordered for the two of you.

“No,” Peter’s voice was mumbled as he spoke through mouthfuls of shawarma, mask only half pulled up due to laziness. “Besides, you’re the one who got food.”

“Only because I knew you’d complain if I didn’t,” you fired back with a sly smirk.

“‘S not my fault you like to spoil me so much,” Peter grumbled as he chewed.

You didn’t have a comeback for that. He was right, and you both knew it. 

“Scoot over,” you told Peter, waving your free hand at him. He did, making enough room for you to plop down next to him on the bean bag.

“Look, Peter,” you spoke again, tone serious enough to make Peter look at you rather than the ceiling. “I can’t do anything for my dad. Not when he’s off Avenging or dealing with company politics and shit.”

Peter sensed the uncharacteristic waver in your tone. He scooted closer to you on the bean bag, just enough so your shoulders touch.

“He won’t let me do anything to help him. And I know, I know it’s because he’s afraid of me getting hurt or caught up in something I’m not supposed to, but…it hurts, alright?” 

“Yeah,” Peter responds hoarsely. “I get it.” 

Tony had done the same to him. It was his version of tough love, as May would call it. 

“But I can help you.”

You turned your head to meet Peter’s gaze, finding his familiar brown eyes through the mask's lenses. He swallowed nervously as you did. “Are you saying that Spider-Man stuff is easier to help with because it’s less important than Avenger stuff?” Peter questioned you, half-teasing and half-serious. 

You snorted at that, playfully smacking his arm. Peter feigned hurt, with a dramatic “ow” that had you smiling ear to ear. 

“No,” you insisted. “What I’m saying is that you’re important to me, Peter.”

Your words had a weight that Peter rarely heard from you. Most of the time, you were filled with the same sardonic sarcasm as your father. But this. This was different. 

“...and if letting you piss in my toilet and ordering you takeout on my dad’s card is what keeps you coming back to me alive, then I’m going to keep doing it.” 

Shawarma long forgotten, Peter let himself scoot closer to you on the bean bag again, until he could feel your breath tickling his chin. 

“Yeah?” he whispered, trying to hide the sappiness he was feeling. “I’m important to you?”

“Obviously,” you swiftly answered. “Of course you’re important to me.”

Peter felt something in his chest jump at that. He hadn’t felt like this- clammy hands and fidgeting fingers- since Liz. He’d told himself that after Liz, he’d wait a little to get a new crush. Perhaps, make sure their parents weren’t supervillains first. But now. Now, Tony Stark’s only child was toying with his heart like a cat pawing a ball of yarn.

“Your dad’s right,” Peter murmured absentmindedly. You tilted your head in confusion.

“You really are an angel,” he elaborated. “My guardian angel.”

Your lips curved up at that. Peter could feel his ears burning red again. Before you could reply, police sirens blared outside your apartment. 

The noise had Peter shooting up from the bean bag, back on high alert. 

You sat up with him, glancing out the window to see NYPD flying by on the street below.

“That’s your cue, Spider,” you told him with an elbow to his side. 

Peter nodded in agreement, finishing off the last of his shawarma before pulling the rest of his mask down the lower half of his face. You followed him to the window, watching as he opened it and jumped on your fire escape.

“I’ll leave it open for you,” you said as he cracked his knuckles in preparation to swing away. 

“You really should lock it. What if someone opens it and it’s not me?” Peter reminded you as he scanned the streets below. 

You grabbed Peter’s shoulder, forcing him to look back at you. Your eyes were earnest and sweet as you spoke without a single hint of hesitation. 

“I know it’ll be you, Peter.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat for the second time that day. He was only able to stare at you for a moment, voice failing him. You searched the white lenses of his mask, waiting for his response. “I’ll come back to you, okay?” Peter finally managed to whisper, only loud enough for you to hear. “Alive.”

That makes you beam.

“I know you will,” you let go of his shoulder. A signal that he could get back to saving the city. “Bye, Spider-Man.”

Peter gave you one last nod before swinging away. You watched him go until he was only a flicker of red and blue in the distance. Shutting your apartment window, you collapsed on your bean bag with a sigh. A part of you still worried about him, like you worried about your father or any of his allies. But you knew he’d come back to you- he always did. 

It’s been a few weeks since Peter had somehow slipped his way back into your life. He’s learned a bit about your life since he last saw you, with you dropping small tidbits every time he rides the subway with you. For one, you’d majored in mechanical engineering, just like your father. And at Oxford, of all places. 

“Must be smart,” Peter compliments you after you tell him. The subway clanks along as the two of you speak. “But why so far?”

“I wanted to get away from the city,” you tell him with a shrug. “And Oxford was away.”

“Away from what?” he prods further. He can’t help himself. The you he used to know would never leave New York. “Getting nosy, today aren’t we?” you quip sharply. “You know- I don’t even know why I tell you all this stuff. You’re just some guy.” “A trustworthy guy,” Peter corrects you with a nudge that makes you roll your eyes. “Sure,” you huff, trying to sound annoyed, but Peter can see the glimmer of amusement in your eyes. “Whatever you say, Maynard.” Maynard. That name still sounds so wrong coming out of your mouth. He just wants you to say Peter, Peter, Peter. “Besides,” you continue. “I barely know anything about you. Besides the fact that you think my dad’s dusty old tees look cool. You’re just my subway buddy.” “We could be more than subway buddies,” Peter blurts, not wanting to lose the little he barely has with you. You raise a suspicious brow at that. “Oh, not like that. No, no, no. I meant we should progress beyond the subway. Like how about…dinner buddies?” 

“Dinner buddies,” you repeat in disbelief. Peter nods. 

“Dinner buddies. We can go somewhere near your place. My treat.” That’s how you ended up at the shawarma restaurant near your apartment, tucked away in the back corner at a two-top. The fluorescent lights gently hum above the two of you as you eat. 

“I haven't been here in forever,” you tell Peter as you chew on your food. “I used to get-” you pause to lick your fingers, “-takeout from here? Like, all the time. Funny you picked this spot.”

“Lucky guess,” Peter lies as he takes a bite of his own shawarma. “I used to get takeout here too. With a friend.”  

“A friend,” you parrot as you watch Peter with that intense stare he’d grown accustomed to. “Sounds nice.” Peter can sense your bitterness. How could he blame you, though? With your memories of him gone, all those days you ordered takeout to share with him became days spent eating alone in your apartment. The two of you continue to eat in silence for a moment, Peter occasionally stealing glances at you, still not believing that you’re sitting across from him. He’s trying to rememorize your face, burn every drip and curve into his mind so he’ll never forget.

Maybe, he thinks. Maybe things can go back to normal.

“Be honest with me, Maynard,” you break the silence, bringing your attention back to Peter. “You know who I am, don’t you?” Peter feels himself short-circuit at that, hope bubbling inside of him. Did you know, did you remember? “What…do you mean?” he questions cautiously, heart racing so fast he could feel it in his whole body. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, looking around the restaurant before leaning close to Peter, close enough that only he can hear you speak. “Don’t play dumb,” you say just loud enough to hear over the fluorescent buzz of the lights. The suspicious look on your face makes Peter want to shrink into his seat. “I know you didn’t fall for that ‘Pots’ bullshit I gave you. You’re a terrible liar. You know who I am.” Ah. That’s what you meant. Not that you remembered. That he knew you were a Stark. His heart sinks with a hint of disappointment. But you were still here. Still with him, and he couldn't lose that. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Peter replies to you with attempted nonchalance, but you just raise your brows and tilt your head knowingly.

“Fine,” he relents. “I know who you are.” You let out a huff, crossing your arms in victory, a familiar smug look crossing your face. “Everyone does,” you hum. “Who wouldn’t want to be friends with Tony Stark’s kid?” You spit the last words out like they’re dirty, cynicism tinging them. Peter can’t really believe it. What happened to the pride you’d held yourself with? You used to crave the press and attention, almost as much as Tony. He’d say you were almost a shell of your former self, but who is he to talk? He was the same. You were the same. You’re practically stewing in your own angst, picking at the tin foil wrapper of your shawarma with a scowl. Peter hates seeing you like this. He used to be able to make you laugh so hard you cried, your smile lighting up the whole room. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to do that anymore. But still, he tries. Tries to get your spark back, get the you he knew back, even if you don’t remember him. 

“Listen,” he says, trying to get you to look back at him. “I really do want to be your friend.”

You stubbornly stay quiet, scowl still firmly on your face as you try to avoid eye contact.

“I want to be your friend,” he repeats. “Stark or no Stark. Promise.”

The honesty in his voice rustles something in the back of your memory. Something, someone, from long ago. You don’t remember who. It’s the same feeling you got when he first introduced himself to you on the subway. That feeling of conflict, your instincts telling you not to trust but your heart telling you to trust this one guy for reasons you can’t place. You finally meet his gaze and his big, brown eyes are full of a sincerity that makes you shiver. You hadn’t seen a look like that in a long time- but when was the last time you saw it? You didn’t know. “Hey, I’ll walk you home, okay? It’s getting late,” Maynard Peter calls after a moment, drawing you out of your scrambled thoughts. He pulls out his chair, standing and rounding the small table to offer you a hand up. You nod and take it, still half in a daze of your own mind. What was it about this guy that had you feeling so crazy? He was like an itch you couldn’t scratch, looking forever and forever on your skin until you were ripping it off your bones. You remain in your daze as Peter walks you home (he’s relieved to see you’re still living at the same place he knew. He wondered if it was lonely without his visits). You wave weakly at him as he watches you enter your apartment building. As you ride the elevator up, you keep thinking about your mysterious subway, now dinner buddy. You ran through all the possibilities of his peculiarity to you. Was he an alien doing weird alien-shit to you? No, you would’ve immediately caught onto that. And besides, he’s a bit too human to be an alien. Was he using technology to manipulate your brainwaves? No, he was smart but seemed too nice for that. You pause to think again, the elevator slowly going up floor by floor. Could he have cast a spell on you? You were familiar with magic through hearing your father’s encounters with Loki and Stephen Strange. You knew magic could manipulate the heart and mind. But what you were feeling didn’t feel like manipulation. It felt like you were trying to unlock something in your head that you weren’t supposed to. A key jammed in a door. Like you were remembering something. Remembering, remembering, remembering. As far as you were concerned, you had a damn good memory. You were the child of a supergenius, after all. But…what if you did? What if you forgot something important? 

You feel the itch again. Closer, closer. But then it goes. Back into the darkness of your memory, back behind the locked door. The elevator opens on your floor, but you don’t step out. What did you forget?

At Tony’s funeral, you kept a strong front. For Pepper, for your new sister Morgan, who you barely knew. For Happy, for Rhodey, for everyone. Everyone who had come to the Eco-Compound knew- they all knew Tony had fought out of that damn cave for you, his child, his angel. Happy used to tell you were Tony’s first love- the first real one, at least. And now he was gone. One day you were praying for your father’s safe return from space, and the next you were donning black to mourn his loss from a battle you had never witnessed. You hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye.

You kept your front on for the entire funeral, not letting a single tear fall as you watched Tony’s final recorded message with your family and his closest circle. You held Morgan’s hand as you walked with her and Pepper down the front porch steps, the wreath containing Tony’s first arc reactor balanced on your palm. You watched as you let the wreath go onto the lake. Letting it slip further and further away until you couldn’t see it beyond the horizon. Until it was gone.

You had excused yourself not long after the funeral ceremonies had ended, dodging everyone’s attempts to wish you well as you slipped away to the front porch of the Eco-Compound, away from everyone and everything. But there was someone who knew you too deeply to let you go like that. 

“Hey,” Peter cut through your melancholy as he sheepishly approached you, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dress pants. 

You glanced over your shoulder, giving him a once-over. 

“That suit fits terribly on you,” you dryly responded with your usual snark. 

“Ha ha, very funny,” Peter half-heartedly chuckled, sidling up next to you on the front porch railing. Digging into his pocket again, he pulled out a ziplock baggie filled with what were Oreos. They looked more like a pile of cookie shards and cream now.

“These were, uh, supposed to be for you,” Peter bashfully admitted as he handed you the bag. “Thanks,” you mumbled hoarsely as you opened the bag, popping a cookie piece in your mouth.

Peter watched as you silently ate the broken Oreos, chewing his bottom lip in anticipation. “I’m not dumb, Peter,” you finally said. “I know you didn’t follow me back here just to give me cookies.” 

“I just-” Peter paused, trying to find the right words, brows knit in concern. “Are you okay?”

That was enough to break you. Gritting your teeth, you swung your head around to face him, tears welling in your eyes, all the emotions you’d been holding in throughout the day spilling out of you at once.

“You tell me, Peter,” you spit, anger burning in your throat. “I turn to dust one day, wake up five years later, only to find that I missed my parents’ wedding, I have a new sister who barely knows me or wants to know me, and my father is dead from a battle I never got to see.” 

Peter reached out for you and murmured your name softly. You slapped his hands away. “Don’t,” you hissed. “Don’t act like you know what I’m going through. At least you got to say goodbye to him. I didn’t even get that.”

“Look,” Peter tried again. “I know losing Tony was hard, especially for you. But we’re all here for you, okay? I’m-” “Shut up!” you yelled loud enough for the other funeral guests to hear from the other side of the house. Fat tears fell from your eyes, and you hurriedly tried to wipe them away. The shaky breaths falling from your chest grew faster and faster until it felt like you were suffocating. You thought you were going to die from how hard you were heaving, and a small part of you thought that if you did, you’d be able to see your father again. “Hey, hey, hey,” you heard Peter call. Before you could snap at him again, you felt his strong arms wrap you in an embrace. You protested with tepid kicks and hits, but your body wouldn’t obey your mind. Slowly, slowly, your breathing calmed down. Your flailing against him turned into you holding onto his lapels as tight as you could, anchoring yourself back to your body. Peter rested his chin on top of your head and rubbed soothing circles into your back until your sobs lessened to quiet whimpers.

“You okay, honey?” A familiar, calming voice asked. You peeked over Peter’s shoulder to see Pepper walking towards the two of you. Peter nervously let go of you, but you stubbornly clung to his arm, keeping your nose buried in his shoulder. 

“‘M fine, Mom,” you lied, muffled by Peter’s tear-stained jacket. 

“Oh, baby,” Pepper sighed, reaching out to brush some hair out of your forehead. “Why don’t you say goodbye to everyone and then go back to your room? It’s been a long day.” You nodded slowly at her suggestion, looking anxiously at Peter for reassurance. “I’ll come with you,” Peter answered your wordless question, taking your hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry.” His sweet words were enough to give you the determination to see everyone again. Wiping the last of the tears and snot off your face with your knuckles, you gripped Peter’s hand and dragged him back to the backyard, putting on your brave face. Pepper watched you two go with a knowing smile. Peter stood by your side as you said your farewell to Steve, who pulled you into a hug and kissed the top of your head like he did when you were little. He watched in worry as Thor pulled you into a crushing embrace that had you off the ground. Rhodey ruffled your hair to your dismay; Bruce patted your back in comfort. You hugged Clint, whispering that you were sorry about Natasha before high-fiving all of his kids. You made sure you shook hands with every other Avenger who came. Finally, you gave your longest hug to Harley, who whispered something in your ear that Peter couldn’t hear. He knew jealousy wasn’t an appropriate emotion to be feeling at a funeral, but he couldn’t help himself. As soon as you were done speaking to Harley, Peter quickly came to your side, guiding you back inside and up to your room.

Your bedroom looked exactly the same as the one you had at the Avengers Compound- nothing out of place or touched, like Tony knew you were going to come back to it one day. And he was right.

Sighing heavily, you walked over and sat on your bed, which still had the same sheets as your old room. Peter sat next to you, silently offering you his hand again. You reached out, slowly tracing over the wrinkles and lines on his palm, touch so featherlight it made him shiver. “Are you going to be okay?” Peter asked his previous question again, softly so as not to break the stillness in the air. 

“Peter,” you turned to him, eyes still red from your crying. “Promise me you won’t leave me, too.” “That’s not answering my question,” he objected with an incredulous shake of his head. “Peter.” Your fingers stilled on his palm, instead pressing your hand on top of his. You held his gaze in yours, the gravity in your words clear. Peter was your best friend, your closest confidante. The only one who knew the real you, who could see beneath all your sharp smirks and quips to the softness inside. He was bound to be yours the moment you saw him from the top of the stairs at the compound. Your Peter. Yours. Weaving his fingers with yours, Peter held your hand firmly as if to tie himself to you. 

“I promise,” he swore to you, rubbing circles on your knuckles with his thumb. “I won’t leave you. I told you before, I’d come back to you, yeah?” His promise was a vow that bound him to you. Proof of his dedication and affection. It was enough to soothe you for now, and Peter saw you smile, actually smile, for the first time that day. He felt his heart relax. Your smile made him feel so warm. 

“I’m going to hold you to that, Peter,” you murmured as you leaned your head to rest on his shoulder. The first sense of peace you’ve felt since waking up from the snap washed over you as you took in Peter’s familiar scent. The first time you’ve felt like you were home since you woke up. “You better,” Peter hummed, and you could feel his voice rumble through his strong body. “If I forget, you have to remind me.” “Oh, I will,” You said proudly, your usual confidence gradually returning. “And believe me, Peter, I don’t forget.”

You wake up the day after you had shawarma with Maynard, confused. Your head hurts- burning in the back of your skull like you’d been thinking too hard. But you had been thinking too hard. Peeling through memory after memory, trying to find the itch in the back of your mind. You let out a groggy groan, turning over in bed and throwing your arm over your eyes. You didn’t have the energy for this. But you had gotten yourself into this mess, agreeing to be friends with some guy on the subway to the point where it had you spiraling over what you thought was nothing. Turns out that nothing was driving you insane on a Saturday morning. You knew that if you didn’t figure out what was bothering you so much, you would regret it for the rest of your life. But why? Why so much guilt over something you didn’t even know? 

You clumsily reach for your phone on your nightstand, turning it on and scrolling through your old photos, hoping something would jog your memory. Most of your old photos are of you at parties, or galas, or on vacation with your dad when he got a break from Iron Man and avenging. You find yourself captured by nostalgia for a moment, reminiscing on old times, back when things were simpler. You laugh at a particularly funny photo of you and your father, a selfie at a Japanese restaurant where Tony is scowling as you beam. You zoom in on his face, snorting at his displeased expression. But something else catches your eye. You zoom into the photo again, noticing what seems to be a third figure sitting behind Tony. A boy. But your hand is covering his face. Suddenly, you get that feeling again. The feeling of the itch coming closer, closer than it’s ever been, as you can finally see what it is- a face, a name? And then it’s gone again. You drop your phone on your bed, defeated. “Shit,” you curse out loud to no one in particular. Sitting up, you look at the photo of you and the mystery boy again. Who was he? Why would he be at dinner with you and Tony? An intern, maybe? But Tony rarely ever had interns, besides Harley, who was more an unofficial intern than anything. With a grumble, you pick up your phone again and dial Pepper’s number into the keypad. She immediately picks up. “Hello, honey? Everything good?” your mom greets. You can tell she’s driving- probably on her way to drop Morgan off at her summer science camp. “I’m good, Mom,” you reply, fiddling with the collar of your sleepshirt that reads “I survived my trip to NYC” (a gift from- someone. You can’t remember who). “I just had a quick question.”

“Okay, but ask it quickly,” Pepper says, and you sense the urgency in her tone. You smile as you hear Morgan yell from her car seat, something about wanting to talk to you too. “I’m almost at Morgan’s drop-off.” You bite your tongue for a second, not wanting to sound crazy in front of your mother, who was already constantly worried about your mental health and well-being. “Did- did Daddy ever have any interns?” you carefully ask. Pepper stays quiet for a second, and you hear the gentle clicking of her turn signal. 

“...no, not that I can remember. Why?” Your heart sinks with disappointment. Of course you were wrong. The boy in the photo must’ve been some other rich kid who ended up at the restaurant on his own. “Oh, nothing. A friend just asked me about it. I was just wondering,” you lie. “A friend!” Pepper hums, clearly pleased. “I’m glad you’re making friends again, sweetie. You’ll have to tell me about them when you visit us upstate- oh, I’m at Morgan’s camp now; I have to go-” “I wanna talk too!” Morgan yells again. That gets a small chuckle out of you. “I’m so sorry, hon, I’ll call you later, okayloveyoubye-!” Pepper blathers quickly before hanging up. You stare at the “call ending” screen of your phone for a moment, shaking your head with a slight smile. Your sister was getting to be a handful, that was for sure. But you still didn’t have answers. In fact, you were even more confused now. Maybe you were going crazy because of some weird alien-shit. Or maybe Maynard was a wizard casting some crazy spell on you. You mull over calling Dr. Strange for a second. You decide not to. Something inside you is still telling you to trust Maynard. But why? Who was he?

It’s been a rough night for Spider-Man. He’d finally managed to capture The Hand, but they’d beaten the lights out of him. DeWolff insisted he go to the hospital, just a hint of motherly worry in her concern, but Peter denied. Most of the time, he was able to take care of himself. But it seems he’d misjudged tonight. By a lot, actually. 

As he swings through Manhattan, Peter can feel himself growing weaker and weaker by the second. Vision spotting, blood pooling out from the gash on his abdomen. The pouring rain slowly soaking into his suit and weighing him down. He needed to get home, and fast. But his apartment was nowhere near where he was- in fact, he’d forgotten where he was in the first place. Shit, shit, he curses to himself. Spider-Man is going to end up dead in a ditch. But something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention mid-swing. The familiar neon signage of the shawarma restaurant. Even in the storm he was in, it was as clear as day. That could only mean one thing.   You were near. After a moment of deliberation, which actually isn’t a moment at all, Peter unthinkingly finds himself swinging towards your apartment. The soft place he used to land. He can practically taste the Oreo crumbs on his tongue. Peter stumbles onto your fire escape and peers into your window. No sight of you, for now. He half-heartedly attempts to pry the window open, expecting it to be locked, but it isn’t. His breath catches. Why would you leave it unlocked? You had no reason to, not anymore. Hesitantly, he opens the window just enough to slip into your apartment without letting the rain in. He stays silent as he looks around the familiar space, a familiar nostalgia and warmth filling his body. You still had the same posters of your favorite bands messily plastered on the wall, the same mugs in your kitchen sink. Your oversized bean bag still lay on the floor. Peter feels himself relax. Which is actually a bad thing, he realizes, as his one moment of decompression has him stumbling to the floor with a loud thump and groan. As Peter lies on the floor, gripping his side in pain, trying to put pressure on his wound, he hears shuffling coming from your bedroom. His foggy mind tries to scramble for an excuse, any explanation that would make sense of why the local vigilante was bleeding out on your floor. You come into the main room just a moment later, fiercely examining for any threats, the Iron Man Gauntlet on your wrist glowing a bright blue light. 

Peter involuntarily lets out another whimper from his place on the floor. That instantly has you aiming your gauntlet at him, and Peter is sure you are going to blow his face off. “Wait!” he helplessly yells at you before you can blast him. “It’s me, Spider-Man!” You pause and take a moment to study the figure in front of you. Recognition flickers in your eyes, and you let out a soft gasp, dropping your gauntlet back to your side. Peter sighs in relief.

“I can explain. I feel really bad about breaking into a normal citizen’s apartment but-”

Before he can finish his words, he hears a loud crack and feels a sharp pain against his masked cheek. It takes him a second to realize what just happened. You had slapped him.

“You asshole.” You seethe between your teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that coming through a stranger’s window and bleeding on your floor is an asshole move-” 

“I don't care about that,” you hiss in reply, firmly gripping Peter’s shoulders and rolling him onto his back. He watches you stand and disappear from the room again, returning from your bedroom a moment later with a familiar box. He can’t believe it. It’s the same med kit you used to use on him. 

Saying nothing, you open the box and find a pair of scissors. Before Peter can ask anything, you’re confidently cutting open his costume, revealing the gash on his side. “W-what are you doing?” Peter asks dumbly as you quickly apply pressure to the wound with gauze. “I’m helping you, dumbass,” you grumble, clearly unpleased. “Maybe you forgot what that was.” “Normally people don’t cut open the costumes of superheroes,” Peter mumbles feebly in response. “Well, you aren’t just some superhero to me, Spider. Or did you forget that too?” Peter stares at you, dumbfounded and confused. You’re paying him no mind, annoyance and anger and something else clearly on your face. Then it hits him. You remembered him. Well, not “Peter” him. But a part of him. You remembered Spider-Man. “You left your window open,” Peter realizes in shock, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths as he tries to stay awake for you. There’s a flash of something soft in your gaze before you go back to holding down the gauze. “Of course I did,” you say, and Peter can hear you choking up. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past four years?” Through his darkening vision, Peter can see the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. He realizes then that he is an asshole. You’d been waiting for him- waiting for Spider-Man- all this time, and he’d been too busy rotting in his own regret and grief that he had forgotten about you. He’d forgotten his promise. He didn’t come back to you, as Spider-Man or Peter Parker. How many days had you left your window open, hoping he’d arrive to crack jokes or have a bruise for you to take care of? How long did you hopefully wait for him before hope turned to resentment? All his justifications of why he should stay far away from you now fell flat. How could he have avoided you for so long when you had been waiting for his return this whole time?

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe a half-conscious apology, but you cover it with your hand. “Save your breath,” you tell him as you blink the tears from your eyes. “You can give me your excuses later.” Peter can only bob his head slightly, energy leaving his body and darkness entering his vision until everything melted away into nothing. The last thing he hears is the irritated sound of your voice, complaining about how much blood he was getting on your carpet. 

You sit on the floor next to your bed where Spider-Man is safely resting, foot restlessly bouncing. You glance back over at your nightside clock. 3:00 AM, it reads. Spidey had been out for about an hour and a half at this point. You’d managed to stitch him up while he was asleep, but now it was a matter of him waking up. Your heart raced with anxiety, all the worries you had that morning forgotten. After all, Spider-Man somehow came back into your life after ghosting you for four long, lonely years. 

You wonder if you shouldn’t have patched him up. If you should have just left him to fend for himself, for dead, as he left you. The kinder, more forgiving part of your soul pushes that idea down. He was Spider-Man, after all. You’d been close. You think you were close. It seems that every time you search your memory today, you’re met by another wall. Maybe you should try to get more sleep like Pepper had told you to. Try melatonin, while you’re at it. The sound of Spider-Man weakly keening your name snaps you out of your thoughts. You rush to stand, worry against your brow once again, and your resentment washes away. Spider-Man says your name again, reaching up to you. You take his hand in yours right away, giving it a light squeeze. “Shh,” you shush him gently, rubbing your thumb into his costumed hand. “It’s me. It’s me. You just need to rest up, okay? I’m going to take care of you.” You can tell that one comment makes Spider-Man smile from underneath his mask. “I missed you,” he croaks roughly. “So much.” You don’t have a response for that. Not now, at least. You wordlessly check on his stitches again instead, setting his hand back down at his side. Spider-Man watches as you do, and you swear the lenses of his mask droop in dejection. Once you’ve confirmed they seem to be healing okay, you turn back to him, coldness returning. “With your healing factor, I give you about two to three days to heal. You should stay off your Spider-Man activities for now, and-” “I’m sorry.” 

Spider-Man grabs your wrist, as if to beg you not to leave him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I broke my promise.” There’s an earnestness in his voice that has you pausing. You feel the itch reappear. “What promise?” you ask him quietly and full of suspicion. Carefully, Spider-Man reaches up for the edge of his mask. Your eyes widen. You never remember him doing that. Right? He lifts the mask, revealing his sharp jaw and lips. Then his cheeks. Then his eyes. Then- “Maynard?!” You gawk at the familiar face. “You’re- you’re Spider-Man?!” No, that didn’t seem right. Maynard as Spider-Man? That didn’t seem right at all, something was wrong, and you knew it, and the itch was getting stronger and stronger and stronger. Something is very, very wrong, and you didn’t know why, what did you forget, who did you forget? You feel yourself mourning. Mourning that your subway buddy is Spider-Man, that you’d lost something that you didn’t even know you had. You don’t even realize you’re crying until Maynard is wiping away the tears from your cheeks. “No,” Maynard murmurs tenderly. “Not Maynard. It’s Peter.” Peter. Peter, Peter, Peter. 

The name rings in your head until you discover you’ve finally scratched your itch. That’s the key to the door. Peter. Your Peter. But still, something was missing. You couldn’t remember why or how he was yours. But a part of you knew that he was. You knew he was yours like a bird knew the wind, like a tree knew the soil, like a Hello Kitty band-aid knew a wound. He was yours. Peter. “Peter,” you gasp, the name not sounding real to you. “Peter.” 

Your tears of fear turn into relief as you collapse onto him. Peter pulls you into his arms, his embrace somehow so familiar to you. The way he holds you reminds you of a moment in time you can’t recall as you cry quietly into his shoulder, your mourning turning into exhilaration and disbelief. “Peter,” you echo again. You wanted to say that name until you couldn’t speak anymore. It sounded so warm and safe on your tongue. 

Peter nods, laughing with relief, his own tears filling his brown eyes. “Yeah, that’s me,” he reassures you. “It’s me. Your Peter.” “I- I don’t remember,” you hiccup through choked sobs. “Why don’t I remember you? Why did you lie to me on the subway?” He holds you tighter with every whimper and cry you let out, tracing circles into your back with the palms of his hands. “I promise, I will explain everything to you,” Peter swears with unwavering truth. And he will. He’ll tell you about your past with him, the spell, the four years he spent missing and craving you. But for now, he silently swears a second vow to you. He wouldn’t leave you again like this, ever. He’d come back for you, just like he promised you on the fire escape, just like he promised in your bedroom. He’d fight his way back to you this time and the next, not letting anything or himself get in the way of his promise to you. And he wouldn’t forget it this time. 

He’d be your Peter, for as long as you remembered him, for as long as you wanted him. Yours.

Another rainy evening results in you staying cooped up in your dorm, eyes heavy despite being dosed up on caffeine, the warm lamp light on your desk ghosting over your laptop screen and papers in a golden blur.

It’s that point in the semester where the weather is getting colder, the stakes are getting higher, and everyone is cramming to memorize fifteen weeks of school work in one night. For you, an Entomology major, your current ball and chain is a thoroughly written report on arachnids, their mating cycles, and their habits.

The sound of the rain thumping against your windowsill makes it hard to focus. But it’s not just the rain that tears away your attention—it’s the fact that your boyfriend, Peter, is out doing God knows what on his exam night. He assured you he would be back no later than ten, but one quick glance at the clock tells you he’s late. It reads 12:45 AM.

You’re eager to reach for your phone and shoot a quick call to Evie, but you try your best to resist so you don’t get in the way of his typical superhero duties. As the minutes tick by and your daunting report burns bright on your screen, your worry gives way.

With a sigh, you sit up straight in your chair and snatch your phone. As you’re dialing his suit, a hard crash against the window makes you gasp and jolt in your seat.

As if he knew you were about to call, Peter is right there.

He quickly slides your window open and sneaks in smoothly—drenched in rain and panting hard.

“Christ, Peter!” You try to will away the adrenaline from the scare. “You told me you’d be back at ten. I was just about to call you—”

Peter nearly collapses over your desk as he tries to hold himself up, scattering your research papers. Normally, you’d give him a lecture for messing up your study station, but as worry washes over you, you don’t even glance at the pages you’ve slaved over for the past twenty-four hours.

“Peter? Peter, look at me—what happened?” you hurry over to him, your hands cupping his cheeks through his mask.

His suit is soaked through, cold rain pooling on the floor, but despite the chill, his body radiates a feverish, unnatural heat. His breathing comes in hard pants and desperate gulps. He rips his gloves off harshly and tears at the neck of his suit.

“I—I don’t know,” he rasps, his voice strained as if he’s trying to swallow down a growl. “Something’s wrong. I—I’ve been feeling like this for days, and I thought it was just a fever—but then I started producing my own webs, and I—”

“Okay, okay, just breathe. Help me get you down.”

You wrap one arm around his waist and guide him toward your bed, but the contact makes him hiss sharply, as if your touch hurts him. You quickly help him undress out of the rest of the suit, eager to examine him for any injuries.

He lies before you in just his underwear—and as you scan Peter’s muscular frame, you notice nothing unusual except for a strange pulsing in the veins at his wrists.

“Peter,” you frown, eyeing him up and down to make sure you haven’t missed anything. “You’re not injured—are you?”

“No,” he reassures through ragged breaths. “No, I’m not injured—it’s just—I don’t know, everything feels so warm and I—”

“Here, let me help you remove your mask.”

Without warning, you lean over his body and reach for the hem of his mask at the base of his neck. He gasps sharply the moment your fingers graze his hot skin. “No! Don’t touch it!”

His hand shoots out and clasps your wrist tightly, making you wince. He has never grabbed you like that before.

Peter, realizing what he’s done, loosens his grip on your wrist just slightly.

“Crap—I’m sorry. I just… don’t remove it, okay?” He pants heavily. “My eyes—they’re pitch black. I’ve never had this happen before, and I don’t want to scare you.”

A line creases between your brows in worry. “I could never be scared of you.”

“I know, I know,” he sucks in a deep breath, the pillows rustling as he turns his head toward you. You can’t see his face, but his voice betrays his pained expression. “Please don’t remove it. Not yet.”

“But what if you’re injured?”

“If I had a head injury, I would tell you.”

You search the white lenses of his mask, but eventually, you give in with an exasperated sigh and slowly lower your hand from his neck. Peter doesn’t let go of your wrist; he intertwines his clammy fingers with yours.

With a solemn expression, you cup your free palm over his knuckles while holding his hand.

“Peter, what’s happening to you?” you ask softly, kneeling beside him at the edge of the bed.

He swallows hard, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassing shade of red where his mask pulled up.

“It’s hard to explain,” he stammers, his lenses focusing on the ceiling of your warmly lit dorm room. “For the past few days, my body’s been feeling restless. It’s like every single instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, but my brain couldn’t figure out what.”

His hand—the one that isn’t holding yours—clenches into a fist, the veins and muscles in his forearm popping with frustration.

“And then tonight,” he continues in almost a bashful whisper, “I started producing my own webs. Like Peter Two did—” He turns to you real quick. “You remember Peter Two, right?”

You nod. He looks back up at the ceiling.

“Anyway, the webs weren’t strong enough to control at all. It felt… almost painful. It wouldn’t stop spurting out. There’s also this feeling in my gut— like I’m hungry.”

The white lenses of his mask narrow in embarrassment. “And I don’t mean for food,” he mutters, shifting his hips awkwardly until the bed creaks. “My body was screaming at me to come back to you. To feel your touch, to hear your voice… and now that you’re here, my skin burns every time you touch me, but I don’t want you to stop. I feel like I’d die if you did.”

You hum softly, your fingers stroking over his knuckles as your eyes rake over his body once more. Without even looking at you, Peter can feel the weight of your gaze—and fuck, it’s heavy. You’re his girlfriend, and you’ve seen him through all his ups and downs, but for some reason, this feels completely different.

His body is tense, his skin is burning hot, and his heart is beating erratically. The longer you stare at him, the longer you stroke your fingers against his hand, the more he feels an unmistakable ache in his groin.

Before he knows it, his underwear begins to tighten, revealing a prominent, pulsing bulge right in front of you—begging for your touch to move from his hands to somewhere much lower.

You swallow hard, your face heating up instantly at his size.

Your mind—trained by months of endless lectures, lab practicals, and late-night readings—slowly begins connecting the dots. The feverish body temperature, the blacked-out eyes, the hyper-fixation on your presence, his restlessness, the involuntary production of silk, the sudden surge of physical arousal—it isn’t just a random mutation spike.

It’s textbook arachnid behavior. It also happens to be exactly what you’re writing your report on right now.

“Peter,” you try your best to pry your eyes away from the space between his legs. “You’re in an ultimate molt cycle.”

Through the white lenses of his mask, he squints at you in confusion. “A... a what?”

“Ultimate molt,” you repeat, pushing yourself off the floor so you’re sitting at the edge of the bed. “In mature male spiders, the final molt signals sexual maturity. Their bodies undergo a massive physiological shift. They stop eating, their metabolic rate and temperature skyrocket, and their brain gets overtaken with one goal in mind.”

Peter swallows hard. “And what’s that?”

“Um,” you say, sheepish. “Reproduction.”

His head slumps back onto the pillow with a small thud. “Oh, God.” He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. “I’m pretty sure you’ve explained this to me before.”

You squint at him. “I did. During the beginning of the semester. I also told you this was something you should keep in mind—but you insisted that none of it actually applied to you.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, but you can already see the smug grin sitting behind his mask.

“Anyway,” you quickly glance down at his erection before continuing. “When a male reaches this stage, his silk glands change. He builds what’s called a sperm web—a small, specialized sheet of silk where he deposits his genetic material so he can charge his pedipalps.”

“English, please.”

You roll your eyes. “Your body is trying to build a sperm web, Peter. Your spider DNA is hitting its final maturation phase, and your bloodstream is swimming with reproductive hormones.”

“And the only way to fix it is by…” Peter drawls.

He already knows the answer, but the way he dances around the words makes it clear he’s trying to get you to admit it out loud. You can’t believe that even in such a vulnerable situation, he still manages to find a way to tease you.

“Having sex,” you finish, a shy expression creeping onto your face.

A silence settles between the two of you—a silence filled with so much tension that most people wouldn’t consider it “normal” for a couple.

The few times you and Peter had sex, it was gentle, intimate, and respectful. It always involved him whispering sweet nothings into your ear and making sure your pleasure came first. Even without saying it aloud, you both know that if you were to do it right now, it would be entirely different. Peter isn’t even sure he could control himself.

You clear your throat, trying to break the tension.

“Well—that’s what I’ve been writing my research paper on. Male spiders can get extremely aggressive at this point in their lives, so scientists are trying to find remedies that don’t require a female partner,” you explain, slowly prying your hand away from his and standing up from the bed. “If I check my references, I might be able to find something that can help you—”

Peter’s whole body tenses. With your touch gone for even a millisecond, he feels like he’s starving. Before you can step away, he stops you with a firm grip around your wrist.

“No,” he breathes roughly. “Get back here.”

With a harsh tug, he pulls you back down onto the mattress. “If having sex is what’ll solve this,” Peter rasps in a low, hungry voice, “then that’s what we’re going to do.”

Warmth spreads rapidly across your face and down your neck. You look down at him, reaching to gently cup the side of his masked jaw. He shudders.

“Peter… look at me,” you whisper softly, your voice trembling just a bit. “I’m always going to want to help you. Always. But… is this something you actually want?”

Peter’s body tenses—not because of anything you said, but because your touch feels like throwing gasoline onto a roaring flame.

“More than anything,” he breathes out, his hand blanketing yours to keep it there. “Every cell in my body is begging for you.”

His white lenses stay locked on your eyes as his hands move down to his waist. Even just lying in his underwear, he feels restricted. Contained. His body screams at him to get rid of it. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down his legs, kicking them aside.

Freed from the restraint, his length springs heavy and hard against his lower stomach, so swollen it looks almost painful. The dark tip is already glistening, leaking a clear, hot bead of pre-cum. His whole body twitches at the release of pressure, a low groan escaping his throat as he guides your hand down to his hip.

You’ve touched him plenty of times, but tonight, even the simplest graze of your fingertips feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

“It hurts so bad,” he whimpers behind his mask. “Please… I need you to ride it.”

His cock twitches, his balls sitting heavy and full between his legs. You swallow hard, clenching your thighs together. You’ve never ridden him before, and the thought of doing it now—when he needs it most—makes you feel self-conscious.

“Peter, I’ve… I’ve never—”

“I know,” he reassures, though his voice strains painfully, like he’s fighting to hold back. “Just try your best, okay? I know your body can take it. I can smell how wet you are.”

His spider sense is buzzing violently. He can hear the uneven thump of your heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and smell the scent of your arousal filling the air—sweet and intoxicating, driving every instinct in his blood wild.

His masked head tilts up, white lenses expanding slightly as he watches you straddle his hips.

Hovering over him, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head and cast it aside, followed by your sleep shorts, until you’re straddling him in just your underwear.

Peter lets out a trembling exhale. His large hand wraps around the base of his cock, his hot fingers closing tight over himself. He begins to stroke lazily—up and down in long drags that make his hips roll for more. The wet slicking noise of his pre-cum against his palm echoes in the quiet room.

“Fuck,” he groans. Through the white lenses of his mask, you can tell his gaze is glued to you, tracing every curve, watching every move. “Look at you… you’re so pretty.”

Emboldened by how much of an effect you have on him, you discard your panties, baring yourself completely. You settle yourself back over his hips, positioning yourself right above him. Peter’s hand rests at his base, holding his cock steady as he watches you slowly lower your body until the tip presses against the tightness of your entrance.

A choked, almost sobbing sound breaks from his throat.

Control yourself, Peter tries to remind himself. He thought he had it handled, but his senses are louder than ever—telling him to grab your waist and drive you down in one ruthless pull.

“Oh, God,” he curses, tossing his head back against the pillows as you sink deeper.

You stop halfway, your face flashing with worry. “Is this hurting you?” you ask. “We can stop.”

Peter feels like he’s going insane. His hands fist the blankets beneath him, because he doesn’t trust himself to touch you right now.

“No,” he hisses. “It only hurts because I’m not inside yet. Don’t stop. All the way in, baby. You’re almost there.”

You take a deep breath, resting your hands flat on his broad chest to steady yourself. You push your hips down, taking the remaining inch of his girth until your hips flush against his. The stretch is dizzying, making your heart take flight in your chest.

Peter’s cock sheathes hot inside you, twitching as it savors every surface of your tight walls.

You can’t make out his expression past the mask, but from the way his head is thrown back and the veins pop in his forearms as he grips the bedsheets, it’s clear he’s about to lose his mind. You tilt your head back with a soft breathy sigh, letting your hips roll against his in a slow, testing rhythm.

The movement alone drives his heightened senses over the edge.

Whatever thin thread of restraint Peter was clinging to snaps entirely.

With a sharp hiss, his hands shoot out from the tangled sheets. His large hot palms slam against your bare hips, his long fingers digging into your skin with an inescapable grip—holding you tightly in place as his primal instincts take over.

“I can’t—I can’t wait,” he rasps painfully. “I’m sorry, baby, I need it now—”

Without giving you time to answer, his hips snap upward in a ruthless thrust that sends a gasp flying from your lips. Before you can even catch your breath, he sets a punishing pace from underneath you, using his grip on your waist to guide your body up and down his length in hard, unrelenting pistons.

The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes loudly through your dorm room. You feel his chest heaving against your hands while the white lenses hide the obsession behind his pitch-black eyes. It’s a good thing he kept the mask on—because with the way his cock is kissing your womb, he knows his eyes are crazed.

“Oh, God! Peter!” You cry out, your tits bouncing with every upward thrust of his hips.

“Fuck—fuck, you feel so tight,” Peter groans.

He lifts his hips, bridging his back so he can thrust deeper, angling his length so every hard drive grinds right up against your most sensitive spot. Your vision swims as he ravages you from the inside, a tight, coiled pressure building deep in your lower belly.

The pleasure is overwhelming, yet it’s still not enough for him. His cock needs to drive even deeper—until your wetness coats his entire length from tip to base, until both of your juices combine into a thick sheen right where his brunette curls rest at his pelvis.

He wants to make a mess out of you, to see you crying his name and begging to be filled.

Filled up…

The idea of it makes Peter go crazy.

Peter sits up fast, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to his chest before you can even blink. Your positions are flipped as he hovers over you from behind.

His knees bracket your thighs while his chest presses flush against your spine. You gasp at the sudden shift, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips to pull you back against his cock as he aligns himself once more.

“Peter—” you cry out, your voice muffled into the mattress. It smells just like him.

“Stay right there,” he growls into your neck, his hot breath searing your skin. “Don’t move.”

He’s got you in a perfect position—face down, ass up, completely bared and vulnerable for mating.

He’s never had you in such a vulgar position before—all of your lovemaking before was face to face so he could see every whimper and tear that spills. But in this position, the angle is even deeper. Your back arches perfectly. His cock finds your entrance again, and with how wet you are, he finds no trouble burying his cock all the way back inside you, a harsh grunt breaking from his throat as your tight walls clamp around him. His hands dig into your hips, locking you in place as he begins to pound into you from behind with a speed he’s never used on you before.

“Oh!” you cry into the pillow.

Every thrust pushes you forward into the sheets, the wet, slapping sound of his hips against yours filling the air alongside his groans.

“I feel so backed up,” he grunts so quietly, it’s like he’s speaking to himself. “This feels so good—gonna dump it all inside you. Make me feel better.”

Peter’s balls slap against your folds, obscenely hot and heavy. It’s in this moment that you realize what exactly this is. He has you in the same position you’ve seen in countless textbooks during your studies.

During spider mating, the male must align his pedipalps with the female’s epigyne for a successful sperm transfer.

Peter is going to breed you.

A low growl escapes him when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls, tight and rubbing against the underside of his cock, drive him insane, his muscles tensing as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s sweating profusely under the mask, almost making it harder to breathe, but he doesn’t care. His body screams for something else, and as his cock pistons in and out of you, accompanied by your moans and cries of his name, he feels himself getting close.

His girth makes your eyes roll back, an overwhelming cry tearing from your throat. Instinctively, you scramble your legs and arms for purchase, trying to get into a more suitable position, but in Peter’s blacked-out eyes, he thinks you’re running away.

A disapproving groan vibrates in his chest as one hand releases your hip to grab your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His legs wrestle against yours to keep them still from behind. Then, he shoots out a web—an organic, self-made web that slings around your wrists like a band, and then another to keep your ankles pinned, effectively keeping you in place.

“Almost there,” Peter grunts, his sweaty chest pressing up against your bare back as he ruts into you. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. God—my balls are so full, I needed this. Just stay like that—let me fill you up.”

His hand moves to the back of your neck, his palm resting gently over your nape to press your head into the pillow.

“You’re trapped,” he rasps, his voice deep and gravelly. You have never heard him talk to you like this before, and the filth of it makes your body clench with desire. “Look at you… bound up, completely wide open for me. You can’t get away.”

His hips snap forward to bottom out inside you, it makes your heels twitch against the web binding your ankles.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” Peter grunts, the words coming in shallow bursts against the shell of your ear. “Every single drop. I’m gonna flood you so deep you’ll feel me inside you for days… make sure everyone knows you belong to me. My sweet, beautiful mate…”

The biological urge to plant his seed, to mark you, and to fill you until you overflow turns his pace crazed.

The wet slapping of his pelvis against your rear sings like a song in the room, mixing with the strained, needy whines escaping your throat. His cock swells inside you, pulsing and stretching your walls to their limit. It’s more than you can take, and you feel yourself getting close.

“Peter—! I’m—I’m going to—” you cry out, your chest heaving against the bed.

“Come for me,” he commands, his fingers tightening gently on your neck as his thrusts turn short, vicious, and frantic. “Clench around my cock and take it. Breeding you, baby… I’m breeding you.”

Your mind is hazy with an overwhelming sense of desire. His words, the position—it’s like a whole new side of Peter you never knew existed, and your body is enjoying every second of it.

You cry out his name, your body twitching as your pussy clenches around his shaft, milking him for every drop. Peter’s muscles pull taut at the sensation, his forehead pressing into your damp shoulder blade as his balls draw tight against your entrance.

One pulse, then another, and your womb fills with his cum.

Thick, scorching floods of semen pump deep into your core. Spurt after heavy spurt fills you past your capacity, the force of his release so strong his entire frame shakes violently, his breathing erratic as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

His instincts move his body on command. Just like a spider aligning with the epigyne, he pulls out quickly and spins you around so your back hits the mattress. He spreads your legs, positioning himself between them as his cock slaps heavy against your lower belly, letting the rest of his cum seep onto your skin.

He groans incoherently as he watches his body mark you, holding himself at the base and smearing his seed over your stomach with his tip.

He stays above you for a long moment until you both catch your breath. Finally, he sits back on his knees.

His cock, now half-limp, slaps against his stomach lazily as a trickle of his seed drips down your inner thigh and lower belly. He slumps onto the mattress, but wastes no time pulling you in close against his chest.

He doesn’t even know where to begin. He’s never allowed himself to take you so vulgarly—almost monstrously. Now, he’s terrified of removing the mask; he doesn’t want you to see the burning shame etched on his features.

Peter’s hands cradle your back, his chin resting gently against your sweaty temple. He tries to muster up an apology, maybe say something along the lines of, “I don’t know what took over me.” Because truthfully, he didn’t.

But then your laugh comes first—soft, raspy, and utterly spent.

“You know what female spiders do to their partners after they’ve finished mating?” you ask into his neck.

Peter stiffens. “What?”

“They eat them. It's a good source of nutrients for the babies.”

Peter tries to remember if you had anything to eat before he got here. “Oh.”

📝 idk what to say. if you've read my first peter parker fic, i felt like i just put on an evil mask because this is a complete 180 twist from my last story. again, i only proofread like half of it and got lazy, so i apologize for any mistakes !! if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

“Alright, Spiderman. There’s a bank robbery going on at 30th Avenue. Suspect is—uh, hello? Is this thing on?”

Peter laughs, already swinging through the tall buildings of New York City, zipping and flying through them faster than you can even say ‘Spiderman.’ While one arm is busy slinging out webs from building to building, his other arm holds onto a thick communications radio that looks like an amateur concoction of a walkie-talkie accompanied with old thick wires he found in a junkyard.

“Yep, I hear you loud and clear,” Peter says from his end. “I’m already a few blocks away. What does the suspect look like—”

“Spiderman? Hellooo?” Your voice cuts him off in a burst of static that makes his ears ring. “Ugh—is this radio even working? Are you still there?”

He needs to make a mental note to figure out a way for your voice to come through clearer—and preferably not through a brick of what feels like a tenth-century sad excuse for a cellphone that he has to clutch every time he wants to talk to you.

“I’m here!” Peter shouts through the mic, swinging around a corner.

“Ah! There you are!” you say, sounding like you’re smiling, if only Peter could picture what you looked like. “Missed your voice for a second.”

Peter’s face flushes under his mask.

“Detecting a sudden increase in body heat—specifically around the facial region—and a spike in heart rate despite no intense physical activity being performed—”

“Shut up, Evie,” Peter mumbles, hoping you didn’t hear him from the other end of the line.

He hadn’t gotten around to fixing the background noise integration yet, so the shitty microphone attached to the radio picks up almost everything. He hears you laugh on the other end, and he has to force down the rapid thumping of his heart before Evie calls him out on it again.

“Are you blushing, Spiderman?”

“What—no!” Peter immediately interjects, landing on top of a tall building on 30th Avenue. His eyes scan the windows of the bank directly across the street. “Just tell me what the suspect looks like, alright?”

You chuckle again. “Okay, the suspect is tall, wearing dark clothing, and probably handsome—if it weren’t for the ski mask covering his face.”

Peter rolls his eyes underneath his goggles.

“Now’s not the time to play around,” he says, already swinging through the entrance as innocent bystanders and employees run out in a panic.

He swings above the crowd in a perfectly prone position mid-air until he lands on his feet in the center of the bank. He doesn’t need your comms in here—he can handle whatever gets thrown at him at this point. His ears tingle with a warning that tells him the enemy is to his left. He turns his head to that direction, and…

“Spiderman!” A tall man in dark clothing and a ski mask holds up a rifle, pointing it directly at Peter. “You’re dead, kid!”

“Oh, jeez,” Peter says, slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” your voice statics through. “He’s heavily armed.”

“Yeah, good comms,” Peter scoffs sarcastically.

“Who the hell are you talking to?” the man shouts, pointing at the radio in Peter's hand. “Is that a bomb? Drop it!”

Peter furrows his brows, glancing at the object in his hand. A bomb? Seriously? The radio really looks that bad?

The man’s grip on the gun tightens, holding it in a way that lets Peter know he has clearly never held a gun before in his life. The panic among the people remaining in the building surges at the sight of the weapon, everyone shoving past each other toward the entrance.

“Come on, man. Don’t shoot—there are innocent people in here!” he tries to interject.

“Innocent dead people soon, if you don’t put that weapon away!” the man barks back.

“The police are on their way,” you explain, serious this time, through the radio. “Take care of that gun now, or he’ll start shooting like a madman once he sees the sirens. You have less than two minutes.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Time me.”

“Starting now?”

“Starting now,” he confirms before switching off the radio’s microphone input.

The man takes the loud clicking sound as a threat, his finger hovering over the trigger with every intention to shoot—but Peter moves faster.

Extending his left hand, a thick layer of web covers the muzzle, trapping any potential bullet in the barrel. The poor man doesn’t even have time to react before Peter webs the gun, yanked it out of his hands, and tosses it aside. Just as the man turns to make a run for it, Peter pins his ankles together with a thick strip of webbing, sending him face first onto the floor before securing his wrists behind his back with another band of webs.

From where he still stands in the center of the room, Peter unclicks the microphone. “You got it, Static?”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes at the stupid nickname. “That was fifteen seconds. Good job,” you applaud. “And are you seriously still sticking with Static? I hate that nickname.”

Peter chuckles, scanning the area for any signs of injuries, but finds none. The police finally arrive, pulling up with sirens blaring as they assess the crowd and begin scouting the area with weapons drawn. Seeing the suspect already bound by webs on the floor, they immediately move in with handcuffs.

Knowing the police will take it from here, Peter zips out of the building as if the entire fight—if you would even call it that—was just a quick pit stop.

“Well, that’s just what I’m gonna have to keep calling you, because your voice always comes through staticky,” he says, the wind picking up through the microphone and making it harder for you to hear him. “Unless… you wanna give me your actual name. Then maybe I can call you that instead.”

You pause at the other end of the radio, the silence between you filled only by the harsh wind and the snap of spiderwebs on his end.

As Peter swings his way back to his apartment, his heart pounds wildly in his chest with anticipation.

This isn’t the first time he’s teased you to get you to give up your name, and you’ve asked for his name more times than he can count on his fingers.

“Very funny,” you muse from the other end, your voice drawing out with a teasing tilt. “I could say the same thing to you.”

Peter smiles, landing on his apartment rooftop with a huff. “I don’t know—I think I like the way Spiderman rolls off your tongue.”

For the very first time since you two found each other through a stroke of pure luck—when Peter spent a night building a radio to hijack police comms and accidentally connected to you, a woman doing the exact same thing—you find yourself completely at a loss for words.

He doesn’t even know where the sudden boost of confidence came from to blurt out a flirtatious comment like that. Maybe it’s the suit, or maybe it’s that flutter of excitement he gets every single time he talks to you.

But that confidence slowly teeters away the longer you stay quiet. He grimaces, feeling like he overshot his mark big time.

Finally, he hears a slow draw of breath from the other end.

“That’s a shame,” you tease. “I would’ve loved to hear the sound of my name in your voice.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing as your words travel down his spine and straight to his heart. It was the way you said it—that sultry little rasp that even the static couldn’t mask. An awkward silence takes over the both of you, and for once, Peter is grateful for how poorly he configured this radio, since he can use it as an excuse for a faulty mic.

“Dramatic increase in heart rate detected. Body heat has increased an additional two degrees, and your suit—specifically around the groin region—appears to be tighter. I am also detecting a heightened state of arousal—”

“Evie!” Peter barks suddenly. He hears your laugh come through the other end, and the sound definitely doesn’t help his situation at all.

“Got you to blush twice today.” You taunt. “I think that’s a record, Spidey.”

“I wasn’t blushing,” Peter lies. “Anyway—enough of that. Are you seeing any other criminal activity in the area?”

You hum, and he hears a faint clicking noise on your end. “Nothing,” you say. “But what’s the rush? You’re given the opportunity to relax. You should take it, considering how hard you’ve been pushing yourself.”

Peter hops onto the ledge of his building and starts idly pacing back and forth, smiling under his mask as he holds the radio close to his ear. “Aw, you don’t have to worry about me. I have Evie for that.”

You blow a raspberry, and Peter’s smile widens.

“Yeah—well, Evie is an artificial intelligence. She can only care so much. Plus, she can’t make as many good jokes as I can.”

Peter’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he kicks a tiny stray pebble off the ledge, watching it fall ten stories to the ground. “Are you getting jealous of my assistant now?”

A garbled noise leaves your lips, and he chuckles as you stammer over your own words.

“God—you’re so full of yourself, aren't you?” you huff. “I’m your partner—so it’s only natural for me to look out for you.”

“We’re partners?”

“Haven’t we been this entire time?”

Peter pauses, glancing up at the sky, where the orange sun is starting to set behind several towers of buildings.

Partners. He hasn’t had anyone he could call a partner since everything happened—since he made the whole world forget who he was. He hasn’t had a real, caring partner since… them. Ned and MJ.

And now, after all that time spent in solitude, he’s finally found someone to call his partner again. Someone he’s never even seen, whose name he doesn’t even know. All he knows about you is that you’re smart—smart enough to build a radio and link up to his frequency—and that you live in New York. He could’ve passed you on his way to buy groceries, or seen you on the subway. Hell, you might even live in his building. Maybe you’re even that girl he accidentally swapped laundry with the other night.

“Spiderman? You still there?” you ask, snapping him out of his daze.

Despite your usual spunky attitude, in that moment, you sound so… small. Like you don’t want to hang up, even if there aren’t any crimes to report.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his voice coming out softer than he expected. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at that. He can hear it. “Okay. Good.”

The microphone picks up shuffling noises on your end—judging by the sound, he pictures you rolling over in bed and getting comfortable.

“How about we play a game?” you ask before the radio falls into silence again.

Peter raises a brow under his mask. “A game?”

“Yeah—every time you complete a successful mission, we trade a fun fact about each other.”

He hums, taking a seat on the ledge and letting his feet dangle over the edge. “Okay, sure. And since I just finished one—does that mean the game starts now?”

You chuckle softly at his enthusiasm to play along. “Sure. Want to go first?”

Peter cranes his neck back to look at the sky. Although neither of you has ever brought it up, he has a feeling you’re both on the exact same page when it comes to secrecy. Neither of you wants to give away too much and blow your identity, but you share just enough to keep things interesting.

And by letting him go first, it feels like you’re giving him the chance to set the tone.

“Hm. Let me think.” He rubs his chin through his mask. “Okay—I’m ready. My favorite coffee is a hot Americano.”

You snort. “The first fun fact you want to share is your coffee order?”

“Hey—coffee can be fun!” Peter interjects. “Now tell me yours.”

A little laugh escapes you, and he can hear you shaking your head. “Fine. I get an extra-hot almond milk latte, with one pump of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, and two scoops of vanilla bean powder.”

The white lenses of Peter’s goggles widen, and he lets out a brief, disbelieving laugh. “Oh—so you’re pulling my leg because I started us off with a lame fun fact? Is that it?”

“What?” You giggle along. “I’m not! That’s my actual order—especially on chilly days. You should try it sometime.”

Peter imagines it: a girl—a pretty one, judging by your voice and personality—ordering that ridiculous concoction at a coffee shop while the barista rolls their eyes at how long it takes to recite. For some reason, the visual warms his chest.

“Sure. And I’d tell you to try a hot Americano—but based on the order you just gave me, I don’t think you’d like it very much,” he jokes.

You chuckle. “No, probably not.”

Silence fills the space again, and Peter kicks his legs over the edge of the ledge, trying to think of something to say before he loses you.

He clears his throat. “So, uh—”

“Can I ask you something?”

You both talk over each other, and his face warms with embarrassment. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Okay,” you continue. You let out a shaky breath, and he instinctively braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. “I’ve noticed that your receiver is always on. Do you forget to turn it off?”

Peter pauses, confused by the question. “No. It’s on twenty-four seven—just in case something happens, you know?”

You hum softly. “I get that. But I guess what I’m trying to ask is… don’t you have other things in your life to worry about, instead of fighting crime behind a mask?”

Peter stays quiet for a moment.

In truth, there’s a bigger reason he keeps the radio on besides his duties as Spiderman. He could easily listen in on reported crimes just fine without your help, but he keeps it on twenty-four seven in the hopes of hearing your voice ring through—just in case you might… need him.

There have been several nights since meeting you where he tosses and turns in bed, reaching for the radio to see if your receiver is on. It usually isn’t during consistent parts of the day—meaning you’re either at work or in class. It’s usually off at night, but sometimes around three in the morning, he’ll see your receiver light up and you’ll call in, your voice completely wide awake, proving you can be a real night owl.

Ever since meeting you, it feels like he finally has a friend to talk to. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t even know your name. And he can never meet you, no matter how badly he wants to.

Peter finally found someone he cares about—and he isn’t going to risk losing you.

“I… I guess I do,” Peter says, trying his best to tread carefully. “I always keep an earpiece in, just in case something happens. You can never be too careful.”

You hum again, and Peter knows that answer wasn’t enough to buy it.

“And I guess I also keep it on… just in case you ever want to talk.”

Shit, Peter curses to himself. If his half-assed answer just now wasn’t enough to make you switch off the line, this one definitely takes the cake. You’re quiet on the other end, and each passing second makes him want to do you both a favor and turn it off himself.

“In that case,” you speak softly, “I’ll keep my receiver on in case you want to talk to me.”

His heart stutters in his chest, feeling as though all the air has been sucked straight out of his lungs.

Peter hasn’t felt this way since high school. He’s grinning ear to ear—a smile so wide it hurts the muscles in his cheeks. He lets out a chuckle, a raspy, disbelieving sound at the realization that there’s a chance you might feel the exact same way about him.

“Don’t say that,” he says before he can stop himself, trying to inject some humor to cover up his flustered state. “You’re gonna get annoyed with me.”

“Who’s to say I’m not already?” you joke back.

And for the first time in a long time, Peter feels like the happiest man on Earth.

He looks up at the sky, watching birds fly across the orange hues as he kicks his feet like a high schooler who just scored a date with the prettiest girl in class. His heart is racing so fast in his chest and he feels so giddy that he’s actually surprised Evie hasn’t called him out on it yet.

He wants to make this last—to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending.

Suddenly, a series of sharp beeps emits from your end of the radio. It's a sound he knows all too well, a reminder that duty calls before anything else.

“Oh, God,” you mutter quietly.

Every hair on Peter’s arms stands on end. He leaps to his feet, ready to launch himself toward whatever is happening. “What is it, Static?”

“There’s an alarm triggered at Grand Central Terminal,” you explain. “NYPD comms just flagged it—there are a bunch of hostages. It looks bad, Spiderman. Multiple armed men have barricaded the main concourse.”

Peter wastes no time, shooting a thick web line toward the nearest building and flinging himself into the sky. “How many hostages are we talking?”

“At least fifty. Commuters, staff—they were trapped during rush hour,” you answer, the clack of your keyboard clattering over the staticky connection. “I’m tapping into the security feed right now. They’re holding guns, and… it looks like there’s a heavy grade explosive right in the center, attached to the information booth.”

The wind roars through Peter’s mic as he accelerates through the air. “How much time is on the clock?”

“I’m trying to zoom in—eight minutes,” you say. “They’ve blocked all the major exits with deadbolts and wired the perimeter. It looks pretty half-assed, Spidey. If SWAT breaches the doors, or if even a piece of rubble hits that rig, the whole thing will blow.”

“Alright, no breaches,” Peter takes a mental note, his mind racing through entry points as the massive arched roof of Grand Central comes into view. “You’re my eyes in there, Static. Find me an entry point that skips the doors.”

“The skylight above the west balcony has an old grate,” you reply instantly. “It leads directly into the ventilations—high enough to keep you out of sight, but close enough to drop in.”

“Got it,” Peter replies, landing silently on the glass roof. He peers through the skylight, his eyes adjusting to the interior where dozens of terrified people are huddling on the floor, held at gunpoint by masked men with automatic rifles.

Right in the center, duct-taped to the information booth and blinking with a harsh red timer, sits the bomb.

“Okay, I’m in position,” Peter breathes through the radio. “Time me?”

He hears a soft click on your end, signaling that your timer is already running.

“Be careful, Spiderman.”

He tucks the radio against his thigh, securing it with a thick band of web.

Peter moves exactly in the direction you tell him to—he wedges his body into the dusty vents, moving with the practiced speed of an arachnid that takes him from point A to point B in the blink of an eye. He slowly lifts the grate, the poor thing held up by only a flimsy screw, and sets it down softly beside him to avoid any loud noises.

He lands gently right in the center of the terminal—but his plans for discretion don’t last when a hostage looks up and yells, “We’re saved, everyone! It’s Spiderman!”

Immediately, all the armed threats spin around, several barrels abandoning the hostages to point straight at the man in the red-and-blue suit.

“Oh,” Peter smiles. “Making my job a lot easier. Thanks.”

Before giving them the chance to shoot, Peter fires off thick strings of web into every single barrel, clogging up the firearms. With every weapon bound, he tangles the web lines together into one big knot and yanks them all out of their hands.

The guns crash into each other in a tangled mass of spiderwebs and steel. With the firearms rendered completely useless, he tosses the mess aside to focus on the men—who are now charging at him with combat knives and sidearms.

Peter quickly makes short work of the pistols, disarming the men with his webs before a stray bullet can even graze the bomb. One by one, he takes them down, firing webs with every intention of keeping them bound and completely immovable.

When Peter gets down to the last guy, slinging a thick web to pin him flat against the wall, your voice rings out from where the radio sits tucked against his thigh.

“SWAT is moving in—mind the doors and tripwires!”

“Shit,” Peter curses, whipping his head toward the exits—but it’s already too late.

The SWAT team breaches fast, shouting and gesturing for the hostages to run. Panic surges through the crowd, and every frantic step from the civilians echoes like thunder in Peter’s ears. One misstep, even one piece of falling debris, could set this entire place off. Peter snaps his head back to the bomb. Four minutes remain on the digital clock, but suddenly the numbers freeze—and a sharp high pitched frequency fills the room.

It’s quiet to everyone else, but to Peter's heightened senses, it might as well be an air siren.

“Wait!” Peter shouts, turning to vault himself away before the bomb sets off.

But it’s too late.

“Spiderman! Get out of there!” you cry out through the radio—right before a brilliant flash of red and white blinds the entire building.

Pressure and heat slam right into Peter’s chest, throwing him backward through the air and showering him in flying stone like a ragdoll. Glass shatters overhead, raining down thousands of sparkling fragments as the information booth detonates into a massive cloud of fire and smoke.

Peter crashes hard against the far wall, the impact knocking every last drop of air from his lungs. He coughs up blood, staining the inside of his mask, before sliding down a broken slab of marble. He wheezes violently as dense gray smoke fills the room. His ears ring loudly, drowning out the shouting SWAT officers, the screaming crowd, and the creaking support beams above.

Evie’s voice sings in his ear like a taunt.

“Detecting bone fractures near the lower hip. Internal bleeding. Labored breathing—”

Then, your voice comes cutting through the static.

“Spiderman! Answer me!” Your voice cuts in and out, and despite being crushed under rubble with smoke filling his lungs, he reaches for the radio at his thigh.

He lifts it with a trembling hand, and his heart stops. It’s broken, snapped open with electricity sparking near the wires.

“Please—are you there? Spiderman! Check in!”

“Time, Static,” he manages to croak out.

Even through the static, the sheer panic in your voice is unmistakable. “The ambulances are on their way. Just hold on for a little longer—”

“What’s the time, Static?” he repeats with a wet cough.

You suck in a sharp breath. “Four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Now save your breath and stop talking!”

“Peter,” he croaks, coughing up more blood.

“W-what?” you stammer through tears. The sound makes his chest hurt more than the slab of concrete resting heavy on his ribs. “You’re breaking out.”

“Our little game—remember? Every successful mission, we exchange a fun fact,” he wheezes, fighting for air. “My name is Peter Parker.”

A broken, sobbing gasp escapes you. He glances down at the radio, watching the little light that indicates his microphone is working flicker in and out.

“Static? Are you still there?”

“I can’t hear you, Spiderman.”

The blue glow of your television screen is the only source of light in your dim apartment. Outside your window, New York City keeps moving, but inside, time feels like it has been frozen for seven agonizing days.

On the screen, a news anchor stands outside Queens Hospital Center, her face grave under the studio-lit broadcast.

“…we return to our top story tonight regarding Spiderman,” the reporter’s voice echoes through your quiet room. “It has been one week since the explosive incident at Grand Central Terminal that left the vigilante in critical condition. Authorities and medical staff at Queens Hospital Center have kept tight-lipped about his recovery.”

You pull your knees tighter into your chest, your fingers trembling as they wrap around a lukewarm mug of tea you haven’t touched.

“In a shocking turn of events earlier this morning, hospital administrators confirmed that Spiderman is no longer in their care,” the reporter continues. “According to sources, when attending nurses entered his private room to adjust his IVs and monitor his severe injuries, they found the hospital bed empty. There is no security footage explaining how or when the injured hero managed to slip past guards, leaving NYPD officials baffled—and deeply concerned given the extent of his internal trauma.”

Your eyes widen, and you press a hand over your mouth as a shaky exhale spills past your lips.

He woke up.

He survived.

You keep watching, waiting to see if the reporter will expose his identity. A part of you is already annoyed that these attention-hungry journalists would stoop so low now that he’s been admitted to a hospital. But another part of you desperately wants to know—because you felt like that might’ve been what he was trying to tell you over the radio right before the line cut out.

A heavy breath escapes you when the reporter doesn’t mention a name, and the broadcast switches to a story about local stray animals. You’re not even sure if the sigh you let out is one of relief or frustration.

You glance over at the radio resting on the couch beside you.

Your receiver light blinks green—it has been on this entire time.

For the past seven days, you’ve been sleeping with the radio clutched in your hands in hopes that you’ll hear his voice one more time. Even as you walk through the hallways of your university, moving from lecture to lecture, you keep an earpiece tucked in your ear so you won’t miss him if he calls.

A few more days pass, and you’re sitting at your desk with heavy eyes. A lamp at the corner of your desk emits a warm glow over the pages of your notebook. You feel like you’ve been awake for days, running on far too little sleep and not nearly enough caffeine to keep you going.

Your head rests heavily in your palm. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s 3:41 in the morning.

With a tired sigh, you start to push your chair back—but the sudden sound of familiar static stops you in your tracks.

A sound that is usually so grating to your ears suddenly sounds like heaven.

You quickly scramble back to your desk, your hand swiping up the radio and lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?” you say, your heart racing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The static cuts out for a second, and you pull the radio back to check the lights. Both indicator lights are glowing green, showing that you—and whoever is on the other line—are connected. The static crackles through again, and you press the receiver tight against your ear, holding your breath as you wait for them to speak first.

“—atic?”

That voice—so familiar, so gentle—rings out. You feel your heart leap straight into your throat. You’ve been waiting for days to hear him again, but you aren't prepared for what to say now that he's actually here.

“Sta—t—ic,” Peter’s voice cuts in and out before suddenly coming through crystal clear—clearer than the very first time you ever connected with him. “This is Spiderman. Are you there?”

Your heart swells with a profound wave of relief. Tears prick at your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you can even stop them.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your hand trembling as you press the radio against your forehead. “You’re okay. You’re here. Thank God. I—I thought I lost you. I was keeping up with the news, and when they said you fled the hospital—I hoped you were okay. I’ve been waiting for your call all week. I—”

“Hey, hey,” Peter coos softly on the other end. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You hear him rustling around on the other line, the soft friction of sheets sounding like he’s lying in bed. The thought of him resting comfortably in his own room rather than trapped in a sterile hospital bed makes your heart melt.

“Where have you been?” you ask, your voice cracking as you wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry,” Peter says softly, his breath catching in a faint, painful wince that he tries to cover up with a dry laugh. “My suit was pretty much trashed, and the radio got crushed in the blast. It took everything in me just to crawl over to my workbench, and a few more days to rebuild the transmitter from scratch.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips. “With the radio broken, I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find you again. I spent all this time rebuilding it—I even fixed the signal integration so both our voices would come through clearer.”

You let out a wet, teary laugh. “So that’s why you sound like that.”

You can picture him grinning on the other end. “A lot better, huh?”

That familiar, teasing tilt in his voice sends a wave of butterflies straight to your stomach. A soft laugh escapes you, and he chuckles in return. Then, as if savoring the sound of your joy, he breathes out softly.

“I missed hearing your voice.”

Your feet carry you over to the comfort of your mattress, and before you even realize it, you’re collapsing onto your bed, kicking your feet like a giddy, hopeless romantic.

“I missed hearing you, too. You’d better not let that happen again. If I can barely handle losing you for a week, I definitely can’t bear losing you forever,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, but the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Peter’s grin widens where he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll make sure to be extra careful from here on out, just so you don’t lose me.”

You smile into your pillow. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settles between you two—not the awkward kind from when you first met, but a warm one, wrapping around you both like a blanket despite the distance. You set the radio down on the empty space beside your pillow, and he does the same. With the microphone improvements, you can hear his steady breathing on your end, and he can hear yours.

“Were you able to hear anything I said... the last time we spoke?” Peter asks softly.

You shake your head, the friction against your pillow rustling over the mic. “You were cutting out too much.”

He pauses, the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pulls his blanket up over his shoulders.

“It was about our game—the fun facts one,” he says, his voice careful, like he’s walking on eggshells.

You couldn’t catch much before the line broke down completely. Pet... That was all you had managed to hear. But a deep feeling in your gut tells you that whatever he said was a precious piece of himself—a piece he wanted you to have in case he didn’t make it.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll offer it up again.

“And since I completed a successful mission,” he continues, swallowing hard. “I thought I’d continue with that trade.”

You brace yourself, your heart clawing in your chest as you wait for the confession—for him to finally drop his guard and lay his identity on the line, just like you plan to do with yours.

Peter draws a slow, quiet breath.

“Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You blink.

The silence stretches for a long second, the sudden change in direction catching you so off guard that your mind does a hard reset. Of all the things you expected him to say—a big secret, a superhero revelation, a tender confession about his life—that was not on your bingo card.

“What?” you squeeze out, your voice squeaking slightly.

Over the line, Peter clears his throat awkwardly, a sudden rustle of sheets betraying how fast he just sat up to bury his face in his hands.

“O-or girlfriend! Sorry—I shouldn’t have assumed! I mean, you don’t have to answer! It’s just—it’s a fun fact! A personal fact! That’s how the game works, right? You tell me something, I tell you something… or—”

A helpless, snickering laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking off his ramble.

“Spiderman,” you giggle, burying your blushing face deeper into your mattress.

“Yeah?” he yelps, sounding like a man standing on trial.

“No,” you answer, a wide grin spreading across your face. “No boyfriend. No girlfriend.”

A long, almost dramatic exhale breezes through the speaker, followed by the soft thud of Peter flopping back down onto his mattress.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, trying to keep it quiet enough so the microphone doesn’t catch it—but you hear it anyway. “I mean… cool. That’s cool.”

You snort. “Okay. You know how the game goes. Now it’s my turn to ask.”

“Do I have a girlfriend?” he prompts.

You shrug, taking the opportunity to tease him. “Or boyfriend. I don’t judge.”

A playful scoff leaves his lips, and you can already imagine him rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for a few seconds, making you think he’s just too flustered to answer. But when his voice comes through shaky, almost hesitant, you feel an unfamiliar tug at your heart.

“I—um… I used to have this girl,” he murmurs. “We were dating for a while—but it didn’t work out.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. He speaks like a man who’s been broken again and again, carrying a profound heartache you couldn’t even begin to measure. A small, selfish twinge of jealousy tugs at you, but you know it’s not your place.

“What happened?” The words spill out before you can stop them.

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and you wince with regret for pushing too far.

“Well, that’s something you’re gonna have to ask the next time I complete a successful mission,” he says, trying to ease the tension with a playful tone, and you’re more than happy to fall right back into it.

You roll onto your back, looking up at your bedroom ceiling. Across the city, Peter does the exact same thing.

“Deal. But let’s not jump back into all that too soon, okay? Whatever crime happens out there, let the police handle it,” you say, pulling your blanket up to your chin. “I just want to keep you all to myself tonight.”

You want to slap yourself for how ridiculous you sound. He just opened up about a painful past relationship, and you immediately turn around and sound like a clingy girlfriend.

But Peter laughs—a full, rich sound that doesn't sound at all like he just survived a traumatic experience a week ago. It’s a laugh that never fails to make you smile.

“Usually, I’d oppose the idea of ignoring crime,” he says softly. “But for you? I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

You smile, nuzzling your nose into the soft fabric of your blanket. “Good. Goodnight, Spiderman.”

“Goodnight, Static.”

And for the remainder of the night, neither of you switches the radio off, letting the quiet and comforting sound of each other’s breathing lull you to sleep.

It’s a brand new day, and Peter is running around New York getting his errands done. Laundry run, check. Grocery run, check. The last thing on his list is to pick up some flowers for Aunt May.

Right next to the small bodega where he always buys his flowers sits a busy coffee shop.

The front window is large enough to see everything and everyone inside—which is exactly why he has to do a double take at the person standing near the cashier.

He stops dead in his tracks, causing a hurried pedestrian to bump into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, but the man just shoots him a dirty look and keeps walking.

Standing inside the coffee shop is a face that’s all too familiar—someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Ned.

Peter’s feet are moving before he even realizes it. He hovers near the entrance, stepping aside for a few exiting customers before pushing the door open. Slipping into an empty seat near the front, he watches Ned chat with the barista. But Ned isn’t alone.

He’s standing next to a girl—a pretty girl, at that. And one he doesn’t recognize.

Peter smiles to himself, a swell of pride washing over him seeing his best friend doing well, and scoring a pretty girlfriend to date.

“And for the missus?” The barista holds up a paper cup, pen hovering over the cardboard as she waits.

You glance up at the menu board, though you don’t really need to. You know your order like the back of your hand.

“Can I get an extra-hot almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free vanilla—”

Peter’s heart stops.

“—one pump of regular hazelnut…”

That voice. That familiar, sing-song cadence he hears every night through a staticky radio. The last voice he listened to when he nearly died just a few weeks ago.

“And two scoops of vanilla bean powder,” Peter mumbles to himself like a mantra.

“…and two scoops of vanilla bean powder?” you finish, flashing the barista a harmless, innocent smile.

The barista gives you a disbelieving look, and you chuckle awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement gives Peter a clear view of a small earpiece nestled right inside. Everything playing out before his eyes matches the picture he’d built in his head—except for you. You being this stunning was far beyond anything he could have imagined.

The barista finally finishes jotting your order down, and you and Ned turn to search for an open table. Peter holds his breath, watching your easy smile and the natural way you interact with his once best friend.

The pang in his chest is a feeling he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Two people he cares about more than anything... so close, yet entirely out of reach.

His heightened spider-sense gives him the ability to hear almost anything, even from across the room. Yet right now, the ringing in his ears and the heavy thumping of his heart drown out every other sound. You and Ned approach an empty table with only a single chair, but you glance around and spot the unused chair across from Peter.

“Hey,” you smile politely—a soft, courteous tone reserved strictly for strangers, not your partner in crime. “Are you using this chair?”

This is it.

Finally, for the first time, he can introduce himself to you properly. He could bring both you and Ned back into his life with a single, simple greeting.

Hi, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. The guy you’ve been talking to over a flimsy radio these past few months.

Peter looks up at you, completely frozen where he sits. Your smile fades into a faint frown when he hesitates. Then, your eyes flicker briefly to the earpiece resting in his ear—identical to yours, worn for the exact same reason.

Just in case either of you calls in.

Before he loses you, Peter clears his throat. His hand subtly moves up to scratch his ear, hiding the earpiece with his knuckles before slipping it into his palm. When he finally speaks, he deliberately drops his voice a few pitches deeper—adding a slight rasp for good measure.

“No, go ahead.”

That polite smile returns, and you pull the chair away from his table. “Cool, thanks.”

You slide the chair up to the table you’re sharing with Ned, and just like that—unaware that you’ve completely flipped his world upside down and inside out—you fall right back into conversation with him.

The barista calls out your order with your name, and the sound of it is like music to his ears.

He repeats it quietly under his breath. It sounds natural, like a name that was always meant to be spoken in his voice.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t reveal his identity to you. Telling you his real name that night—when he was trapped under rubble and bleeding out—was just a lapse in judgment brought on by desperation. But now that he’s here, looking at you and his best friend in broad daylight, he knows he can’t risk letting you into his world.

Anyone who knows Peter Parker is Spiderman is a person bound to be lost. And Peter can’t afford to lose you.

Yet as he watches you sit across from him, tossing your head back with a laugh that is painfully familiar, it feels like he’s already lost you anyway.

“So, tell me more about this party.”

“Well, it’s a housewarming party,” you explain, tucking your hands into your pockets as you walk through the night streets of Queens. “Two of my friends moved into an apartment recently—so we’re celebrating tonight.”

Peter hums, leaning back in his chair and staring mindlessly at his screens. He folds a piece of paper, fiddling with it as his mind wanders to who those friends could be. Ned? And if so, he wonders who else he could be moving in with—if not him.

“That’s… cool,” he finally answers in an indifferent tone.

You round the corner, the sounds of the bustling city nightlife picking up on your microphone. “Yeah. And since I’ll be busy socializing, I won’t have my receiver on all night. But I’ll try my best to check in with you.”

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose. “I’m a big boy. You don’t need to check up on me.” He glances at the window. “I’m more worried about you, though.”

You step aside for a pedestrian who’s rushing past. “What for?”

Peter pushes himself out of his chair with a grunt, stepping up to the small window and looking down at the city street below. “Well, you’re a woman walking all by yourself at night. I hope your friends at least know where you’re at.”

You chuckle, pulling open the door of the small corner grocery store and being welcomed by a soft bell jingle.

“Don’t worry your head, Spiderman. If I constantly worry about my well-being just because I’m a woman, then I’ll never get anything done in this city.”

You’re greeted by a frail, older lady behind the counter, and you offer her a polite smile as you walk past. Making your way to the coolers in the back, you weigh your options between beer and seltzers.

“Do you think two cases of Budweiser is enough?” You ask Peter.

The bell chimes again, and a large man with a dark hoodie pulled over his face enters. You glance at him, and he holds your stare. You look back down.

Peter’s cackle draws you back in. “And you’re drinking?”

You can’t help but grin at the worry in his voice. Grabbing two cases—one in each hand—and shutting the refrigerator door, you head to the front counter. “Yes, because I’m an adult and should be enjoying myself. And you should be, too, Spiderman. It’s Friday night.”

A bitter smile dances on his lips. He should be enjoying himself—a night out with you, instead of being cooped up in his apartment, worrying about you getting wasted at a house party surrounded by men your age with grimy hands and bad intentions.

You set the cases on the counter, and the lady begins to ring you up. The man in the dark hoodie falls in line right behind you, holding just a pack of gum in his hand.

“Okay, I gotta head out. I’ll check in with you later tonight—”

The lady at the front counter has her attention locked on the man behind you, and she sharply gasps, ducking down immediately. Your head whips around, and you find yourself face to face with the black metal of a handgun.

“You know Spiderman?” the man before you asks in a deep gravelly voice, finger poised right above the trigger.

A pathetic, broken sound escapes you. You still have Peter on the line, and you hear the sudden panic in his voice the minute your microphone picks up your heavy breathing and whimper.

“Static? Who is that? What’s happening?”

“You must be mistaken,” you raise your hands in surrender, shoulders timid, as a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. “I—I don’t know Spiderman—”

“Bullshit!” the man shouts, backhanding you with the grip of the gun.

You cry out in pain, your body collapsing hard onto the floor as your hand flies to your cheek. Your earpiece falls out, Peter’s voice ringing out loudly in sheer panic. The man huffs an incredulous laugh as he crouches down to pick it up and lift it to his ear.

“Tell me your location—where are you? I’m coming—!”

“103rd Street,” the man answers with a grin. “That’s where your little lady is at—on the floor, bleeding outta her lip.”

The wind whips loudly through the earpiece, audible even from where you’re prone on the ground.

“Don’t lay a fucking hand on her,” Peter’s voice crackles through the wind and speaker. “What do you want from me?”

The man only chuckles, turning the small earpiece in his fingers, unfazed by the threat of a friendly neighborhood superhero.

“That’s the thing with people like you who try to play hero,” the man says, his tone dripping with bitter resentment. “You stop guys like us, but what you fail to realize is that we aren’t the bad guys at all, Spiderman. While you sit in your fancy little apartment, the rest of us are out here fighting for scraps just to survive—and it’s people like you who keep stopping us.”

He looks down at you, lying on the cold floor with a trembling hand pressed against your bleeding lip.

“We’re just trying to eat,” the man spits into the receiver. “So if a guy like me has to take a little collateral to get your attention, or to get a quick payday—that’s not evil. That’s just survival. There’s a lot of money on your head, Spiderman. Money that can help an average person like me tremendously.”

The sharp thwip of a web fires through the speaker, followed by the harsh gust of the open night sky.

If it were anyone else being held hostage, maybe Peter would extend the courtesy of hearing him out. But he’s not holding just any person. He’s holding you—the only person Peter has opened his heart to in years. The only voice he looks forward to, the one that gives him hope to push through to a brand-new day. Right now, there isn’t a single shred of restraint left in Peter’s mind—not when your life is on the line because of him.

“I don’t give a shit about your excuse,” Peter spits, whipping around a sharp corner as he flies onto 103rd Street. “If you hurt her again before I get there, I swear to God—”

“It’s too late, Spiderman.”

From high above, Peter spots the grocery store below. The white lenses of his mask widen as he peers through the large front windows, catching sight of you scrambling backward in fear, hands raised in surrender.

The man above you stands straight and lifts the gun. Peter’s eyes lock onto the finger resting against the trigger. With one launch off the side of a building, he catapults himself straight through the glass windows.

The explosion of glass shatters in time with the gunshot. As the bullet travels through the barrel of the gun, Peter collides into the man, sending him flying sideways and the gun tilting upwards. The bullet hits the ceiling, the fluorescent lights exploding with electricity as the roof panel falls. You quickly scramble away so it doesn’t hit you.

Peter sends the man flying from one window to another, rolling around on the pavement outside until he lands on top. There is no amount of webs he can use to convey his anger—so he settles with his fists.

One punch after another, one hit after brutal hit. Blood flies out of the man’s face, tainting Peter’s suit with red. It splatters across his knuckles, and he delivers a hit so violent that it sprays right over the white lenses of his mask.

“Spiderman, stop!”

You shout, but the ringing in his ears is louder.

Tears prick at his eyes behind the mask as he continues raining down punches. The man lost consciousness long ago, but Peter isn’t done. He can’t rest knowing anyone who threatens to hurt you is free to walk these streets.

He can’t rest until he knows, for certain, that you’re safe from danger.

He cocks his fist back one last time, with every intention of putting this guy down for good—until your body crashes into his, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. His arm freezes mid-air, suddenly weighing a ton.

“Stop! It’s over—it’s done,” you try to reassure him but your voice comes in a panicked and rushed tone. Sirens sound in the distance. “The police are coming.”

Peter looks around, his chest heaving.

Several bystanders have stopped to stare, hands covering their mouths after witnessing such a brutal act by a man who was supposed to be a savior to all.

He curses under his breath, one arm wrapping tightly around your body.

“Hold on,” he says, before slinging a web to the highest point of the building next to you and launching you both into the night sky.

You bury your face in his chest, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as you hold on to him for dear life. You’re too terrified to look down. So instead, you glance up at the man holding you—the very man you’ve dedicated your life to assisting these past few months.

He doesn’t look like the friendly Spiderman you see on television or in the newspapers.

Blood lays over his mask like a veil, and you can feel his heart racing against yours from how tightly you’re holding him.

He doesn’t say a word until he finds a discreet alleyway. Then, finally, he sets you down gently.

Your eyes don’t leave his face even as you release your grip on him. You stand in front of him, eyes wide and lips parted as you stare at the man you’ve been dying to meet for what feels like years. But while this is your first time seeing him, it isn’t his first time seeing you.

There are so many things you wanted to say, but none of them come out. You never expected your first meeting to be like this—under circumstances where he tarnishes his reputation and your face bloodied and bruised.

“I…” your voice wavers, desperate to say anything, terrified he might swing away at any second.

Peter swipes his bloodied hand against his thigh to clean it before stepping forward, gently cupping your face in both hands. The lenses of his mask are so expressive, shifting with every furrow of his brow. Even behind it, his expression is wrecked.

“Look at what he did to you,” his voice cracks, sounding so broken, like it’s all his fault.

You huff a soft laugh, resting your palm over his knuckles as you lean into his touch. “If I’d known I was going to see you tonight, I probably would’ve worn more makeup.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His thumb gently brushes over the torn skin at your cheekbone, then down to your busted lip.

“I can’t believe you’re right here,” he breathes. “And I’m holding you.”

Peter should get your injuries fixed up, take you somewhere safe, or even take you home, but doing that means he’ll have to say goodbye—and he doesn’t know when he’ll give himself the chance to be this selfish again.

For the first time in years, it feels like he’s found salvation. After everything, he tries to convince himself he deserves this—even if it's just for a few minutes.

“You know what I look like,” you smile painfully. “Yet, I still don’t know a single thing about you.”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking down. “I’m sorry.”

You step closer, your hands slowly finding the hem of his mask resting around his neck. With trembling fingers, you slowly lift it up—giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wants to—holding your breath as you raise it over his nose. Brown curly hair decorates the nape of his neck.

As you try to tug it up higher, his hands find your wrists, gently stopping you. “I can’t.”

With a quiet nod, your hands fall back down to his cheeks, cupping them softly. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, his jawline, and the plump of his bottom lip.

The press of your thumb against his lower lip makes his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch—the first grace of warmth he’s felt in forever.

His white lenses open again, and his gaze drops to your lips—bruised, bleeding, and parting softly. The tension between you two suffocates him, and without waiting another impatient second, Peter tilts his head down and kisses you.

His lips press against yours, gentle and soft. And when you return the kiss, he feels like he’s in heaven. He takes his time with you, his lips exploring yours and savoring the quiet sweetness of the moment. Your hands are warm against his cheeks, and his hand finds your waist, respectfully holding you close as his heart beats as one with yours.

You kiss until you both run out of breath, finally pulling away to rest your foreheads against each other.

Peter shuts his eyes, breathing in your scent. “I wanted to do that from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“I am detecting a sudden increase in heart-rate and body warmth—”

“Shut up, Evie.”

You chuckle, your teeth catching your bottom lip while heart beats wildly in your chest.

“A successful mission,” you smile up at him. “You know what that means.”

He chuckles at that, the sound sending butterflies to your stomach now that you’re hearing it up close for the first time.

“You’re right. You go first.” He prompts.

You tell him your name, but he doesn’t react the way you thought he would after hearing it for the first time. He smiles—almost boyish, with kiss-swollen lips. It feels as though he’s known your name all along.

Peter repeats it softly. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

Warmth fills you from head to toe. You were right. You loved hearing the sound of your name in his voice.

You tilt your head, leaning in until your nose grazes against his. “What’s yours—”

Frantic footsteps echo just outside the alleyway.

Peter’s senses tingle and reverberate through his entire frame. Everything in his body is screaming at him to do one thing: run.

Two people turn the corner, and he freezes at the sight.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Ned shouts frantically, catching his breath. “We were wondering why you weren’t answering our calls—then someone at the party said there was an accident happening on 103rd Street—which is where you were going—and wait, is that Spiderman?”

Standing right behind him is MJ.

“You scared us!” she yelps, running to you with a hug. You turn around with a weary smile and a relieved sigh.

“I’m okay, you guys shouldn’t have left to come find me. It was dangerous back there, and yes,” you motion behind you, “this is—”

Peter doesn’t even let you finish. He pulls his mask down and, without another word, zips up and out, moving through the dark like a ghost in the night. All the warmth vanishes like the gust of wind he leaves behind as he disappears into the air.

“God,” Ned breathes, the three of you standing dumbfounded in the alleyway as you watch him disappear around the corner. “See! It’s like I told you, MJ! He’s like Peter Pan—if you really believe in him, he’ll show up!”

“Okay—you know, your fanboying really freaks me out,” MJ says, making a face. She looks back at you. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay—”

A shudder passes through your body.

My name is Peter Parker.

“Peter,” you whisper with a sudden realization.

📝 first time writing for peter parker kinda nervous !! "all these things that i've done" by the killers was on repeat while writing this. for the first time in a while, i've had a lot of fun and passion writing a marvel fic again, and i hope you can feel it when you read this fic. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

“I don’t know what hurts more. My stomach from this dress or my cheeks from smiling.” A raspy voice spoke, belonging to none other than Bucky Barnes' wife, Natasha Romanoff. 

Nearly flying out of your shoes, you straightened up, smoothing down your satin dress. “Mrs. Romanoff. It’s nice to see you again.” 

“You don’t have to do that with me. I know those shoes are killing you. I’ve spent many meetings in that exact position,” She said, her eyes shining at you. “And Y/n. You know it’s Natasha.” 

Your eyes never once left her face, committing to memory how her crimson-painted lips shaped your name. Now you were cursing the champagne coursing through your bloodstream. Natasha Romanoff was the most intimidating person you have ever met; in the same breath, she was a walking goddess amongst humans. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have an embarrassing fascination with her. Between her and Mr. Barnes, you didn’t think it was fair that two people who looked like that ended up together. 

“Natasha.” You let her name fall from your lips, smiling at her. “My feet hurt terribly. And yet the men are still talking.” 

A small laugh fell from her lips as she looked to the other side of the room, her husband and colleagues still entertaining the room. Their boisterous laughs were nearly louder than the jazz band playing in the back corner. 

“Boys will be boys.” Her teeth bit down on her bottom lip as she was deep in thought, turning back to you with a devilish grin on her face. “I think we girls should escape from here. What do you think?” 

Your breath caught in your throat; you’ve never been alone with her for long periods of time. Especially not when your lips were loose and inhibitions lowered. However, that wasn’t stopping your mouth from running before you processed what you were saying. “Where to?” 

At your words, her smile got bigger, reaching out her manicured hand, grasping yours gently. She then guided you through the back stairwell of the hotel, flashing her dangerous smile at every security guard who dared question who she was. You followed with no hesitation, childlike giggles leaving your mouth at each pull of her hand or small joke she’d crack. 

“And this is where I wanted to take you.” She said, sliding her hotel key through her door. 

“Your hotel room?” You asked, your throat now suddenly dry. 

She simply nodded, opening the door and welcoming you inside. Picking up the bottom of your dress, you glided inside as if you belonged. A single night in this hotel would cost more than you made in a month, let alone the penthouse suite. The perfectly made California King in the middle of the room was overshadowed by the floor-to-ceiling windows, complete with a balcony that gave a perfect view of the Manhattan skyline. 

“All the wine you could ask for. And this view?” She whistled, opening the sliding glass door, letting the chilly night air inside. Goosebumps began to prickle on your skin, unsure if it was from the air or the way her long hair fell against the bare skin of her back. 

She chided you to relax while she grabbed a bottle of wine out of the room service cart, and you settled on one of the outside chairs. New York was gorgeous at night; no matter how long you lived in the city, you were taken aback by the views. On long DC nights you ached for this view, the sound of the city that never sleeps, even the horrible smells. 

“Thank you.” You grabbed the stem of the wine glass from her, your fingers brushing against each other. You pretended it didn’t make your stomach tingle, reminding yourself this was still your boss's wife. 

“Anything for my favorite congressional aide.” She settled across from you and took a long drink from her glass. You made it a point to look away from her lipstick stain on the rim. 

“Speaking of that. He’s polling higher than-” 

Natasha cut you off abruptly with the wave of her hand. “No offense, honey, but I don’t wanna talk about tonight. I just wanna spend time with you.” 

“Me?” A laugh bubbled out of your chest, her gaze piercing. “I mean, I’m flattered, but why?” 

“Why not? You’re the smartest woman on his team, you’re young, gorgeous,” She slipped the last word in there as if you’d make no notice, “I like surrounding myself with powerful, important women. You had to have noticed how outnumbered we are at every event by now.” 

“Of course, it’s something I’ve noticed. It’s glaring.” You laughed, a shrill, unsexy laugh. “Oh, I love my job, I do, but it’s so insufferable. No, I don’t care about golf, no, I’m not gonna smile at you, yes, I know how to do my job.” 

“Right! I mean, I’m nothing but the dumb hot wife; no one bothers remembering I have multiple PhDs. Or a very successful career outside of the man I married.” She groaned. 

Finishing off the bottle of wine, both of you had relaxed around each other, you even looser lipped than before. Between the buzz in your head and the way her eyes lingered on yours, it was a dangerous combination. Both of you are rambling about what it’s like to be a woman in this business. You learned about her hobbies. Her pet cat, whom she swore was the devil reincarnate, and her sister, whom she needed to call more. You told her about her family, confiding that it’s not easy to date with this job. 

She shifted in her seat at this topic, legs crossing each other as she leaned in across the table. “Is that what happened in your last relationship? He couldn’t hack a powerful woman?” 

“Well, she was in the business. I think that was the problem. There could only be one powerful woman in the relationship. There was no space for me in her world. It was always a competition.” 

In your furious rant, you missed the way her eyes narrowed on you, as she was a hunter locking onto her target. Leaning back into the chair, she kept her eyes on you, shamelessly letting her eyes roam over your figure. 

“I think she was an idiot. For letting you go. I mean- fuck she’s missing out.” 

At her words, you can’t stop the speed at which your head turns to look at her. Her nonchalant posture, her dress riding up her crossed legs, the fabric showcasing her glossy legs. An absolute dream of a woman, sitting across from you, telling you that your ex was missing out. Forgetting the fact that she was still your boss’s wife, you let yourself succumb to the words that had been sitting on the tip of your tongue all night. 

“You know who’s really missing out? Your husband. There’s no way I’d let you out of my sight looking like that.” 

She was silent for a moment, her eyes still locked onto yours. With every second that passed, you feared you had just ruined the night, made her uncomfortable, or something. This was all washed away the moment she sat up a little, her signature smirk back on her lips. A deep glint in her eyes as if you said just the words she's been waiting on all night. 

“And what would you do? With me in your sight that is?” She asked, her legs shifting. No doubt to alleviate the gentle ache between her legs. The same one that was growing between your own. You couldn’t believe you were actually doing this, flirting with danger in so many ways. 

“I think whatever you tell me to do.” You decided on, downing the last bit of drink from your glass. “I’d have you on that beautiful bed in there. In that million-dollar shower, or even right here with my knees digging into the concrete..”

“What makes you think I don’t want you to tell me what to do?” Her voice was hoarser than before. 

“Oh come on, Natasha..” Setting the glass down, you leaned forward. “No one tells you what to do. Not unless you want them to. And even then you’re still in control.” 

“If I asked you to get on your knees right now. In that.. Beautiful dress and crawl over to me on your hands, you would?” The question lingered in the air; she sensed your hesitation. 

She never once sat up, simply uncrossed her legs slowly, letting her dress rise over her thighs. There she sat, her legs wide open, revealing nothing underneath except her bare, glistening cunt. Suddenly, the lights of Manhattan were nothing compared to the sight before you. She knew exactly where you were looking, falling right into her trap like honey to a bee. 

In record time, you were shifting your dress out of the way, letting your knees hit the scratchy ground. The alcohol flowing through your veins finally numbs all discomfort as your hands follow, crawling around the table. Neither of you broke eye contact when you made it between her legs, her head nodding in a silent ‘yes’ as your hands came up to grab her calves. Running your hands up her soft legs, watching her take her bottom lip between her teeth again. 

“What do you want?” You cocked your head to the side, acting oblivious as she writhed underneath your touch. 

“I want that pretty mouth on me. I want you to make me cum for the whole city to watch.” She rasped out, In no time, you attached your mouth to her heat, letting your tongue swipe through her folds. 

“Fucking. Delicious. Knew you would be.” You mumbled before diving back in, sucking at her lewdly, making a mess of your face. The noises she made got lost in the sounds of the city, groans of your name, and encouraging words. The closer she got, the filthier the words. 

“You fucking like that, don’t you? Eating your boss's wife's cunt for the-fuck-whole city to see.” With her broken moan, all you could do was nod into her soaking cunt, speeding up your movements. Drunk on the wine and the taste of her on your tongue, you could barely see straight. 

“Make me cum. Make me fucking cum.” Her final whimpers as she gripped your hair in her hands, pulling tightly on the strands to suffocate you between her legs. Never letting up on your movements, as she kept a hold on you. Too focused on making her reach her peak, you didn’t notice the soft sound of the balcony door opening. 

There, Bucky Barnes stood in all his glory, watching as his congressional aide ate out his wife at a feverish pace. Natasha’s eyes met his in a knowing smirk, continuing to grind against your face. It wasn’t long before she was cumming all over you, her grip on your hair faltering as she held the side of the chair. She cooed at you gently, praising you softly. When you pulled back on your knees, you nearly jumped out of your skin seeing Bucky’s looming presence next to you two. 

“Oh my god-” You breathed out, sobering up almost immediately at the sight. Natasha made no move to cover herself, and Bucky looked more turned on than angry. “I’m so fucking sorry. Oh my god.” Jumping to your feet, you steadied yourself, ready to throw yourself off the balcony in shame. 

Bucky lunged forward, his hand pressing against your lower back to steady you. “Whoa. Calm down.” His voice was deep, a little slurred from the drinks he was also throwing back with the boys earlier. He reeked of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. 

“I can clean out my office on Monday. I’ll report to-” 

Bucky cut you off once again, unfazed by the whole ordeal. “I’m not firing you.” He assured you, his hand coming up to smooth your hair softly. You were beyond taken aback. Here you were helping his wife cheat on him, yet he was looking at you as if you hung the moon. 

“But-”

“But?” He said, his hand moving down to your face, wiping a little bit of Natasha’s release off the corner of your mouth. He popped his thumb into his mouth, moaning softly around the digit. “God that never gets old. Tastes fucking fantastic, doesn’t she?”

You were almost frozen in your spot; it felt like you were living one of your wildest, dirtiest dreams. Before you could get any word out, Bucky was speaking again. “Can I get a taste?” 

He leaned in closer, his lips mere inches from yours. All you could do was nod, with permission, his lips pressed to yours roughly. His tongue immediately slides into your mouth as if he were trying to pry the taste out of your mouth. You could barely believe your life, here you were making out with your boss while his wife’s cum was on your tongue. The same boss you fantasized about riding in the back of the House Chamber when meetings ran long. His tongue deliciously prodding your mouth. 

“Don’t hog her. I didn’t even get to kiss her yet.” Natasha’s voice broke both of you from the kiss, standing up behind you two.

“She’s the greedy one,” Bucky said with a smirk, letting his hand fall from your hips. You couldn’t even be mad at him, because he wasn’t wrong. You wanted both of them so badly, at the same time. In all the ways you could. “Should we take this inside? Talk a little bit.” 

“What’s going on?” You let out a breathy laugh, sitting on the corner of the bed while the couple close the door and kiss each other softly, as if this were a normal greeting. 

“Well, honey. I like to get what I want. This time, Bucky just insisted I share.” Natasha said with a wicked grin, Bucky behind her, pulling the zipper down on her dress for her. 

“Not that I’m not down. Because I very much am, but Isn’t this.. h-hugely inappropriate?” You managed, trying your best not to focus on Natasha’s bare skin as her dress fell to the floor. Completely nude, she turned around, helping Bucky shrug off his jacket. 

“Technically. But if we made you uncomfortable, you can leave at any time. No repercussions, full severance package.” Bucky assured you, while Natasha just tsked. “She’s not gonna leave. Not after she was crawling against the concrete to get a taste of me.” 

“This is insane.” You whispered, mostly to yourself, as Bucky’s shirt fell to the floor. “Mr. Barnes, how do you know I want you? What if I just wanted your wife?” 

“Don’t act like all those late nights in the office, you weren’t imagining me bending you over my desk,” Bucky said nonchalantly. The blood rushed to your cheeks at this, knowing there were times the two of you brushed hands too much. Or when his gaze lingered on you too long. “Just didn’t think you’d go after my wife first..” 

“Oh someone’s mad they didn’t get me first. Jealousy isn’t a good look. ” You smiled up at him. His eyes only darkened more at your words, his bulge becoming more apparent in his slacks. 

“Got you there.” Natasha said, gliding onto the bed with you, coming up behind you. “Maybe you should apologize to us, Barnes. Leaving your poor aide and ailing wife all alone to smoke cigars with people who don’t even like you.” She moved your hair to the side, pressing soft kisses on the newly exposed juncture of your neck. 

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He said, his voice going low as Natasha’s hands ran over your chest, nipples perking up through the thin fabric of your dress. 

“You’re gonna have to do more than that, James.” She purred into your ear.

 Turning towards her, you pressed your lips to hers, finally getting a chance to taste her lips. Her lipstick was no doubt getting all over your face, but you cherished it, your hands coming up to her chest, finally getting a chance to touch her properly. Her hands reached behind you, helping slip the straps of your dress off your shoulders, exposing your chest to the cool hotel room air. It wasn’t long before you were both naked, legs intertwined, lips still messily kissing each other. You could hear Bucky shuffling around the room. 

When you finally looked up, he was down to his boxers, and three drinks lay out on the table for you all. He cleared his throat, still standing at the edge of the bed. “You ladies mind if I join?” Ever the gentleman. 

Natasha just looked over at you, giving your breast a gentle kiss. “Would you be okay with that, Y/n?” She asked, both of them dripping in sensual kindness. 

Nodding, you watched as Bucky got on the bed, slowly crawling over to you both. “Let us both know if there’s anything you need or want. We stop at any moment, just say the words.” He spoke, grabbing Natasha’s hips, roughly pulling her closer to him. 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” You nodded, leaning up on your elbows to watch the pair as they embraced. Kissing and fondling each other with a passion that can only be learned through years of marriage. The love was palpable between them, but it was also the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. The way Bucky pretended to be in charge, the way Natasha let him. 

Soon his boxers were off, his large cock springing out and slapping on his toned abs. You had to hold off the gasp on the tip of your tongue, Natasha’s eyes sparkling at you when she kissed alongside his length. Your legs were squeezed together, attempting to alleviate the throbbing that had been there since your moment on the balcony. 

Bucky’s prosthetic arm reached over and gripped your thigh gently, pulling you closer to him. “We didn’t forget about you.” He promised, shifting himself to lie on his back. “Get on.” He said, gesturing to his face while Natasha readied herself, straddling his hips. 

“Come on, baby.” She whined, helping you to hover your dripping heat over his mouth. His stubble is already prickling the inside of your thighs. The position had Natasha in front of you, ready to kiss and grab her at your will. 

“I said, get on. Don’t hover. Suffocate me, honey. “ Bucky tsked at you, his hands finding your legs to help push you down. He made contact fast, his tongue swirling into your entrance immediately. Your hands gripped Natasha’s, unable to take your eyes off her as she slowly slid down onto his cock. Watching where he slipped inside of her had you pulsing on his tongue. Both of your moans harmonized together as you used him for your own pleasure.

“Kiss me,” Natasha begged, her tits flying as she bounced slowly on him. Who were you to deny her? Your lips met hers in haste, hands gripping her chest with each movement. 

“He’s fucking good, huh, baby?” She asked, watching how your eyes were rolling in the back of your head each time he took your clit into his mouth greedily. 

Nodding, you can’t help but move your hand down her body, finding her own bundle of nerves and rubbing small circles there, “So fucking good.” 

“How does it feel knowing this is- oh baby- all you’re good for?” She stumbled over her words with a particular harsh thrust of his hips. He mumbled something incoherent into your cunt, only spurring you to grind your hips harder on his face. This seemed to only turn him on more, his hands coming up to pull you even closer to him. 

“Wanna cum with you.” You admitted to her, all three of you, a tangled, sloppy mess. Lipstick covering both of your faces, Bucky suoffoacting under the weight of you both, not as if he wanted to be anywhere else in the world. It wasn’t long before you were both coming undone, you nearly falling off his face when your orgasm hit, trembling so hard. Natasha came gracefully again for the second time that night, her eyes rolling in the back of her head while he fucked her through it. 

Once you were tapped out, you rolled onto the bed with him. Bucky took this as his chance to sit up, gripping his wife’s shoulders and fucking up into her so harshly the whole bed was shaking. His feet on the bed, nothing but the sounds of his hips rutting into hers. 

“This is what you needed, huh? To be fucked silly by us?” He groaned, his hand coming up to grip her hair harshly. Watching them had you reaching down between your legs again, rubbing small circles on your puffy clit. 

A third orgasm ravaged Natasha, which had her nearly slapping her husband across the face in pleasure. Both of them rough, nails scratching, teeth biting, and hair pulling. By the time she was done, Bucky’s cock was glistening with her release, still standing at attention. 

“Your turn..” Natasha said with a breathy smile, her skin flushed with a glow. 

“Are you sure?” You asked, suddenly nervous at the prospect of actually fucking your boss. She assured you it was fine, your attention now locked on Bucky, who gave you a soft smile, his hand pumping himself slowly. 

“Fuck.” You mumbled under your breath, crawling on your knees over to him, mouth attaching to his cock. You were aching to get a taste of both of them, swirling your tongue around him. Savoring the taste of both of them. He couldn’t handle much more, and soon he was pulling you off with a gentle tug. 

“Hands and knees.” He ordered, to which you easily obliged. Natasha was lying next to you, a lazy look of love in her eyes as she watched you two. You could hear Bucky fumbling around with a condom messily, stuttering when he kept fucking it up. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve used one of these.” He said sheepishly, Natasha laughing at him. 

“I’m on birth control. And clean. It’s in my employee medical records, not like you’d have looked at them, but-” Natasha cut your anxious rambling again with a gentle kiss to your lips. 

“You want him to fuck you raw? Feel that tight little pussy? Might even let him come inside, huh?” She whispered, as if it were a secret for just the two of you. Nodding pathetically, she looked back up to Bucky as he threw the unused inside-out condom to the floor. Lining himself up with your fluttering cunt. 

Once the tip was nudging inside, you were already falling apart, barely holding yourself up on your elbows. With each thrust, he inched in more and more, stretching you out beyond belief. “Holy f-fuck.” You almost screamed the moment his hips met yours. 

“He’s so fucking big. Can see him here.” Natasha spoke, her hands moving around your stomach, hovering gently over your clit, helping you adjust to him. As soon as you were okay with him moving, she moved back, content to watch the show. 

Bucky Barnes fucked like a man starved. His hips were pistoning against yours with a fever that was knocking the breath out of you. You were seeing stars as your hands gripped the sheets. One hand splayed across your back and the other twisted around your hair. Nodding to him in permission as he pulled your hair harder, your back only arching more. 

“Fucking dreamt of this pussy.” He grunted, watching where his cock sank in and out of you, a thick ring of yours and Natasha’s release forming on him. 

A wanton moan left your lips when he hit the spot inside of you that had your mind going blank, all words leaving you. 

“Fucking her stupid baby. She’s drooling.” Natasha’s voice echoed through the pleasure haze you were lost in. 

“Yeah? She likes that, huh?” He winked at his wife, letting his hand move down to your ass, slapping hard enough to leave a welt. This was the final straw for you, being able to do nothing more than moan his name in a warning that you were about to come. 

“Soak this cock, baby. Y-yeah.” Bucky got out, feeling you squeeze and milk him for all his worth. It wasn’t long before he was falling behind you. His hips stuttering messily gave way to this, making you lazily arch into him. 

“Come inside me. Please. I want you to fill me up. Please.” You begged, tears falling from your eyes and drool pooling in the corners of your mouth. A slutty mess, but Natasha thought you were the most gorgeous person to exist. “Taking his load so good. There you go.” She cooed, wiping the fallen tears from your eyes. 

Bucky was not going to deprive himself of this as he came with a deep grunt, his cock twitching inside of you while his release spurted deep in you. Barely holding yourself up on shaky legs, he gently pulled out. Your eyes fluttered shut, but not for long, before you felt a gentle tongue sliding up your abused cunt. 

“I had to get a taste, baby.” You heard from behind while Natasha, with all the gentleness in the world, pried her husband's come from out of you. Eating it greedily until you were shaking from another orgasm. After this, you decided you were spent out. On a high you’ve never been on before, your body relaxed and your mind in the clouds. Finally, succumbing to the tiredness, you fell on the sheets with a soft grunt, the couple joining you by your side.

“What now?” Natasha had the nerve to ask, the second wind hitting her much faster than you and Bucky. 

With a glance between the three of you, it wasn’t seconds later that you all busted out into laughter. The bed shaking with the gentle giggles you all fell into. None of you could believe the situation you all ended up in. Once you caught your breath, you rested your head on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“I think,” you started, taking a deep breath in, “we order room service on Bucky’s dime and try out that million-dollar shower.” 

Popping her head up from Bucky’s other shoulder, she sent you that same devilish grin from earlier, “Oh absolutely, honey.” 

You pushed down the anger at that and did your best to keep your positive attitude. For him.

“Even so, thank you-“ You said to the vendor, handing her cash before you were off to the next stall. “You’re still the best doctor that ED has, hell even the hospital-“ 

“Now you’re just stroking my ego.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Your ego doesn’t need any more stroking.” 

He frowned, “But what if I really liked it?” 

“Anyways,” You nudged your shoulder with his, “You’re a great doctor, Frank. No one can take that from you.” 

“Even if Trinity Santos tries to set me on fire?” he’d asked dryly, his hand finding purchase on your lower back to steer you through the crowd. You were so used to little touches like this from him now, surely they would have stopped making goosebumps rise on your skin, especially in this heat, but no. 

You’d snorted. “Especially then.”

Still, when the day actually came, you found yourself watching the clock more than you meant to. You offered to get coffee with him before, but you were called in early to scrub in. With each agonizing moment that passed, you were anxious to know how his day was going. How he and your sister were going to interact, if they did at all. You’d hear endlessly about it you were sure, and that made your stomach ache. 

With the systems being down half the day, the OR was so backed up that you were dead on your feet. You hadn’t been called down to the ED once, until you were elbow deep in someone’s spine. 

“Dr. Y/l/n,” The nurse spoke, the OR phone up to her ear. “You’re being called down to the ED.” 

“I need 15 more minutes before someone can close up!” You grumbled, your hands steady on the tools as you continued the surgery. 

“She said they don’t have 15 minutes-“ 

“That’s too bad,” You muttered, tossing a bloodied tool on the tray, “Someone hand me the- “ 

You’re interrupted by the OR door opening, Garcia holding up a mask to her face. “Y/n, Langdon needs-“ 

You pause, stepping back to look at your work. “Fuck, can you call-“ 

“Conley’s on the way now.” She assured you, and you nodded, pulling your glasses and PPE off in record time. You barely finished scrubbing out before you were running down the familiar stairs to the ED. 

“Any available Neurosurgeon to ED trauma 1, stat.” Echoed through the intercom as you raced down, cursing the long stairs. 

By the time you made it, nearly skidding into Trauma one, Frank was already at the patient’s head, his hands grabbing his neck for traction.

“Okay, I'm gonna pull on your head. Your job is to try to relax, breathe so we can overcome the muscle spasm.” Frank spoke quickly, sweat beading down his neck. 

You didn’t speak, too in awe as you watched, too afraid your presence would scare him out of doing this. It didn’t take long to piece together exactly what was happening just as Frank started. 

The patient winced, breathing unevenly. The sounds of traction made you grind your teeth together, hoping and praying everything went just as planned. 

“Flexing slightly to the right,” Frank continued, adjusting carefully. “Any change?”

“My legs. They're tingling,” the patient managed.

“Last step,” Frank murmured.  

Everything in the room seemed to hold its breath.

Then. A sharp, audible click.

The patient cried out, body tensing before sagging slightly back against the bed. “I felt that-oh, fuck-”

“Talk to me,” Frank said immediately, leaning closer. “What changed?”

The patient blinked, breathing hard. “I-wait-” A shaky laugh broke through. “I can breathe easier.”

You felt your own breath leave your lungs.

“Any change in your hands? Feet?” Frank pressed, as everyone did a repeat of the reflex tests. 

“Less numb,” the patient said, almost disbelieving as he caught his breath. “Yeah-yeah, it’s better.”

”Talk to me.” Abbot walked in, watching as Dr. Crus threw his gloves off. 

He whistled. “Langdon just reduced a uni-facet cervical dislocation.”

“What?” He responded, no one having caught you at the door yet besides the new resident. “Without neurosurgery?” 

“Technically,” You spoke up, altering them to your presence with pride laced in your voice as you brought your stethoscope to your ears stepping past Frank to the patient. 

“Hi, I’m Dr. Y/l/n. I’m a neurosurgeon here,” You smiled, checking his breath sounds. Langdon is still breathing heavy, his eyes wide as he looks at you still shaking from the adrenaline. “I want a repeat CT, my replacement should be here soon, we can get him prepped for a halo.”

They nodded at your orders, Abbot beside you agreeing. “Can’t believe you did that,” Abbot praised, “Brass balls.” 

Before you could stop yourself, before your brain caught up with your mouth-you looked straight at him, something bright and stunned and a little breathless in your chest.

“Fuck, I can’t either and I watched it,” you said, a little too honestly. You were out of breath, from what you weren’t sure. You could say it was the run, but you’re positive it was from watching a sweaty Frank Langdon pull off the riskiest move you’ve ever seen since you started your fellowship. “That was hot.”

Abbot choked on air, amusement written all over his face.  Someone behind you made a noise that was definitely not professional.

Frank just stared at you. 

Your eyes widened a fraction too late, heat rushing up your neck as reality hit.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. 

The doors opened, and the transport team flocked over to you all. “S-saved by the transport team.” You awkwardly laughed, stepping to the side to call up to the OR and inform the chain of command. 

You watched Frank step out of the room, only deciding to follow him once the room was cleared out. 

He leaned against a cart parked alongside the wall for a second, like his body was finally catching up to what he’d just done. His hands were still unsteady, adrenaline lingering in the fine tremor of his fingers, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. But there was something else there too, something brighter. Pride. Relief. The kind that settled deep, as he’d just clawed his way back to himself. 

You slowed when you reached him, taking him in fully now. The sweat at his temple, the flush still high on his cheekbones.

“Frank-” you started, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He turned toward you immediately, and for the first time, there was no hesitation in his eyes. 

He crossed the space between you in two quick steps, one hand coming up to your jaw, warm and a little rough, grounding and unsteady all at once. His other hand found your wrist, like he needed to anchor you there with him, and then he kissed you.

His mouth was warm, a little desperate, like he wasn’t sure if this was real or if he was still riding the high of the trauma, of your voice in that room, of the way you’d looked at him. There was a sharp inhale between you, your body reacting before your brain could even catch up, your free hand gripping at his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

You kissed him back just as hard, parting your mouth open for him without even asking. The world faded around you two, it didn’t matter that you were both clinging to each other in the middle of your workplace. Nothing mattered except his lips on yours. It was everything you’ve wanted and more. 

Months of almosts, of lingering looks, of tension stretched too thin, of moments you both pretended not to notice, finally snapped. It poured into the way your lips moved against his, into the way his hand tightened slightly at your jaw, into the quiet, shaky exhale he let out when you leaned into him instead of away. Your hands pulled at him frantically, like he’d slip through your hands at any given moment. 

Then-

“Langdon, honey.”

You both froze, pulling your lips away from each other frantically. 

Dana stood a few feet away, arms loosely crossed, a knowing look on her face that said she’d seen enough to fill in the rest.

Frank blinked, like he was being dragged back into the real world against his will.

“I just got a call from upstairs,” she went on, far too calm. “Were you supposed to get a urine screen and turn it in by 8:00 tonight?”

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck. Yeah-I was.” He glanced back at you, still a little dazed, like he hadn’t fully come down from either high yet. “Can you tell them I was in a trauma?”

Dana raised a brow, clearly entertained. “I’ll pass it along.”

He nodded, distracted, already turning back to you like he couldn’t quite leave it there.

And before you could even react, he kissed you again.

Shorter this time, but no less certain. Like it was something you two had been doing for years. 

“I’ll find you later,” he said, voice low, like it was a promise more than a plan.

Then he was gone, jogging down the hall, leaving you standing there with your pulse still racing, lips still tingling, everything in you just slightly off balance.

”So,” Dana started, reminding you of her presence before you brought your fingers up to your lips, already missing the feeling of him. It must have been a sight, you standing there flushed, your lips red. 

“Uh, I just-“ You almost giggled, feeling weightless on your feet. “I don’t- Uh. I’m sorry you had to see that.” 

She made a noise, a wide grin on her face. “I’m glad he has you, kid.” Is all she says before she’s off. 

You slide back up the stairs to the OR, your head in the clouds as you finish your charting before you’re packing up to go home. The entire time your fingertips are buzzing with adrenaline. Just moments before you were dragging on your feet, and now you’ve never felt so alive. 

The air outside the hospital was hot enough to make your bones feel heavy, the kind that fogged your head whether you wanted it to or not.

You spotted him immediately in the ambulance bay, his bag slung over his shoulder.

He was pacing slightly, hands shoved into his pockets, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that everything had settled. The adrenaline hadn’t fully left him yet, you could see it in the way he moved, the restless energy, the way he kept glancing toward the doors like he was waiting for you.

When he saw you, he stilled. Then he started toward you, mouth opening like he was about to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You closed the distance and kissed him, taking him off guard just like he did to you earlier. 

Your hands found him first, gripping the front of his shirt as you pulled him in. He made a soft sound against your mouth, surprised for half a second before he kissed you back, just as quickly, just as sure. His hands came up to your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting for you to do exactly this.

You were, embarrassingly, completely gone for him. And he wasn’t much better.

He pulled apart first, a whine almost breaking from you before you realized where you were. 

His forehead nearly brushed yours, a crooked, slightly breathless smile pulling at his lips. “So,” he murmured, voice still a little rough, “if all I had to do was perform a risky spinal procedure to get you to kiss me..”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

“…I would’ve done it weeks ago,” he finished anyway, clearly pleased with himself.

You raised a brow, a smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, you have jokes now?”

He nodded, a little smug, a little lighter than you’d seen him in a long time. “Apparently.”

Your expression softened just slightly as you looked at him, really looked at him again, past the teasing, past the adrenaline.

“You were incredible today,” you said, quieter now. “That wasn’t luck. That was skill. Skills I don’t even see on my floor sometimes. You were fucking incredible, and I’m not just saying that. I would never risk a patient’s life for you to show off infront of Robby.”

Something in him shifted at that. “Yeah?” he asked, softer.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your thumb brushing absently against his sleeve. “You should be proud of yourself.”

Your gaze flicked back up to his, something warmer creeping back in, something just a little more dangerous as your praise settled deep in his bones. 

“Take me home, Dr. Langdon,” you added, voice dipping slightly, a hint of a smile playing at your lips. “And I’ll spend the night reminding you just how good you were.”

His breath hitched, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight. 

And then he laughed softly, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back just enough to reach for his keys. “Yeah, I can do that.”

He didn’t let go of your hand as he led you to his car.

The windows of his apartment lit up in bursts of color, fireworks cracking through the sky in bright flashes that painted the exposed brick in reds and golds. You were about to praise yourself for helping him pick the apartment again, before you were pushed against the closed door. 

He kissed you again before you could even take your jacket off properly, like all his restraint had already been used up in the hospital hallway and neither of you had any left. You stumbled back into him with a quiet breath of his name, hands already finding his shoulders, his neck, anywhere you could hold on.

“Frank,” you whispered against his mouth, half-laughing, half-unbelieving. “We’re really doing this.”

His answer was another kiss, deeper this time, certain in a way that made your chest ache. His tongue slips into your mouth, turning you into putty in his hands. 

“I’ve been doing this in my head for months,” he murmured between breaths, like the confession slipped out before he could stop it.

Your fingers caught the hem of his top and tugged upward. He let out a quiet breath against your mouth, breaking just long enough to help you pull it off, the fabric landing somewhere behind him. 

“When you opened the door shirtless that one day,” You panted, lips only parting once more so he could pull your own shirt off your head. “I thought I was gonna jump your bones, right then and there.” 

“Yeah?” He panted, dragging you into the bedroom with his hands on your hips. “I would have let you.” 

“I know.” You smirked, stepping out of your pants after he unbuttoned them for you. It was perfectly orchestrated, as each of you undressed the other in a slow hurry. Both left in nothing but your underwear by the time your back hit his bed, his mouth attaching itself to your neck. His large hands fumbling around with your bra, whispering questions along the way. 

“This okay?” He panted, gripping the clasp with one hand. 

You nodded, letting him pull the fabric off of you and throw it across the room as if it personally offended him. 

“God, you’re so beautiful.” He whispered, his hands reaching up to cup your now exposed tits. He went to squeeze them, before pausing, his red lips parted. “Wait-“ 

Your eyes fluttered open. “What?” 

“This isn’t just sex to me,” He rambles on, his hands still on you making you giggle. “I really like you, no fuck I love you. I know I love you, and I know I don’t deserve you. I need you to know that, this isn’t just sex to me. I’m in love with you, and you’re laughing-“ 

You release your lip you were biting down on, laughs tumbling out. “I-I’m sorry, your love confession with your hands on my tits was really beautiful. It was just making me l-laugh.” 

His eyes squinted playfully, “Oh you’re gonna get it, Y/n.” 

“Yeah?” You smiled, “I love you Frank Langdon, I’ve probably loved you longer than I’m willing to admit. This isn’t just sex to me, either.” 

Then his lips were on yours again, his fingers squeezing your hardened buds gently enough to make your back arch in his hold. He mouthed down your neck, to your chest, bringing one of the buds into his greedy mouth, his tongue sliding over it expertly. He released it with a messy pop, proceeding to do the same with the other, all while you breathed out his name.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He sighed, kissing down your stomach, stopping just above the hem of your underwear. His slender fingers slid into the sides of them, pulling them down your legs in one swift movement. 

“God.” He moaned, pressing open-mouth kisses everywhere, but where you were aching for him. It wasn’t until you were dripping on the sheets, that his tongue finally connected to your soaked heat. His tongue flattening against your clit, his fingers curling inside of you expertly. 

“Knew you’d be good at this,” You sighed, leaning back into the pillows. Feeling like you were on cloud nine. “Right there, that’s so good baby.” 

He nodded into your heat, his nose nudging at your clit with each frantic nod. You could feel his hips grinding down on the comforter, desperate for his own relief. Your praise only makes his cock twitch even harder in his boxers. 

Your hands were in his hair, pushing him even closer to you as the lewd wet mouth sounds echoed off the walls, drowning out the fireworks that raged outside. With each curl of his fingers and caress of his mouth, your legs were shaking around his head. 

“Frankie..” You whined out, all but grinding on his face as your high creeped up on you. 

“Cum on my face,” His voice was muffled, slick with your arousal, “Please, please.” 

His desperate moans against you were the final straw, as you came with a loud gasp. His fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, keeping you still as his tongue coaxed every last drop of your release from you. 

You were gone in an euphoric haze, only coming to once he slipped his fingers out of you. His tongue still kitten licking you through your aftershakes. 

“Fuck,” You shivered, “Made me cum so hard.” 

“Can I do it again?” He asked, pulling your sensitive clit into his mouth, sucking gently on the bundle of nerves. 

You nearly squealed, “F-fuck, I need you to fuck me. Please.” 

He let your clit go with a pop, a devilish grin on his face as he leaned up from between your legs. On his journey to crawl back up, you watched his face twinge in pain for just a brief moment. 

“Is your back hurting?” You asked, brows suddenly furrowed in concern. 

He looked down at you, guilty, still catching his breath. “I might have tweaked it today, picking up a kid and running him into the ED.” 

“As fucking hot and noble as that is, you should have told me.” 

“I took a few Advil-“ 

“On your back.” You ordered, sitting up slowly. 

“No, it’s okay-“ 

“I’m not asking again, Frank. Lay down so I can ride your cock and tell you just how fucking hot and noble you are.” 

You didn’t have to ask again, not as he settled himself comfortably in between the pillows. The large bulge in his boxers stared at you before you helped pull him down. His large cock springs free, hitting his stomach with a pop. Your mouth watered at the sight, your hands wrapping around him. 

“Fuck,” He hissed, “B-baby, I’m not gonna last long if you do that-“ 

He was cut off by your lips wrapping around his tip, long enough to feel his salty pre-cum bloom against your tongue. 

You popped off of him with a smirk, crawling back up to straddle his hips. 

“You’re gonna kill me, woman.” His voice was shaky, his fingers finding your hips. 

“So dramatic,” You teased, hovering over him for a moment as you found an angle that worked for you two. 

His lips were wet with spit, eyes shining into yours as you slid down on him. The stretch had you mewling, Frank’s hips nearly arching off the bed as he felt your wet heat squeezing around him. 

“S’fucking big,” You sighed, your eyes closing shut in euphoria.

“Ffffuck.” Was all he managed to get out, as you began moving ontop of him. His hands were gripping your hips, watching you ride him like your life depended on it.

“You’re so, fucking hot,” You managed out, “The hottest, most competent fucking person I’ve ever met.”

“Jesus, d-don’t say things you don’t mean.” He hissed through gritted teeth, his hands coming down to rub jagged circles on your clit.

“Does this not feel like I mean it?” You teased, a little breathlessly, letting your movements slow a little. Feeling every inch of his cock brushing against your sweet spot.

“No, no it does,” He practically whimpered, “Fuck, don’t stop.”

“No plans to.” You brought your lips down to his, letting his hands guide your body pliant in his hands.

It was hot and frantic. Two people chasing their highs, hands gripping sweat lined skin harshly. It was too much, and not enough at the same time. It wans’t long before your legs were shaking, and his stomach was tensing.

“You gonna cum?” He asked, pulling you even further down onto him. Using his feet as leverage to keep the speed from where your thighs trembled.

“Y-yes,” You almost sobbed, right on the edge.

“Then cum baby, wanna feel you cum around me.”

That was all you needed, and as soon as you came he was following behind. Unable to yell out anything except your name as he spilled his release deep inside of you.

Your shaky body fell onto his chest, as he pulled you into his arms.

“I love you.” He whispered, his warm hands holding your sweaty back close to him as you both caught your breath. 

You still weren’t used to hearing him say it, it almost still felt like a dream. “I love you, too.” You whispered back, pressing a sloppy kiss to his shoulder. 

“I could get used to this.” His chest rumbled underneath yours. 

“Me too.” You sighed blissfully, running your fingers through his chest hair.

”Tomorrow, let me take you out for breakfast before work? Then I’ll take you out for a proper date this weekend?” 

“Sounds like a plan,” You beamed, “I’m ordering the biggest steak now that you’ve got a job again.” 

His hands find your sides, tickling you for that comment. The two of you end up in a playful war of pushing and tickling before you’re under the sheets, your hands on his shoulders as he makes up for lost time.

That was the start of your relationship with Frank, there was never a proper conversation on what the two of you were, but he made it very clear you were his girl. 

You lived in his space more than your own now. Your bag is permanently half-unpacked in the corner of his bedroom, your shampoo in his shower, your favorite coffee mug somehow becoming his favorite too. It was easier that way. Trinity still refused to be in the same room as him, still got that tight, angry look whenever his name even came up, so you learned to exist around it. To slip out after shifts, to end up here instead of home.

But there were so many close calls, and it was way too tiring to hide such huge parts of your life away from each other. You’d have to bite down on your lip to avoid smiling sheepishly at him across from the ED, or you’d have to catch yourself from saying his name while you were retelling stories. 

With Frank and Trinity working together again, you’d think this would have her more willing to forgive him or hear him out, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. She wouldn’t let it go, no matter Frank’s instant professionalism. 

It was another night of you skipping going home. You were half sprawled across his couch, legs tangled with his, your head tipped slightly to the side as his lips moved slowly along your neck, unhurried, warm, familiar in a way that still somehow made your breath catch. Even after the past month. 

“Frank,” you murmured, half a warning, half nothing at all.

He hummed softly against your skin, not stopping, one hand resting at your waist like he had no intention of letting you go anywhere. His teeth bit down to nibble on the sensitive flesh, just as your phone started ringing.

You groaned immediately, not even bothering to check who it was. “Ignore it.”

“It could be important,” he said, though there was a smile in his voice, his mouth still brushing your skin.

“It’s not,” you insisted, already knowing. “If it’s the hospital I’m telling them to go fuck themselves.”

The phone kept ringing, as his lips moved faster and his hands slid underneath your shirt. 

You sighed, blindly reaching for it off the coffee table, not even moving away from him as you answered. “What?”

“Wow,” Trinity’s voice came through sharp and unimpressed. “Love you too.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, hyperaware of Frank’s closeness now. 

“Hi,” you corrected, trying to sound normal although Frank had absolutely not stopped, his lips now just below your ear, his breath warm enough to make it very difficult to focus. 

“What are you doing?” she asked immediately, suspicious.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

Frank huffed out a quiet laugh against your skin, and you elbowed him lightly without thinking. Making him catch his breath.

Trinity paused on the other line.  “…Why did that sound like you hit someone?”

“I didn’t,” you said, glaring at Frank as he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, clearly entertained.

“Mhm,” she hummed, unconvinced. “Anyways. Since you’re once again not home, at some mysterious man's house I have to call you to tell you what your friend is doing.”

You already knew where this was going. Frank’s name had become that of Voldemort, now during her aggressive rants he was known as ‘your friend’, after a small banter over a fall patient a few weeks ago. She had settled with the fact that you were friends, but that doesn’t mean she was okay with it. 

You leaned your head back against the couch, closing your eyes as Frank’s fingers traced absent patterns along your side now, quieter but no less distracting. 

“Trin, come on.” You whined. “Really?”

“It’s been weeks and he’s still following me around like a puppy dog, like he’ll flash his eye and I’ll forget everything. I don’t give a fuck if he’s a senior resident. He still hasn’t told anyone what he did, but I’m supposed to go around and learn from him?”

“You want him to embarrass himself even more?” You clarified, avoiding Frank’s silent staring. “Passing drug tests and accountability isn’t enough for you? The entire ED already knows about this addiction.” 

“But not about the drugs-“

”All the attendings know, he’s being heavily monitored. He pisses in a cup every day. He’s clean, and from what I hear he’s trying to do right by you.” 

She scoffed, “Are you talking to him about me?” 

Frank’s shaking his head, but you keep talking. “He‘s asked me what he can do to get you to forgive him. He’s really trying, sis.”

“I told him what to do, but he hasn’t done it.”

”I’m not doing this tonight,” you said quietly, “You’re not gonna make him embarrass himself in front of his coworkers for your own twisted enjoyment.”

There was a pause on the other end.

”Whatever, when are you coming home?” She dropped it, but you knew this wasn’t the end. It never was. 

“Uh unsure, I’ll text you.” 

That was that. Your phone was thrown on the side of the couch, your head falling back into the cushions. 

“You hear that?” You sighed.

”I heard enough,” he said quietly.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping for a second before coming back to him. “She’s not wrong to feel the way she does, but she’s taking it too far. She knows it, she's just too angry to see it right now.”

“I know,” he nodded easily, no defensiveness, no edge. “She has every right to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you said immediately, a little sharper than you meant.

His expression softened at that, something warm flickering through. “I know you don’t.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly, tucking one leg under you. “It just..sucks. Feeling like I have to split myself in half depending on where I am.”

His hand slipped from your jaw down to your arm, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns there. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

Your brows knit. “Frank-”

“I mean it,” he cut in gently. “I don’t want to come between you and your sister. Ever.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “She’s important to you. That matters more than… anything going on with us.”

Your chest tightened slightly at that.

“Hey,” he added softly, catching your expression. “That’s not me saying this doesn’t matter.”

“I know,” you said, quieter now.

He held your gaze for a second, steady, honest. “I’m trying to do this right,” he admitted. “At work, with her, with everything. I keep it professional. I give her space. I don’t push. I teach and guide her as I would any resident. I try to have small talk, we both joked around the other day before she realised it was me.”

You nodded slowly. You’d seen it too, even if Trinity refused to.

“She even asked me a question the other day,” he went on, a faint, almost self-conscious smile pulling at his mouth. “Didn’t bite my head off when I answered, so I’m counting that as progress.”

You huffed out a small laugh at that, some of the tension easing.

“I’m not expecting forgiveness,” he added. “Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever. But, I’m not gonna stop trying to earn it.”

Your eyes softened, something warm settling in your chest again.

“She’ll come around,” you said quietly, though it sounded more like hope than certainty. 

“Maybe,” he shrugged lightly. “And if she doesn’t..I’ll deal with it. Because her sister means the world to me.”

There was a pause. Then his gaze shifted, just slightly, something lighter creeping back in. “You okay?”

You studied him for a second longer before nodding, a small smile tugging at your lips now. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Then you tilted your head just slightly, the mood shifting back, something playful slipping in again.

“Okay,” you said, softer now. “You can go back to kissing me.”

That earned you a real smile.

“Gladly,” he murmured.

Over the months you got sloppy, coming into work together, kissing in the elevators. Wearing his shirts around the house, dodging the millions of questions from everyone on who the mysterious boy was that you were seeing. You were almost 99% sure that if you still worked in the ED there would be a betting pool on who it was. You weren’t entirely unconvinced that Garcia, Trinity, and Dennis didn’t have their own bet going on. 

“You know,” Frank smiled, leaning against your shoulder in the elevator, “We’ve been dating for three months and I don’t think I’ve ever seen your place.” 

“It doesn’t help that my roommates think you’re evil.” You teased, guiding him to your door. 

Trinity and Dennis made it clear they’d be out super late tonight. Javadi just moved into her first apartment, and they had a plan to help her decorate and get so drunk they’d all be forced to stay. This gave you the perfect chance to show Frank your place and bring some of your clothes home. Frank started getting the kids on weekends soon, and neither of you wanted to overwhelm them with your presence right away. 

He lingered in the doorway for a second longer than you expected, like he was taking it in before he even stepped fully inside. Then he kicked the door shut behind him and let himself wander.

Frank moved slowly through your space, fingers brushing over the back of your couch, the edge of a cluttered bookshelf, the framed photos that lined the wall-pausing just slightly at each one like he was piecing together parts of you he hadn’t gotten to see yet. There was something softer in his expression, something quieter than the usual teasing ease he carried.

“It’s so you,” he said again, more to himself this time, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“Okay, Home and Gardens,” you shot back over your shoulder, already gathering a pile of clothes as you headed toward the laundry. “I’m gonna throw a load in. Make yourself at home.”

“Dangerous thing to say,” he murmured.

You just shook your head, disappearing down the short hallway.

The apartment settled into a comfortable quiet in your absence, the hum of the washer starting up, the faint city noise bleeding in through the windows. When you came back out a few minutes later, he’d made himself exactly that.

His shoes were kicked off by the door, his socked feet leaning against your ottoman as he sank into your couch. In his hands was one of your coffee table books on spine surgery, complete with multicolored tabs and sticky notes with your notes in the margins and printed off studies shoved inside.

“That’s not exactly light reading,” You teased, nudging his legs with yours as you walked over. 

He didn’t respond. Instead, his fingers brushed over one of the sticky notes, bright yellow against the page, your handwriting unmistakable.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I noticed.”

Something in his tone made you tilt your head slightly.

“What?” you asked.

He glanced up then, eyes softer than you expected. “You wrote all over this,” he said, like he was still processing it. “These notes, you’ve been researching drug-free pain methods for chronic back pain?” 

Your stomach dropped just slightly.

You stepped closer, leaning over the back of the couch to see what page he was on, and immediately felt heat creep up your neck.

In your messy scrawl were your notes in the margins of printed studies you had shoved into the book. 

Limit opioid exposure post-acute phase.

Look into nerve blocks + targeted injections??

PT early, movement over immobilization.

CBT for chronic pain? Pain perception retraining??

Then circled in bright green highlighter. 

There has to be a better way.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god,” you muttered, immediately reaching for the book. “Frank, jeez that’s just work stuff-“

His hand caught your wrist before you could pull it away.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You stilled, heat creeping up your neck, suddenly very aware of how exposed you felt.. “It’s just.. stuff I’ve been looking into,” you rushed out. “With everything going on-the opioid crisis, the long-term dependency rates. I just.. I don’t like how often meds are the first and only answer. There’s got to be better aftercare. More sustainable options.” 

In the brief silence you continue rambling, “Spine surgeries, particularly lumbar fusions, have some of the highest rates of long-term opioid dependence,” you start, your voice a little too quick, a little too full, like if you stop you might have to sit in what you just said instead. “I do, what, ten a week? Sometimes more. And every single time I’m writing those post-op scripts, I feel sick about it. Like I know I’m helping them in the moment, but I also know what it can turn into.”

Your hands move as you speak, restless, your mind already ten steps ahead.

“I mean, yeah, prescriptions have gone down, there was like a 28% drop between 2013 and 2019 from neurosurgeons alone, and it’s better now, it is, but it’s not enough. Because I still see it. I see the older attendings who just sign off refills without even looking twice. The pain clinics we send patients to when we don’t know what else to do. The fucking vulture drug reps who show up with merch and free lunch.”

You swallow, your voice softening but not slowing.

“And I keep thinking, there has to be a better way to do it. Something more sustainable. Less destructive. Because I don’t want to be part of that cycle. Not the part of something that’s directly impacted the people I love.”

Your gaze drops briefly, then lifts again, more certain now.

“I mean, one day I want to run a department, right? And if I do, I don’t want to inherit that mindset. I want to change it. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s just how we handle post-op care, or what we prioritize, or how we educate patients, it’s all just me-“ 

“Thinking about it?” He finishes for you, his eyes locked onto yours. 

You swallowed, nodding once. “Yeah.”

”I love you,” he said.

Just like that.

You blinked, breath catching slightly, your grip on his hand tightening.

“Frank.”

“You don’t have to say it back, I know we’ve said it before already, “ he added quickly, a faint, almost self-conscious smile pulling at his mouth. “I just, seeing that, the way you think about things, the way you think about patients, about me. I couldn’t not say it.”

You shook your head, stepping closer without even realizing you were moving. Something in his expression softened instantly.

“I love you too,” you said, quieter now, but steady.

The breath he let out was almost a laugh, almost in disbelief. 

“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed the confirmation.

You smiled softly. “Yeah.”.

He leaned in, his hand coming up to your cheek as he kissed you. Your hands gripped his neck, your book and notes falling to the floor. Neither of you could care as he deepened the kiss, pushing you gently against the couch. Want licked deep in your gut, you’ve never needed him more than you did in that moment. 

He pulled away as his hands slid under your shirt, “Say it again.” 

“I love you,” You whispered, your hands reaching down to tug on his belt loops. ”I love you so fucking much.” 

“God,” His voice was gravely, thick with lust as he fumbled with your shorts. “I love you more.” 

“We should’ve been saying it more the whole time.” You sighed when his fingers slipped your underwear off.

“Agreed.”

He didn’t even bother pulling his jeans off, instead just pushed them down his thighs. It was full of sloppy kisses and heavy touches. There were no words, just soft moans as you frantically pushed him inside of you.

You almost cried from relief when his cock slid inside of you, your arms wrapping around his neck. 

“I love you.” He repeated, because he’d never get tired of saying the words as he thrusted in and out of you. 

You were a frantic moaning mess, the sounds of skin slapping against as you both chased your highs. 

“So good,” You cried out, “I love your cock.” 

”Yeah?” He grunted, “I love this fucking pussy, always so ready for me.” 

It was frantic, his hips moving at a pace that was making you see stars. You were both fucked out, lost in the moment. 

This was why neither of you heard the key slipping into the lock of the front door. 

Trinity wasn’t a prude. Far from it.

Growing up in the Santos house meant privacy was more of a suggestion than a rule, and modesty had never really stood a chance. Doors were barged through, moments were interrupted, and embarrassing situations were usually met with laughter instead of apologies. This didn’t change as you got older, you’d seen her and Garcia in more ways than you would have ever liked to. 

So when she pushed open the apartment door, already mid-laugh about something that had happened with Dennis, and the unmistakable sounds hit her ears-breathless, rhythmic, not subtle moans, she didn’t even freeze. Quite opposite to Dennis, who was late in realizing what was happening, trying to pull her back from walking in. 

“Fuck, right there.” You cried out, the couch creaking against the hardwood. 

She just laughed.

“Oh my god-” she choked out, doubling over slightly, hand bracing against the wall as the realization hit. “Oh my god, are you seriously fucking on our couch?”

She took another step forward, still laughing, ready to just walk into the kitchen as if nothing huge had happened. 

Until a head popped up over the back of the couch.

As soon as she saw Frank Langdon’s sweaty head pop up, she froze. 

You weren’t even fully aware of what was happening, until Frank’s hips stilled and you heard your sister's unmistakable shrill laugh. 

“Oh my fucking god.” You whispered, pushing Frank off of you so you could slip your clothes back on. 

Frank looked just as panicked, shoving his dick in his pants before dragging a blanket up in a completely useless attempt at decency while you dressed.“It’s not what it looks like,” he said, immediately, and very, very stupidly.

You turned your head so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, squinting at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

Trinity blinked. “Oh?” she said, voice dangerously calm now. “It doesn’t look like you were just-what-balls deep inside my sister on our couch?”

Frank opened his mouth. “Well, I mean that’s exactly-”

“Shut the fuck up, Frank,” you snapped immediately, mortified, scrambling to pull on your clothes properly now.

The look on Trinity’s face was harsh enough to kill 

“Well from where I’m standing,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut, “it looks like my sister is screwing a guy who just blew up his entire life and thought, ‘Hey, why not take hers down with it?’”

“That’s not what this is,” you shot back immediately, anger flaring just as fast as the humiliation had.

“Oh, really?” she laughed bitterly, turning on Frank now, all of it redirecting to him like a loaded gun. “You should be in fucking prison.”

“Trinity-” you started, but she didn’t even look at you.

“You’re a fucking joke,” she spat at him, her voice shaking with something deeper than anger. “Does the Hippocratic oath mean nothing to you? How many patients did you almost kill, fucked out of your mind? What are you fucking her for her prescription pad?” 

“I never once worked while high,” Frank said, firm despite the way his jaw tightened. “And don’t speak about your sister like that, I would never ever-“

“Don’t fucking speak to me,” she snapped immediately, stepping toward him like she might physically push him out. “Not in my fucking house.”

“Hey! It’s my house too,” you cut in, stepping between them without thinking.

“Fuck you!” she fired back, eyes blazing as they landed on you. “Is this who you’ve been sneaking around with? Lying to everyone? Fucking a married man?” 

“Jesus Christ, Trin he’s been divorced for almost a year now.” You cried out, your arms going up helplessly. “You’d know that if you let that shit from last year, go.”

“You still lied to me! You’ve been lying to me for months about seeing him.”

“I didn’t lie,” you said, quieter but firm. “I just didn’t tell.”

“That’s the same thing,” she shot back.

“No, it’s not,” you argued, stepping closer. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react exactly like this.”

“Yeah,” she laughed bitterly. “Because this is insane!”

Dennis stepped into the doorway, his eyes cast on the ground. An innocent bystander in yet another Santos sister explosion. He had the caution to close the door, to avoid neighbors complaining. 

Frank stepped forward slightly, hands raised just enough to show he wasn’t trying to escalate anything. “Trinity, I know I don’t have a lot of ground here, but I-”

“You have no ground,” she cut him off immediately, her voice sharp. “None.”

He nodded once, accepting it. “That’s fair, but I care about her,” he continued anyway, glancing at you briefly before looking back at Trinity. “And I’m not the same person I was that day.”

Trinity scoffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I don’t. But it’s still true. I’ve been trying to show you at work. I’ve been doing everything I can to get you to hate me less. Because I really fucking love your sister, as keeping this from you has been tearing her apart.”

The honesty in it made her pause for half a second, but only for a half. Her gaze shifted back to you, softer for a split second before hardening again.

“You kept this from me,” she said, quieter now, her eyes glossy and cheeks flushed. “You keep choosing him over me, again and again.” 

“When?” You all but begged, “Have I ever once not been there for you when you needed me?” 

You’re met with a tense silence, that makes you let out a shrill, dry laugh. “You haven’t been there for me. I’ve spent the past 10 months hearing you call someone I love every evil name in the book, because he made a mistake. Even when you didn’t know about us, you knew he was my friend. I couldn’t even tell my sister that I was falling in love, do you know how fucked that is?” 

“It’s not my fault you have a savior complex,” she added, quieter but somehow sharper, like she knew exactly where to aim it. “There are plenty of people around here, go fuck Abbot again. Anyone else in that fucking hospital and you choose him?”

”Wait, Abbot?” Frank asks, his brows furrowed.

Everyone ignores him. 

“That’s what you think this is?” you asked, your voice dropping, something colder settling in. “You think I’m with him because what, I have some psychological need to fix him?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” she fired back. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like self-respect.”

“He didn’t ask me to stay,” you said, your voice tightening. “He didn’t manipulate me into this. He told me I could back out at any time, in a heartbeat to avoid this, but I chose him. I love him!” 

“And that’s the problem!” she snapped. “You chose him. Knowing everything.”

“Yes,” you said, louder now. “I did, and I will keep choosing him because he’s more than his mistakes. Why does that bother you so much?” 

The silence stretched too long, too tight, like something was about to snap clean in half.

You swallowed, your chest rising and falling unevenly, and looked at her, really looked this time. Past the anger, past the sharp edges she was throwing at you like weapons. Your little sister. 

“Why does that bother you so much?” you asked, your voice quieter now, but somehow cutting deeper than the yelling had. “That I’m happy?”

Trinity blinked like she hadn’t expected that, like anything you could’ve said, that wasn’t it. You could see on her face where she was bracing for more yelling, more insults.

“What?” she scoffed, but it came out weaker than before. “That’s not-“

“Yes, it is,” you pressed, stepping closer despite the way your hands were still shaking. “You’re acting like this is about him, but it’s not just about him. You’re mad that I’m with him, yeah, but you’re angrier that I’m happy with him.”

Her jaw clenched. “Don’t twist this-”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you cut in, your voice breaking just slightly now. “I’m asking you why it’s so hard for you to just.. let me have this.”

You saw a flicker on her face.

Trinity’s expression shifted, her anger stuttering for half a second before it came back sharper, like she was trying to cover whatever that was.

“Because it’s him,” she said, like that alone should be enough.

“But it’s me,” you shot back immediately. “It’s me choosing someone who makes me feel good, who makes me feel safe, who-” your voice caught, but you pushed through it, “-who loves me. Trinity, why would I give that part of myself to someone undeserving? You know me better than that.”

Frank stayed completely still behind you.

“I don’t get why that’s something you can’t stand,” you said, softer now, the hurt slipping through no matter how hard you tried to hold it back. “Why is it so impossible for you to just be happy for me?”

Trinity let out a shaky breath, shaking her head like she was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.

“I am happy for you,” she said, but it sounded strained, forced. Her voice was still too loud, too angry to be believable. 

“Trinity. You’re mad.” 

“I’m being protective! I’m being cautious!” 

“From what?” you challenged. “From someone who treats me well? From someone doing endless work to be better?”

“You don’t know that,” she shot back.

“I do,” you said, firm now. “Because I’ve been there. Because I’ve seen it. Because I know him in a way you don’t.”

“No,” she shook her head, her voice trembling now despite how hard she tried to steady it. “You know the version of him he wants you to see.”

“And you know the worst day of his life,” you fired back. “That’s it. You met him on his worst day and decided that’s all he’ll ever be.”

Her eyes searched yours again, but this time there was no anger driving it, just something heavier.

“You’re gonna get hurt,” she said quietly.

The words softened the air just slightly, Dennis taking an audible breath while Frank shifted on his heels. 

You exhaled slowly.

“Maybe,” you admitted. “That’s always a risk. I’m not asking you guys to be best friends, just civil. Respectful.” 

There was another silent pause, before she threw her bag on the counter. “Whatever, whatever.” 

You didn’t even think before stepping toward her, arms lifting instinctively like you’d done your whole life.

She immediately recoiled, shoving lightly at your shoulder. “Oh my god, absolutely not-are you serious?” she grimaced. “He was just all over you, that’s disgusting.”

Despite everything, a small, incredulous laugh broke out of you.

Behind you, Frank let out a quiet huff of amusement, which he clearly tried, and failed to hide.

Trinity’s head snapped toward him. “Don’t.”

“Didn’t say anything,” he muttered, holding his hands up again.

Dennis, still hovering awkwardly by the door, looked like he might actually pass out, his gaze darting between all of you like he was watching a live grenade roll around the room. Frank was nudging his shoulder, making sure he was breathing. 

You reached for her again, softer this time, just brushing her arm. “Are we okay?”

She hesitated, eyes flicking over your face, something conflicted settling there.

“I guess,” she muttered. “Whatever.”

It was messy, and things were far from far. But you could work with this. 

“Just-” she waved a hand vaguely toward Frank, not even looking at him now, “get that man out of here.”

“Or he could stay,” you shot back automatically, lifting your chin slightly. “Because it’s my house too.”

She stared at you for a second, like she was debating starting the fight all over again.

Then she made a face, scrubbing a hand down her own face in frustration. “I’m gonna go throw up,” she muttered. “Do whatever you want. But I don’t wanna be hungover so if you wanna fuck crazy style go to his house.”

She turned to walk away.

You moved without thinking, catching her wrist gently.

“Hey,” you said, softer now. “I love you, sissy.”

It took her a second to turn around, and when she finally did, her expression was still guarded, but not as sharp.

“Yeah,” she said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, even though it did. “I love you too. Whatever.”

That was the closest thing you’d get to a resolution tonight, so you took it as a win. 

Dennis made a noise from the doorway that sounded like a man seeing daylight after surviving a natural disaster. “I’m gonna, yeah, I’m gonna go,” he said quickly, already halfway down the hall. “Proud of you guys. Growth. Love that. Goodnight.” And then he was gone.

The door shut behind him, leaving just the two of you.

Frank shifted his weight, glancing down the hallway Trinity had disappeared into before looking back at you, something softer settling over his features now that the storm had passed.

“I can go,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to make this harder for you.”

You shook your head immediately. “No. Don’t, don’t do that.”

“Y/n-“

“I mean it,” you cut in, stepping closer, your voice gentler now. “You didn’t do anything wrong tonight. And I’m not… hiding you. Not anymore. Besides, this is my house.” 

The rest of the night was quieter, slower. The adrenaline wore off, leaving behind exhaustion and something warm in your veins. By the time you both finally collapsed into bed, it felt almost surreal like everything had cracked open and somehow you were still here, still together in a place that was yours. He poked fun at your stuffed animals and happily curled into your overpriced silk sheets with you. 

Morning came gently, sunlight spilling through the windows in soft streaks.

You were still asleep when Frank slipped out of bed, careful not to wake you, tugging on a t-shirt before making his way down the hall. The apartment was quiet, but not empty.

He was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he saw Trinity leaning against the counter, waiting for the coffee pot to finish. 

She glanced over when she heard him, and for a second, neither of them said anything. Then she let out a dry huff.

“Oh,” she said flatly. “So last night wasn’t a nightmare.”

Frank almost smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. You weren’t kidding when you said they were similar. “Nope.”

Another awkward pause.

He moved carefully, like every step mattered, grabbing a set of mugs from the cabinet like he’d been here a hundred times and not at all.  

“I-if you don’t mind,” he said, nodding toward the coffee like he needed to clarify he wasn’t overstepping. “Gonna make us both some.”

“Please do,” she muttered, pouring hers before slamming the pot a little too aggressively back into the machine. 

Silence stretched between them again, not as sharp as before, but still uncertain.

Frank exhaled quietly, bracing himself.

“I meant what I said,” he started, his voice steady but low. “Last night.”

Trinity didn’t look at him. “You said a lot of things.”

“I love her,” he said simply, “There was never any cheating, never any scandal. She was really the only person I had in my corner during rehab. She helped me get settled into my apartment, helped me advocate to see my kids…” 

“You know her. She’s impossible not to love, it was bound to happen.” He trailed on, setting the two steaming mugs down. She watched intently as he made yours just how you liked it, making her brows furrow. 

“I screwed up,” he added, more firmly. “Badly. At work, with patients, with people I care about. With you, especially. What I did was unforgivable, I know that. I live with that every day.”

Her jaw tightened slightly.

“But I’m not that guy anymore,” he said. “Or at least, I’m doing everything I can not to be. I’m not gonna break her heart.”

Trinity scoffed softly, but it didn’t have the same bite as before. “You don’t get to promise that.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I don’t.”

Another pause. “But I can promise I’m not going to be careless with it,” he added. “With her. She’s the best thing I’ve ever had in my life, I can’t fuck that up.” 

Trinity looked down at her coffee, swirling it slightly like she needed something to focus on.

“She’s all I’ve got, she’s all I’ve always had,” she said finally, quieter now. “You get that, right?”

“I do,” he nodded. “More than you think.”

There was another pause, not as tense as the last.

”If you hurt her-“ she started.

“I know,” he cut in gently. “I won’t.”

”No, if you hurt her I’m going to cut your balls off with a scalpel and staple them to your forehead. And trust me, I can get all the equipment, it won’t be hard to do. I’ll do it.” 

She held his gaze for another second, then huffed out a breath, shaking her head slightly like she didn’t know what to do with him.

”No, I believe you.” He laughed nervously. 

“God, I hate that she picked you,” she muttered.

Despite himself, Frank let out a small, quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he said, “Me too. She deserves better.” 

That almost got a smile out of her. Instead, she took another sip of her coffee, shaking her head again.

”You’re still on thin ice,” she warned.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Frank said, hiding his own smile behind the mug. 

You had woken up a few minutes earlier, still warm from sleep and wrapped in one of Frank’s oversized college shirts you’d stolen weeks ago and never properly returned. The apartment smelled like coffee and something faintly burnt, and the sound of low voices drifted in from the kitchen before you were fully awake enough to make sense of it.

“Good morning.” You yawned, padding into the kitchen. 

The two jumped apart, despite already being halfway across the room from each other, and gave you an awkward smile. 

“Jesus-” Trinity muttered. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to enjoy the peace and love in this room,” you said brightly.

Frank tried to recover first, coughing into his hand. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you repeated, grinning wider than he’d seen in weeks. 

Your eyes flicked between them, softening.

“Aww,” you sighed dramatically. “My two favorite people.”

Trinity groaned immediately. “Oh my god, don’t start.”

But you were already moving.

Before either of them could react, you slid between them and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders, pulling them in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Frank immediately started laughing, surprised and helpless against it. His arms looped around your waist, the other one hovering over Trinity’s back like she’d bite.

Trinity made a sound of pure disgust, trying to lean away from the forced group hug. “Stop. Stop, you’re disgusting.”

“Nope,” you said, squeezing them both closer, completely unbothered. “We’re bonding.”

“I hate this,” she muttered, but she didn’t actually move away that hard as she leaned into your hold. Avoiding Frank like he was the plague. 

Frank was still laughing, softer now, like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

”My favorite people,” you said, squeezing them both one last time as you meant it down to your bones. “I love you guys.”

She pulled away with a shiver, “If you tell anyone about that at work, balls, forehead.” She said, glaring down at Frank as she grabbed her coffee to leave.

Frank had pulled you into his side, nodding as if she were his drill sergeant, “Yes, m’am.” 

You couldn’t protect her from everything, no matter how much you tried. When things got hard, and they did, you were always there. A shoulder to cry on, someone to depend on no matter what. When the two of you decided to go to Medical school, the years apart felt wider than they ever had before. You left home before her, graduated before her, and started your neurosurgery fellowship before she started her first year of residency. That’s why the day she matched to PMTC alongside you was one of the best days of your life. 

Trinity moved into your apartment and quickly turned one of the spare rooms into hers. The two of you settled into a good rhythm; both staying up late hours into the night, drinking wine, noses deep in medical textbooks. Eating cheap Chinese food when you were both too lazy to cook. Her first day of residency was upon her, and you were more nervous for her than you were for your own first day. 

“Why do you look like that?” She glared at you from the PMTC parking garage.

You had been an anxious mess all morning, getting ready with shaky hands. “Look like what?” You asked, very unconvincingly. 

“Right….” She trailed off, side-eying you as she hit the elevator button. 

As soon as the elevator jolted upwards, you sighed. “Maybe I’m a little nervous about you meeting all the friends I’ve made here the past few years.”

She was silent, still glaring at you.

“-and I know you got this. I have no worries about that, I just feel like a mother dropping her kid off at school for the first time, you know?”

Trinity wasn’t going to give you any indication that her heart warmed at that, but you knew it did. 

“Just don’t be weird,” She sighed.

”I’m not weird.” You frowned, the floor stopping in the ED. You’d stay on, going a few more floors up to surgery. “Samira knows it’s your first day, so if you need anything, go to her-“ 

“The weirdest,” She gave you a small smile, “It’s gonna go fine. You’re such a mother hen. I love you. Maybe I’ll see you on consults? We’ve never worked together before, it could be sick.” 

Before you could fully respond, she was walking backwards out of the elevator, waving goodbye very frantically as the doors closed shut. “I love you!” You yelled back, before you were met with your own reflection in the elevator doors.  

By the time the first few hours of your shift passed, you had settled back into normalcy, no longer worried about what was happening downstairs, too worried about your own operations. You didn’t even think about it when Garcia waltzed in, hands up in the sterile field

”Butcher barbie,” She taunted, using the stupid nickname Langdon gave you your first month here, “You didn’t tell me your little sister was hot.” 

Your hands stilled from inside the patient's back, your hands still gripping the scalpel from the spinal fusion you were trying to complete. 

“Did you scrub in just to say that?” You sighed, continuing your ministrations while the surgical nurse suctioned for you. 

“That and she dropped a scalpel in my foot.” She laughed amusingly, and you had to pause again, looking up at her. 

“You’re serious?” You gawked behind your surgical mask, “Is my sister still alive?” 

One of the surgical techs giggled, but you were being serious. As long as you’ve known Garcia, you’ve never known her to pull her punches. 

“Little Santos is fine, she’s cocky but good. Just wanted to give you an update.” She laughed, “My foots fine by the way.” 

“Didn’t ask!” You yelled as the operating door slammed closed, sighing heavily. “Let’s focus, okay?” 

The surgery was a success, after the unnecessary interruption. As soon as the patient was sent to post-op, you were on your way into the dregs of the hospital. Your scrub cap is thrown off, and you’re on the elevator down to the Pitt with a handful of protein bars for the new kids. 

“Dana,” You greeted the charge nurse with a grin. 

“Y/n! You’re so much nicer than the other surgical fellow,” She teased, “You here for a consult?”

“Here for the sister.” You smiled, “Have you seen her?” 

She points you towards a room, “She was running around with Garcia last I saw. Try South 11.” 

When you spotted her you smiled, before realizing the frown deep set on her face. 

“How’s it going?”You asked, before she grabs your hands. 

“Can I ask you a question?” She asked, pulling you into a corner. 

You paused for a moment before nodding immediately. “Always.” 

“What would you do if you suspected a doctor tampering with drugs?” She spoke calmly, concern written all over her face.

You squinted, looking over her shoulder into the bustling ED. “Tampering with them? How?” 

“Stealing.” She mumbled, “There’s been drug discrepancies on two cases with this one specific doctor.” 

“Well,” you breathed out, “I’d double-check first before making any accusations. Have Dana check the Pyxis records. If you still have a bad feeling, then go to Robby. If it’s impacting patient care, then I’d do it as soon as possible.” 

“Everyone else keeps telling me to keep my mouth shut.” She scoffed, “I just don’t know how I'm the only one who’s noticed.” 

“Sometimes fresh eyes are what’s needed to see something like that. If it turns out to be nothing, then oh well,” You shrugged, “It’s better to be safe than sorry. No one’s gonna be mad at you for being worried about your patients.” 

She nodded, not quite believing you. “Okay, okay.” 

“Just page me if you need to talk, okay?” You smiled, digging into your pockets. “Oh, and these are for you. And your friends. Are you making friends?” 

With a handful of protein bars, her cheeks flushed, rolling her eyes again. “You said you wouldn’t be weird.” 

She’s walking off before you can protest again, all you can do is sigh. “You’re welcome!” 

-

“Neuro consult in trauma two.” Your phone rang, making you jump up, running down the familiar stairway to the ED.  

“-It doesn't matter! Stupid or arrogant, you need to realize that you are a beginner, which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn because so far today, the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.” Langdon’s voice rang through the trauma room. He was taking a breath to speak more before you stepped inside. 

The room went silent, Langdon’s brows furrowing at you. His irritation was slowly morphing into something different, a fondness for you that made Trinity’s blood run cold. “We didn’t need a surgical consult, Y/n.” 

“It’s Dr. Santos, thank you.” You spoke through gritted teeth, “Dr. Langdon, would you like to explain to me what’s going on here?” 

Trinity couldn’t stop the soft smile that fell on her lips at the sight of you. “Hey, sissy.” 

The tension in the room got thick, Frank’s eyes widening. 

“Y/n, Dr. S-Santos,” He corrected, not used to not calling you your first name or some nickname he conned for you, “I didn’t know she was your sister, I didn’t even put two and two-“ 

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut him off, the words sharp enough to sting. Your eyes burned into his, unflinching.  “You don’t talk to residents like that, you don’t talk to anyone like that. Period. How disrespectful and unprofessional can you be?” 

Robby stepped in before Langdon could stutter out another response, or before it got a whole lot uglier between the two of you, “Dr. Langdon, is the patient stable?” 

Samira spoke up, “Temp's 102. Just about to take her out of the ice.” 

“Proceed,” Robby nodded, “Langdon. A word, please.” 

Langdon looked like a fish out of water, mouth agape, looking back and forth between you and Robby. If looks could kill, he’d be dead on the floor of trauma one. As soon as the two men disappeared out of the door, you spun to look at Trinity. 

“Are you okay? What the fuck happened?” You asked, sending Samira a soft albeit awkward smile. 

“He’s had it out for me all day; it’s fine.” Your sister shrugged, a sad, defeated look in her eyes that only you would know. 

“It’s not fine,” You assured her, “He had no right to speak to you like that. He’s a dick, a hot dick, but still a dick-“ 

“I hate straight people.” She rolled her eyes. You ignored her and continued. 

“-I’ll talk to him. I’ll even make him cry for you. Just give him a chance to apologize. I know him, he’s a good guy underneath the god complex.” You promised her, grabbing her hand gently. 

“I doubt it,” She gave you a fake smile, “Your consult is in trauma two, glad for the mix-up though.” 

“I’ll see you later, okay?” You smiled before slipping back on the floor.

After you finished up with your actual consult, you were nearly back up the stairs before you heard the stairwell door slam open.

“Dr. Santos,” A familiar voice yelled down the hall, sneakers squeaking against the freshly mopped floor of the stairwell. 

You paused on the stairs, sighing loudly as you spun around to look down at the disheveled man. “Dr. Langdon.” 

He looked embarrassed, good.

Here he was, a friend of yours, spending all day picking on your sister for making mistakes he no doubt made as an R1. A close friend, you’ve met his wife, been to his house, and the two of you have had dinner together at least once a month, drinks with Garcia. You thought you were closer than this, but you guess not. 

“I’m sorry for what you overheard. I didn’t mean for it to come across the way that it did. I was too harsh, I know, but I stand by the fact that she has a problem with authority and needed to be called out on it. She put multiple patients at risk today.” He tumbled the words out, as if at any moment you’d spin on your heels and track back up the stairs. 

“I shouldn’t be the one you’re apologizing to,” You frowned, “And you, as her teacher, should be the one assessing and calmly redirecting her behavior. Not berating and demeaning her in front of patients and her colleagues on her first fucking day.” 

“Y/n, I’m so sorry-“ 

“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to her.” Your voice dropped, quieter now but far more dangerous. “I don’t need her hating you, because unfortunately, I do happen to like you, Langdon, but that’s my sister.”

You stepped down one stair, closing the distance just slightly. “I will burn your life to ash if you’re mean to her again. Do you understand?” 

“Understood,” he breathed, tension draining out of him in one shaky exhale.

You didn’t bother watching him walk away, content to finish this day as soon as possible. 

It seems your luck has worn out, when hours later everyone’s called down to the ED for the MCI of PittFest. 

“Langdon's gone,” Garcia muttered, both of you elbow to elbow in the elevator, taking turns tying each other's trauma gowns. 

“What do you mean?” You asked, tapping her shoulder to signal you were finished with hers. 

“Ask your sister,” She scoffed, “She’s been on me all day about snitching to Robby about a resident. Probably for the way he’s been treating her.” 

The conversation from earlier rang around in your head, a doctor diverting pills. The yelling, the argument. Suddenly, the elevator felt hot as it jolted to the ED floor. Chaos was happening before you, emergency disaster bins were being prepped, and the residents were getting briefed. 

“Oh, am I glad to see you.” Walsh grinned, joining the surgery trio as you all stood there. 

You caught Trinity’s eyes through the crowd, nodding softly. She nodded back, a small reassurance that she was okay before the surge of patients. 

“Who’s surgery primary?” Abbot asked, Walsh taking the neon colored vest. 

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown!” She beamed, making you and Garcia roll your eyes. 

Even as everything was unraveling around you, you couldn’t help the nagging feeling as you thought of Langdon. 

“Are we gonna need me down here you think? They’re set up to triage in the ICU.” You informed Robby, after he finished his MCI playbook, to the residents. 

“We’re down two residents, we need all hands on deck. If they need you upstairs it’s okay, but I need you down here.” He huffed, already getting pulled away before you could reply. 

The patients rolled in, and rolled in, and didn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon as you got into the thick of it. You were communicating with your neurocrit ICU team upstairs, while running around wherever you were needed.

“Dr. Santos!” a nurse called, snapping your attention back. “We’ve got a head wound, hypotensive!”

“I’m on it,” you answered immediately, stepping in as the gurney rolled toward you. Blood soaked through gauze, vitals tanking fast. “Walsh, I need an OR for a head and neck case.” 

She talks on the walkie for a moment before nodding. “Send them up, keep them coming.” 

You lose track of time, in between running up and down four flights of stairs every few minutes and patients getting passed around, your head is spinning. 

“Langdon! You’re back!” Mel speaks. At this moment, you look up, your hands still palpating a rigid abdomen, barking out a diagnosis before moving on to the next. 

“Is this ever gonna fucking end?” You mumble under your breath, just for Abbot next to you to scoff. 

“Don’t jinx it.” He teased, passing you over the tube you needed. 

“Dr. Santos, I have a carotid injury that popped a clot!” Langdon yells, making you switch hands with Abbot as you glide over. 

“What the fuck?” you bit out, the words sharp between your teeth as you worked beside him, gloved hands steady even as everything else in you burned. You pressed down, helping him control the neck clot, your movements automatic and precise, practiced, infuriatingly in sync with his.

“What?” Langdon shot back, not even looking at you, eyes locked on the field as if he focused hard enough, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.

“Don’t ‘what me,” you muttered, low and dangerous. “I heard all about your extracurricular activities.”

He didn’t stop working, but you felt it. The slightest shift in his posture, the tension that crept into his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened just enough to give him away.

“Y/n, I don’t know what Santos told you-”

“Santos didn’t tell me anything,” you cut in immediately, sharper this time. “It wasn’t hard to piece together.”

Your hands moved without hesitation, passing instruments, adjusting pressure, keeping the patient alive while the conversation lingered. 

“Have you ever done a Rummel tourniquet?” You asked, to which Langdon said no. You cursed, calling out Abbot to come assist you as best you could. 

“Hardest part is getting the tubing in,” You assisted, watching Abbot glide the tubing in almost perfectly. You worked night shifts during your first rotations here, so you and he always worked well together. 

“Clamps.” Abbot hummed, as the two of you worked in tandem. “You got this from here?” He asked, but someone was already calling him away. 

“Very cool,” Langdon said in amazement. 

“You, go.” You nodded, letting Abbot run off as you let Frank finish up under your guidance. 

“You lied to me,” you said, quieter now, but thick with emotion. “I asked you about your pain every week. Every week, Frank. We could’ve tried something else. There were options.”

“Not now,” he said under his breath, the words strained, almost breaking. “Y/n, please. Not now.”

Your laugh was humorless, breath catching somewhere in your chest. “Yeah. You’re right,” you muttered. “There’s never a good time, is there? Never fucking has been for us.” 

“Dr. Santos, we need you over here!” a voice called from across the bay, saving you from Frank’s wide blue eyes staring down at you. 

You lift the gauze, watching the artery barely trickle out any blood. “One unit of saline and he’s next up for the OR, tell Walsh.” That was the last thing you said to him before you were on your feet, tracking through the blood that now littered the floor of the OR. 

“What’s going on?” You asked Mel, as you threw your soiled gloves on the ground putting a new pair on as you ran with her. 

“We need a burr hole-“ She starts, stopping when you see Samira plunging a syringe into the patient's head with the assistance of your sister. 

“What the fuck?” You nearly laugh, startled in shock. 

“Draining the ICH with an EZ-IO. 40 cc's out so far.” Samira says calmly. 

Bridget is nearly gasping, “Like she said, what the fuck?”

“There was a case report in the 2022 "Journal of Emergency Medicine," Samira said, discarding another syringe of blood.

”Patient survive?”

”Went home neurologically intact.” She said, finishing up. 

Whittaker had the portable ultrasound on his head again, “Optic sheath is back to normal.” 

You watch in astonishment as Mel orders them to intubate, and your head is pounding. Still in shock. “I’ll let neuro know to have an OR on standby.” 

“Incredible save,” Bridget says, and you can’t help but scoff. 

“If he survives, this is a fucking mess for me to fix.” You grumble, checking his pupils one last time before helping transport him up to the OR.

By the time you were scrubbed out of surgery, your back ached and the bright lights of the ED were making your eyes water. 

“Your sister did a fucking REBOA, by herself.” Abbot said, passing you with a slap on the shoulder, “Is your whole family insane?” 

“What the fuck? Yes,” You sighed,. “Samira did a burrhole with an IO drill, that’s what I just got done with..” 

“Bet it fucking worked, didn’t it?” He grinned, a nasty smirk on his face. 

All you could do was roll your eyes, “Nope, keep your weird medical foreplay away from me. Go find Samira.” 

“Okay, all you butcher barbies are the same.” He teased, his hand coming down on your shoulder once again. “But seriously, you did good down here, kid. We needed it.” 

“I’m telling Walsh you said that!” 

The air outside the ambulance bay was cold enough to bite, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat inside the ED. You were thankful to escape the stench of blood and death, letting the night air fill your lungs. You barely made it three steps past the doors before you stopped, hands braced against your hips, chest rising and falling as you tried to breathe something steady back into yourself.

You heard him before you saw him, and you could feel his presence looming behind yours. 

“Y/n, wait-“ He hollered, making you stop and leaning your head against the cool brick wall. 

His hair was damp with sweat, and it shifted in odd places like he’d been running his hands through it too many times. His jacket hung open, one side half off his shoulder, and there was something frantic in his eyes that you’d never seen before. Not in all the years you’d known him had you seen him this frazzled. 

“Frank,” You breathed out, “Not now, please.” 

“I didn’t- fuck, I didn’t mean for you to find out like that,” he rushed out, voice uneven, like every word was tripping over the next. “I was gonna tell you, I just, there wasn’t a good time, and then today-”

“You’re right,” you cut in, your laugh sharp and humorless. “There’s never a good time to tell your friend you’re stealing drugs from the hospital, Frank.”

Your words cut him deep; he didn’t bother speaking. He just stood there, his eyes wide. 

“I’m your friend,” You frowned, ignoring the pathetic tears that threatened to leak from your eyes. “At least I thought I was, but today you treated my sister like shit, and now I find out you’ve been using, stealing, behind my back?” Your head shook slowly, disbelief etched into every line of your face. “It’s like I don’t even know who you are.”

He hated that that was what hurt him the most. Not getting caught, no.

It was this, the way you were looking at him like he was a stranger. 

“No, no, Y/n,” he said desperately. “You know me. You know me. I never once worked while high, not once. I’ve just been managing it. The withdrawal, it’s-” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face, and you caught it then, the tremor in his fingers. The sweat dripping from his neck. “You know how fucked up my back was. You were the one who did my consult. You still ask about it-”

You remember the imaging, the nerve compression, the way he’d clenched his jaw through pain most people wouldn’t have been able to stand. You knew the way he brushed it off, the way he minimized it, the way he kept showing up anyway. That’s why you asked him about it all the time. 

“I know I’m not your doctor,” you shot back, voice breaking just slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “but you couldn’t even be honest with me? We could’ve done another MRI, steroid injections, or PT. I would’ve helped you, Frank. I have helped you.”

”I would’ve gone to bat for you,” you continued, tears finally spilling despite the way you tried to blink them back. “Do you get that? I would’ve fought for different treatments, pushed consults, sat in every appointment with you if I had to. I would’ve carried some of this with you.” Your voice dropped, shaking now. “But you didn’t even give me the chance.” 

He looked like he’d been gutted, and all you could think was, good. He deserved to feel a fraction of what you were feeling right now. 

“I thought,” He cleared his throat, “I thought if I could manage my withdrawal, then I’d be fine. That no one would have to know how weak I was.” 

“And that’s supposed to make it better?” You let out a dry laugh through your tears, wiping at your chin with your palm. “You know the stats, you studied them. You know the risks of opioid use. That hack should have never even prescribed them to you anyway!” 

 “Abby’s gonna leave me,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. “She’s gonna take the kids. You have to tell Robby not to report me.”

If there was any doubt he was using, that was gone now. The franticness in his eyes, it was textbook signs of benzodiazepines withdrawal.

Your expression fell, something heavy settling behind your eyes. “Frank..”

“Y/n, please.” His voice cracked, and before you could stop him, his hands closed around yours. His hands were shaking in yours, barely able to hold your hands in his. 

“I can fix this,” he kept going, grip tightening just slightly, as if he held on hard enough, you wouldn’t walk away. “I just need time. If Robby reports it, I’m done. My license, my job, everything. Everything I’ve worked for. Abby won’t stay if I lose everything. She barely-“  He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “You know me. You know I’m not…this isn’t who I am.”

You did know him. Better than most people. Closer than you probably should’ve been. Late nights, shared cases, quiet conversations that blurred the line between colleagues and something more complicated. You’d been invited into his life in ways most people never were: dinner at his house, the faint scent of espresso in his kitchen, the artwork from his kids on the walls. You’d met Abby, his wife, seen her laugh at his bad jokes and roll her eyes at his stubborn streak. 

And somewhere deep inside, despite yourself, you found yourself jealous of the woman. A pining so deep in your chest you couldn’t look him in the eyes for a few days after. You’d never let him know. That was the rule you had carved into your own heart long before your friendship teetered on the edge of something unsure. Now here he was, using that against you, like a knife pressed to your chest. 

“I don’t know who you are anymore, Frank.” Tears are still pouring down your cheeks, “Maybe I never did.” 

His face crumpled just slightly, panic flashing behind his eyes. “No, no. Y/n..” 

You took a deep breath and looked at Frank one last time. “Get better, Frank,” you said, before letting your hands fall to your sides.

Turning back toward the hospital, you passed Robby in the hall. His eyes caught yours immediately, sharp, attentive, unflinching. He didn’t need words. He saw the remnants of tears, the red rim of your eyes, the tension still coiled in your shoulders. You simply shrugged, the faintest tilt of your head enough to say: he’s out there, he knows what I’m talking about. It wouldn’t be your problem to stand in the fallout of him. 

By the time you made it into the parking garage, Trinity and Dennis were standing by your car. 

“Hey,” Trinity smiled, “So, I told Huckleberry he could live with us. Is that cool?” She said, Dennis, turning to her with wide eyes as to say, ‘you didn’t ask her?’ 

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, “With the day I had, I don’t even care. Welcome, Whittaker, we have a guest room with your name on it.” 

“Well, that was easy.” Trinity breathed out, opening the car door. 

“He looks like a sad little mouse; it’s hard to say no.” You grumbled, following behind them.

-

You didn’t hear from Frank in months, but this was not without mention of him. Trinity made her stance on him very clear, over the pasta you spent the last few hours cooking. Even though months had passed, he was brought up almost every single day. 

“He stole drugs from the hospital, Y/n. He needs to be in prison,” her fork pausing mid-air, eyes narrowing over the edge of her glass. 

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. “So you don’t think people should get rehabilitation?” you asked carefully, choosing your words as if they could build a bridge she wasn’t willing to see yet.

Her fork clattered against her plate. “He betrayed everyone! He was mean to me, to you, to the patients. He stole from the place that trusted him. That’s not something you just fix with rehab.”

You pushed your glass aside, elbows on the table, voice measured but soft. “I know. I’m not minimizing what he did. He made a mistake, a huge one. And I’m not defending the stealing or the way he treated you. At all. But people are more than their worst moments. I thought you’d understand that more than most people.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Her eyes squinted at you, and suddenly, your appetite was long gone. 

“Trin, don’t.” You sighed, “You know what I mean.” 

“No, I don’t.” She spit out a dry laugh, “It sounds like everyone is making excuses for another privileged white man who’s gonna get away with something because he’s the prodigal son of the Pitt.” 

“I’m not saying he was perfect, or that he doesn’t have a lot to answer for,” you continued, softer now. Doing your best to defuse the situation. “But he’s taking responsibility. And honestly? That’s all I can ask. If not for him, then for his wife and kids' sake.” 

Trinity shook her head, muttering under her breath, but the tension in her shoulders eased ever so slightly. She didn’t completely understand, probably never would, and you didn’t blame her. 

The first letter came a few weeks later, your name scribbled on it with a shitty ballpoint pen. When you saw the Rehab mailing address, you let it sit on your nightstand for a few days before you finally dared to open it. 

Dear Y/n, 

Would you believe me if I said I don’t think I’ve ever written a letter? That’s embarrassing, isn’t it? Even more embarrassing than writing this.. I don’t even know if you’ll read this, if these words are burnt in your fireplace or shredded, but I’d like to believe you don’t totally hate my guts. 

Withdrawal is worse than I could have imagined. We see it in the ED all the time: the shakes, the sweats, the nausea, the delirium. It’s so much worse than the physical symptoms. The emptiness, the guilt, everything I’ve done, and I can’t even get high to outrun it. My back hurts worse than it ever has before; the bed here isn’t helping. It’s horrible, but I know it’s what I deserve. I deserve worse for what I did to you, what I asked of you. You deserved better than that, and I am so sorry. You deserve better than a sloppily written letter on rehab stationery.

I have a long way to go, that much I know. I got my 60-day chip the other day, and all I could think about was that I wanted to show you, wanted to talk to you about it. I only have one more month here, and I almost don’t want to go home. 

I’m trying. I’m working, every single day, to be better than the man I was, and to make this mean something.

If you don’t want to write back, I understand. I’ll take that. I wouldn’t forgive myself either. I know Trinity doesn’t wanna hear it, but please tell her that I’m sorry too. She’s the first of many people I have to make amends to once I’m out of here. 

I miss you 

I hope that you’re okay. 

-Frank 

You set the letter down, fingers lingering on the scribbled signature of his name before it fell to the table. The images of Frank curled up on the cold linoleum tile of some rehab bathroom, withdrawing all alone, had a horrible pit rise in your chest. You almost wished you could hate him, but there was no point in even trying. 

Dear Frank, 

While I did contemplate dramatically burning your letter, I couldn’t. I also don’t hate your guts. Am I still mad at you? Yes. Devastated? Absolutely, but I could never hate you, Frank Langdon. 

I’m sorry withdrawal is hard; it’s probably only going to get worse, but I’m proud of you. It’s not easy to check yourself in, even harder to stay. Make sure you’re doing your stretches as best you can there; hopefully, they’re able to give you some lidocaine patches. If this were jail, I’d put money on your commissary (do they have that there?? lol). When you get out, I’ll give you a full workup. I have a friend in Seattle who knows a specialist, and we’ll figure it out together. Even if I have to drag you there myself. 

I’m doing okay. The hospital feels empty without you. Trinity isn’t going to accept your apology, I’m just letting you know. I don’t blame her; it’s a tricky situation. She’s settling in well; she’s a damn good doctor. You two are more alike than either of you is willing to admit. 

 I’ve befriended Mel on your behalf. She stalks me around like a puppy dog now when i’m in the Pitt. I love her. She asked me to send you her best wishes if I spoke to you. Just so you know, you have two people in your corner here. 

I thought about stopping by your house to see Abby and the kids. Maybe drop off a casserole (white people love that, don’t they??), but it felt weird. She was never really my friend, but I just want her to know if she needs help with the kids or anything, that I’m here. 

I miss you too, Frank. 

-Y/n 

PS. Your handwriting is shit, it’s like you were born to be a doctor 

Your hand cramped when you were done, flexing your hand once the pen was down. You threw the letter into your purse, making a mental note to stop at the post office on the way into work tomorrow morning

The next letter came a few days later. 

Dear Y/n, 

It was really, really good to hear from you. Probably the most exciting thing that’s happened here. Except for that one time a patient paid a pizza driver to sneak her in booze. That’s a story for in person. 

 Sorry about the handwriting. I tried to make it more legible this time. I appreciate you more than I could ever say. My back problems are the least of my issues right now. This isn’t something I wanted to tell you this way, but I’m not allowed many calls. The kids are doing well, but they’re confused as to where Daddy is. I can’t write much more about it without crying all over this letter. I miss them so much. 

I think Abby is leaving me. She won’t say it outloud, I guess I respect her not asking for a divorce over the 30-minute monitored phone call I get a week. Our marriage was on the rocks before this, the age-old trope of staying for the kids. I really don’t know what to do. There’s so much I wish I could talk to you about. 

Anyways. 

I have a sponsor now, an older biker-looking dude. He’s nice. I start NA meetings the first week I’m out. Which is soon. My parents visited last week, and that was nice. They didn’t seem totally ashamed to have me as their son. Mom only cried twice. 

Thank you for befriending Mel. She’s one of the few good ones. I’m glad Trinity is doing well too. She’s gonna give Robby a run for his money. 

I don’t deserve you. 

-Frank 

Your heart dropped into your stomach reading his words. It made you queasy to think of Frank all alone, his family falling apart and him knowing it was all his fault. There was nothing he could do, forced alone with his thoughts and his ever-persistent back pain. 

It was almost embarrassing to grab another piece of paper, to start yet another letter addressed to his rehab. 

Dear Frank, 

Fuck, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what else to say. 

I hate that you’re going through this right now. I hate that your kids are confused and you can’t fix it right now, because I know that’s the part that’s eating you alive. I wish I had something better to offer you than words on paper, but that’s all I’ve got for now.

You don’t have to figure out your whole life right now. You just have to stay sober today. And then tomorrow. That’s it. One day at a time. 

I’ll be here for you, whatever you need. 

Besides you’ll have to see me when you’re free, I NEED to hear this story. I wish I could visit you, I’d smuggle you in those fancy gummy bears you always sell the vending machines out of. 

To lighten the mood, Trinity had a patient yesterday who, and I quote ‘had no idea how three tiny Christmas tree decorations ended up his ass’. Sounds like something all you ER docs would love. 

Just, make sure you’re taking care of yourself. That’s all I ask. 

-Y/n 

It was even more embarrassing how often you found yourself checking the mail. Ignoring Trinity’s side eye when you’d all but elbow her out of the way to sort through it before she was able to spot the Rehab postage address. The last thing you needed was her dragging you into another endless argument about the same dried-up topic. 

-

You were awoken with a jolt, your phone ringing loudly next to your ear. If someone was making you in on your one off day, you were surely going to scream at them. You almost throw it out of the window before you see Frank’s name flashing against the screen.

Suddenly, you can’t grab the phone fast enough, slapping it to your ear. “Hello?” 

“H-hey,” He stutters out, and you can already imagine his hands frantically pulling at his hair. “I’m so sorry to wake you up like this.” 

“S’fine. Are you okay?” Your voice is still thick with sleep as you sit up, snow still falling slowly outside your window. 

“Yes, I just uh. This is really embarrassing, but I just got released from rehab. It’s occurred to me that no one can pick me up.” His voice is small, “Abby’s really busy with work, and I don’t like my parents driving in this weather.” 

“Frank,” You breathe out, already slipping out from underneath your covers. “Text me the address, okay?” 

“Thank you.” He sounded on the verge of tears. 

“I’ll see you soon, Frankie.” You said softly, before throwing on enough clothes to protect you from the mid-December Pittsburgh weather. 

It’s a long drive, one that gives you time to find that the prospect of seeing Frank again makes you nervous. You hated that Abby abandoned him during this time, and you hated yourself more for hating her. 

The rehab facility came into view slowly through the snowfall, quiet and unassuming. The more snow that littered the ground, all you could think of was the traumas that were soon to be rolling into work in the upcoming days. You brushed that off your shoulder while parking in the visitor parking. Before you could even text Frank that you were here, the doors to the entrance opened. Frank stepped out slowly, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, a Penguins hat pulled low over his ears, his frame just a little smaller than you remembered. 

You didn’t realize you were already moving until your door swung open, cold air biting instantly at your skin as snowflakes caught in your hair and lashes. You barely registered it, too focused on the way his eyes landed on you, like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real. Like you weren’t one of the few familiar faces he’d seen in the past few months. 

“Y/n,” He laughed, “It’s cold, get in the car-“ 

“If you think I’m not hugging you, Frank Langdon, then you don’t know me at all.” You grinned, wrapping your arms around him before he had a moment to process. 

He was warm despite the cold, his arms hugging you back tightly. Like he was sure you’d slip through his hold. You could feel the weight of the past three months. The fallout, the letters, all the things left unsaid. His face pressed harshly into your shoulder, and you caught the familiar scent of him, dulled slightly by the sterile hint of somewhere clinical, but still there. Still him. 

That was always the problem, wasn’t it? He’ll always be your Frank, whether he knew it or not. 

You swallowed hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes as you pulled back just enough to look at him.

“You look...” you started, trailing off, because healthier didn’t feel quite right, and worse definitely didn’t either.

“Like shit?” he offered lightly, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth.

You wanted to tell him he’d never look bad, not to you. Not with his soft blue eyes glistening with unshed tears, or the way his face softened when he looked at you. 

Instead, you huffed softly, shaking your head. “Like you,” you corrected, quieter. Something in his expression softened at that, especially considering the last words you spoke to him in person that night. 

The silence settled softly over you two, even the wind quieting for a brief moment. 

“Come on, before we freeze to death.” You laughed, pointing over to your car. 

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, adjusting the strap of his bag before following you over. You took it from him without asking, tossing it into the backseat, ignoring his protests. 

You pulled onto the road carefully, eyes flicking toward him for just a second before settling back ahead. He was staring out the window, watching the snow blur past, hands folded together like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. Gone was the colorful beaded bracelet he used to wear every day; instead, a brown beaded corded one sat. 

“Thank you,” he said after a minute, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Really, I can pay you-“ 

“Don’t thank me.” You said bluntly, “You called.” 

“You came.”

”Yeah,” You smiled, “I always will for you, you know that, right?” 

“I was sure I fucked that up.” He admitted with a nervous laugh, still wringing his hands together, 

“Never,” You shook your head. 

The rest of the ride was filled with a comfortable silence, small talk, and catching him up on what he’s missed at work the past few months. You could tell he missed it, but there was no way he was ready to step foot back in the hospital. If Robby even let him. 

It felt awkward pulling into Langdon's driveway, even more awkward watching Abby crack the door open. A white-hot flash of anger filled your chest when you pulled the car into park. You couldn’t stop the words from slipping through your lips. 

“She’s home?” 

Frank pauses, looking to where his wife now sat on the porch, looking every way but at your car. An unamused laugh leaves him, “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. “That makes sense.”

“Thought she was busy with work stuff.” You tried to keep your voice steady. 

“Guess not.” 

“And she still didn’t come get you?” The irritation slipped out before you could stop it, sharper than you intended.

Frank exhaled, head tipping back briefly against the seat. “Y/n-”

“No, I’m serious,” you said, finally turning to look at him fully. “You just got out of rehab, Frank. You’d think-”

“I fucked up,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm enough to stop you. His gaze met yours, steady despite everything. “Not her.”

“She’s your wife,” You sigh, his gaze knocking some of the heat out of you, “I just wish she had been there for you, s’all. I think it just irritates me. I know how badly that hurt you. And I understand her point of view; it must have been horrible for her. I don’t know.”

“I wasn’t a good husband,” he said quietly, after a brief pause. 

You frowned, turning back to him. “I’m sure you were great.”

He shook his head almost immediately, a small, humorless huff leaving him. “Maybe in a physical sense,” he admitted, gaze still down. “When I was there, I was. I showed up, I helped with the kids, I did all the things you’re supposed to do. I didn’t clean or cook dinner enough, I knew that. I was too impulsive and reckless. Bought her a dog she hates, then I went and got addicted to benzos.” 

“And a good husband doesn’t-“ he started, then stopped himself, jaw tightening like he’d said too much already.

Suddenly, the unkept shrub beds in front of their house looked a lot more appealing than the man sitting next to you. You didn’t respond; you couldn’t. No version of that conversation didn’t unravel something you’d both been carefully avoiding.

Frank cleared his throat slightly, shifting in his seat. “She’s giving me until New Year’s,” he said instead, voice quieter now. “To figure things out. If I’m staying. If I’m moving out. What happens with the kids.”

Your stomach dropped at that.

“One last Christmas as a family,” he added, a faint, hollow exhale leaving him. “I guess.”

You nodded slowly, eyes drifting back toward the porch where Abby still stood, unmoving. Look everywhere but your car. 

“Frank..” You turned to look at him before you paused, shaking your head. “Go get some sleep in your bed. Call me if you need anything..” You stressed to him. 

“Thank you,” he said again despite your earlier protests for him to stop. You didn’t argue with him this time. 

You watched him grab his bag and limp over to the porch. You waved softly through your window to Abby, and were rewarded with an awkward wave back. 

You stayed in the car a moment longer, hands still on the wheel, staring straight ahead, trying to steady something in your chest that felt like it had shifted just slightly out of place.

Halfway down the road, you called your boss, begging her to let you pick up a shift. Anything to get your mind off, whatever that was. 

-

The holidays always left a bad taste in your mouth, whether it was old memories being dredged up or the busier work was, you couldn’t be too sure about. Santos had told you that your apartment was now the home base for the ‘newly appointed annual residents (and two fellows) holiday get together.’ The title was too long so it was just turned into, “Santos residence holiday party.’ Which was just an excuse for the residents, minus the bosses, to shit-talk said bosses and get drunk and play games. 

You found yourself staring down at your glass of wine, swishing the red liquid around. All you could think of was Langdon, and his sobriety. The glass found itself abandoned on the side table, while you watched Mel and Whittaker bicker (in the kindest way possible) over the rules of Monopoly. 

“Hey Y/n,” Garcia hummed, plopping down next to you on the couch dramatically. Trinity was following, like she always did Garcia, as they did a horrible job of sneaking around. Somehow forgetting on most nights that you shared a wall. 

“Hi, Yo-yo.” You smiled, leaning your legs against hers gently. 

There was an evil smirk on her face, “Haven’t heard that nickname in a while.” 

You could practically hear Trinity rolling her eyes. 

“Speaking of the devil,” She started, and you wanted to beg her to stop. “Has anyone heard from Langdon?” 

Mel’s head popped up, and you really wish it hadn’t. “He’s back home!” She smiled, “Y/n, told me he’s doing as well.” 

“What?” Your sister’s head turned, eyes glaring at you. “You’re talking to him?”  

You let out a huff, “Yes, Trinity. I am in contact with my friend who’s going through a hard time.” 

“I’m glad he’s doing better,” Garcia interjects, gulping down the rest of her wine. 

Trinity looks betrayed, her jaw falling open. “Really?” She scoffs, “You guys are ridiculous." 

You’ve never wanted to pick up your wine glass more in your life, and that’s even more the reason you don’t do it. “What’s ridiculous is how fucking mad you are at him, still.” The words tumbled out, hands fisted by your sides. 

“Y/n, really?” She cried out, “You know how badly he fucked with my self-confidence-“ 

You stand up, grabbing the wine glass aggressively off the table. “Yes, trust me. You bring him up almost every fucking night!”

”Guys, let's-“ Garcia doesn’t even have a chance to play mediator before Trinity is up and following you into the kitchen. 

“Maybe because on my first day of being a doctor, he belittled me and-“ 

“On your first day of being a doctor you were being an egotistical hot head who ignored the rules multiple times,” You laughed, “He was and still is in the wrong for what he did, but where’s the accountability for your actions Dr. Santos. Where is it?” 

Her face falls, and the words just keep coming out of your mouth. “Your bedside manner is horrible, and you’ve been walking around the ED like you’re some fucking martyr when you’re not. No one thinks you did the wrong thing. You’re obsessing over him, over it. You don’t even know him.” 

You see the tick in her jaw, the same one in your own, the same one you saw in your mother. Anger ran heavy in the Santos women, and you were not immune to spitting out words with the intent to kill. 

“And you do?” She laughed, “You didn’t even know he was stealing pills out of the ED, or using for that matter.” 

The glass gets dumped into the sink, and you watch the liquid swirl down the drain as she laughs. 

Her voice lowers, “Or were you too busy trying to get over your weird schoolgirl crush on him to notice?”

You turned back slowly, eyes locking onto hers, something colder settling in your chest now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t?” she challenged,. “You defend him like he hung the moon, you keep talking to him behind my back-”

“I’m not doing anything behind your back,” you snapped. “You just don’t like it, so suddenly it’s wrong and I’m the worst sister alive for speaking to a friend.” 

“He humiliated me,” she said, her voice breaking slightly now, anger bleeding into something more raw. “On my first day. In front of everyone. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”

“Yes,” you shot back, not missing a beat. “I do. Because I’ve been there. We all have. That doesn’t mean you get to carry it around as it defines you forever. If you can’t take a little bit of harsh criticism then trust me, surgery is not for you.” 

“It mattered to me,” she said, quieter now, but no less intense. “It still does.”

“And he’s trying to fix his life,” you pushed, your own voice tightening. “He’s sober, he’s working on himself, he’s-“

“He’s a drug addict who stole from the hospital,” she cut in harshly. “Forgive me if I don’t want to throw him a fucking parade for doing the bare minimum.” 

“Oh my god, this is fucking ridiculous.” You laugh humorlessly under your breath, hands gripping the sink. “He’s clean, he even told me he wants to apologize to you but I see that’s fucking pointless.” 

“For how long?” she shot back immediately, eyes flashing. “Until he relapses again? Until he screws up worse next time?”

“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice dropping, tighter now.

“No, what’s not fair,” Trinity fired back, “is you acting like he’s some tragic case you need to fix when he’s the one who did this to himself.”

“I’m not trying to fix him,” you snapped. “I know the concept of a friend is really foreign to you, but that’s all I’m doing, is being a good friend..” 

She just wordlessly nodded, stepping closer to you. “What you’re doing, is choosing your sister over someone who’s not going to fuck you.”

Her words landed exactly where she wanted them to. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” she pushed. “You think I don’t see it? The way you talk about him, the way you looked at him? God, please, it’s pathetic.”

Your jaw clenched, hard enough it hurt. “You’re crossing a line, Trinity.” 

“No,” she shook her head, relentless now, words spilling faster, sharper. “You crossed it. The second you decided he mattered more than how he treated me.”

“That’s not what this is,” you shot back, your voice louder now, shaking slightly with the force of it.

”Then tell me what it is!” 

Your eyes fluttered shut, frustration written all over your features. 

Her expression shifted, something like hurt flashing across her face before it twisted again into anger. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re really going to stand there and pretend you don’t have feelings for him? Garcia told me all about your first year there. You were obsessed with him, practically drooling over a married junkie.” 

You swallowed, throat tight. “Garcia,” You spoke loudly, “Could do with a reminder to keep her fucking mouth shut.” 

“And you,” You pointed at your sister, “Could do with a reminder of whose house you live in. As well as some basic fucking empathy. I don’t owe you a fucking thing, and it’s none of your business but yes, years ago I had a crush. That’s it, end of story.” 

“Just like fucking mom,” She scoffed, “Throwing shit up in my face-“ 

She’s cut off by the wine glass shattering in the sink, you didn’t even realize it had slipped from your hands. Your neck turned hot. 

“Don’t ever say that shit to me again” You said, your words coming out even, ignoring the sting in your palm.

“Enough.” Garcia’s voice cut through the room, sharper than before as she stepped fully between you, one hand braced lightly against Trinity’s shoulder, the other gesturing toward you like she was physically separating two feral dogs. 

You looked down, breath hitching slightly as you noticed the thin line of red blooming across your hand, shallow but bright, a bead of blood sliding toward your wrist where a shard must’ve caught you.

“Shit,” Garcia muttered immediately, shifting her focus. "Okay hold on, let me see-”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, pulling your hand back the second she reached for it.

“Y/n-”

“I said I’m fine.” You grabbed a dish towel off the counter, wrapping it around your hand with more force than necessary. “It’s barely a cut.”

“It’s still glass,” she argued, her tone softer now but insistent. “Just let me-”

“My hands are insured for half a million dollars,” you shot back, eyes flashing as you stepped away from her. “I don’t need you butchering me.”

“Understood.” She said, her face turning sour as she turned back, grabbing Trinity and dragging her into the living room. This without a doubt has killed the holiday cheer you curated over the past few hours. 

The silence that settled in her place felt louder than the shouting had been.

“Hey.” Mel’s voice was softer. Careful. 

You hadn’t even noticed her slip in, but suddenly she was there, hovering just inside the kitchen like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be. 

You exhaled shakily, some of the fight draining out of you all at once, replaced by something heavier. “Hey.”

Her eyes dropped immediately to your hand. “Can I…?” she asked gently, holding up a small first aid kit like an offering. The one Whittaker probably told her was in your spare bathroom. 

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah,” you muttered. “Yeah, okay.”

She peeled the towel back carefully, her brows knitting together slightly at the sight of the cut. “It’s not bad,” she murmured, more to reassure you than anything else. “Looks worse than it is. Much like my life, I just need a bandaid and double gloves at work the next week or so.”

That earned you the smallest smile from her.

She cleaned it gently, her hands steady in a way that grounded you despite everything still buzzing under your skin. You watched her work for a moment before looking away, jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “You shouldn’t have had to see all that.”

Mel shook her head immediately. “No. Don’t apologize.”

You glanced at her.

“I mean it,” she added, softer now. “I’m… kind of glad someone’s sticking up for him. He was really sweet to me on my first day. It meant a lot.” 

“If only he were like that with everyone.” You joked, letting out a shaky breath as you let her put the bandaid over the small cut. 

“Good as new!” She grinned. 

“Where do I send the bill to doctor?” You teased, grabbing a washcloth from the counter to attempt to clean up the shattered glass. 

“Oh, that was free of charge.” Mel smiled, bringing the trash can over to you. 

The front door was ripped open violently, and Trinity was standing there with a bag slung over her shoulder. Garcia is hot on her trail, her face unreadable. 

“I’ll be at Garcia’s,” Trinity said finally, her voice clipped, like she was holding everything else back.

“Trin-”

“Don’t,” she cut in quickly, not even looking at you.

That was it. No yelling, no last jab, just a slammed door.

The apartment felt off immediately. Too quiet, too empty for how full it had been minutes ago. Long gone was the holiday cheer and buzz of friends you were high off of. 

Mel gave you an awkward sympathetic glance and demanded that she stay to help you clean up before she left for the night. Dennis refused to look you in the eye, bidding you a quiet goodnight before he locked himself in his room. 

The night couldn’t have ended any worse.

It wasn’t until New Year's that Trinity stopped her passive-aggressive silent treatment towards you, slinging an arm around your shoulder and pulling you in for a hug after the ball dropped. Because at the end of the day, no matter what, it was always going to be you and her. 

That next morning, Frank’s voice appeared on your phone screen. You jumped up, running into your room to take the call in private.

“Hi?” You answer, trying not to sound too confused by his out-of-the-blue call.  

“As I'm calling I realize that the past few times I’ve called you have been for a favor,” You can practically beat the frown in his voice, “I’m sorry I just-“ 

He cleared his throat a little on the other end of the line before finally getting to it, sounding almost sheepish.

“I’m… moving,” he admitted. “Or trying to. I haven’t lived in an apartment since college, and I’m realizing I have no idea what I’m doing.” A small pause. “I remember you got a good deal on yours a few years ago, and I just, I was wondering if you’d.. go look at places with me? If you’re not too busy.”

You shifted against your pillow, already more awake than you wanted to be. “You’re asking me to judge apartments with you?”

“Yeah.” He huffed softly. “Feels like something you’d be good at.”

You let out a quiet breath, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite yourself. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go with you.”

You could practically hear the relief in his silence before he spoke again. “Thank you.”

You set a date, something simple, your next day off. When the date rolled around you tried not to stress yourself out with your outfit, dressing a little nicer than your usual scrubs and oversized sweatshirts. 

While passing Trinity in the kitchen, her eyes locked on yours immediately. Tensions were still murky between you two, despite both of you trying to take the high road. 

Apartment hunting with Frank, was more comedic than you expected it to be. The first few places were laughably overpriced brownstones with creaky floors and kitchens that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the early 2000s Then came the tiny, questionable apartments tucked above shops that smelled vaguely like old takeout and broken dreams, one of which had a shower so small Frank actually laughed out loud trying to step into it. 

By the fourth showing, the two of you were barely holding it together, exchanging looks behind the realtor’s back until one particularly overzealous pitch about “vintage charm” in a place with water damage and a peeling popcorn ceiling that sent you both over the edge. You ended up pretending you got called into work just to escape, rushing out into the street before dissolving into laughter so hard it left you both bent over, wiping tears from your eyes.

All hope was lost, until your last showing of the day. It was only a mile or two away from PTMC, meaning it was less than a ten-minute drive from your own apartment. You tried not to let that affect your bias as you walked into the apartment. 

Floor-to-ceiling windows that let in soft afternoon light, exposed brick that actually looked intentional instead of neglected, enough space for the kids to have their own rooms and still leave him with a small office. It felt warm in a way the others hadn’t. The owners were an older couple, who clearly took pride in their quaint city living.

You watched him take it in, the way he walked slowly through the space like he was trying to picture a life inside it.

“This is it,” you said quietly. “Right?”

He huffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, I think it is.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth before he glanced over at you. “All of my savings are about to disappear,” he joked lightly. “Honestly, rehab, a divorce, and apartment hunting weren’t exactly how I pictured my thirties going. Thought I’d die in the house I put my life into.” 

You frowned slightly, bumping your shoulder into his in an attempt to lighten the moment. “If it helps, it could be worse. You could be balding.” 

That makes a laugh escape him, an ugly boisterous one that made your cheeks ache with how hard you smiled. “Fuck, I mean you’re right.” 

“Always.” You smiled, letting him talk to the realtor as you stared out at the view that you hoped for Frank’s sake would be his soon. 

He signed the papers two days later.

You weren’t there for it, but he told you after, voice oddly steady over the phone like he was trying to convince himself it didn’t feel as final as it was. His voice cracked when he talked about signing the lease, he said it felt more real than signing the divorce papers. You listened, let him vent to you on all the feelings that were spiraling around in his head. 

You met him there later that afternoon, the apartment still echoing slightly with how empty it was. He stood in the middle of it, keys in hand, like he didn’t quite know what to do next. You had brought over a bucket of cleaning supplies as a ‘move-in’ present, which was really you politely teaching him how to properly clean. You’d seen the man manually jumpstart a heart in the ED, but for some reason scrubbing grout was a foreign concept to him. 

After a few hours, the apartment was move-in ready. Both of you sweaty and smelling like various cleaning supplies.  

“You gonna hire movers?” you asked casually, leaning against the freshly polished counter. 

He shrugged, glancing around. “I don’t have much money left,” he admitted. “I’ll end up doing it myself over time. My dad said he’d come help as much as he can.” 

You frown deeply, shaking your head. “Frank,” You scoffed, “I hate to word it like this, but isn’t that how you ended up here in the first place? The last thing you need is you hurting your back more.” 

“Don’t really know what else I’m supposed to do,” He sighed, “I’m not set to go back to work for another few months, and rehab bills are killing me-“ 

“I’ll pay for it.” You shrug, as if it were no big deal. 

“Y/n,” He rolled his eyes, “Be serious, I’d never let you do that.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Frank, I’m on a fellowship salary now. No offense, but I make more than you. I’m working so much overtime, I don’t have kids, well sometimes Trinity and Dennis feel like my kids, but that’s besides the point.” You speak softly. 

He goes to speak again, before you cut him off. 

“Let someone do something nice for you, please.” You nearly beg him. 

You can see it in his eyes, the guilt and embarrassment from his situation already. 

“Please drop it,” He sighed, “You’ve done too much.” 

You just smiled and nodded. 

You didn’t drop it, because of course you didn’t. 

The day he planned to move came gray and cold, the kind of morning that made everything feel heavier than it already was. He was halfway through packing up the last of his things when the sound of a truck pulling up outside made him pause.

A moving truck.

He frowned, stepping toward the window, confusion flickering across his face as two guys hopped out, already heading toward the front door like they knew exactly where they were going, an invoice in hand. It clicked immediately, but you didn’t listen. He should have expected this. 

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face.

He walked outside, a fire lit under his steps as he opened the door. 

“Frank Langdon?” The man asked, his voice gruff. 

Frank nodded, opening his mouth to decline or apologize before the burly man spoke again, “Your girl already paid for it, said if you argued she’d pay more for us to ignore you.”

He ignored the way his stomach fluttered at the man’s words, ‘your girl’. 

So he did the only logical thing he could think of, he stepped aside and directed the men on where to go. He was just thankful Abby wasn’t home to see the way his cheeks blushed for hours afterwards. 

It takes him all day to move his entire life in boxes to his new place. 

Boxes are everywhere. Half-open. Some stacked, some forgotten. The couch sat in the middle of it all, one of the only things that made the place feel even remotely familiar. He sank into it, elbows on his knees, staring at the space around him like he was trying to make sense of how he got here.

Then he reached for his phone.

You answered on the second ring, synchronized beeps in the background making his brows furrow. He said, “I told you not to do that.”

You smiled faintly, even though he couldn’t see it. “Hi to you too.” Your voice was muffled underneath your surgical mask, as you ignored the stares from your surgical nurses. 

There was a brief moment of silence, before he spoke again. “Y/n, are you in surgery?” 

“Yes,” The smile in your voice was evident as you directed your resident to suction more. “It’s a routine craniotomy, I was worried by your late call.” 

You could practically picture the look on his face, his abashed eye roll at you. “I can pay you back.”

”Nope, don’t even try-“ You demanded, adjusting your glasses as you made another incision. 

”Thank you,” he said finally, and this time it wasn’t automatic or brushed off. 

You let yourself sit in that for a second before responding. “You’re welcome.”

Another beat passed before you added, lighter now, “Besides, I’m invested. I helped pick the place. I need it to actually get furnished so I don’t regret my decision.”

That earned you a quiet laugh, the sound softer than it used to be but warmer than it had been in a long time. 

“Okay, Dr. Y/l/n, let me go before this phone call ends up spreading around the hospital tonight. Or Gloria calls HR on you for taking personal phone calls over someone’s open brain.” 

“My assistants aren’t as catty as Garcia and you ED folks, besides I’m too good for them to fire me.” You smiled, seeing a few giggles from your staff, “But okay Frank, have a good night.” 

“Once upon a time you were one of us ED folks,” He laughed, “You too, Y/n.” 

The nurse hung up the phone, switching her gloves out once again. Everyone in the room ignored the stupid smile on your face, which lasted until the patient was sent up to post-op. 

-

You couldn’t get out of your scrubs fast enough that Friday night, it had been a few days since Frank finally settled in and you hated the way you missed him. It was strange to realise how used you were to talking to him and seeing him, to not. 

There was no plan to go and see him that weekend. 

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you stood in your kitchen, staring at the unopened bottle of sparkling grape juice you bought last week sitting next to a pizza box you definitely didn’t order. It had been a long week, longer than you wanted to admit, and the quiet of your apartment felt heavier than usual. Trinity and Dennis were going out with their friends, and you were not a part of the ‘Pittlings’. Trinity made that clear, despite Mel’s protests that you should come with. Not even Garcia was invited, which was sure to bother her none despite Santos swearing it would. You tried your absolute best to stay completely away from whatever they had going on. 

Trinity, in her attempt to bridge what was still your rocky relationship had ordered you a pizza, with a sticky note on the top saying, “Go out and get laid, for all of our sakes xx” and a smaller “Have a good night!” clearly written by Dennis. You could imagine them now, both fighting over the pen and what to write.

Before you could overthink it, you grabbed both, keys already in hand.

The drive to his apartment was quick, almost too quick. You didn’t even bother texting him beforehand, you had no plan besides knocking on his door and hoping he’d accept your company. You were knocking on his door before you could overthink anything. 

There was a beat of silence, some shuffling from inside, and then the door swung open.

It took everything in you not to let the bottle and pizza clatter to the floor. 

Frank stood there in a pair of low-slung sweatpants, barefoot, chest bare like he hadn’t expected anyone to show up. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered or run his hands through it one too many times like he often did, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

Your eyes flicked up before you could stop them. Then back down, for a beat too long. Too long to notice the trail of hair that disappeared right above the hem of his pants. Or the way his hip bones protruded out. Or how his chest hair beckoned you to run your fingers through it. You forced your eyes away, rocking on your feet.

“Oh-” you started, voice catching just slightly as you shifted the pizza box in your hands. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed, just as thrown, blinking at you like he was trying to catch up to the moment. His hand instinctively went to the back of his neck, rubbing awkwardly. “I-uh-wasn’t expecting-“

“Yeah, I gathered,” you muttered, a small, embarrassed huff of a laugh slipping out as you gestured vaguely at him. “Sorry. I should’ve texted. I just, ah got off work and decided to show up on your doorstep which is insane-“ 

You tried to stop your eyes from glancing at his collarbones, or his toned arms. Suddenly you felt dizzy, your mouth dry. 

“No, it’s-” he cut himself off, glancing down at himself like he was just now realizing the situation. “Hold on.”

He stepped back quickly, disappearing for half a second before reappearing with a t-shirt that he pulled over his head in one smooth motion. You definitely did not watch that. Definitely did not capture that mental image for later. 

God, maybe Trinity was right, you did need to get laid. 

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat slightly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

His apartment looked exactly like you imagined it would, boxes still scattered everywhere, some opened, some not, pieces of furniture halfway assembled like he’d started and then gotten distracted or overwhelmed.

Your eyes landed on the coffee table, or what was supposed to be one, still in pieces with an instruction manual sprawled beside it.

“…IKEA?” you asked, raising a brow.

He groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t even start.”

“I’m not,” you smiled, setting the pizza down. “I’m just impressed you didn’t throw the instructions out immediately.”

”There are two half-built bedframes, and a dresser I’m fairly certain I built wrong. I’m surprised I haven’t burnt this place to the ground.” He groaned, padding into the kitchen to pull out a glass for you. 

When you noted the singular glass, you held the bottle up closer to him. “Not a fan of sparkling grape juice?” 

He paused for a moment, his face unreadable. “I thought it was wine.” 

You scoffed, “You think I’d bring wine to your house while you're in NA? We’re sober buddies now.” 

His face softened so much it made you want to cry, “Really?,” He turned to grab another glass, so you couldn't see the tears he was fighting back, “Never thought I’d see the day you give up a glass of wine.” 

You peeled off the gold wrapper from the top of the bottle, twisting it off with a loud hiss. “Found myself wanting it too much, besides last time I drank too much Trinity and I almost fist fought in my kitchen and I cut my hand open.” 

His brow raises, bringing you the plastic cups to pour the juice into. “Do I wanna know?” 

“Nope.” You smiled, handing him his own cup. 

You held yours up, clanking them in a faux toast. “To new beginnings.” 

“To new beginnings.” He mirrored you, thankful his cup hid the flush of his cheeks when he took a sip. “Not as good as wine.” 

You made a face, “Nope, but it’ll do.” 

Somehow you ended up on the floor, shoes discarded by the door and the sleeves of your sweater pushed up to your elbow. 

The coffee table came together first, surprisingly sturdy by the end of it, even if there were a few moments where you both just stared at it in silence trying to figure out how you’d gotten there. The next bookshelf followed, a little slower, a little more chaotic, but finished nonetheless. You took one look at his half-built dresser and told him you’d rather perform brain surgery blindfolded than attempt to unscrew and rescrew the drawers. 

By the time you gave up, you were both sprawled across his couch, limbs heavy, energy spent in that lazy, satisfied way that came from doing something fulfilling. 

You sank further into the cushions, letting out a quiet hum. “This is a good couch.”

There was a beat before he responded, a faint smile in his voice. “Yeah,” he said, glancing over at it like it was something more than just furniture. “The only part of furniture I got in the divorce.” 

You turned your head slightly to look at him, “Good.”

He shifted a little, stretching his arm along the back of it. His arm noticeably closer to where your own shoulder was pressed against the cushions. 

“I’ve got beds for the kids already,” he added after a moment, tone softer now. “Figured I’d let them pick out their own stuff. Decorations, colors… whatever they want. Once I’m more settled. Once I start work again.”

You smiled faintly, watching him as he spoke, the way his entire expression changed when he talked about them. Like that part of him had never been touched by any of the mess.

“They’re gonna love that,” you said quietly.

“Yeah,” he nodded, eyes dropping for a second. “I hope so.”

After a minute, he pushed himself up off the couch. “I’m starving,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I’m getting more pizza.”

You nodded, watching him move toward the kitchen, but something in the way he straightened caught your attention. Subtle, but there. The slight hitch in his breath, the vein in his forehead protruding for a moment. The way his hand immediately went to his lower back, fingers pressing in like he was trying to stop something from flaring.

“Frank,” you said, sitting up a little, your tone shifting instantly.

“I’m fine,” he replied too quickly, not even turning around as he reached the counter.

You frowned, watching him closely now. “That didn’t look fine.”

He exhaled through his nose, shoulders tensing for just a second before he forced them to relax. “Just sore,” he said, grabbing a plate like it was nothing. “We’ve been on the floor for like two hours.”

When he flipped open the pizza box, the neon pink sticky note caught his eye. The large “Go out and get laid, for all of our sakes xx” made him stifle a laugh. 

You were too worried about his back to notice, standing up and following him. “Which is why you need to take it easy and lie down. RICE method, you know this- what’s funny?” 

He turned the box slightly toward you, tapping the note with one finger, still smiling. “Your sister, I’m assuming?”

You didn’t even have to lean in to know immediately what he was talking about, as you felt the heat rush straight to your face. “I’m gonna kill myself.” 

He laughed a little harder at that, the sound softer than it had been earlier but still warm. “So,” he said, glancing at you, a teasing edge slipping in, “I guess you and Trinity are good again.”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, grabbing a plate just to give yourself something to do. “She’…yeah whatever we’re fine I think. Still thinks you’re the reincarnation of Satan, but..”

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” he said, still looking at the note like it personally amusingly offended him.

You tried to move past it, clearing your throat. “Ignore it.”

“I don’t know,” he went on lightly, closing the pizza box halfway after he filled your plates with the last few pieces. “She seems concerned. Might be onto something.”

You shot him a look. “Frank.”

“What?” he shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Just saying. If your own sister’s leaving notes like that-“

”I am not discussing my sex life with you!” You squeal.

”Is there a sex life?” He can’t help the teasing laugh that escapes his lips, while his brows are still furrowed with something unknown.

”Stop talking,” you cut in quickly, pointing at him, trying and failing to keep the embarrassment out of your voice.

He held his hands up slightly in mock surrender, but the smile didn’t fade. “Hey, I’m not judging. My situation’s not exactly thriving either,” he added, a little more offhand now. “At this rate, I’m gonna die alone in this apartment surrounded by half-built IKEA furniture.”

You huffed out a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he asked, glancing around at the boxes like they were proving his point.

Your eyes flicked back to him before you could stop them, and for a second, your brain very unhelpfully replayed the image of him earlier-shirtless, flushed, standing way too close. The way his arm muscles flexed when he pulled his shirt back on and-

You cleared your throat again, forcing yourself back on track.

“Don’t change the subject,” you said, stepping closer, your tone shifting just enough to feel different. “We were talking about your back.”

He took a bite of the pizza, leaning against the counter as if his lower back still wasn’t killing him. “I think your sex life is a much more interesting topic than my back.” 

You nearly gawk at him, “You really wanna know about my sex life?” You challenge, peeling a pepperoni off and popping it into your mouth. 

Suddenly he looked shy, his eyes unable to meet yours. 

“Depends,” he said finally, quieter now, his confidence deflating. “Should I be worried?”

You huffed out a soft laugh at that, but there was an edge to it now. “Worried?” you echoed, tilting your head. “Why, Frank? Are you planning on competing?”

That made him glance up again, quick, a flicker of something sharper passing through his expression before he smoothed it over. “Didn’t say that.”

“No?” you pressed lightly, watching him now the same way he’d been watching you earlier.

He shook his head, taking another bite of pizza as it gave him something to do.

Another pause stretched between you, the teasing from before settling into something heavier, something neither of you seemed in a rush to break.

Then you pushed off the counter, stepping closer again, not quite closing the space but enough to shift it.

“For the record,” you added, voice a little lighter but still steady, “my sex life is none of your business.”

He looked pale in the face, like he was waiting for the ground to swallow him in his embarrassment. 

“But,” you continued, just barely, “if it were interesting or even alive, you’d probably already know.” 

His eyes snapped back to yours, something unreadable flickering there, something that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Yeah?” he said softly.

You held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then reached past him for a napkin like you hadn’t just said that.

“Yeah,” you echoed, more casual now, even if your pulse said otherwise.

Then, like you were flipping a switch, you changed the topic as if nothing had happened. As if you didn’t give him a nudge, and a hint that the ball was in his court. “And you’re still avoiding the fact that your back is clearly killing you.”

”You’re really not gonna let that go, are you?”

”When have you ever known me to let something go?” You grinned, taking another bite of the greasy pizza. 

He didn’t even respond to that, just crossed his arms, staring at him in a way that made it very clear he didn’t want to talk about it, but you weren’t backing down. 

He huffed a small, defeated laugh, glancing away. “Okay,” he admitted after a second. “Not fine.”

You waited a beat.

“It’s… pretty bad,” he said finally, more honest now. “Between moving, the rehab bed was hard as a rock, withdrawal had me asleep on the bathroom floor most days, everything’s kind of pissed off right now.” He rubbed the back of his neck like he didn’t quite know what to do with the admission. “It’s just taking some getting used to.”

Your expression softened, but only slightly. “When was your last scan?”

He frowned a little, thinking. “Before rehab. A couple of months ago.”

“That’s not recent enough,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

He watched you carefully now, like he could see your brain already working through it. “What?”

You hesitated for half a second before nodding toward the couch. “Sit.”

“Y/n-”

“Sit,” you repeated, gentler this time, but no less firm.

He exhaled, giving in, setting the plate down, and lowering himself back onto the couch. You stepped closer, slipping into a different headspace without even thinking about it.

”Okay,” you said, gesturing lightly. “Stand back up. Slowly.”

He followed your instructions, pushing himself up a little more carefully this time.

“Any numbness? Tingling? Shooting pain down your legs?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly on my right side.”

You nodded, already filing it away. “Bend forward for me. Like you’re trying to touch your toes.”

He hesitated for a second, then did it, the movement slower than it should’ve been. You watched closely, eyes tracking the way his body compensated, the slight shift to one side.

“Where does it catch?” you asked.

“Lower back,” he said through a tight breath. “Right here.” he gestured vaguely.

“Okay, come back up.”

He did, a little stiff, and you stepped closer without thinking, your hand coming to rest lightly against his lower back, fingers pressing gently along his spine.

“Tell me if anything’s sharp,” you murmured.

He nodded, but you felt it more than saw it, the way he went a little still under your touch.

You moved carefully, palpating along the lumbar spine, pressing just enough to assess, your fingers tracing muscle and bone with practiced precision. “Here?”

“Mm, no,” he said, voice quieter now.

You shifted slightly, pressing a little lower, a little to the right.

He sucked in a breath. “There,” he muttered. “Radiates?” you asked, already adjusting your hand.

“Yeah.” 

You nodded, thinking. “Okay. Turn around.”

He did, a little slower this time, and suddenly you were closer than you meant to be. 

Closer than necessary. “I feel like I should be billed for this.” He jokes, his voice coming out shakier than he wanted it to. 

Your hands moved again, this time along the muscles on either side of his spine, testing for tension, for spasm. You could feel it immediately tight, overworked, and angry from everything he’d put it through. His already herniated disc was no doubt inflamed.

“Your paraspinals are a mess,” you said quietly, almost absentmindedly.

“Yeah, I gathered,” he huffed, but there was something off in his voice.

You didn’t notice at first. Not until your hand shifted slightly, fingers pressing in just a little firmer, and he went still again. It was only then that you realised just how close you two were. 

You blinked, forcing yourself back into something normal. “No heavy lifting,” you said, maybe a little too quickly. “Seriously, I mean it this time. Heat, anti-inflammatories if you can tolerate them, and you need to start stretching regularly.”

He nodded, listening.

“And I want updated imaging,” you added, more firmly now. “MRI. You’re overdue, and I don’t like guessing when it comes to your spine.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay, yes ma’am.” 

“And PT,” you continued, crossing your arms slightly like it helped keep you grounded. “A good physical therapist, not whatever half-assed routine you were probably doing before. I can write you a recommendation.”

That earned you a small huff of a laugh. “You know me too well.”

When he came back down, your thighs were touching, faces practically inches apart. 

“Careful doc,” He mumbled, “You get this close to all your patients?" 

You almost fly off the couch, practically jumping to part away from him. He stops you with a gentle grab to your arm, making you pause. 

“I didn’t say I had a problem with it,” His thumb rubs against your skin for a moment, and it makes chills run down your spine, “But seriously, thank you. I’ll be sure to take care of myself, I promise.” 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You smiled, letting his hold linger for longer than needed, before he dropped your arm. You immediately missed the warmth, clearing your throat awkwardly. 

You helped him clean up without really talking about it, falling into an easy rhythm of breaking down boxes, stacking pieces of cardboard, tossing stray packaging into a growing pile by the door. Now and then your hands brushed, both of you pulling back just a second too late, like neither of you quite knew how to act after, whatever had been earlier. The air still felt warm, charged in a way that had nothing to do with the heat running through the apartment.

“Thanks,” he said at one point, glancing over at you as you flattened another box. “For, all of this. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

You shrugged, not looking up. “You’re welcome. That’s not how friendships work you know? You’re allowed to let people do nice things for you, without repayment.”

It felt like more than that, but neither of you pushed it.

By the time you grabbed your coat, your cheeks still felt warm, your thoughts just a little too loud, like you were back in a place you hadn’t let yourself be in years. You hated how easy it had been to fall into that feeling again, how natural it felt to stand in his space as if you belonged there.

“Text me when you get home?” he said, almost absentmindedly, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

You nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

-

You were in a daze the whole way home, slipping in through the front door with a buzz in your veins you couldn’t even blame on alcohol. 

Trinity and Dennis were already there, sitting at the counter with takeout spread between them, mid-conversation before they both looked up at you. Trinity had smeared glitter all over her face, and Dennis was so red in the cheeks you were almost worried. 

“Well,” Trinity said, eyeing you immediately, something lighter already back in her tone. “Look who decided to come home.”

You paused for a second, bracing for tension that didn’t come. 

Instead, she nudged the container toward you. “We got extra, sorry I keep buying you food unprompted." 

You exhaled, something in your chest loosening as you stepped forward. “Accepted.”

You grabbed a piece of chicken, leaning against the counter as you took a bite, the normalcy of it all settling over you like a blanket. It didn’t take long for her teasing to start. 

“So,” Trinity started, far too casually, a smirk already forming. “Did you get laid?”

You choked slightly on your food, coughing as you shot her a look. “Jesus, Trinity-”

Dennis groaned immediately, dropping his head into his hands. “I don’t want to be here for this.”

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head, swallowing quickly. “Not that it’s your business, but I did not get laid.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Wow. It’s basically cobwebs down there, huh?”

You stared at her for half a second, before you burst into laughter,

“Shut up,” you muttered, nudging her shoulder lightly as you slid into the barstool next to her. 

“There she is,” Trinity grinned, bumping you back. “Where have you been?” 

It felt like the tension between you two had almost dissolved. Not gone, not entirely, but softened at the edges, replaced by something more familiar. 

“Friends.” You answered honestly, picking at the takeout with the chopsticks. “Yes, it was a guy friend.” 

“Knew it,” She cackled, slapping her thigh. “I knew you’ve been sneaking around. Who is it?” 

A part of you wanted to do nothing more than tell her right then and there. You wanted to talk about this ridiculous crush with your sister, you wanted to giggle about the way he touched you, the way he looked at you. But you couldn’t, you don’t even know if you ever could with her. That hurt more than you realized, so you shrugged it off. 

“No one you know.” 

“Whatever, keep your not booty call a secret then!”

Dennis peeked up between his fingers. “Are we done?” he asked cautiously.

“Yeah, you’re safe,” you shot back.

“Thank God.” He breathed out shakily, “I’m too drunk if you guys started talking about sex I’d have to start crying.”

”Actually,” You smirked, “What’s this about a farm girl?” 

The three of you lingered there for a while longer before migrating to the couch, a tub of ice cream passed back and forth, as you forced your drunk roommates to drink water. Trinity filled you in on her shift, dramatic retellings and exaggerated impressions that had you laughing despite yourself, your shoulders brushing every so often as if nothing had ever been wrong between you two. 

You stayed up late, way after Dennis went to bed. It felt like you had your sister back, and it felt good. Peace was finally restored in the Santos household, and the rest of it would be a conversation for another day. 

That conversation never came, not really. You continued on with your lie, but also not quite a lie about this mysterious guy friend who began taking up all of your free time. 

Frank wouldn’t admit this, but he began to use his apartment as an excuse to see you more. At first, it was under the excuse of helping. finishing what you both had started, making the place actually livable. Somewhere along the way it stopped feeling like an excuse and started feeling like something you looked forward to. 

You spent a Saturday afternoon on the floor of his daughter’s room, paint swatches spread out between you while he paced like the decision carried far more weight than it actually did.

“She’s three, Frank,” you laughed, holding up two nearly identical shades. “She’s going to love anything with color.”

“It matters,” he insisted, frowning at the wall like it might give him the answer. “I want her to like it.”

You softened a little at that, handing him the warmer shade. “She will. Trust me.”

There was no one he trusted more. 

You rolled paint onto the walls together, music playing low in the background, his stress easing with every stroke until the room started to look like something real. Something meant for a little girl who would run around it soon enough. You caught yourself smiling at the thought more than once, watching him step back and take it in like it was the most important project he’d ever worked on.

”I want you to meet them.” he blurted out, after watching you tiptoe in his oversized shirt that was over your shorts, now covered in paint splatters. 

“What?” You asked, turning the music down enough to hear him. 

“Tanner and Penny, I want you to meet them.” He said again, his voice steadier this time. “I think they’d love you, and you’d love them.”

”Oh,” you smiled, your heart nearly beating out of your chest. “I mean, if that’s something Abby would be okay with. I mean, we’re just f-friends, but I wouldn’t wanna overstep.”

”You’re not, I promise.” He was beaming, anxiously biting down on his lip. 

“Well, get back to painting. I’m not doing this all by myself.” You flicked your brush at him, pink paint splattering on his chin. 

He gawked at you as you fell into a fit of giggles that turned into squeals when he began chasing you around the room with his own. 

By the end of the night, you were both sticky with paint, hearts pounding with how many times you ended up brushing up against each other. It was almost as if you both couldn’t stop finding excuses to touch each other casually. 

It didn’t stop there.

You helped him pick out small things like curtains, cheap frames, and mismatched décor that somehow worked together. Forcing him into pushing the cart around various stores, it was all so domestic seeing him in this light.  You teased him relentlessly that if it weren’t for you, the entire apartment would be a couch and a TV, and maybe one sad lamp in the corner.

“That’s all a man needs,” he argued once, grinning.

“Wrong,” you shot back, tossing a throw pillow at him. “You’re welcome for making your place look like an actual home.”

He never really argued after that.

And somehow, in between all of it, you got even closer than before. 

It wasn’t one moment in particular. It was a hundred small ones. Late nights spent assembling furniture or sitting on the floor eating takeout, conversations that stretched longer than you meant them to, texts that started with something simple and turned into entire back-and-forths that carried you through your shifts. If you weren’t with him, you were talking to him. If you weren’t talking to him, you were thinking about it. You were never not thinking about him. 

People started noticing before you even realized there was something to notice.

Garcia raised a brow the third time you checked your phone mid-conversation, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. Mel caught the way you smiled at your screen and didn’t say anything, just bumped your shoulder like she understood more than she let on. Even Dennis made a passing comment one night about how you were “mysteriously never home anymore,” which you brushed off a little too quickly.

And Trinity. Trinity watched. 

She didn’t push, not like before, but you caught the looks. The quiet observations. The way her eyes lingered on you a second longer when your phone lit up, when you not so subtly hid it towards you, when you grabbed your keys again, when that soft, dopey smile you couldn’t quite hide slipped through. She was always overly observant, and she knew you better than you knew yourself at times.

You were in love, even though you didn’t want to admit it. 

He can’t help but notice your stare, the way your eyes are cataloging every moment. Especially moments like this, where nothing exists except the love you two have for each other. The small furrow in your brow, as if you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I’m okay, honey.” He whispers in reassurance, kissing your lips once more. 

“I know,” You whispered, moving your hand down to cup his cheek, “I just like hearing it.”

That earns you another kiss, one Frank is insistent on deepening until he hears four sets of footsteps padding around on the hardwood floor. You’re giggling against his lips before he realizes, letting out a soft groan. 

“Come on, let's go feed our children before they trash the house.” You smiled. 

It’s not long before the house smells like freshly brewed coffee, and lightly burnt toast. It’s domestic bliss watching Frank scramble eggs, a dish towel sat over his shoulder. The windows are open, letting the crisp morning air inside while Penny is tumbling around in her playpen, amazed at the same stuffed bunny she’s had since she was born. Tanner was running around, carrying too much energy for the two sleep-deprived parents who hadn’t had coffee yet. He handed you a block, before running back into his room to grab another.

It’s easy, you could handle these mornings like the back of your hand. Painfully for the past few months you got very used to doing this alone, this was not lost on Frank for how much he’s been handling everything since he’s been back. That’s why when you went to pour your coffee he stopped you, brandishing the spatula as if it were a weapon. 

“Nope,” He tells you, “I’ve got it, go sit down. Grab your Kindle, relax.” 

You make a small noise of agreement, plopping down in your chair. Instead of reading, you can’t help but watch him. The surgical-like steadiness in his hands as he uses the overpriced milk frother he bought you for Christmas last year. His laser-sharp focus, the grin on his face as if he’s missed nothing more than these simple day-to-day pleasures. 

A sharp crash is heard from Tanner’s room, and both of your parents' senses are tingling. 

“Tanner? Honey?” You called out nervously, only to be met with heavy steps as he barreled around the corner. A handful of toy cars in his tiny arms. 

“I gotta show daddy my new ones.” He huffed, throwing them all over the floor content to meticulously pick up each one and inspect it. 

“Yeah?” Frank smiled, transferring breakfast over to everyone’s plates. “I’m stoked to see it.”  

Tanner is at Frank’s feet in no time, the car clutched in his hands. “Daddy! Up.” He demands, wiggling his little fingers. 

“Alright, buddy.” He says, voices softening in a way that still undoes you even after so many years of parenthood. 

Frank bends without thinking, pure instinct, and thinking of nothing but his love for his son. He scoops him up in his arms, but the second he’s upright something’s wrong. You can see it on Frank’s face immediately, it’s as if the wind was knocked out of his lungs. 

His knees buckle slightly, and his face turns red. You’re up on your feet in seconds, just enough time to watch Frank lean into the counter, Tanner’s face scrunched in confusion. 

“O-okay, buddy. Hang on,” Frank huffs, trying to reposition his son on his hip to no avail. Nothing is helping the stabbing pain searing through his back. Tanner is then quickly lowered to the ground, Frank’s hands gripping the countertop as if he’s seconds away from collapsing. 

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Tanner asks, in the only way a four-year-old can. “You didn’t even see my car-“ 

“I’m fine.” Frank snaps a little too harshly, making you step forward. 

Without thinking you bend down, ready to pick him up yourself before you stop. Unwilling to make the guilt that much worse for him. Instead, you let your arms hang, “Hey, can you help pick up some of these cars before breakfast? You can show Daddy the red one while we eat.” 

“M’kay mommy.” He says, racing back into the living room. 

The second he’s out of earshot, everything cracks. 

Frank turns away from you, one hand still clutching the counter like a lifeline and the other one pushing into his lower back as if he can somehow force the pain out of his body. His breathing is ragged, his face still too red for your liking. 

“Frank.” You whisper, watching Penny now watch her brother frantically put all of his cars in his toy box. 

He shakes his head, frustration rolling off of him in waves. “I’ve got it.” 

You take a deep breath, “You know you don’t have to pretend-“ 

“I said I’ve got it.” He snaps, louder this time. 

The words make your chest ache, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you just stand there, a sad worried look on your face. 

You know his anger isn’t directed towards you, the therapist and his sponsor have already warned you of this. His doctors warned you  too, with the pain management now being fully holistic. He’s just angry at himself, but more importantly, he’s ashamed. Embarrassed even. So you give him time, you watch your beautiful children scurry about while he collects himself. 

When he does, finally, he lets out a heartbreaking laugh. “Unbelievable.” 

You don’t respond; instead, you take another step closer. 

“I can’t even pick up my own kid,” he looks up, his eyes brimming with tears, “What the hell kind of father can’t pick up his own fucking kid?” 

“Frank..” You say softly, only to be cut off by him again. 

“No, seriously. What kind of father can’t hold his son?” The shame is written all over his face, “He’s what, barely 40 pounds and I almost drop him?” 

“You didn’t drop him.” You interject, “You didn’t.” 

“But I almost did.” His jaw tightens, his hands running helplessly down his face. “I’m supposed to take care of you. Of them. And I can’t even-“ 

He cuts himself off, his hand angrily spinning backwards against the counter knocking directly into the coffee cups he had just poured. Coffee splatters all over the counter, somehow saving the mug from shattering. His chest is still heaving, his hand still with coffee dripping down it. 

It takes a second for either of you to react before you move forward, grabbing a rag. 

“I’ve got it.” He snaps again, grabbing the rag from your hands and frantically scrubbing the counter. This is when you notice his hands shaking, gone was the surgical-like precision earlier. 

“Hey- stop.” You try, reaching out to grab his wrist gently. “Just slow down, Frank. Please.” A harsh breath leaves him, and he yanks his hand back, not from you, but from everything.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head, eyes fixed on the mess like it’s proof of something irreversible. “I leave my wife and kids alone for three months-three months-and I come back and I can’t even make her a stupid cup of coffee.”

Your heart twists.

“That’s not-“

“What is it then?” he shoots back, finally looking at you, eyes burning again, not with anger this time, but something more heartbreaking. “Because it feels like I can’t do anything right. It feels like you should have just left me-“ 

You cut him off there, grabbing his wrist forcefully this time. Forcing him into your view, bringing his face next to yours. 

“Don’t you ever say that again,” You warn, bringing your voice down an octave away from prying ears. “Do you hear me?” 

There’s no response, just the storm of emotions raging in his ocean blue eyes. 

“In sickness and in health. You remember that?” You smile weakly, forcing his hand to relax, lacing your fingers with his.

He nods, sniffling a little. “I remember.” 

“This is it. This is the sickness and in health,” You remind him, your voice softer now, “And I meant it when I said until death do us part.” 

He finally squeezes your hand back, meeting your eyes. “I don’t feel like myself.” His voice is raw, pain still evident in the way he stands.

“I know.” 

“I don’t know how to be the man you married right now, I don’t know how to be a good father.” 

“You are the man I married,” You smile, cupping his cheek, feeling him nuzzle into your touch. “And you are the best father in the world to our kids. You’re here, you’re trying. That’s all I can ask of you.” 

“I’m so scared.” He breaks, pulling you into his arms weakly. You hold him as tight as you can without hurting his back, your thumbs stroking his sides gently. 

“I know,” you murmur into his shirt, “but you’re not alone baby. We’re gonna be here with you every step of the way.” 

“I love you.” He says like a prayer, kissing the top of your head repeatedly.

“I love you more.” You whisper back, only breaking apart when Tanner's voice echoes through the kitchen. 

“Toys are up! Can I have cake now?” He beamed, making Frank let out a shaky laugh. 

“I don’t know about cake,” Frank cleared his throat, “But I have eggs and fruit for you. And maybe just maybe later you can sweet-talk your mommy into cake.” 

He unravels his arms from you, turning back around to grab the plates. 

You stop him before he can set the table, pulling out the stack of trays you rarely use. 

“How about breakfast on the couch, huh?” You smile, letting the boys eagerly set up while you scoop Penny out of her playpen. 

That’s how you all end up on the couch, Bluey playing on the TV while the kids make a mess of their faces with breakfast. It didn’t matter, especially not with the way Frank's face sighed in relief when he sank into the couch. Or the way his eyes lit up when Tanner crawled into his lap, wrapping his arms around his dad. You settle beside him, Penny tucked against your chest, her small fingers curling into your shirt. You lean your head gently against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness returning inch by inch. 

“You’re telling me.” You sighed dreamily, taking another long sip of your latte. 

“We could always turn around, claim food poisoning, or something contagious.” He offered, “They’ll be fine, we have better things to do.” 

“Like what?” You giggled, entertaining his rambling. 

“Getting back underneath the sheets with you, my fiancé.” The word rolled off his tongue so softly it made your cheeks heat. 

You held his hand tighter in yours, bringing up your conjured hands to kiss his knuckles. “You’re absolutely insatiable, Dr. Langdon.” 

“Right,” He teased, “You weren’t saying that last night, or this morning-“ 

“Okay, okay.” You rolled your eyes, “Focus on driving, get your head out of the gutter.” 

“I know where my head would rather be.” He hummed, PMTC appearing in the distance. 

It was a familiar routine between the two of you; he’d grab your work bag for you while slinging his backpack over his shoulder. You’d hold your coffees and he’d open up the doors on the walk towards the ED. 

“Why am I nervous?” He asked, scanning his badge to unlock the door. 

“Because they’re our family,” You smiled, “And they’re super nosey.” 

The ED doors slid open, and the quiet hope of a slow welcome-back dissolved immediately. The board was already full, gowned residents were running around, while patients were wheeled in from the bay. So much for a slow early morning start.

 Frank was mumbling something under his breath, letting you know he was going to drop your bags off in your lockers. 

Whittaker spotted you first, blood covering the front of his gown. “Thank god you’re here.” 

“What happened?” You asked, throwing your drinks on Dana’s desk. She’d understand all things considered. 

“There was a shooting downtown, three confirmed, maybe more on route.”  He said, watching the night shift struggle to do hand off in the middle of the chaos. 

“Welcome back!” Abbot spotted you, waving before he ran off. 

“What a welcome back.” You grumbled, immediately moving to glove and gown up. 

You didn’t even think about the new, very large accessory on your finger when you did. Your body goes into autopilot, stepping headfirst into the chaos. 

You were assisting on the fourth patient by the time you saw Frank again. 19-year-old, GSW to the abdomen, unstable and combative. 

“Pressures tanking,” Santos called out.

“I see,” You responded, adjusting your grip. “Suction, please.” 

Frank’s voice cut through from the foot of the bed. “What do we have?”

You looked up for a second, your fiancés gown covered in blood, not unlike yours. His perfectly gelled hair was already falling against his safety goggles. 

“Likely intra-abdominal bleed,” you said. “He’s getting rigid.” 

“Nice of you to join us, Dr. Langdon,” Santos said, her voice deadpanned as she helped pass you more sterile gauze to pack into the wound. The patient groaned around the intubation tube as your fingers slid in deeper past the skin. 

“Sorry, Mr. Evans. We need to get this bleeding under control.” You spoke, regardless if he couldn’t respond. 

“BP sixty-two,” Santos said. “He’s crashing.”

“Push another unit of blood,” Frank ordered. “Get me a pressure bag.”

Everyone jostled around, Frank frantically rapidly entering more blood into his IV. 

You slid your fingers further into the wound, bluntly exploring, feeling for pulsing, for the slick rush of his artery. 

A surge against your fingertips, there. Not quite yet spurting, but heavy. Fast. Filling up his abdomen with each second that you waited. 

“Got active bleeding,” you said. “Feels deeper than I like.”

“Can you compress?” Frank asked.

“Trying.” You hummed. You adjusted your stance, bracing your forearm against the patient’s abdomen for leverage. You extended two fingers further in, angling posteriorly and medially, pressing toward where the splenic hilum would sit. 

Your ring stretched against the latex of the glove, not that you noticed. You were too busy focusing on isolating the vessel, applying pressure to a pulsating vein. 

“Heart rate is back up, 150,” Santos said the ultrasound probe in her hand was helping guide you. 

“Hang another unit.” Frank had said somewhere, while you shifted your body. Your other hand flattens against his torso to better change your angle. 

“Wait, I think I got it.” You breathed out, right when you went to move to grab a clamp, there was a loud snap. 

It wasn’t loud over the monitors and the suction, but you heard it immediately. Followed was cool air pressing against your bare skin. 

“Damn it.” You seethed, while Whittaker paused beside you. 

“Glove, your gloves torn.” He panicked. 

The tear ran diagonally across your palm, latex stretched thin and split around the base of your ring finger. The diamond now poked out, loud and proud. And blood was spilling into your open palm. 

Frank’s head snapped over to you, his brows furrowed in concern. 

“Whittaker, we’re gonna switch.” You announced, guiding his gloved fingers exactly where yours had been. He moved without hesitation, heading your instructions. 

“Maintain firm compression,” you said quickly. “Posterior and medial, feels like splenic involvement.” 

“Copy.” He said, his eyes wide. 

You stepped back cleanly, peeling the now ruined glove off, mindful of contamination. 

“Should we let the OR know about the glove?” Santos asked, “Just in case there’s fragments.” 

Frank nodded, “Just in case, how did it split?” He asked, his hands still pumping the pressure bag. 

You held up the soiled glove with your still gloved hand, “Down the palm around my ring finger, it looks intact.” 

That’s when the room went silent, your bare hand under the horrible hospital fluorescents. Which only amplified the very large glittering diamond that sat snuggly on your hand, in stark contrast to the specs of dry blood on your palm. The ring that was most definitely not there when you two clocked out on Friday night. 

Santos paused mid-sentence, her eyes locked on the shine. 

Frank checked you over quickly for injuries, something warm and familiar in his grin. 

He heard one of the nurses whistle while she hung another unit of blood, only making his ego sore higher. 

“Doctors, we have a patient.” He reminded everyone with a smug little smirk on his face. 

That snapped everyone out of their staring while you regloved, helping Whittaker clamp the bleed and get the patient stable enough to transfer up to the OR. As soon as he was stable, the room exhaled as he was rolled out. 

There was only a moment of silence before Santos spoke up, “We gonna talk about the elephant in the room? Or better, the very large rock in the room?” 

Frank stood there with a shit-eating grin on his face, practically dancing on his heels as he washed up. 

You threw away the towel you used to dry your hands, holding up your left hand proudly. 

“And I didn’t even get a spec of blood on it.” You smiled proudly, her hand grabbing yours to get a closer look. 

Whittaker just smiled warmly, “Congratulations, you guys.” 

Frank clapped his shoulder once on the way past. “Thanks.”

You barely had time to breathe before Trinity dropped your hand and bolted out of the bay doors like she’d been shot herself.

“Oh no,” you muttered.

“There goes the soft launch,” Frank said under his breath.

Santos was already talking in tagalong very loudly to Princess and Perlah, with a wide smile on their faces. Everyone’s eyes turning towards your hand. 

Frank's shoulder brushes against yours softly as you saunter up to the nurses' station. Dana was there now, her glasses getting pushed on top of her forehead in shock. 

“Is it true?” She demanded, making you laugh. 

You held your hand out, letting multiple hands grab onto you for a better look. 

Princess gasped dramatically. “Oh my God.”

Perlah leaned closer. “I had fifty dollars on Christmas.”

Princess cackled. “I told you he couldn’t wait that long.”

Dana looked up at Frank with a slow, assessing nod. “You did good, kid.”

“Good?” McKay’s voice cut in as she approached. “That’s a fucking rock, Langdon.”

“Snapped a glove on our GSW,” Trinity added proudly. “Whittaker got his first feel of an aortic bleed because of it.”

Whittaker coughed. “Pretty sure it was splenic.”

“Semantics,” she waved him off.

Frank blinked. “Wait. You guys bet on our engagement?”

“Yes,” Ahmad groaned, “And Robby’s taking home the pot.” 

Frank's brow furrowed, “But that’s not fair.” 

“Tell me about it.” Princess sighed, tilting your hand around to make the diamond sparkle. 

“Wait, it’s not fair because I told Robby I was proposing. For the time off, so you people wouldn’t call us.” 

Everyone turned suddenly, eyes scouting for the Chief in question. No doubt, having ducked into a trauma room at the first mention of the bet. 

“He played you guys.” Dana laughed, patting your cheek softly. “I’m happy for you guys. Really.” 

“Wait, so it happened this weekend? How did he ask?” Javadi asked, setting down her tablet on the counter. “Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“Well, we came in early, planning on doing that.” You laughed, “Instead, Whittaker was pale in the face, dragging me into trauma one.” 

“Very on brand.” Frank laughed, Donnie coming up to hug him in congratulations. 

“Oh my god, you did it?” Mel asked, her voice squealing halfway across the department. She was still in her gown and gloves, throwing her hands up. “I need all the details after this.” She pointed to the patient that Jessie was helping wheel into South 20. 

“It was sweet, he took me out to our favorite restaurant on Friday night. He cooked me breakfast Saturday morning, which I knew something was up then because he never cooks.” You teased, recounting the last few days with fondness in your eyes. “I’m standing in the kitchen in pajamas, hair a mess, and I turn around to grab a cup of coffee, and he’s just there on one knee, ring in his hand.” 

Awes echoed around the room, Princess putting her heart over her chest. 

“I’ll save you the sappy speech to not embarrass him, but it was perfect. Perfect for us.” You beamed, letting Frank wrap his arm around your shoulder. There wasn’t much PDA between you two in the Pitt; professionalism came first. But if there was any time for him to press a kiss into the top of your head, it was now. 

“What did you guys do after that?” Javadi asked, her eyes wide in joy. 

“We didn’t leave the house much,” Frank smiled, “Too busy enjoying our time away from here.” 

A few laughs before Donnie spoke up, “Yeah, define how much.” 

“Okay.” You drawled out, rolling your eyes as Donnie shook Frank’s hand. “You guys are gonna get HR called on us, don’t you guys have patients?” You giggled, pushing Frank's shoulder away playfully. While the two men are having too much fun joking about your extracurriculars. 

“Boys,” Dana mumbled, shooting you a playful look. 

“That’s what I'm saying.” Robby’s voice spoke out from behind you, too, with a soft smile on his face. His hands in his pockets, rocking back on his feet.  “Congratulations, you guys.” 

Your friends were scattered around the ED, a few you still needed to tell, but for the most part, the large reveal was over. A promise to talk more over lunch, a plan to catch a beer with them across the street right after your shift. 

“Thank you, man.” Frank smiled back, shaking his hand briefly. 

“Oh, just a heads up. They found out you played them about the bet, so watch out.” You warned him, watching Ahmad start walking towards the man. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you!” 

“What are you doing?” You squealed, running towards him, ready to snatch it out of his hands. Before you even get close, he holds it above his head almost mockingly. 

There’s a shit-eating grin on his face as he waves the toy around. “What is this?” 

“It’s,” You start, your mouth going dry, “It’s nothing, give it back.” 

He doesn’t seem at all bothered by your flustered cheeks. “Definitely not nothing. When did you get this?” 

“Last week.” You grumbled, arms crossing over your chest, “When Santos and I went out.” 

He makes a noise and opens his mouth to speak before you start stumbling over your words. 

“It’s just for nights you work late.” You defend yourself, “I’ve only used it a couple times; it’s embarrassing, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-” 

The toy clicks off, and Jack’s demeanor shifts. “Baby, you don’t think I’m insecure over this $50 piece of plastic, do you?” 

Your shoulders fall a little in relief. “I don’t know.” You mumble shyly, “My ex hated the idea of sex toys, said they meant he wasn’t good enough.”

“Honey,” he scoffs, tossing the toy into the sheets and taking a step towards you. “Real men don't give a shit about this.” 

“I know, I know.” You breathed out. 

“I was only teasing; I never, ever want you to be embarrassed about you seeking out your own pleasure.” He added on. 

“It’s not like our sex is bad,” You assured him, and watched that smirk grow back on his lips. 

“Yeah, I know that-” He’s cut off with a playful shove to his chest, his arms wrapping around your hips. 

“Hey,” He whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your painted lips, “I know you have a higher sex drive than me; it’s all part of dating an old man.” 

“Yeah, but you’re my old man.” 

“Just tell me next time, honey.” He smiled, thumbs rubbing circles into the satin fabric clinging to your curves. “Hell, I’ll give you my card; you buy whatever you want. Whatever makes my girl feel good.” 

“I love you.” You whispered against his lips, kissing him a little harder before you pulled back. “But we’re gonna be late. So put that back.” 

“Oh, come on.” He tried to pull you back against him. “It’s a stupid fundraiser; we can be a little late.” 

“Yeah?” You mocked, “You said that last time, and I ended up having to redo my makeup, and Robby never lets us live it down.” 

He pouted, “Fine, fine.” 

Jack puts the toy back in its home inside the silk dustbag, and it’s mostly forgotten about. Life goes on as usual. The whole incident is swallowed by the mundane rhythm of the week, lost beneath early mornings, long shifts, takeout dinners, and laundry that sits in the basket a day longer than it should. Work has always had a way of consuming both of you until the days blur together.

It isn’t until late one night, the house quiet aside from the fan Jack couldn’t sleep without. The two of you were pressed against each other. Clothes long since discarded, his lips still wet from where he made you cum twice with his mouth alone. Sweat lined your skin as you wrapped your legs around his hips, urging him to press himself deep into you. 

“Don’t think I’m gonna last long, sweetheart,” Jack murmured shyly, making you shrug. You knew of Jack’s capabilities; some days were better than others. None of that mattered to you, not while your body was still loopy in his hold from all the orgasms he’d already pulled from you. 

“Don’t care.” You whimpered, trying to pull him to your entrance. “Just wanna feel you inside of me.” 

Who was Jack to deny you that pleasure? 

He adjusted his hips, pressing his tip against your entrance, letting his cock slip deep inside of you.  Both of you shuddered in pleasure, hands gripping each other as a lifeline as you threw your head back. His thrusts were slow and hard, his tip hitting the spot inside of you that made you see stars. 

You were lost in the haze of pleasure until his thrusts began to slow, and you felt his body lean over the side of the bed. 

“Jack?” You mumbled, eyes fluttering open to see him rummaging around your nightstand until he came back up with the infamous pink vibrator in his grasp. 

“Jack-” 

“Shhh,” He whispered, leaning back a little to give himself space to press the cold plastic against your clit. “Wanna make you cum around me.” 

“Oh, my god.” You mumbled, watching him circle the head around your clit before the button was switched on. 

The sensation had your hips flying off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulder blades. Between the vibrations on your clit and the steady rock of his hips nudging that spot inside of you, you could barely keep your eyes open. 

“H-holy fuck, Jack.” You cried out, as his eyes watched you mewl in pleasure beneath him. You were so full, and the stimulation was pushing you closer to the edge faster than you ever could on your own.

“I know, honey.” He cooed, his free hand gripping your hips to keep you stuffed full of him. “God, you’re fucking soaked. Jus’ dripping everywhere.” 

“D-don’t stop,” You cried, your fingers gripping his shoulders and then the sheets. Fisting them harshly in your hands, anything to ground yourself as the sensation threatened to pull you under. “Oh, J-ack-“ 

“You gonna cum for me already?” Jack grunted, nearly teetering off of his own edge as you fluttered around him. Suckling him in so deep he could barely keep up his thrusts. 

Your head felt heavy, a string of moans of his name leaving your lips as you managed to give him a faint nod. 

“Yeah, you are. Can fucking feel it.” The vibrator was turned up one more setting, making goosebumps rise on your skin as the waves crashed over you. 

“Let go, baby.” He cooed, “It’s gonna feel so good, just breathe.” 

“O-oh, my god.” 

He kept talking you through it, your legs trembling around him as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. As soon as your body went limp, Jack could feel it. Your cunt throbbed uncontrollably, a thick spray of release escaping out of your heat as you screamed out. 

He didn’t stop, pressing himself deep into you as he chased his own high. The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together made him drop the vibrator on the bed as he came with his own guttural shout, filling you full of him.

”M’god.” You choked out, your body writhing uncontrollably from underneath him. Each slight movement making shots of pleasure shoot through you. “Jack, Jack.” 

“I got you,” He cooed, pulling you close to him as you came down from your high. “I know, that was intense, huh?” 

“Hmm.” You mumbled, enjoying the sensation of his cock softening inside of you as the two of you caught your breath. 

“Oh, baby.” Jack let out a winded laugh, pulling himself out of you slowly. “Fuck, we gotta do that again.” 

You could barely speak, letting out a soft giggle and a nod. “S’good.”

Your body was still pliant and boneless as he pulled you into his arms. Your head finding it’s home on his chest as he wrapped his arms around you tightly. “I love you so much, always so good for me.” 

“Hmm. Love you more.” You respond, pressing a gentle kiss to his pec. 

Before you could lay your head back down, you paused. Once out of your post-orgasmic haze, the soft sound of buzzing came back to both of you. You both looked at each other in realization, letting out soft hysterical giggles as you leaned over the side of the bed to see the vibrator buzzing around frantically on the floor. 

“Oh my god-” 

“That’s my new friend.” Jack laughed, leaning down to scoop up the toy. “Huh, man’s best friend. Maybe it was never a dog-“

SMACK

At the end of the day, he was still just a boy trapped in a man’s body. 

And somewhere along the way, you had become a woman. A woman carrying a restlessness she couldn’t explain. A hunger that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with becoming. It lived beneath your ribs like a living thing, stretching and clawing for space. You had desires that were burning inside of you, festering like a disease in the pit of your stomach. 

Sweat slipped down your skin, from your forehead down your neck, settling in the valley between your breasts. You imagined a tongue licking it off of you, fisting your fingers into curly hair. In your imagination, when you pulled the head up in between your hands, it wasn’t his eyes you were seeing; it was his father's. 

Jack Abbot had been the star of all of your late-night fantasies for longer than you’d like to admit. Sometimes you wondered if there had ever been a beginning at all, if the feeling had simply lived somewhere deep inside you for years unnoticed, waiting quietly beneath the surface until you became old enough, restless enough, lonely enough to finally recognize it.

You spent too many nights lying there staring at the ceiling, Romeo’s cum leaking from between your legs while he lay snoring next to you. You’re wide awake and unsatisfied, a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to after nights with him. Which is how these thoughts started. 

Jack Abbot was sex on legs, from his sun-damaged skin to his bow-legged gait; every inch of him was to be desired. You’d seen him shirtless with sweat dripping down his muscles, his jeans that fit snug against his ass. All you could think about was his body, and just what he could do with it. Now he was a man.

You’d think of his lips dragging down your neck, his hands against your neck, his cock deep inside of you, turning you apart in his hold.

Your hand would slip into your underwear, fingertips dipping into your neglected heat, and you would come the hardest you ever have before. 

They were just harmless thoughts, until they weren’t. 

It was another one of Romeo’s get-togethers. His friends filled the backyard like a plague of locusts, loud and careless, sprawled across truck beds and lawn chairs with beer cans crushed beneath their boots. Drugs were hidden in hoodie pockets and carelessly left on whatever flat surface they could find. 

You were drunk on cheap beers and stumbling over your boots that were a few sizes too big, but they were only ten dollars at the flea market. The night air had chilled a few degrees, making your exposed skin prickle with each sway of your body. You could see Jack, his shoulder pressed against the porch. The night smelled of woodsmoke, and fireflies buzzed around you, almost guiding your gaze to him. 

Jack was watching you; it was hard for him not to. His eyes found yours like the moonlight finds the water in the backyard pond. It was happening more and more often these days.

You‘re not sure whose hand pulled you up on the creaky old wooden table, but you went up there gracefully. Your hips swaying lazily to the 70s love song playing, while cheers echoed from below, beer bottles raised toward the sky at each shake of your ass. Your sundress riding up your thighs, showing a little too much skin. It was playful, a girlfriend pulling you towards her, harmless even. You were lost in the haze of the heat and too many beers. It was all fun until Romeo saw you.

Jack watched his son’s expression darken from across the yard like an accident waiting to happen.

One second, Romeo was laughing with his friends near the cooler. Next, his jaw tightened, and something ugly was flickering behind his eyes. Before the crowd could understand what was happening, Romeo was already pushing through them. He shoved shoulders aside without apology, boots kicking up dust as he crossed the yard. The music continued playing, and people continued laughing, oblivious to the disaster about to unfold. You barely had time to register his presence before his hand closed around your wrist. Hard. 

Hard enough that Jack set his beer down on the porch, watching you wince in his hold.

Romeo’s fingers tightened around your wrist until pain shot up your arm, the pressure enough to make your smile disappear as quickly as it had come. Bystanders watched while the music droned on; you already knew no one would step in. No one did once Romeo had a few drinks. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, jerking you off the table hard enough that your boots nearly slipped beneath you.

You stumbled when you landed, catching yourself before you fell completely. The alcohol swimming through your veins made the world tilt unpleasantly, but it did nothing to dull the anger rising inside your chest.

“Let go of me.” Your voice comes out more slurred than you want it to. 

“You think this is cute?” His breath reeked of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes. “Dancing on tables like some damn whore for everybody to stare at.”

”You’re hurting me.” You try to pull your wrist from his hold, to no avail. “Romeo, what is your problem?” 

“You’re my fucking problem.” He spat, dragging you further away from prying eyes. Usually, when he did these things got worse, so you dug your heels into the dirt. 

“Let me go.”

Romeo laughed, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “You always gotta make a scene. Am I not giving you attention, huh?”

”No, not really.” His grip tightened when you scoffed.  The bruise would be ugly tomorrow.

For a moment, he just stared at you, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes glassy from whatever combination of liquor and resentment had been brewing inside him all evening. Then something shifted. The fight drained from him all at once, leaving only annoyance behind.

He dropped your arm aggressively, nearly pulling your arm from the socket from the force. 

“Fine,” He laughed, but there was no amusement in it, “Go, run off and cry until you decide you wanna act right." 

”Romeo-“

“I said go, get the fuck out of my sight.”

This time, you didn’t argue. You turned and ran. The music faded behind you with every step. The bonfire became a distant orange glow swallowed by darkness. Soon all that remained was the sound of your own breathing and the steady chorus of crickets hidden among the reeds.

The lake waited beyond the edge of the property, hidden beneath moonlight and cypress shadows. You finally slowed when you reached the shoreline, your lungs burning from the run.

As you tried to catch your breath, the tears came hot and unrelenting. Embarrassment burned in your chest. You wrapped your arms around yourself and stared across the glistening water. The bruises on your wrist were already beginning to darken beneath your skin. Fingerprints. Evidence. Proof of something you had spent far too long pretending wasn’t happening.

You heard a twig snap behind you, making you still. It was then that a timber voice spoke out, soft enough not to spook you even further. 

“You alright?” Jack asked, slowly appearing through the trees. 

You sniffled, wiping your eyes harshly. 

“He do that often?” 

Shame crawled through your stomach, your eyes drifting back down to the bruises. They weren’t the first ones he’d left on your skin, and you were afraid they wouldn't be the last. He’d wake up tomorrow hungover, kiss you breathless, and take you to the farmers market in town with a smile on his face. Then, the beers would appear again, an endless cycle you couldn’t seem to escape from.

“Not all the time…” You whispered, “He just gets short-tempered when he’s drinking.” 

The silence is deafening in the woods this late, just water lapping against the dirt shore and the occasional croak of a bullfrog. 

Jack looked out across the water before speaking again. “My wife used to say that.” 

Your neck snapped to look at him, his gaze haunted as he stared into the darkness. There was very little mention of the late Mrs. Abbot; Romeo never once uttered anything about her when she passed a few years back. 

“He’s only like that when he drinks.’ His voice was quiet enough that the wind nearly carried it away. “‘He’s only like that when he’s angry.’”

A bitter smile touched his mouth. “‘He doesn’t mean it, not really” 

“Man, we used to argue so much about him,” He laughed, “Momma’s boy I called him. He’d never come to me when he got in trouble, she’d always run up to him. They’re just alike, that’s what scares me.” 

“I would have thought he’d be more like you,” You admitted. 

Jack finally looked over at you.

“What do you mean?”

A small shrug lifted your shoulders. “You don’t exactly seem like the type to hurt a fly.”

”Oh man,” He shook his head, “You don’t get to this age without stepping on a few flies.”

”Okay, I didn’t say that now,” You laughed a little, tears drying up from your cheeks in the night air, “It just seems like you know how to treat a woman, s’all.” 

“I’m sure my son doesn’t know how to treat a woman in any way,” He said, and he meant it as a joke. But the words made your stomach burn, and all you could think about was how his plump lips wrapped around the top of his beer bottle. 

“No, no, he doesn’t.” You said with a weak laugh. You wanted it to come out playful, a light-hearted joke, but instead it came out meek. 

Jack’s eyebrow quirked, but he didn’t say anything. 

You were suddenly aware of how your breath sounded, how it didn’t quite match the stillness around you, how everything in you felt slightly off balance.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you added after a moment, though you weren’t sure what you were correcting anymore, and Jack gave a quiet hum that wasn’t agreement or disagreement, just acknowledgment that he was still listening, still there. His silence was making your heartbeat drum underneath your skin. 

Jack stepped nearer without announcing it, closing the distance in a way that felt like he had decided something quietly and was no longer interested in talking himself out of it. Your back met the rough bark of a cypress tree before you realized you had even moved at all, or perhaps he had guided you there with his presence alone. 

When you looked up at him properly, you saw the restraint in his face, the careful control of a man who understood exactly how wrong this could be and still hadn’t stepped away.

“You shouldn’t be out here with me,” he said slowly, though it didn’t sound like a warning so much as an admission. “S’trouble waiting to happen.”

Your laugh came out softer this time, breathier, almost disbelieving. “Then why are you still here?”

Jack exhaled once, slow and controlled, and then his hand came up to rest against the tree beside your shoulder, not touching you fully but enclosing you in everything but distance.

His lips met yours softly, warm and a little unsteady. Cautious at first, before the floodgates opened between you. He tasted like Marlboro Reds and smelled like grease from his ’78 Chevy. The kiss turned ferocious and fast, his tongue prodding your mouth open for him.  Lips devouring each other’s mouths as hands roamed. Your fingertips prodding at his belt buckle while his fingers were pulling the thin fabric of your dress down to squeeze your tits harshly in his hands. 

You were moaning pathetically into his mouth, practically grinding against his body that was slotted in between your legs. Your back scratched harshly against the tree bark, but you didn’t care as long as his lips were on yours and his hand kept going down. 

Down and further down until they were prying your thighs apart, pulling frantically at the thin fabric of your underwear on the sides of your hips. The fabric fell to your ankles, his hand slipping right in between your thighs. As soon as his fingers made contact with your sopping heat, you moaned louder than you should have. The sound bouncing off the trees. 

His body stilled. Then, he’s stopping you with his hands, pulling back as if your touch had burned him. 

“Stop, stop,” He rushed out, lurching himself backward a few feet, “Fuck, I shouldn’t have-“

You cut him off quickly, “It’s fine, it’s fine.” 

Your underwear is still around your ankles, your dress pulled down, still exposing your tits as you froze against the tree. 

“It’s not-“ He cuts himself off, his fingers anxiously running through his hair, “Fix yourself up, now.” 

His orders make the embarrassment from earlier come back tenfold, as you redress yourself in the thick silence. He’s scrubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans frantically as if he could wipe away the touch of your skin. 

“But-“ 

“No,” He cuts you off, his voice low and final, “This never happened. Now go on home and get some sleep.” 

“Okay-“

“This never happened.” He snapped, as if he just needed to hear himself say it again. He took one more look at you before turning around the same way he came. 

Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning your head against the tree, partially unsure if it really had happened at all. If this was just another late-night dream you couldn’t wake up from.

“Party’s over,” You could hear Jack yelling, whistling between his fingers, “Go the fuck home.” 

Truck engines rattled to life one by one. Headlights swept through the trees in brief flashes of gold. You could hear Romeo’s friends complaining from somewhere near the bonfire, their drunken protests dissolving into the darkness as vehicles rolled down the dirt road and disappeared into the countryside.

That night, you went to bed alone. The space beside you remained empty, though it wasn’t Romeo occupying your thoughts. You lay awake staring at the ceiling while your fingertips brushed absentmindedly across your lips, the phantom taste of Jack haunting you. The house creaked around you as it settled. Crickets sang beyond the open window. Sleep refused to come.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing beside the lake. The feeling of his lips against yours. The rough, frantic touch of his callused hands. 

You wondered if he was going to fuck you right there, just a few hundred feet from his son. You wondered if you would have let him, but you knew the answer.

The next morning arrived in a flood of sunlight. Golden light spilled through the sun-bleached curtains, illuminating the dust floating lazily through the room. You rolled onto your back and stared up at the crack in the ceiling.

For years, you had looked up at those cracks in the ceiling and imagined your future already written for you. Marriage. Children. A little house as soon as Romeo made enough money to buy you a home. The same story, every woman in town seemed destined to inherit from the one before her. The life your mother laid out for you, the only one you thought you could have. You had spent so much of your life allowing other people to decide who you were. 

Your fingers drifted absently across your stomach while you stared at the ceiling and allowed yourself, for once, to stop pretending. You were tired of apologizing for wanting things. Tired of shrinking yourself into shapes that made other people comfortable. Tired of convincing yourself that desire was something shameful.

You wanted the freedom to act on your desires. 

You were in charge of your own destiny, no one else. 

A clatter of tools took you out of your thoughts, lifting your head to peer out the window. Jack lay half beneath the old car parked in the carport, one arm stretched above him while a wrench flashed in the morning sunlight. The sleeves of his worn T-shirt clung to his shoulders. Grease marked his hands. The radio nearby crackled with an old country song as he worked.

A smile tugged unexpectedly at your mouth, your legs swinging off the bed with a newfound fire lit beneath your feet. 

The sun had already warmed the house by the time you were closing the screen door. For a moment, you just stood there and watched him, hearing him softly grunt as he pried a bolt out from the car with pure strength. 

You weren’t sure when he noticed you, but his voice emerged before you could get a word in. 

“Where’s Romeo?” He gruffed; you could still only see his lower half as he rolled underneath the car. 

You shrugged despite the fact that he couldn’t even see you, “Probably getting high somewhere.” 

He lets out a scoff, “That’s not funny.” 

“Who said I was trying to be funny?” You deadpanned, “That’s all your son does nowadays.” 

The answer sat heavy between you; only the faint sounds of him working filled the silence.

You wandered closer, pretending an interest in the scattered tools around the driveway. The morning sun felt warm against your bare legs while the scent of cut grass lingered in the air. Everything looked painfully ordinary, even though nothing felt ordinary anymore.

“Been thinking about leaving him,” You admitted quietly, but you knew he heard you by the way the sounds ceased. 

”And why is that?” 

“I just don’t think he can give me what I want.” 

The words sat in the heavy air for a moment before he finally rolled out from underneath the car. Grease streaked across one forearm and darkened the front of his shirt. Sweat glistened faintly along his neck from working in the heat all morning. He pushed himself upright and wiped his hands on an old rag, carefully avoiding your eyes.

“He can be a good boy, he’s just lost,” He gruffed out, throwing his tools to the ground, “He’s your age, he’d give you a good life one day. Don’t ruin it because you’re confused.” 

His words were going in one ear and out the other as he used the rag to wipe the grease off his fingers. It was almost teasing how he did it, twisting his fingers through the rag while his eyes were locked onto yours. 

“That’s just it. I don’t want a boy,” You scoffed, looking back up at his face. Sweat pooled at his forehead, and stray curls clung to his skin. He had a smudge of grease still on his chin; he looked older in the light. The sun damage on his skin, the freckles lining his arms. He’s never looked as sexy as he does right now. “I want a man.” 

He mimicked your scoff, “Oh, please. You wouldn’t know what to do with a man. You’re just a child.” 

“Patronizing, wow.” You rolled your eyes, crossing your legs. The strings on your cut-off jean shorts were flowing wildly in the sticky summer breeze. “I’m 22. Fully an adult.” 

“Baby,” He sighed, fingers thumbing around his faded blue jean pockets to find his pack of Marlboros. “That’s a child to me. I could be your dad, hell, your granddaddy, really.” 

You squinted in the bright sun, watching the cigarette filter dangle between his lips as his rough, calloused hands flicked the lighter open. When he took in a deep breath, you shivered, watching the smoke linger around the space still between you two. 

“You know,” You hummed, your hands behind your back as you leaned against the car, “I think you’re just scared.” 

“Yeah? Of what?” 

“Of just how fucking badly you want me.” You shrugged, his hands stilling right before he went back for another drag. 

His eyes were darker now, his tone unwavering. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You smacked your lips, shaking your head a little. “You play like you’re looking out for me, that you want what's best for me. You want me to fuck your son? Want me to marry him?” 

He stayed still, his eyes squinting at you. A threat in and of itself, but you refuse to back down. 

Your voice raised, “Want me to let him get me all barefoot and pregnant? Keep me locked in his house like a good little wife? You wanna see me at every holiday gathering? Your grandbaby on my arm?” 

“You’re-“ He cuts himself off, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his boot. A little harder than he should have. 

“I’m what?” You preened, thankful to have some reaction out of him. 

“A fucking problem,” He grunted, “Look at you, basically throwing yourself at me like a fucking whore.”

”Right now, I see it. Father like fucking son,” You nodded, a cruel laugh slipping out, “Like I’m the one who kissed me last night, who shoved his hands up my skirt-“ 

He was in front of you before you could register what was happening, his hand gripping your chin so tightly you winced. “ Shut the fuck up.” 

He smelled like cigarette smoke and danger. His fingertips were pressing bruises into your jaw, but you still felt weak in the knees. A ridiculous toothy grin on your lips at the feeling of his body against yours. 

“Why? Can’t take responsibility for your own actions?” You spat.

He scoffed, spit flying into your face. Spit you’d willingly drink if he so dared to give you the pleasure. With his body pressed against yours, the outline of his cock pressed hard against your bare thigh. You had him exactly where you wanted him. It should have been disgusting, you should have been scared and offended, but you’ve never felt so alive seeing the threat in his eyes. 

“Watch your fucking mouth.” 

You smirked as much as you could in his bruising grip. “Seems like you want my mouth.” You shifted your legs, rubbing against the denim bulge. 

You could feel him twitch, his whole body jolting at the sudden touch. 

“Yeah,” You laughed, “That’s what I thought.” 

The look in his eyes shifted, his head tilting back. “Right..” He mumbled under his breath, almost in amusement. 

Suddenly, his hands were in your hair, yanking the strands harshly, dragging you down to your knees on the hot asphalt.  

You yelped out, your hands grabbing his wrists as he forced you down. “What-“ 

“You want it so fucking bad?” He asked, forcing your neck to snap up to look at him, “Then take it.” 

With a little nudge, it didn’t take long to realize his denim-clad bulge was pressing into your face. His hand dropped your head harshly to unbuckle his belt. 

Your mouth watered, looking up at him in the late Summer sun, his boxers getting pushed down to his knees for god and everyone to see. His hard cock slapping against your cheek, the tip red and veiny. You knew he’d be huge, but seeing it in front of your face made your eyes widen. 

“Open. Up.” He grunted, fisting his length to press his tip in between your waiting lips. You obliged, opening wide to let him use your waiting mouth. 

You nearly gagged at the sheer size of him, doing your best to relax your throat to take every inch of him as you bobbed your head quickly. 

“Fuck,” His hand went back into your hair, guiding you to take more of him on each bob. “That mouth is good for something, ain’t it?” 

The sounds of his cock fucking your mouth echoed through the space, as he takes and takes. Each gag of your throat has his eyes rolling back into his head. His pace is relentless, unwilling to stop until your nails are digging into his thigh, desperate for a breath of fresh air. He groans, gripping your hair hard to pull your mouth off of him. Spit is dripping from your mouth down your neck as you let out pathetic gasps for air.

”I thought this was what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanna kiss my son’s lips with his daddy’s cum on your breath?” He mocks, before violently pushing your head back down. 

You’re choking around him once more, his pubes tickling your nose. His balls were slapping against your chin as you let him abuse your throat until his thighs began to tremble. You licked your tongue against the underside of his cock as he came, a guttural groan leaving his mouth that went straight between your thighs. 

You had a mouthful of his release when he pulled his softening cock from your lips, cum leaking from the sides.

Your jaw dropped, showing him your cum covered tongue before you swallowed, his eyes lit ablaze. 

“Fucking disgusting, you loved that shit,” He spat, but pulled you up for a bruising kiss anyway. Giving himself a taste.

Your knees were bruised and aching by the time you were on your shaky legs. Your hair was in knots, and your throat aching from his abuse. He pulled away from the kiss too quickly, looking down at your disheveled face. 

“Go clean yourself up.” He was already shoving his limp cock into his pants, leaving you there with your aching throat and bruised knees. 

It felt like trading one cruelty for another when you pressed your fingers into the fading bruises on your knees beneath the table that night. 

Dinners went on as normal, as normal as they could with the lingering taste of Jack on your tongue. You stomached down the food, avoiding eye contact with both of the Abbot men as they talked. Sports, weather, work, something about a neighbor’s truck breaking down again, their voices folding into each other as they belonged in the same breath. And there you were, just existing in between them. Waiting until Romeo had you clean his plate, or bring him a beer. It was jarring, receiving abuse from one man while craving it from the other. 

That night was just another one of the same routine, Romeo would fuck you with a hard, unsatisfying pace and then cum. He’d make a ridiculous face, pant into your chest, and then roll over. His snores would start soon after, leaving you complete and utterly alone. There was no love, no attention. You stopped faking your enjoyment a long time ago, and you’re not sure if he ever noticed. 

So you lay there, cunt throbbing in need as it often did. Your brain conjures up memories of Jack’s head thrown back, his teeth biting down on his lip as he fucked your throat. The way he sounded when he came made goosebumps rise on your skin. 

Then, a horrifically delicious idea popped into your head. Jack was just down the hall. 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you slipped out of bed, padding down the hall to his room. You knocked softly, doing your best to keep it quiet. He opened the door, a knowing look on his face. 

The only thing he had on was a pair of boxers, the bulge of his cock evident from the sheer weight of it. His chiseled arms flexed as he leaned against the doorframe, a line of curly gray hair going from his chest down his pelvis. The sheer thought of dragging your tongue down it had you squeezing your legs together again, which Jack didn’t miss.

“You need me, don’t you?” He asked, no trace of sleep in his eyes.

You wonder if he couldn’t sleep due to the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, or if he knew you’d all but be begging for him just a few hours later. 

You nodded pathetically, his hand gripping yours to pull you into the darkened room. The door shut with a quiet click, making your heart skip a beat in your chest. 

His shadow walked back to his bed, leaning back against his headboard without a care in the world. The small bedside lamp vaguely let you make out the pout forming on his lips. His hands patted his thick thighs mockingly. “You just gonna stand there?”

You leaped into action, your knees hitting the plush mattress. 

“He can’t make you cum can he?” He pouts, watching you crawl across the bed onto his lap. Already knowing why you were practically shaking with desire. All he had to do was look at you, and you were gone.

You were straddling his lap, your sleep shirt riding up to give him a view of the damp patch just below the pink bow on your underwear. “N-no.”

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “What a shame.” 

With one hand on your hips, the other one finds itself between your legs. Fingertips twirling at the bow, as if it were a present for him to unwrap. “When was the last time you came?” 

“Last night. Made myself,” You panted, “Can only cum thinking of you.” 

Jack raised his brow, “What a nasty girl.” 

“P-please.” 

“Please, what?” 

“Touch me.” You cried, trying to force your hips to grind against his teasing fingers, but he held you still. 

“I am touching you.” He cooed, still rubbing softly on your clothed mound. Far from where you throbbed for him. 

You let out a childish huff, “That’s not what I mean.” 

“Tell me how to touch you then.” His lust-filled eyes were on yours, his tone demanding. 

Your face burned, “Please, make me cum.” 

He huffed in amusement, letting his fingers dip inside your panties. Brushing softly against your warm heat, arousal soaking his digits with each stroke and circle against your clit. The pleasure licked up your spine, foreign and so far away. It had been years since you came from anything other than your own hand, and it had you reeling. 

“That feel good, baby girl?” He hummed, drinking in every moan and twitch of your hips. 

Your neck hurt from how fast you nodded, “Need you.”

“S’needy.” He huffed playfully, but knew not to tease you any further. He pulled your underwear to the side, slipping his thick fingers into your wet heat easily. Your cunt accepted him greedily, the slight stretch making you wince.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Jack,” You begged, lips pouting, “Need you to fuck me.”

He met your eyes, “Say please.”

The words left your mouth pathetically, “Please, please, p-please.”

He let you beg while he pulled his boxers down, his cock slapping against his bare chest.

“Hop on, baby.” He ordered, his hands only on your hips to keep you steady as you hovered above him.

“F-fuck.” You hissed, sliding down on him. He slipped inside you with little to no resistance, your wet cunt accepting him greedily. By the time you were seated on his lap, you could feel him in your throat. A bulge pressing against your lower stomach, showing you just how deep he was inside of you.

“You wanted this,” He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, “Work for it.” 

You huffed, but swiveled your hips anyway. Your palms flat on his chest as you worked yourself up and down on him, slowly at first until you were riding him within an inch of his life, taking and taking every inch of him he would give you. If this were the only chance he gave you, you’d make every second of it count.

“Oh my god,” You gasped, legs shaking as you struggled to keep up with your movements, “S’big.”

“I know, baby,” He cooed, “You’ve never had a real man’s cock have you?”

“No, no.” You babbled out, barely able to grind against him. “Never made me cum.”

This information seemed to light a fire in Jack, his hips thrusting up from underneath you.

“He doesn’t know how to please a woman,” He grunts, planting his feet flat on the bed to help fuck up into you despite his earlier protests. “Don’t know how I raised such an embarrassment.” 

His tip was hitting your sweet spot, making your vision go blurry from the sheer force of it. 

“Can’t even speak, can you?” He grunted, his joints aching with each thrust into you, his pleasure outweighing the pain to come after, “Fucking the thoughts out of that pretty little head.” 

“J-jack,” You cried out, loud enough to make his large hand slap against your mouth. 

“Shhhhh, you don’t want my son to know his daddy is fucking his little girlfriend, do ya?” 

It was rhetorical, you knew that, but the way your eyes rolled back was enough of an answer for Jack. A devilish glint in his eyes. 

“Oh, or do you baby?” He slowed down a little, causing your hips to pathetically grind against him. He could feel your cunt squeezing him at each word he spoke. ”You do, huh?”

You shook your head, still unable to speak as he kept his palm harshly against your mouth. 

“You can’t lie to me, I feel you dripping around me,” He laughed, fucking up into you harshly once more, “You want him to hear you cumming on my cock? Want him to hear how a real man should fuck a woman?” 

“Oh, my god.” You cried, biting your teeth down on the callused skin of his palms, “Jack, Jack.” 

He knew you were close because Jack Abbot paid attention to women and their pleasure. He knew exactly how to angle his hips, when to speed up, and when to stay exactly the same. His other hand pulls your hips onto him, grinding your clit against his graying patch of hair above his cock, while he fucked up into you without a care in the world. 

When you came around him, it was like seeing the world in color for the first time. Every single night of dreaming of this, none of it compares to the real thing. When you came back, Jack was still thrusting into you, his sharp moans of praise filling your ears. 

“There you go, s’good baby. Yes, just breathe, baby.” 

“Jack.” You slurred, your body falling limp into his arms. 

“S’good, gonna make me cum.” He panted, “Baby, where d’ya want it?” 

“Inside, please, please.” 

He cut off your pathetic babbles with a kiss, slotting your lips together as he came inside of you with a grunt. His eyes squeezed shut as he filled you full of his cum. It was so warm and soft, you melted into him. 

“You ‘kay, honey?” His sugary sweet voice whispered into your ear, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. 

“Hmm.” 

“M’gonna pull out.” He warned, leaving you with a soft hiss. 

As soon as he did, you whined at the loss of him, almost too much to bear physically. His cum was dripping out of you, dribbling down onto his chest where you hovered above him. His fingers reached down, scooping through the mess he had made, plunging his fingers deep inside. 

“Gotta keep it there f’me.” 

You sighed, sitting against his chest, rocking against his fingers greedily, itching for another release with his cum inside of you. 

“You’re already dripping in my cum, and you want more?” He’s out of breath, and there’s all but stars in your eyes as you nod greedily at him. 

He lay there, looking up at the crucifix crookedly hanging on the wall above him. He’d repent later, he thought, watching you grind your leaking cunt against him. God would forgive him, but let him relish in his sins a little longer when they felt this good. 

That night opened the floodgates between you two. It was all stolen glances, ankles locked underneath tablecloths, and nights spent aching for each other within the tiny house, letting yourself be consumed by the Abbot men, while your heart only belonged to one, and it wasn't the one you were sharing a bed with. It was wrong, God, you knew it, but why would something so wrong feel so right?

Romeo dropped the bombshell out of nowhere, while you were in the middle of dinner, listening to the news drone on in the background. 

“I’m gonna be out of town for a few weeks, trying to get that job at the oil rig.” He beamed, “I wanna give you a good life, Y/n.” 

“Y-yeah,” You stuttered out, your grip on your fork tightening as the seconds passed. You avoid Jack’s eyes; you can’t think about being stuck in this house with him, all alone. “It’s gonna go great.” 

“Hey,” Romeo smiles, placing his hand on your thigh, comfortingly taking your discomfort for something else entirely, “It’s only a little bit. Besides, Dad will take good care of you. Won’t he?” 

Jack gave you a toothy grin, taking a huge bite out of his steak. “I sure will, son. I sure will.” 

“Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble either,” Romeo said, a glint in his eye as he squeezed your thigh tighter in a silent warning. 

Romeo’s departure had your nerves on edge, as you kissed him goodbye, all you could think about was climbing into Jack’s worn-out recliner and getting your lips on his again. 

Jack could see it on your face, just how bad you wanted, no, needed this.

“Ain’t nothing gonna happen, darlin.” He hummed, his eyes still on the grainy television. You pretended not to notice the tick of his jaw, or the way his fingers gripped his whisky glass even tighter. “S’not right and you know it. You heard him, he’s gonna give you a good life.”

“Yeah, of course not.” You smiled, knowing the two of you were lying through your teeth. Weeks in this house alone, you barely gave it a few days before one of you caved. 

The window in your room gave you the perfect view into his workshop, watching Jack with his sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with each tool he picked up. When the sun got too much, he’d slip off his shirt, his bare skin glistening. You’d rest your head on the window, letting your hand glide down between your legs. Your fingers slipping underneath your skirts to press harshly into your dripping cunt. 

You’d finger yourself to the image of him below, sweating and unaware of how you were moaning his name and falling apart to the memory of his cock inside of you. There were bitemarks in the cheap wood of the windowsill from trying to stifle your moans. By the time he’d come back inside, all exhausted from a day’s work, your legs would still be shaking, still unsatisfied. And you felt that you would be until you had him again. 

Like two peas in a perverted pod, Jack would end his days with a cold shower and his hand wrapped around his cock until he was shooting blanks down the drain. You’d lounge around in the thinnest white dresses; you might as well have been naked, with how he could see the outline of every curve and dip on your body through them. You watched his knuckles whiten from how hard he squeezed his fists together, but still, he tried to remain a righteous man. 

You were walking sin, and Jack had never wanted so badly to betray God. 

It took him less than 48 hours to give up. You were lying on your stomach on the floor of your room, flipping through some old magazine before the door swung open, his face flushed and pants still halfway undone. 

“Hi-“ 

You had on another one of those god-forsaken night gowns, the sheer fabric lifted above your ass, giving him a perfect view. This was the last straw, he decided, as he pulled his jeans down. 

“What-“ 

He cut you off, dropping his aching bones to the floor, pressing his entire bodyweight on top of you. His hard cock pressing against your ass, his hand reaching forward to grab you by your neck. 

“You and these fucking dresses,” He scoffed, pushing his tip through your still wet folds, “You this wet for me?” 

You were mewling against him, jaw dropping when he sank into your cunt without warning. Still wet from your fingers failing at filling you up as much as he did. “Y-yes. Needed you.” 

“You got me,” He grunted, his hips meeting your ass with a loud smack. “You gonna take me like a good girl?” 

“G-god, yeah. M’your good girl.” 

Jack’s bad knees be damned, he was fucking into you heavy and fast against the scratchy carpet. He was so deep at this angle, making your limbs limp in his hold as he kept your neck up, whispering filthy words in your ear with each thrust. 

“Can feel you squeezing me s’hard, soaking my cock,” His hand gripped your throat tighter, making your head spin, “S’such a good girl, daddy’s good little girl.” 

“Daddy,” You gasped, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he hit your sweet spot, your legs trembling against his body weight. 

”This is the last time.” He grunted, his balls slapping harshly against your ass. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room. “I swear, we can’t keep doing this.” 

“I know,” You sobbed, “Just this time, making me feel so good, daddy. L-last time.” 

“Cum for me,” He barked, feeling his balls tighten, “Let daddy feel that little cunt cum around him.” 

“F-fuck yes, don’t stop, don’t stop.” You cried, feeling his teeth bite down on your neck as you came around him. Tears leaked down your cheeks from the overwhelming sensation, gasping for breath when his hand dropped from your neck. 

He came deep inside of you with a shout, filling you so full it leaked out onto the carpet. 

“Last time.” He mumbled, his panting body on top of yours. You both knew it was a lie, but it made him feel good to say it out loud. 

This became the new pattern of those two weeks. You’d sneak into his bed, grinding your ass on his morning wood until he woke up and fucked you hard and fast over the side of the bed. 

Or you’d wake up with his mouth in between your legs, tongue deep inside of your cunt as he mumbled just how he needed one last taste. 

“God forgive me.” He panted, his palms spreading your legs open wide before he wrote gospels on your cunt with his tongue. 

It was blasphemy in its purest form. 

There were late-night calls with Romeo while his daddy was making you cum upwards of 20 times a day. You desecrated every part of the house, even outside. There was no holy land left on the Abbot property. The birds and bugs became accustomed to the sounds of you as he pushed your skirt up, taking you over the hood of his car or down by the creek. 

It was filthy, and it felt like it would never be enough. It was living out every dirty fantasy of him you’d ever had before; there were things not even your brain could conjure up. Things that would make the devil blush. 

One night, Romeo had called you, no doubt drunk as he slurred tirelessly about how he missed you. He could hear you through the walls, kicking open his son’s room to see you lying on the bed, phone propped up against your ear. 

“I don’t think I wanna do that, Romeo.” You whispered into the phone, jumping when the door swung open. Jack's finger went up to his lips as he wordlessly sat at the edge of the bed. 

“Why not?” Jack could hear the slurring voice of his son through the phone, faintly, “Don’t be a bitch.” 

You bit down on your bottom lip, about to hang up on him, before you saw Jack's eyes, full of jealousy and something else you couldn’t name. 

“Hang up.” Jack mouthed alongside a warning look. 

You should have hung up. Romeo would hardly remember it in the morning, but all you could think about was how hard Jack would fuck you if you disobeyed. He knew that’s exactly what you were thinking too, when your teeth bit down on your bottom lip.

“O-okay.” You sighed into the phone, pretending like he really convinced you. Your eyes locked onto Jack’s as your hand trailed up to your tits, pulling at your hardened nipples through the fabric of your top. “M’touching my tits.” 

The phone was abandoned against your shoulder, his responses falling on deaf ears as you only focused on the brown eyes in front of you, that drank up every movement and every gasp that left your lips. 

“You want me to touch my pussy?” You moaned, but you weren’t talking to Romeo. Jack nodded, and you could hear shuffling on the phone. 

Your fingers slipped inside your panties, fingertips rubbing soft circles into your aching clit. Rubbing your wetness around until you could slip a finger inside of your wet heat. 

“Feels so good.” You sighed, seeing Jack's pants harden with each rise of your chest. “Wish it was your cock.” 

“Yeah, baby.” The phone buzzed, “I’d fuck the hell out of you.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, pulling his belt off quickly. Crawling up to the top of the bed to meet you. 

Your eyes widened, feeling his hands pull at your hands, pulling them out of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. You let him throw them somewhere across the room, but paused when he lined his cock up with your heat. 

“What are you doing?” You whispered, trying to lift off the bed to push him off. 

Jack just shook his head, an evil look on his face. “Talk.” He mouthed, pointing to the phone where his son was still babbling about something. 

Jack's cock prodded at your cunt, his tip squeezing inside of you, making you yelp.

“What are you doing now?” Romeo asked boredly, “What would you do to me?” 

“Talk, or I stop,” Jack demanded.

“Uhh,” You stuttered out, Jack’s cock deep inside your guts now. Slowly dragging his hips in and out of you. “I’m just t-touching myself, babe.” 

Jack resisted the urge to laugh, watching your eyes roll in the back of your head with each perfectly angled thrust. 

“Y-yeah, it’s so good.” You droned on, your legs getting pushed up, only deepening the angle Jack was hitting perfectly. 

His fingers tumbled down to your clit, fumbling around with the sensitive bud. 

“O-oh my god, right there.” A pornographic moan escaped you as your hips arched into him. 

“What?” The phone crackled, making your body go white: 

“N-nothing,” You tried, Jack only speeding up his thrusts as soon as you tried to speak, “I’m just-“ 

“What the fuck is-“ 

“I  g-gotta go,” You squealed, cutting him off, fumbling around to end the call as Jack pulled himself out of you harshly as soon as the phone rumbled down, making you wince. “Why’d you stop?” 

He didn’t answer; instead, he pulled your hips in his hands, flipping you over onto your stomach. Drapping you over his lap, while your phone buzzed against the mattress. 

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” He asked, his hand coming down in a smooth, harsh strike against your ass. 

You cried out in pain and pleasure, the sting making your cunt throb.

”I’m sorry-“ 

Another slap, followed by his hand gently rubbing the stinging skin. 

“I don’t believe you.” He hummed. 

Another slap, harder this time. Tears sprang in your eyes, your hips wiggling in his tight hold. 

“Daddy, I’m so sorry.” You cried, your hands digging into the sheets, “P-please-“

“You wanted this,” He mused, another hard slap against you, “This was what you wanted? Isn’t it? To be punished? Couldn’t just be daddy’s good little girl. Had to be a little. fucking. whore.” 

Each word was punctuated with another slap until your ass was bright red, raw to the touch, and your sobs had been stifled by his hands pushing you further into the mattress each time he heard you. One hand in your hair, and the other assaulting your ass. 

“I can feel you leaking against my lap, just desperate.” He shifted, spreading your legs open for him. His fingers are trailing down your ass into your open cunt. “I bet you’re begging to be touched, huh?” He mocked, and you could only answer in muffled sobs and shouts. 

He let his fingertips sink into you, feeling just how desperate you were for him. 

“Daddy-“

“Shut the fuck up,” He seethed, his fingers sank in deeper, moving so fast you could barely pinpoint where the pleasure started and where the pain ended. 

You shook in his hold, moaning desperate pleas as he pried orgasm after orgasm out of you. Each time you’d cum, he’d slap your clit harshly, before continuing to stroke the spot inside of you that had you shaking.

You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh. After the third orgasm, he acted quickly after that. Wasting no time in asking before he was throwing you on your back into the sheets. 

“He never made you feel this good, ever. Did he?” He gruffed out, hands wiping away some of your dried tears as his cock found its home back inside of you. 

“No.” You croaked, so sensitive you were blubbering in tears with each sloppy thrust. Your fingernails were digging into his back as his hand gripped your throat once again. 

“Now every time you're in his bed, you’re gonna think of me wrapping my hands around this pretty little throat.” He growled, gripping you tight. 

“Only want you,” You coughed, face turning red with each harsh crush of his hands against your throat. 

You didn’t even have to tell him you were close again; suddenly, his hand was off your throat, and you were thrashing against him. You swore you blacked out, the pleasure so overwhelming it was all you could feel. All of your other senses dulled, 

When you came to he was cumming deep inside you with a shout, your inner thighs soaked from your multiple releases. Both of your cum mix together and plopping out into Romeo’s sheets. 

“I’m sorry,” Jack sighed, pulling your shaking frame into his chest after he pulled out of you with a wince. “Got a little rough with ya.” 

You yawned, “S’okay, I liked it.” 

Your eyes were glazed over, hazy, and still coming down. 

“Let me draw you a bath with them fancy oils that stink.” He gruffed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, “Then I’ll feed ya.” 

The nights that weren’t filled with indulging in carnal desires, the two of you would end up on a picnic blanket, deep into the woods underneath the old bridge. By the creek bed, the world felt farther away than it had any right to, like the town and its names and its judgment had all been left upstream somewhere, tangled in branches and forgotten water. You leaned back against Jack’s lap without thinking too hard about what it meant, letting the rough hum of the afternoon settle over both of you while birds circled lazily overhead. 

“I don’t wanna be with him when he comes back,” You sighed, “Wanna leave.” 

Jack didn’t answer right away, just shifted slightly beneath you, his hand resting somewhere near your shoulder. “Yeah, where you gonna go?” 

You realized you didn’t have an answer that made sense outside of him.

“Why can’t we be together?” you asked, turning your head just enough to look up at him.

A small exhale left him, something almost like a laugh but not quite, “We are together.” 

“Jack.” You pressed, unamused by his attempt at a joke. “Think about it, us together. Me hanging off your arm every day.” 

“Yeah?” His tone was sharp, almost mocking, but you ignored it, “Want me to marry you too? Get you a white dress and some flowers.”

”Actually, yeah,” You huffed. 

“You wanna marry this old man?” His smile was crooked, the crinkles by his eyes deeper the harder he smiled. 

“You know I’d let you knock me up too,” You teased, “Make you a daddy again.” 

His hands reached forward and grabbed your tits harshly through your top, “Hm. I would love to see these all big and swollen.” 

Your mouth went dry, smacking his hands away with a playful giggle before the moment fell solemn again. 

“Seriously, you wanna be with me?” You asked, your voice a little quieter than before. 

“Honey, I do-“

”No more buts, why not?” You pressed harder, “Who cares what anyone in this podunk town thinks. We can leave. Romeo will find some two-bit hooker to marry, he’ll forget about me within a month.” 

His fingers played with the ends of your hair, drinking in the hopeful gaze on your face. “Let’s just focus on the next few days, okay, baby?” 

You frowned, but leaned further into his touch. While you lay in his arms, watching the sunset over the town for just a little while, you could still dream of a future that had him in it. There was only the sound of water and insects and the distant hum of a world that didn’t know how close you were to imagining something different.

The rest of the week was spent in bliss, a bubble of just the two of you together. Where weeks felt like years. 

And all it took was one person to see the two of you in his truck for that bubble to burst.

 It wasn’t even in a compromising position, just you in the passenger seat smiling ear-to-ear with Romeo’s daddy while Romeo was out of town. Your feet on the dashboard, with some song playing too loud in the busted speakers of his truck. But that was enough. 

 Small towns were built of this; gossip spread as fast as wildfire, and you were not immune. You thought you had enough time to get ahead of it, to feed lies to Romeo about this horrible town, but the day he was meant to come back came sooner rather than later. 

You’d learn there was no time when your bedroom door slammed open, Romeo’s eyes were bloodshot, and his knuckles were already bloodied. 

“Is it true?” Romeo’s voice was slurred; you didn’t even have to be close to him to know his breath reeked of cheap whiskey, which he probably stole from the corner store. 

You froze for a second, your hands stilling in the pockets of his dad’s camo jacket. The same one he lay on the ground to fuck you on top of just days before, overlooking the wheat fields. The picnic where he fed you strawberries and promised to always take care of you. Now the fabric felt stifling against your skin.

“Is what true?” You squeaked, your voice betraying the confidence you were failing to fake. 

The words barely came out before he was yelling again, “Don’t play fucking stupid, bitch.” 

His voice rattled the windows of the houses, making your heart race. 

“Out of everybody in this town, out of every man on earth, you picked him?” The hurt in his voice made your stomach twist, but the violence in his eyes had you frozen. 

“Romeo, please-“

He was on top of you in an instant, his hands fisted in your shirt, spit flying. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” 

“Romeo,” You cried, trying desperately to pull yourself away. “Let’s talk about this when you’re sober.” 

“I should fucking kill you-“ 

The door slamming open cuts him off. Jack is standing there with his eyes wide, chest heaving as he runs from his shop all the way here. 

“Son, get your hands off of her now.” His voice vibrated off the walls. 

All Romeo could do was laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. You took the chance and fled into the corner of the room, watching the two of them circle each other like prey. 

“Course you show up,” Romeo scoffed. “Her night and shining armor, huh?” 

“Son, I know you’re upset, but let’s not do anything we might regret-“ 

Romeo was not in the listening mood, kicking the trunk at the end of your once shared bed as hard as he could. The wood splintered. None of you even flinched, too hardened by violence and chaos over the years. 

“Regret?” He screamed, zoning in on his father now. “Do you regret fucking my girlfriend?”

Jack’s face hardened, his body stilling. “Where did you hear that nonsense?” 

“The whole fucking town knows!” 

“Well, it’s not true.” Jack scoffed, unconvincingly. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to make yourself as small as possible. 

“Bullshit,” Romeo scoffed, “You can lie to everyone you want, but you can’t lie to me.” 

Jack’s silent, his face falling as he realized that the truth was out there. There was no hiding or outrunning it. 

As soon as Romeo saw this, it was like throwing gasoline onto a fire. His hands itched for something to throw, settling on the vintage wooden dresser next to him.

The dresser tipped under his hands, not fully thrown so much as shoved with all the force of everything he couldn’t hold inside himself anymore, wood scraping against floorboards before it collapsed into itself with a crack. Drawers burst open on impact, scattering old things across the floor, splintered pieces of something that had once been carefully built and now existed only as damage.

You flinched without thinking, your back thudding against the wall. 

Romeo stood over it for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at what he’d done like he wasn’t entirely sure when he had started or how to take it back. 

Jack’s voice came again, quieter this time, strained at the edges. “That was your mother’s.”

Romeo didn’t answer right away, just looked at the broken wood splintered around his feet. 

”You have no fucking right to bring mom up.” He seethed, making Jack nearly take a startled step backwards.

”That dresser was the last thing she ever built.” Jack said calmly, too calmly for the weight of the situation unfolding around him. 

“Yeah, well,” Romeo shrugged, “She’s not here, so.” 

Jack was in his son's face within seconds, spit flying. “How dare you-“

“You’re the reason mom is dead, you know that, right? I’d drink myself to fucking death too if I had to deal with you.” He scoffed, their faces nearly touching. 

Watching them like this was like watching them in a mirror. It was Romeo’s future lying in front of him, a little older, less angry. It was at this moment that you realized just how much he looked like his father, carrying his anger, you didn’t know he even had. 

“Don’t talk about your mother like that,” Jack scowled, “Real fucking mature. She’d be disappointed to see you ended up like this.” 

The punch came so fast you barely saw it. Romeo’s fist connected with Jack’s jaw hard enough to send his head snapping sideways. The sound echoed through the house.

 You screamed his name, but neither of them seemed to hear you. Romeo swung again, years of resentment finally spilling free. This time, Jack caught the blow with his shoulder, refusing to raise his hands. 

“Stop,” he warned. “I’m not fighting you.” 

That only made Romeo angrier. Another punch landed. Then another. 

“Fight me!” he shouted. “For once in your life, fight me!” Jack’s expression twisted with pain, not from the blows but from the words. When Romeo charged forward again, Jack finally moved. He caught him around the chest and pulled him backward, locking his arms around him just tightly enough to stop the attack. It wasn’t a fight. It looked more like a father trying to hold together something already shattered. Romeo struggled violently, cursing and yelling, but Jack held firm.

 “Enough,” he said, his voice breaking for the first time. “Enough.”

 Romeo’s movements gradually slowed until all that remained was heavy breathing and quiet rage. When Jack finally released him, neither man looked at the other. Romeo wiped at his face angrily, whether from sweat or tears, you couldn’t tell. 

“You’re dead to me,” He huffed, still a little unsteady on his feet, whether that was from the alcohol or the exhaustion, you couldn’t tell. “Both of you.”

When the front screen door slammed, both of you flinched, not at the sound but the finality of it. 

For weeks, you had buried every warning beneath desire. You had covered guilt with longing and loneliness with excuses, convincing yourself that love transformed wrongdoing into something beautiful. But here it was, something ugly and too shameful to face.

Jack hadn’t moved. You watched the rise and fall of his chest. You watched him drag a hand across his jaw and wince. Beneath the guilt and the horror and the undeniable ugliness of what had happened, something warm and terrible unfurled inside your chest.

It made you feel monstrous at how relieved you felt. 

Your skeletons were out of the closet. Now there was nothing left to hide.

The truth had finally clawed its way into the light, ugly and bleeding and impossible to ignore. Romeo knew. The town would have confirmation soon enough. Every church pew and grocery store aisle and gas station parking lot would eventually carry whispers of what had happened here tonight. Your name would become something people shook their heads over. 

The bridge had collapsed behind you both. The life that existed before tonight had vanished the moment Romeo walked through that door and discovered the truth. There would be no returning to it now. No apologies could undo what had happened. No amount of regret could rewind the clock.

And if there was no going back, then the only thing left was forward. 

“Come on,” You whispered, reaching out to grab his wrist and gently urging him to follow you out of the house. You lead him down the creaky front porch steps, into the pathway into the woods at the edge of the property line. 

You’re thankful that the sounds of the forest overpower your rapid heartbeat. You take the trail you always did, past the old oaks and through the old clearing to get to the small creek underneath the bridge. Wordlessly, he followed, letting you take him all the way to the water’s edge. 

Clothes were stripped off, abandoned on a rotted fenceline as your bodies disappeared into the water. He kept his hands in yours until you stopped, waist-deep in the water. 

Jack had always belonged to places like this. Not houses or towns or churches. He belonged to rivers and backroads and stretches of land too wild for anybody to claim. Maybe that’s why you loved him, every scar, every wrinkle told a story of how he had lived, truly lived. 

You could see the exhaustion in his eyes that had nothing to do with tonight and everything to do with years of holding things in place that were never meant to stay together. 

You cupped water in your hands and gently brought it to his face, wiping away traces of blood and dirt with a care that felt almost absurd given everything that had just happened. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you like he was trying to memorize something he already knew he was going to lose.

“You alright?” You asked, though the question felt like it belonged to another version of you, one from a different night entirely, one where things hadn’t already crossed so many invisible lines. 

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his gaze drifting past you toward the dark shape of the trees, like he couldn’t quite anchor himself in the present. Then his expression shifted, something breaking quietly in the way he swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, stripped of everything except truth.

“I’ve ruined your life.” Was all he said. 

“No,” You said, cupping his face in your hands once more, “You are my life now. Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.” 

He pressed a kiss to your wrist, his stubble scratching against your skin. 

The creek moved lazily around your waists, carrying away dirt and blood and pieces of a life neither of you could return to. Above you, the bridge groaned softly as a truck passed overhead, its headlights briefly flashing through the trees before disappearing into the deepening dusk.

“Let’s go home,” you said gently, your fingers lingering against his jaw. The bruises darkening beneath his skin seemed worse every time you looked at them. “We gotta get some ice on these.” 

He ignored you, his mind somewhere far away.

“Have you ever seen anything outside of this shithole town?” His timber voice broke the silence.

“Nothing you can’t drive three hours in each direction to see.” You admitted. Your life had never stretched farther than a few county lines. It never felt sad, until you said it outloud. 

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled around the two of you like the evening air itself. The creek whispered over stones. Crickets sang louder from the tall grass. Somewhere farther down the bank, a frog croaked into the gathering dark. For the first time all day, neither of you seemed in a hurry to fill the quiet.

“Do you wanna go on a little road trip, see the world with me?” 

You could see it so clearly right in front of you, hanging out the window of his truck. Your life unfolding behind your eyes like a dream you’d been having your entire life without realizing it. Endless highways cutting through states you’d only seen on maps. Desert sunsets bleed gold across the horizon. Cheap diners with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted burnt, no matter where you ordered it. Dusty motels glowing beneath neon signs and falling asleep beside him with the windows open and waking up somewhere entirely different than where you’d gone to bed.

For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a cage.

You looked up at him, your chin digging into his sternum. “Can we see the west?” 

It wasn’t even always to drink, not really. There was a whole nonalcoholic seltzer selection that Dana encouraged (threatened) them to start selling after Frank got back from rehab. For the first few years of your residency sometimes the thought of a crisp Shirley Temple was the only thing getting you through the night. It had become a rite of passage at this point, the first night you dragged Samira she stuck her nose up the whole time. Now, you guys had fries and Shirley temples on the hard nights. Whiskey on the harder ones. 

Tonight’s reason for celebration? Michael Robinavitch’s birthday, age undisclosed no matter how many times you all tried to bribe Dana for it. It was one of those rare occasions where a mixture of day shift and night shift could find a few hours to celebrate together, and Princess was determined for it to be a good one. The bar had been unofficially ‘bought out’ for three hours, a few balloons and a banner sat heavy above the dim yellow lights. 

Somehow, through your years in the Pitt, you have never once been to the bar at the same time as Jack Abbot, your night shift attending. You knew his appearances were scarce there, rarely feeling up to listening to old 90s country and hearing the squeal of residents he already spent too much time with. 

Ellis however, swore she had it on good authority he’d be there. There was no way he’d miss his best friend's birthday celebration. Which may or may not have been the reason you slipped on a little black dress that showed a little too much skin and paired it with a pair of tights and heels. A little darker eyeshadow than normal with your hair falling down your shoulders, but you would’ve dressed like that anyway. Right? That’s what you told yourself anyways.

Besides you had the night off, why not dress up? It had nothing to do with the way Ellis had to physically close your jaw some nights to stop you from drooling over your charts as you stared across the hub at the soldier. Or the way Santos and Whitaker had to deal with your tipsy ramblings about the silver-haired fox. So you had a little crush on your much older boss. It was fine, it was manageable. 

You exchanged words over patients, bantered like old friends, and flirted miserably with each other. It all started innocently enough, you were one of the newer residents with a sharp tongue. Rivaling the one the quick-witted attending had. The two of you meshed together well, matching each other's pace perfectly. It was a match made in heaven, or hell depending on what your coworkers had to deal with that night. 

With this in mind, it was no surprise that you’d been unnecessarily giddy as you slinked inside the dimly lit bar. Heels clicking against the sticky floor as you waved to your coworkers. 

“Welcome to the party.” Ellis snickered, grabbing your hand and spinning you around playfully, “You’re gonna give that old man a heart attack, you know that right?” 

You pushed her shoulder playfully, ignoring Mateo’s whistles and Princess’s cackling. “What old man? I have no idea what you’re talking about..” You drag on, giving side hugs to everyone. 

“Yeah, right.” Samira rolled her eyes, pulling you down into the seat next to her. 

“Where is everyone?” You asked, watching a few others trickle in slowly. Whittaker and Javardi came in, but Santos was absent. When you asked he just shrugged, saying she had an errand to run. 

Drinks were ordered, and the music was blaring out of the scratchy speakers of the jukebox. The tables and bar filled out gradually, laughter overlapping as more familiar faces slipped in, Robby finally making his way through the crowd to an eruption of cheers. Mateo grabbed him first, hauling him into a rough hug while shouting over the music, and you followed close behind.

”Happy birthday old man,” You giggled, as he pulled you into his side roughly. 

“Oh, kid,” He sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “You’re getting there. Don’t you worry.” 

“Yeah, right.” Samira piped in, raising her glass to him as he passed. 

“He’s jealous of our eternal youth.” You pouted, sliding back into the barstool you claimed next to her and Ellis. 

You all watched as Robby made his rounds, plopping down in one of the stools next to Whittaker, who was still nervously awaiting his roommate's arrival. 

A drink was slid in front of you with a wink from the bartender, making Samira roll her eyes. “This poor college kid has been flirting with her every time we’ve come here for the past year and she refuses to put him out of his misery.” 

All you can do is shrug, “God forbid a girl likes free drinks.” 

“She’s saving her flirting for a certain old man.” Ellis cackled, making you slap her shoulder playfully. 

Before you could even get out groans of protest Princess was behind you, “She’s even got new underwear on today, I can tell.”

Laughs echo around you, making you roll your eyes. “Okay, okay. Laugh it up.” 

“What are we laughing about?” Robby asked, a beer bottle sat firmly in his hand now. 

“About how hard Y/l/n and Abbot are gonna flirt tonight,” Princess answered. 

“Oooo,” Robby whistled, “Is tonight the night? Everyone put their bets in.” 

Your brows furrowed, “Bet? What bet?” 

Suddenly there’s silence, Princess smiling before she pretended Mateo and Jesse were calling her back to their table. 

“You guys are ridiculous." You huffed, watching Ellis pull her found out typing frantically. “Parker why are you texting Shen-“ 

“Mind your business-“ 

“I hate you all.” 

You barely had a second to brace yourself before Jack slipped in behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of your top. His presence was overwhelming, yet you knew it was him by his sandalwood cologne and aftershave. You blamed his time in the military for his silence, or maybe it was the drink you’ve already downed to blame for your obliviousness. 

His hand brushed the bar just beside yours, caging you in without touching you, his head dipping slightly so his mouth was just by your ear.

“Even me, sweetheart?” 

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass as you huffed out a quiet breath, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, desperately trying to ignore how close his face was to yours, fighting the pull of a smile as you shot back, “You’re at the top of the list tonight, actually.” 

His deep laugh made chills appear on your bare skin, missing his warmth as he backed away. 

You barely had a second to recover before he shifted away from you just enough to step around, his presence brushing past as he moved toward Robby, clapping a hand against his shoulder in an easy, familiar greeting.

“Happy birthday brother,” he said, voice low but warm, and Robby grinned, lifting his beer. “Look who decided to show,” he shot back, pulling him into a quick half-hug. 

Ellis leaned down to your ear, a devilish smirk playing on her lips as she murmured, “Let the games begin. I have money down on you going home together, Shen has money on you two slipping into the bathroom at some point,” and you nearly choked, turning your head to stare at her in disbelief as she pressed a playful kiss to your cheek like.

“That’s such an invasion of privacy-“

“Earn your favorite coworkers some money tonight,” she added sweetly, already pulling away before you could form a proper protest, leaving the barstool beside you conveniently empty.

She was leaving you to the wolves, no doubt texting Shen endless updates for their own twisted amusement. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself, but it didn’t do much when you glanced back toward Jack and found his eyes already on you.

He hadn’t missed a thing.

Even as Robby was mid-sentence beside him, even as the conversation continued like normal, his attention flickered back to you. His dark eyes roam shamelessly over your exposed legs, and the way your dress dipped low in the front and even lower in the back. 

This was new territory, there was no safety net of your work-issued scrubs or job hierarchies in place here. Come to think of it, you weren’t even sure if you’d ever seen Jack not in scrubs. His signature, tight black t-shirt sat deliciously on his muscles, with his well-worn blue jeans resting on his hips. 

You didn’t even realize you were staring just as bad as he was until he excused himself from Robby, sauntering over in his usual heavy gait. 

“Miss me?” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

You glanced at him, lips curving slightly despite yourself as you took a slow sip of your drink. “You were gone for like half a minute.”

“Felt longer,” he replied, eyes already on you, already taking you in in that way that made heat creep up your neck again, his thumb shifting lazily against the back of your chair like he had all the time in the world.

”This seat taken?” 

You shook your head, watching him slip into it easily.

You turned just enough to face him, your knee pressing firmly into his, your voice lighter than the way your pulse was starting to pick up. “You’re dramatic.”

”You’ve been working with me for how long now?” He smirked, “Though you knew that by now.” 

Both of you are pulled from your flirting by the front door of the bar flinging open. 

“I’m late, but I came bearing gifts.” Santos whistled, walking in with a paper bag held high above her head. 

There are a few cheers, she's doing a small spin on her heels before stopping at the bar. Robby gave her a short hug, shaking his head, “You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t just get you something. So don’t feel special.” She teased, opening the bag to pull out two black cowboy hats. Cheap imitation leather things, probably bought at some party store. The reaction was immediate, loud cheers and clapping from the group. 

“Absolutely not.” Robby shook his head, a blush going to his cheeks. 

“Come on,” She whined, “For you ER cowboys.” She said, grabbing the second one and waving it towards Jack. He rolled his eyes, ready to protest in the same fashion before you spoke for him. 

“Abbot will wear his? Won’t you big boy?” You smirked, the straw from your drink still hanging from the corner of your mouth. Maybe it was the liquid courage, or just how fucking badly you wanted to see him in that hat. 

His mouth parted for a moment, before he looked down at you. His gaze was intense, and amusing. The whistles are drowned out, too busy eyeing you up and down. 

“Yeah,” He hummed, still not taking his eyes off of you. “I sure will, honey.” 

You could have melted into a puddle, right then and there. 

His thick fingers wrapped around your arm as he passed you, the contact unnecessary but welcome. He grabbed the cheap hat, placing it on his head with a shit-eating grin. It was all you wanted and more. He looked down at you with hungry eyes, his fingers tilting the edge of the hat down at you.

“Come on, Robby. Don’t leave me hanging.” He drawled, watching his ER cowboy counterpart do the same, more reluctantly. 

“Let’s fucking go,” Santos cheered, slipping through the crowd with your hand in hers. 

The music swelled around you, bass thrumming through the floor, and the group fell into it easily, the kind of uncoordinated, half-serious dancing that came from exhaustion and adrenaline finally burning off. Santos spun you once just for the hell of it, laughing when you stumbled slightly before catching your balance, and you leaned into it. Robby eventually gave in too, his earlier reluctance fading as he moved with the rest of you, one hand still occasionally adjusting the hat like he had not fully accepted his fate.

You watched him and Whittaker fall into an awkward dance, making you and Santos fall into a fit of giggles. Samira was behind you, with Santos in front as you all lazily draped over each other. Swaying to the beat of the music that Princess did an excellent job at picking out. 

Jack kept himself perched at the bar, sipping on a Diet Coke lazily talking to Ellis. You knew this, because every few seconds you’d feel his gaze heavy on your neck. 

“Okay,” Santos said suddenly, sliding in closer behind you, her hands settling on your hips as she leaned in. “Hold still.”

“What are you-“, you started, laughing as she pulled you into her arms, pulling your hips flush to hers. 

She dipped her head toward your ear, her voice dropping just enough to cut through the noise. “You know someone hasn’t been able to take their eyes off you, right?”

Your breath caught for half a second, your gaze instinctively flicking toward Jack, and sure enough, he was already watching you, his expression shifting slightly when he realized just how close you and Santos were. You could hear Samira’s laughter from behind you.

Santos' hand went up, waving softly at Jack. He waved back, a small grin appearing. 

“Santos,” you muttered, trying to brush it off, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

“I’m just saying,” she replied, pulling back with a grin. “It’s getting painful to watch.”

You rolled your eyes, but you could not quite suppress the smile that followed, and when you looked back, his eyes were still on yours. 

Eventually, the music shifted, the energy dipping just enough that someone suggested drinks again, and the group moved as one back toward the bar, laughter spilling over itself as you claimed space along the counter. You all had missed Dana, who stopped by, dropping off a small cake, slightly lopsided and already missing a clean edge where someone had clearly tested it early, and it was set down in front of Robby with dramatic flair. 

“I feel ridiculous, like I’m wearing a costume.” Robby groaned, shifting the hat on his head every few minutes, as the small cake was cut into pieces and put on tiny plates to be passed around. 

“You gotta relax into it, brother.” Jack teased. “This is where I thrive.” 

Santos barks out a laugh, “Yeah? When are we gonna see you in that flight attendant outfit?” 

You nearly spit out your drink in a fit of laughter, alongside everyone else. 

“Okay, I feel like we’re missing something.” Mateo cried, ready to get more information on his attending. 

“When he came in on day shift with his SWAT uniform on,” Robby clarified, “Said we should all see him as a flight attendant." 

“When did that happen?” You asked, mouth feeling dry. 

“Uh,” Robby hummed, “About a week ago? Got shot at while performing a crike in the field.” 

The crowd laughs, a short, “He got shot?” From Javadi, her eyes wide. 

You tune all of that out, too lost in the thought of Jack Abbot sidling through the halls clad in his SWAT uniform, sweaty and covered in blood. 

“You okay, Y/n?” Samira asked, waving her hands in front of your face. 

“No,” You whine, almost like a petulant child. “I fucking missed it?” 

“Told you!” Santos giggled, “Especially when he took off the vest and was in that slutty little t-shirt. All I could think about was how pissed you’d be knowing you called out.” 

“I’m gonna be sick,” You sighed, “This is the worst day of my life. Did no one take pictures?” 

Joy rocked forward a little, flipping through her camera roll aggressively. “Let me look.” 

“Even the interns saw this and I didn’t?” You grumbled, setting your now-empty drink on the bar aggressively. 

“I took a picture.” Jack’s voice spoke softly into your ear, making you flinch for the second time this night.

“Jesus Christ," You breathed out, your hand on your chest. “Have you been here the whole time?” 

He just hummed, “I can show you my uniform if you wanna see it that bad, darling.” 

“You offering to put it on for me, cowboy?” You bite back, gaining your confidence back easily from the startle. 

You’ve flirted a lot with him over the years, and you’ve thought you’ve seen all the flustered looks Jack Abbot could muster. But this one? This was new. The moment the word cowboy slipped from your lips, his eyes got dark. You pocketed that piece of information and leaned back in the chair. 

“What if I am?” He hummed, blocking out the whistles of your friends all around you. 

“S‘long as you promise to have nothing underneath it.” 

A wolf whistle pulls you out of your bubble, Robby groaning playfully. “Keep it in your pants, God, you guys are worse here than at work.” 

“But Robby,” You pouted, “I’m very clearly trying to get something out of his pants.” 

A loud, “Someone call HR.” pulled the crowd into tipsy laughter again, making you nearly fall out. 

Jack’s shoulders brushed against yours again, as he pushed a small plate of cake towards you. “Eat, I know you’re drinking on an empty stomach.” 

You jutted your bottom lip out, “No, I’m not.” You lied, watching as he grabbed a plastic fork anyway. 

“Do I have to feed it to you?” 

He didn’t miss the sparkle in your eye at that, “If you’re offering.” 

There’s no hesitation as he scoops up some of the sugary concoction, holding the fork up. “Open up.” 

You widen your jaw, letting him slide the fork into your mouth as you bite down. Letting your lips stay wrapped around the utensil for longer than necessary, your eyes never once leaving his when you pulled off of it. 

“Mmmm.” You moaned almost obnoxiously, wiping some of the frosting off your lip. “Good cake.” 

“Yeah?” He managed the grunt out, before he placed the fork down on the plate.

If he had to watch that again, he’d have to explain to everyone why he had to throw his jacket over his lap.

You entertained him by finishing off a few more bites, before various hands were dragging you back out onto the floor. Like a magnet, you still found yourself waltzing back to the bar after your heels began to ache.

He was ordering yet another soda, when you slipped beside him.

“You not drinking?” You asked, your mouth feeling like it was full of cotton as you used the bar to keep yourself upright. 

The attending shook his head, “I’m on call in case Shen needs me.” 

You pouted at him, “No fun.” 

“Oh,” He shifted on his leg again, “Don’t worry about me. I’m having the time of my life watching you out there.” 

Your skin buzzes again. Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip before you speak up. “Do you wanna join me?” 

His warm eyes looked down at you in amusement, “You want me, to dance with you?” 

Your teeth pulled your bottom lip into your mouth, nodding up at him. “Come on, just one song?” 

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was weighing something out, something heavier than the question you had just asked, and then he exhaled softly through his nose, a small smile pulling at his mouth as he shook his head at himself.

“One song,” he agreed.

You barely gave him time to reconsider before your fingers curled around his hand, tugging him away from the bar and back into the crowd, laughter spilling out of you as he followed. The music had shifted into something slower, heavier, the bass rolling through your chest as you turned to face him, your hands instinctively finding their place on his shoulders.

“This your big plan?” he asked, one brow lifting slightly. “What are we slow dancing at the bar?” 

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” you shot back, swaying closer. “Would you rather I grind all over you?” 

His hands hesitated for half a second before settling on your hips, firm and warm, as he had finally allowed himself the contact after months of carefully avoiding it. 

“You’re trouble tonight,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it barely carried over the music.

“Just tonight?” you teased, tilting your head. 

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his fingers flexing slightly against your hips, and you felt it, the shift in him, the control he usually held so tightly starting to slip at the edges. You leaned in closer, letting your body move with the rhythm, slow and deliberate, your hands sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck. 

“Careful,” he warned softly, though there was no real bite to it.

“Or what,” you asked, your voice just as quiet. It didn’t help that the drinks made your lips loose, or that he looked so dangerously good in that fucking hat it made you want to jump his bones.

The question hung there between you, charged and unanswered, and instead of stepping back, you moved closer, letting your body brush against his, your legs slipping in between his. His grip tightened immediately, a sharp inhale slipping past his lips as you shifted against him again, slower this time, more intentional.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his head dipping slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours.

“You could stop me,” you replied, your breath catching just slightly.

Instead, his hands slid just a fraction higher along your hips, steadying you as you moved against him, the fabric of your dress riding higher with each slow shift, your pulse thundering loud enough you were sure he could feel it. 

The space between you disappeared entirely, when he spun you around. It took a second for you to catch your balance, before you pressed your ass into his hips automatically.

 “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, one hand dragging slightly as he adjusted the hem of your dress where it had ridden too high, the motion lingering just a second longer than necessary.

You tilted your head back, just enough to take a look at him. “You alright?” 

“You’re so fucking-“ He cut himself off, as another sway of your hips grinding against his made his knees lock up. You could feel the bulge forming in his pants, it was undeniable.

You weren’t sure what it was, if it was the buzz running through your veins or both of you finally succumbing to this cat and mouse game you’ve been playing, but you couldn’t care less that you were practically dry humping in a room full of coworkers. All you cared about was how warm and heavy he was against you, the scent of his cologne that made your chest twist. 

“I’m what?” You asked, voice breathy as you threw an arm up around his neck, giving him a front row view to look down your already low-cut dress. 

This seemed to be his last straw, losing what little control he had left, as he pulled his hands away from your skin as if they were burning

Before you can process what’s happening, his hand is gripping your wrist, tugging you harshly towards the bathrooms. You’re following happily, a bounce in your step as he pushes you into the single bathroom. Locking the door aggressively behind him. 

You don’t even get a shaky laugh out, before his hands are gripping your face, pulling his lips onto yours. His lips are warm on yours, the subtle stubble of his cheeks scratching against your face. His hand on your neck, your hands pulling him by his shirt. 

The stupid cowboy hat gets thrown onto the bathroom counter, as your hands reach up to get a handful of his salt and pepper curls that you’ve been dying to get your hands on. 

“Do you have,” He pants into your open mouth, his tongue still swiping against yours with each breath, “Any fucking idea, how long I’ve wanted this?” 

He gives you no time to answer, his tongue assaulting yours. All you can get out is jumbled moans, as your back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud. He slots his leg between yours, one of his hands reaching down to squeeze at the thick flesh on the outside of your thigh, gripping your tights in between his fingers. 

Your dress is practically pushed up against your hips already, his lips leave yours for a moment, leaving a trail of spit behind. 

“These fucking legs,” He groans, his eyes darkening. “Not a single man out there deserves to see these.”

”Wore this for you,” You manage to croak out, pretending like his thick thigh wasn’t pressing against your throbbing cunt. 

“Did you, sweetheart?” 

You nod frantically, your fingers still tangled in his hair, while your other hand grips his shoulder like a lifeline. 

He leaned his head down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on your neck. “Do you have sentimental value in these tights?” 

“N-no.” 

A loud rip echoes in the bathroom, as he rips the flimsy tights with his bare hands. He shreds the fabric on your upper thighs, pushing them down with such franticness that your head is spinning. 

His callused hands brush against your bare thighs now, pushing his thigh deeper into your spread legs. You moan at the contact, head lolling back on the wooden door. 

“Look at you, grinding out there on me like a bitch in heat.” He spat, “Now you’re begging to get off on my thigh, aren’t you?” 

“Fuck, p-please.” You didn’t even know what you were begging for, arousal sat heavy in your gut. Every nerve in your body was on fire, aching to be quelled. 

“What do you want, hmm?” He asked, still slowly dragging your underwear-clad cunt against the rough fabric of his jeans. The friction was delicious, and feral. 

“Touch me,” You gasped, feeling him pull down the thin strap of your dress to mouth at your exposed tits. 

“I am touching you.” He hummed, taking your hardened bud into his mouth with a lewd pop. His tongue flicks against it sloppily. 

“You’re such a t-tease,” You tugged at his hair softly, “I want you to make me cum, please. Fuck me, something.” 

“Good girl,” He cooed, and the words made your legs tremble as his hand slipped between your thighs. The pads of his thick fingers pressed against the wet patch on your underwear, making a dirty smirk grace his lips. “You gonna be good for me?” 

“I’ll be your good girl.” The words were leaving your lips before you realized, knowing you’d do almost anything he’d say if it meant he kept his hands on you. 

Your underwear was roughly pulled to the side, his fingers coming into contact with your bare cunt. You nearly cried tears of relief when he began to circle your throbbing clit. 

“That’s all you needed, huh?” 

“Yes, m’your good girl.” You whined, feeling him spread your folds open, prodding your entrance. He slipped two fingers inside in one fell swoop, his thick fingers stretching you so wide you had to press your nails into his skin to quell the delicious ache. 

His fingers were perfect, thick and long and they knew exactly how fast to go. With his thumb brushing against your clit with each thrust. 

“Did you ever fuck yourself on your fingers thinking about me?” 

His fucking mouth was going to be the death of you. 

You forced the words out of our mouths, unwilling to give him a reason to stop. “Y-yes. All the time.” 

“Dirty girl.” He curled them even deeper inside of you. ”Do they feel as good as you thought?” 

A shrill laugh escapes before you can stop it, “F-fuck, they feel so much better.”

”You’re never gonna be able to fuck yourself again, I’m gonna ruin you huh?” He kept fucking going, “Your poor little fingers can’t reach this spot can they? No?”

Suddenly he was pressing against a spot that you’ve never felt before, white-hot pleasure licking down your spine. You were practically gushing around him, the wet sounds of him crooking his fingers against that perfect spot. 

“Breathe,” He cooed, watching your mouth fall open in pleasure. He held you up, feeling your legs trembling around him. “Just breathe. I’m gonna make you cum, gonna make you feel s’fucking good.” 

He was slurring over his praises, with each moan that gasped from your lips. There was no warning when you came, just your eyes rolling into the back of your head and the lewd sounds of your cunt squirting your release around his thick fingers.  

“-fuck my pretty girl.” He was still whispering, when you came to. Your forehead pressed against his shoulder, bite marks evident on his bicep from where you bit down while coming around him. 

Your mouth was dry, body lax against his as he slowly pulled his fingers out from you. There was a wince at the loss of contact, but he kept his thumb on your clit. Leaving featherlike circles on the sensitive bud as you came down. 

“You okay?” He asked, his voice louder, a little steadier now. As if he almost didn’t cum untouched in his pants at the sight of you coming undone on his fingers. 

“You’re insane,” The words blubbered out, a dopey smile on your face. “Absolutely fucking insane.” 

That got you a grin from him, “I thought you knew that?” 

He saw you gain your footing, running your hand down to his belt before he stopped you. You were just about to drop to your knees, mouth watering at the prospect of returning the favor with his cock in your mouth. 

“..wait-“

”What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” He assured you, pushing your now soiled underwear back in place. “I just wanna take you out of this filthy bar.” 

“You gonna take me home, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, your voice still a little breathless, a little unsteady as you leaned back against the sink.

“That sure is the goal, Dr. Y/l/n,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting as he reached for you, tugging your dress back down into place with careful hands that lingered just a second longer than necessary.

It was only then that you both paused, your attention dropping to your legs at the same time, and the reality of what had just happened settled in with quiet amusement. Your tights were completely ruined, torn beyond saving, thin fabric hanging in uneven strips where he had lost patience.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he said under his breath, like he wasn’t even going to pretend to argue it, his gaze flicking over the damage before he crouched down in front of you. “Hold still.”

You started to reach down, but he stopped you with a light touch to your wrist, already working the remaining fabric down your legs, his movements slower now, more deliberate.

When he finished, you took the ruined tights from him, turning toward the trash without much thought, but he caught your hand before you could toss them.

“Hey,” he said, pulling them from your grip and shoving them into his back pocket with a casual shrug that didn’t quite match the look in his eyes. “A reminder.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, heat rising to your cheeks again as you turned back to the mirror, doing what you could to fix your hair, smooth your dress, make yourself look even slightly presentable. It was a losing battle, but you tried anyway, fingers working quickly as you caught your reflection, flushed and a little wild-eyed.

Your gaze landed on the ridiculous cowboy hat sitting on the sink, and without thinking too much about it, you picked it up and placed it back on your head, adjusting it with a small, satisfied tilt.

“There,” you muttered. “Much better.”

Behind you, Jack let out a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, his hands settling briefly at your waist as he leaned in just enough for his voice to brush your ear.

“Come on, cowgirl,” he murmured, his fingers pinching lightly at your ass as you moved past him.

You squealed under your breath, shooting him a look over your shoulder, but the smile tugging at your mouth gave you away as you reached for the door and stepped back out into the bar.

All things considered, you should have realized everyone would have noticed your disappearing act. Especially when Ellis spotted you two walking back in with your hands intertwined. 

“Oh, Mama is taking the money home.” She yelled, causing a few people’s necks to turn. 

A chorus of reactions followed, laughter, whistles, someone shouting something you chose not to fully process, and you felt your face heat as you ducked your head slightly, squeezing Jack’s hand.

“Don’t,” you muttered under your breath, half laughing. “Don’t entertain them.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, completely unfazed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

Santos leaned against the table, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered across her face. “About damn time,” she called out.

“Shut up,” you shot back, though there was no real bite to it.

“Be safe,” Robby added, shaking his head but smiling anyway. “And for the record, I want details later.”

“You’re not getting anything,” Jack cut in smoothly, already guiding you past them.

“Liar,” someone called after you, and it sent another round of laughter through the group.

”I’ll get the details.” Samira called out, very sure of herself. 

You offered quick goodbyes, half distracted, your attention already shifting elsewhere, and Jack didn’t slow, his hand steady in yours as he led you through the crowd and toward the exit despite their protests to stay longer. 

“Let her get laid!” You heard Santos yelling, before you were hit with the chill night air. 

“Still with me?” Jack asked, glancing down at you as he guided you toward the parking lot.

“Yeah,” you said softly, looking up at him. “I’m with you.”

His truck came into view a few rows down, and that familiar ache began burning up your spine once again. 

“Good,” he said, quieter now, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer before he reached for the passenger door. 

Now, Jack Abbot was a responsible man, everyone knew this. Despite his affinity for dangerous and adrenaline-seeking hobbies, he was very safe and responsible with everyone but himself. So when his knuckles were turning white as he gripped the steering wheel, while your hands were slipping into his pants, making it impossible for him to focus on the road, he had no choice but to pull the car into the PMTC back parking lot. 

He worked there for long enough to know that the cameras stopped working back here a decade ago, and no one even bothered with the desolate corner. 

As soon as the car was pulled into park, seatbelts were off and he was pulling you onto his lap. 

“Greedy little girl, just couldn’t fucking wait.” He groaned playfully, pushing up the fabric of your dress up your stomach. 

“Please,” You huffed, shimmying out of your underwear above him. “You’re the one who couldn’t wait. I barely got my hands on you and you almost pulled over right then and there.” 

“Can you blame me?” His mouth watered as your tits spilled out, your glistening cunt hovering above his lap. 

“Get these, off.” You whined, your hands tugging at his jeans. 

He felt like a horny teenager, his old bones aching as he tried to maneuver around in the front seat of his truck. It took a few unsexy moves and leaning the seat back for his boxers to get pushed down his legs successfully. 

“S’fucking big.” Your eyes were wide, watching his heavy cock fall against his stomach. Barely unable to hold itself up from the sheer weight. The thick vein that ran up the side of it pulsed under your gaze. 

“Yeah?” He smirked.

”That’s gonna break me in half,” You laugh nervously, despite your cunt merely dripping at the idea of taking him 

“You can take it,” Abbot says, so sure of you that it makes your heart skip a beat. “Ride me, cowgirl.”

A series of cockdrunk giggles leaves your lips when his hand comes down to slap your ass, as you straddle his hips. You’re thankful for his filthy mouth making you wet enough that when his thick tip catches on your entrance it slips in with no hesitation. The burn on the way down makes it grit your jaw, tears prickling in the corner of your eyes. 

“There you go,” He whispers, lips leaving kisses on your shoulder. “S’fucking tight, just gotta let me stretch this pussy of yours, m’kay?” 

“F-fuck,” You’re shaking by the time your hips meet his, you’ve never been this full in your life. He’s taking up space in your chest as you try to catch your breath, with each coo of praise he’s whispering into your ear. 

“You okay?” He asked, concern filling his eyes as he pressed small kisses to your lips. 

“Yes,” You whined, kissing him back harshly, “You’re just fucking huge.” 

“Does it feel good?” 

“Yes.” Tears were nearly streaming down your cheeks from how good, how overwhelming it was. 

“Shhhh, I got you, sweetheart.” He promised, and you believed him as he alternated between kissing and sucking wherever his lips could reach while your body adjusted to the stretch of him. 

The first rise and drop of your hips nearly had you passing out, 

“Oh m’god,” you mumbled, both hands gripping his shoulders. “Oh, so good, so fuckin’ good.”

“S’tight.” He said through clenched teeth, watching as you slowly worked up the rhythm. He watched his cock, covered in your slick slide slowly in and out of your cunt. The sight alone had his balls tightening. 

It didn’t take much longer for the pain to turn to pleasure, and for you to find yourself riding him so hard it was taking both of your breaths away. It was the combination of the months of sexual tension exploding into this one moment. 

Wet, lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echo through the truck, the windows fogging up almost immediately. 

His hand is on your jaw, as he forces his thumb between your lips. You took it greedily, sucking his thumb in your mouth as you continued grinding against him. Each heavy drag of your clit against the gray patch of hair on his pelvic bone brought you closer and closer to the edge. 

“You’re so beautiful." His eyes meet yours, unable to pull away. He takes each expression to memory, the desperate moans leaving your mouth, the curve of your tits as they bounced, the furrow of your brows each time he hit just the right spot. 

Jack’s hips buck up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time grinding down on him. You gasp, tightening your hand on him, your nails digging harshly into his chest.

“Just like that, oh fuck. y'r gonna make me cum, shit," You manage to cry out, as he fucks up into you with all the strength that he can muster. He knows he’ll be sore tomorrow, but none of that matters with how good you feel wrapped around him.

“F-fuck me too, baby you gotta cum first.” He stutters out, slightly panicked by how fast his orgasm has crept up on him. 

“I’m so close.” You nearly sobbed, your mouth wide drooling into his shirt as his cock hit the same spot from earlier that had you making a mess on his hands. 

“I’m- fuck-" his mouth opens on a guttural groan as he pulses hot inside of you, holding you down on his cock so hard that you have to lean forward and bite into his shoulder to process it. 

This is all it takes for you to cum with him, your second orgasm hits you like a fucking train. More satisfying than the first as you squeeze around him, your cunt suckling in every drop of his release. 

You’re too sore to move once his hips still, both of you clinging to each other like a lifeline. The air is thick with sweat and sex, and you can only imagine how his truck looked from the outside. 

He’s drawing soft circles on your back with his fingers, as you catch your breath. 

“I can’t believe we waited so long to do that.” You broke the silence, causing a chuckle to escape his chest. 

“S’your fault.” 

You faux gasp, “Is not!”

”Is so.” He teases, with no real heat in his tone.

”You should have bent me over the gurney and fucked me that one day I did a pigtail cathedor without you and you came back with stars in your eyes.” You admitted, feeling his softening cock twitch inside of you despite itself.

He pinched your hip playfully, “You’re lucky I’m not 20 years younger, or I’d flip you into the backseat and fuck that mouth of yours.” 

“Nah,” You lift off of him with a wince, immediately mourning the loss of him. “I like you just how you are, old man.” 

“Old man.” He grumbled, helping you back into the passenger seat. Thankful he’s overprepared, he cleans you up with a clean towel as both of you redress. 

The truck rocked just enough to make you both pause for half a second before dissolving into quiet laughter, the kind that came from adrenaline finally settling and the sheer ridiculousness of it all catching up at once. Your head tipped back against the seat, breath uneven, the cowboy hat taunting you both as it sat on the dashboard. 

You nudged his arm lightly, still smiling. “So-“

He turned toward you then, one arm resting along the back of the seat, his gaze steady but warm in a way that made your chest tighten just a little.

“So,” He mimics you, “This is the part where I realize I should’ve taken you out on a proper date first.”

You raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “Should’ve?”

He leaned in just slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him again, but this time slower, easier.

“Will,” he corrected. “Definitely will.”

You smiled at that, softer now, reaching down blindly until your fingers found the cowboy hat and placed it back on his head with a crooked tilt.

”You think you can handle me, cowboy?” 

Now it wasn't that Jack Abbot didn’t have the means to fix this issue. For that, he was brutally aware. His rugged good looks and quarter of a million dollar salary alone should have gotten him at least a date. His main problem was that he didn’t try, not really. He never took days off, accruing over 60 days of PTO before Gloria forced him out of the hospital for a week to avoid litigation over labor laws. He was a workaholic, with no real desire for change in his life. Once again, words from his therapist.

Today was another session, his therapist scribbling down in the notebook as if her life depended on it. It was all mundane until she paused. “Have you ever considered going to a strip club?”

He paused, hands freezing on his thighs. “I’m sorry, what?”

He had heard her, quite clearly, actually. Too shocked to let the words absorb into his brain. She repeated herself slowly, “It’s a very common place for men your age to go. It’s legal, low risk. Get some ones and see if it brings you back to your glory days as a young cadet. At the very least, you’ll have a story to tell me next week.”

So here he was, sitting in the parking lot of the Pink Pony. He changed his outfit twice before leaving, two different variations of the same black t-shirt and jeans. He had over $1000 in various bills shoved haphazardly into his wallet and pockets. Too nervous to undertip, feeling like he had to overpay to apologize for being a pervy old man.

The parking lot was quiet for an unassuming Thursday night; he’d taken a few days off for the affair. If nothing went his way, at least he had time to sulk in his pity before walking back into work on Monday.

He walked in awkwardly, shifting his weight consciously to his prosthetic, attempting to walk normally despite the years-long shift in his hips. He felt like he was crawling out of his skin. Men sat in the corners, dollar bills lazily thrown as girls twirled around on the stages. Half-dressed waitresses carrying overpriced bottles waved at him as he slipped into the bar. He got a whisky on the rocks and slipped into his own corner. He sank into the worn velvet chair, his back to the wall and a small stage in front of him. Secluded enough, and he was able to see all the exits. Old habits die hard.

Meanwhile, you were lounging in the back room, silk robe over your shoulders, while you fumbled around with your curlers. Nursing a lukewarm Diet Coke while music blared from the main stages. You weren’t even supposed to work tonight, prompting you to take a shift for a friend who caught a nasty case of the flu. Getting a master's degree wasn’t cheap, so you were perfectly fine with the extra hours.

“Y/n,” A coworker yelled, “Can I borrow that green set of yours?”

You shrugged lazily, “Don’t care, just wash it and return it. S’in my locker.” You hummed, coating your lips in a little too much lip gloss, adding a little too much highlighter to your face. This was one of your favorite things about your job: sitting in an overpriced fur-lined chair surrounded by girls who only uplifted each other. It all started as a small gig in undergrad, just to make extra money. Years later, you were still here, settling into the night shift like it was your home away from him.

“Oh, bitch.” Your coworker Ani squealed, barreling into the dressing room like her heels were on fire. “Y/n.”

You twirled around, urging the frantic girl to spit her words out. “Ani, where’s the fire?”

“Hot ass old man in front of stage F, wouldn’t even look me in the eyes but slid $150 across the stage.” She giggled, sitting next to you, your shoulders brushing.

Ani was your oldest friend here, and one of your closest friends outside of work. She kept you on your toes, but you always looked out for each other.

“How old?” You pry, lips pursed.

“Old enough to be your father.” There was an evil glint in her eyes.

You let out an over-dramatic moan, “Oh, you know me so well.”

“Right?” She yelled, grabbing your shoulder to pull you to the curtain. Both of your heads poked out, your eyes immediately finding the man. His body language was stiff, clutching his sweating whisky like a lifeline. She wasn't wrong; he was hot. In a rugged, soldier way. Exactly the type of customer you loved. So what you had stereotypical daddy issues, didn’t everyone?

“Oh, Ani,” You sighed, “I could kiss you on the lips.”

She let out a giggle, clearly proud of herself. “Consider us even for you giving me the Russian last week.”

Then her hands were on your shoulders, pushing you back into the room. “Wear that sexy little black number, and the clear glitter heels.” She ordered, tossing your clothes, ordering you around.

The two of you fell into heaps of giggles, ignoring the side eyes of the other girls as she helped dress you. Too much makeup and very little clothing later, you were shining, ready to slip out there.

“You’re gonna kill that old man.” She hummed, bouncing one of your curls between her long nails. “Make me proud, mama.”

With a playful slap on your ass, you were off, slipping into the main area as if you belonged there. Which you did, it was years of working here and owning the stages. Your heels clicked loudly against the tiny stage, hair bouncing down your back with each dramatic sway of your hips.

One hand wrapped around the pole, casual as anything, like it was an extension of you rather than something to perform with. You circled it once, twice, dragging it out, letting the music sway your movements. Your gaze skimmed the room like you were choosing, like you were deciding who deserved your attention. As if he wasn’t your target already.

When your eyes did find him, you couldn’t help the ridiculous smirk that fell on your lips. His honey brown eyes were dark, locked on yours. With your free hand, you sent him a sultry wave before the lights dimmed. The colored spotlights hit your skin as you brought your legs up around the pole. Twisting and gliding around in your natural habitat. When your back hit the pole, hands up and gliding down it, you watched him watch you.

His watchful eyes are heavy with every shake of your body, every gentle caress of your own skin. You arched your back, letting the pole support your weight as your head tilted back, hair cascading over your shoulders, your chest fully on display. He let himself pretend for just a moment that this was for him and him only. He felt an unfamiliar feeling in his gut, a warmness growing there. A feeling he had longed forgotten, forcing itself through his body the longer he watched you.

You slid down the pole, landing on the cool floor in a split. The song is slowly coming to an end, allowing yourself to change the pace. You let yourself fall on your elbows, pulling yourself up so you were crawling across on your hands and knees. This time, you made sure to keep eye contact with the man, stalking him as prey. Hips rolling with each crawl. He lifted a hand, brandishing a handful of bills very respectfully on the corner of the stage. Once you were close, you grabbed the bills, holding them up in between your perfectly manicured nails.

“This for me?” You asked, a faux dumb look plastered on your face. Just to see him squirm in his chair, which he did.

He nodded slowly, adjusting himself. His body leaning forward, watered-down whisky long abandoned on the table. “More where that came from.” He spoke, voice gruff and quiet over the music.

“Really?” You put a hand on your chest, slipping the bills into the thin string of your top. “I’m honored, baby.”

He pretended his cock didn’t stir at your voice, and your eyes, and your tits that were practically spilling out of the lace number you had on. He cursed his therapist, he cursed his body, and secondly, he cursed you because he knew you had ruined him from the moment you walked out on stage. He was going to have to go back to therapy and tell her that he came in his pants at the first girl to give him attention.

Your legs swung off the platform, heels hitting the floor with practiced precision as you sauntered over to him.

“You got a name, ‘Mr. More where that came from?” You growled playfully, letting your hands fall on the armrests, your body above him tits mere inches away from his face. You held all the power in this interaction, and it had his palms sweaty.

“You can call me Jack.” He spoke, his own voice sounding foreign to him.

“Jack.” You purred, letting your body settle between his spread legs. “Can I have a seat?” You asked sweetly, pointing towards his very welcoming lap.

“F-fuck, yeah.” He stumbled, leaning back just enough for you to swing your legs over his. You were perched on his lap gently, barely putting any weight on him. The doctor in him took a beat to notice your core strength, the way you moved expertly against him.

“So Jack,” You hummed, content on letting your hands rest lazily on his shoulders. ”What do you do for work?”

“M’a doctor.” He managed to stumble out, making a small laugh escape your lips. He was sure you didn’t believe him; your whole job consisted of men lying to you. Everyone was a CEO, a doctor, a lawyer, anything to impress the pretty girl in front of them.

“Yeah?” You giggled, a small accent slipping out. “You know, doctor, I’ve been having a serious problem lately.”

With your perfectly glossed lips in a pout, and your voice purring in his ear, he would have done anything you said. “Hm?” Was all he could get out, still tongue-tied by the fact that you were on top of him.

“These tits,” You sighed, grabbing your chest with both of your hands, “Are just sooo heavy. I really need someone to help hold them.”

”Doctor’s orders, huh?” He couldn’t help but laugh.

You nodded, letting your hands fall to the sides of the chair again. “Don’t be shy, I don’t bite.”

“What if I do?” Jack said, his eyes surprising both you and himself. His confidence is growing, slowly but surely.

“I might like that.” You recovered coolly, slipping back into your persona. “Come on, you can touch.”

His hand moved up, twitching ever so slightly but never moving closer to you. He looked nervous, his eyes practically scouring the room as if someone would catch him somehow breaking the law. You noticed, because of course you did.

“Hey, we can slip into a private room if you want a dance-“ Before you could even finish, he was slipping a few more bills into the bottom string of your thong.

To your credit, you didn’t let the flicker of surprise show on your face, even as the bills slid against your skin and his voice settled low and certain in your ear. “I’d prefer that, sweetheart.”

You smiled at that, something pleased and almost fond tugging at the corner of your mouth before you caught it and smoothed it back into something more seductive. His lap missed your presence when you sat up, holding your hand out for him. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood a second later, slower than you, but following all the same. His hand was in yours, ignoring all the stares as you guided him into the back rooms. You said something quietly to one of the girls before a thick curtain was opened, revealing a private area. There was a plush couch, a few chairs, and a pole in the middle. The music was quieter, the lights dimmer. There was a faint neon pink glow, making his eyes adjust for a few moments.

“Take a seat wherever you’re comfortable.” You smiled, closing the curtain behind you two. The floor-to-ceiling fabric seemed to dull more sound than he thought, the music almost barely audible. He sank into the middle of the couch, adjusting his legs awkwardly while you frolicked around the room.

“This your room?” He asked, a small bluetooth speaker crackling in the corner.

“On most days,” You smiled, smooth rock music echoing throughout the room now, “Hope this is okay, you don’t strike me as the EDM pop type.”

He shook his head, “No, I am not.”

He barely had time to settle before you were moving again, letting your hands grip the pole as you walked by.

“Few rules,” You pointed towards the sign on the wall, “At any point you want to stop, let me know, if there’s something you’d like to ask nicely and I’ll work with you, no touching new places without asking, and tip well.”

“Yes, m’am.” He gave you a mock salute, your hips swaying to the beat. You inched closer and closer until you were close enough to touch. He was still tense as ever, even as you all but crawled into his lap again. The only time he touched you was to slip a few more bills into your thong, this time while your ass was in his face.

You spun around after another song had ended, “New rule,” You hummed, “Relax.”

”I am relaxed.” He lied, his shoulders were so tense they were beginning to ache, and his cock was so hard he was worried he was going to pass out from all the blood rushing between his legs. It didn’t help that you kept ending up hovering above his lap. You hadn’t once looked at the tent in his pants, another occupational hazard he assumed.

“You’re a bad liar,” You pressed your palms against his shoulders, “Relax,” you murmured again, softer this time, your voice losing some of that performative edge.

There was a quiet huff of breath from him, something almost like a laugh, but it didn’t quite make it all the way out. Not when you started to move.

A slow roll of your hips, controlled and measured, more about the rhythm than anything else, your body finding the beat and settling into it like second nature. You didn’t drop onto him right away, didn’t give him that friction yet; you let the anticipation build, let him watch the way your body moved just inches from his, the way your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of the couch, bracketing him in without touching.

His hands still hovered awkwardly at his sides for a second, like he didn’t know where they belonged, like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

“Do you wanna touch me?” You ask softly, in that new gentle tone you had reserved for him.

“More than anything in the world.” He admitted.

You placed his hand at your waist, right where the curve dipped in, where he could feel the heat of your skin beneath the thin fabric. “You can touch. That’s kind of the point.”

His fingers flexed there, tentative at first, like he was expecting you to pull away. As if this were a dream he’d get rudely woken up from. Instead, you moved closer, finally letting your hips settle on his lap. Pressing directly down on the bulge in his pants. At the contact, his fingers squeezed tightly at the flesh, mostly out of instinct. His hands were large and rough. His touch had you arching against him slightly, a shit-eating grin on your lips.

His other hand joined the other side of your hip, steadying you on top of him. You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your chest brushed his, your face close to his now, close enough that he could see the detail in your makeup, the gloss on your lips, the way your eyes held his with a kind of quiet confidence that didn’t waver.

”There you go, doctor.” You whispered, that nickname sticking much to his chagrin. He doesn't know why he was lying to himself, not when you could feel each jump of his cock.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between your body and your mouth like he couldn’t quite decide where to land, like he was trying to take in too much all at once and failing. The friction was enough to make the room feel hot, tension building between each perfected roll of your hips.

One specific roll had a curse leaving his mouth, “Fuck.” He grunted, his eyes falling shut.

Your stomach burned, his voice going directly between your thighs. “D-does this feel good?”

He nodded, not even able to get a word out. “Can I move?” He asked, more confident, his hands guiding up to your chest before you could even finish your nod.

”Please.” You breathed out, nearly moaning at the first squeeze of your tits in his palm. His thumb brushes against your hardened buds, squeezing them between his forefinger.