the sweetest thing on this side of hell

And you were crazier. Not about him – well. Also about him. But crazier as a baseline condition, a factory setting. You’d woken him at three in the morning by sliding one of his eyelids open with your thumb because you’d dreamt that he was texting another woman and needed to check his phone while the wound was still fresh. He’d handed his phone over, half-blind, and you’d scrolled through it sitting on his stomach. When you found nothing, you’d flopped down onto his chest and gone straight back to sleep. 

It was, frankly, a lot of crazy to be on the receiving end of, and Jack – who’d spent much too long being the most even-keeled, unbothered man in most situations – had taken one look at your little feral devotion pointed square at him and thought that yes, he wants in on all of that.

He would gladly take that your whole storm wrapped up in a package, had done just that, and was not planning on letting go. 

Being loved by you was full-contact, hands-on, and all consuming. You bit and you climbed him on the kitchen while he was holding hot pans; you pulled his face around by the jaw when you decided his attention wandered. He let you, always, going soft-eyed and pliant the second your hands landed on him, and had long ago stopped pretending otherwise. 

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had his moments, especially when it came to his girlfriend. He was, in all senses of the word, protective over you.

He’d known enough men – had been a different man through each decade – to know that you in the wrong hands would have ruined someone, like you had him.

He’d considered himself lucky to have your devotion – a thing so pure, presented with such ferocity – pointed at him. The thought of it being pointed at someone else made him sick simply because he knew how difficult it was to not fall in love with your claws. He knew how it felt to have you scruff him by the collar and inspect him for another woman’s perfume that even you knew did not exist, how it felt to be counted and guarded and kept, and he knew there was no single man alive who could feel that and walk away sane.

He’d take a bullet before he let anything happen to you and consider it a fair trade.

Jack was nothing less than smugly, bone-deep, sure of you. And a man that sure, holding a jealousy that pretty, developed habits. He’d learned (through research he’d conducted, very selfishly, for his own benefit) exactly which levers produced the show.

A waitress lingering around him for a second too long; a squeeze of your hand going tight in his, and him spending the next thirty minutes in the parking lot outside the restaurant making up for another woman’s slow legs.

Mentioning, idly, that a pharmacutical rep had been ‘friendly today’; good for a whole evening of you cross-examining everything about him, her, her tone, his response. 

He knew the difference between small provocations and the premium ones, and he deployed them the same way he planned date nights. He would’ve gone as far as to say they were date nights, impromptu, functionally; every match he struck brought him an evening of you staking your claim with both hands, and then the long, sweet business of being claimed. 

He’d never once found the bottom of it. He’d never once thought to even look for one, where the jealousy cut off and turned inward. It had never once pointed that direction. Your claws faced outward, out at the world, never once you, carrying them.

He didn’t know there was a depth where that happened. It was why he poked the proverbial bear. 

When he’d gotten off his shift at seven in the morning, tugging his bag over his shoulder, he’d leaned his hip against the driver’s door and opened your texts. Some people had a cigarette after a shift. Jack had you, delivered in installments, and he stood there in the cold biting down his smile as he scrolled through the night’s yield.

( a photo of a cat that lived outside the bar; a voice memo at 1:30 he already knew was you narrating something you’d decided was urgent; a link to a lamp with no explanation, which meant ‘buy me this lamp’ (he did, immediately, Apple Pay and its joys of quick payment); a text at 2:47 that just said that your feet were cold; and finally, a goodnight! i love you! sent at 3:15 am )

He’d thought, not for the first time, that he was genuinely a lucky bastard.

After years of pagers and reports and envelopes, somewhere his correspondence had started to include a nightly paper trail proving that somewhere in Pittsburgh, you moved through your night with him present in it. They were simply dispatches you sent because things weren’t fully real to you until he’d been notified.

A man could be told he was loved a hundred ways, but there was no proof on earth like being your first call about nothing. 

If he were a better man, he would have told you about the name that had popped up on his message thread under yours the second he’d unlocked the phone – right there, sandwiched between your goodnight and a spam text about his car’s warranty, a name he hadn’t seen light up his screen in the better part of a decade. 

Diane: Hey stranger. In town next week for a conference - would be good to catch up if you’re around. Coffee? It’s been too long. Hope life’s treating you well. 

It was a strange sort of vertigo of a past life reaching out to tap him on the arm. Diane – Jesus. He hadn’t thought about her in years; it’d been long enough that the name landed without a hook. It was a faint mothball smell of a version of himself he’d long since folded up and put away. No, he had felt near to nothing for her name for the only one that popped up in his head was yours. 

Jack had spent months getting fat and happy on your jealousy; he’d learned there was no sweeter sound than you getting worked up over nothing.

Jack had, right there in the parking lot, a plan because Diane was – he’d assumed, for you – not nothing. No, Diane had history, and it was a real, verifiable history. If a stranger’s coffee order could get you draped over him like a bodyguard, then this – Jack immediately thought – was going to be a show.

Before he’d got in the shower to start his ritual of getting in bed with you – the shower, the hygiene of it all – he found you sprawled across the entire acreage of the bed with the blanket cycloned around your legs. He crossed over and crouched at the edge of you, heart beating gratefully at the sight, because this part couldn’t wait for hygiene. 

He settled for tucking the hair off your face – two featherlight fingers, hooking it back behind your ear – and your nose scrunched in your sleep before it turned into his hand.

“Hey,” he whispered, not to wake you (secretly hoping you would, anyway), and leaned in to press his mouth to your temple that made you make a tiny sound at the back of your throat.

Your fist unclenched from under the pillow and groped out blindly to his forearm, fingers curling around it without opening your eyes. 

Jack stayed crouched there a moment longer than his knee approved of, grinning down at you. 

“I know,” he murmured, working your fingers off his forearm one at a time and folding them back against your palm, pressing them there with a squeeze. “Ten minutes.”

When he tucked himself into bed beside you, arms instinctively falling over your waist to pull you flush against him, you were half-turning to him before you’d even surfaced. You made a tiny sound, unintelligible words – something about the temperature of his hands – and burrowed closer, one leg sliding under his waist and over the mattress, your cold feet immediately seeking out the warmest available part of him. 

“You’re cold,” you mumbled, not opening your eyes, wounded.

“I know, right,” he murmured, pulling you in closer to his chest. “You, though, are warm.”

You wrapped yourself tighter around him, hand finding its way under his shirt to flatten against his ribs. “You can borrow me.”

His hand moved up your spine, thumb catching each notch, and he pressed his cold nose to your temple just to feel you flinch and swat at him, which you did, gorgeously, with a wounded utterance of his name that made his entire body feel like it’d gone under the sun. “Missed you.” 

You smiled, tipping your face up, eyes still shut as your mouth searched. He met you there, pressing a slow, morning-soft kiss that just stayed. When you finally pulled back and sighed, boneless, he cradled you to him. 

“Hey, so,” he murmured, thumb still stroking your back, “old friend of mine’s in town next week. Reached out this morning.” 

“All your friends are old.” You hummed into his chest, still processing the words, and he felt your body still in his arms. “What old friend?” 

“Just an old friend, baby.” 

You lifted your head off his chest at that, one eye cracking open then the other, the sleep burning off you so quickly. He exhaled a sigh as he watched that beautiful, familiar spark catching behind your face. You propped your chin on his sternum and narrowed your eyes at him.

“This old friend doesn’t have a name?” 

“Mhm. Does.” He kept his face maddeningly neutral, thumb still sweeping your spine, savoring the little furrow in your brows and the way your hand had started gripping the side of his waist, staking a claim. He loved you. “Diane.” 

Your lips pursed as you processed the name, as if checking everything you know about Jack in real time. Then you shook your head a little, lips curving up into what he could only consider your angry-smile. “Who the hell’s Diane?”

“We go back a ways.” He shrugged easily, that confidence of having done this a hundred times and always getting sweet, sweet you packing up in him. “Dated, for a bit. Long time ago.” 

You took in a sharp inhale, snorting softly as your hands left him completely. He tried to bite down his frown from showing.

“Dated,” you said, through a small breath with wide eyes. “You dated and she texted you?” 

“She did.” Jack laced his hands behind his head and settled back into the pillow. “Wants to grab a coffee. Catch up.”

“Well, are you going?” You were up on your elbow now, the blanket pooling at your chest, as your brows went up to your hairline in thorough dissatisfaction. 

No, he wasn’t. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d read the text, and moved on to the far more interesting business of what it could do for this morning. The coffee itself was nothing; he had no interest in sitting across a woman who hadn’t crossed his mind at all to trade summaries of decades.

You existed. There was, now, no hour anyone could offer that beat an hour of you doing anything at all. 

He had sat through watching you decide whether or not you’d return a sweater for forty minutes; trying it on over and over again, the same sweater, then tucking it into parts of your existing clothes to test it (into jeans, out of jeans, under the jacket, sleeves shoved up, sleeves shoved down, “should i just cut the sleeves off?” with the scissors already located, and he’d told you “do the crime and you can’t return it,” and watched you reconsider, setting the scissors down). You’d kept it and worn it while sitting on the couch for the rest of the day, then never again. 

“Thinkin’ about it,” Jack said, hooking a lazy finger into the strap sliding off your shoulder and tugging it back up, a tending gesture entirely at odds with the trouble he was stirring. “Just coffee, angel. She’s only in town a few days.”

“Well, your girlfriend is in town all days,” you said, swatting his hand away. “You can’t just get little catch-up coffees with women you fucking dated, Jack. That’s not – it’s not a thing people in relationships do.”

“No? But it was so long ago.” 

You’d pulled yourself upright now, cross-legged in the sheets, the blanket in your lap and the one strap already sliding down again. “Doesn’t matter, Jack.” You jabbed a finger at his neck. “You’ve got a girlfriend. A very good one –”

“Best one I’ve ever had,” Jack agreed, catching your finger and kissing the tip of it, entirely pleased. “I like her. Love her, even.”

“Then why think about it at all?” you asked as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheek. 

“Just surprised, baby,” he said, shrugging. “We go way back. Before your time. It was – a real thing, for a while.” 

Your eyes quickly flickered down to his chest, mouth opening, then closing again. “How long were you together?”

He clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he genuinely tried to reel back the memory. It was funny the way time did that.

“Couple years,” he murmured. “Give or take, three. Yeah. Around three.”

Your eyes had gone slightly wide as you looked at a spot on the blanket with your bottom lip tugged between your teeth.

“Three years,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, huffing slightly through your nose. 

Your eyes flicked up to him, and Jack’s hand went still against your spine. They eyes were wide, glassed, and lost, blinking up at him with some unguarded confusion. You looked at him the way you did when a word went missing on you mid-sentence (your fingers snapping restlessly at the air like you could catch it, ‘you know the one, Jack, the word – the – the thing,’ while he supplied guesses just to watch you swat them away), except there was no word being hunted now. 

“That’s – a long time, right?” you asked him then, tilting your head to the side, looking at Jack like he had some sort of conversion chart on what three years were ought to weigh. 

Jack’s eyes landed on your fingers tugging closer to him on the blanket, not landing on him. They stopped an inch short of his ribs, curling back into themselves. 

His eyes went from your fingers, to your face, which was still waiting for his answer. He sucked in a small exhale, buying a second, though he couldn’t have said for what. 

There was some low-grade, humming static on his skin, and he forced himself to override it, because you’d asked him so gently, and he always answered your questions. You asked him things at all hours, in all states, with your mouth full, from the other room, half-asleep on his shoulder blade.

( What’s the worst thing you ever ate? You’d help me hide it, right? What’s your favorite planet? If we were both dogs, who’d be walking who? Am I the funniest person you know? Would you still love me if I couldn’t talk, only hum? Who taught you how to drive? ) 

He’d answer every single one thoroughly, treating them all like he would’ve a question for boards, because early on he’d discovered your asking was an act of love; you collected his answers, kept them somewhere in that beautiful head, stored him. Nobody had ever wanted his mind so thoroughly before. 

So when you asked, he answered.

It was who Jack was to you. It was maybe his favorite thing to be, just Jack. Jack and all the little things he thought about all the little things he’d given little to no thought to. 

“Felt both long and short, if that makes sense,” Jack mused, wandering back into it, because you’d asked and the memory was a harmless thing to ignite. It was cold hearth, ash-dead, nothing in it did a single thing to a single fold of his brain.

“We took some trips – did two weeks through Italy one summer.” He shook his head slightly, blowing out a short breath at that fact of his life. “And her sister’s wedding in Maine.” 

“Italy,” you said, lips curving around the little word. Your eyes flicked down to his chest, then his torso. “You went to Italy?” You breathed in softly, and your head tilted again. Jack wondered if this was where the claws came out – Italy. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Lots you don’t know about my misspent youth,” he said, lips curling in a casual smile. His fingers reached out then to catch yours and folded them in his palm, bringing them up to his mouth to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

“What was it like?” you asked, brows rising slightly. “I’ve never – I don’t really know what it’s like there.”

“Rented this Fiat, did the coast. Amalfi, Positano – she had the Italian, so she handled the talking. I just drove and pointed.” A huff moved through his chest where he’d trapped your forearm. “She’d order. I’d eat whatever showed up.” 

He waited for the strike. She ordered for you? Then your fingers would go to his throat. Nobody orders for you. What did she order? Was it good? 

Your lips had made this small shape of an ‘o’ as your eyes had snagged on him as he spoke, criss-cross and those small inches away from him on the bed. 

“What’d she – where’d you even find the time?” you said through a short laugh, shoulders coming up slightly.

“We’d come out of residency and the schedules just –” He’d left your fingers for a second to lace his own loosely over his chest in the air, two combs of a zipper missing. “Lined up.” He retrieved your hand automatically, repocketing it to him. “Traded calendars at the start of the month, find the overlap. Italy was a big overlap we got lucky with. Had a little cash for once, and somebody said to go now or never go.”

The word ‘residency’ had barely left his mouth when he heard you take in a small inhale, your lips jutting out slightly.

Now? Jack wondered dumbly. Now you’d get mad, say something territorial, something pretty and unhinged about schedules. I’ll make your schedule. He readied his face for it, schooling the grin down in advance so you wouldn’t catch him enjoying it. He also would have let you make his schedule, had you asked, even though he wasn’t sure how that would’ve worked. He’d have found some compromise between his job and you. He’d have nodded along solemnly, and asked you when it was effective.

“I didn’t know you’ve been to Italy,” you murmured, almost musing, as your eyes went to the desk beside the bed, past his shoulder. He followed your gaze to the little basket where you kept your folder of documents he’d made you organize last spring. 

“Long time ago,” Jack said, because it was. It was a very long time ago, and he felt the need to clarify that. He didn’t know why he was elaborating like he’d been accused. He hadn’t. You hadn’t accused him. “Very long time ago.”

His palm tightened over your fingers – a small, reflexive press – and got no answering flex back.

Your fingers lay there in his hand, warm, accounted for – like Jack always needed them to be – but absent. Jack found himself pressing again, interrogatively this time, you in there?

“That’s –” you started.

Jack’s eyes snapped back you again, like a dog hearing it’s name. Your mouth twisted, working like you were deciding on a seed and what to do with it.

You gave a small shrug – one shoulder, half-mast – and reached over with your other hand to roll a little lint of fluff off the blanket around your finger.

“That’s really far to go with someone,” you said, softer. “Italy. That’s like – a whole thing to do.”

“It was,” he said, absentmindedly, though, as he watched you.

There was something about the set of you he didn’t quite like, though he couldn’t have said what. The way your shoulders had come in a little? The way you seemed all gentle and docile now, when a minute ago you’d been jabbing him in the throat?

Jack prided himself on knowing you; he’d taken it up as a personal study. Your spine, usually all insolence, all sprawl, had gone considerate. Even your knees, criss-crossed under the sheets, had tucked in closer. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, feeling that need to poke at it directly.

“Mhm.” You nodded quickly and looked up at him with a smile.

His fingers immediately reached up to settle under the hinge of your jaw, as if to hold your smile there, thumb laid along your cheek.

“Yeah, I just didn’t know it was – so serious. That’s all. I thought it’d be, like, some girl you dated a few months.” You let out a little breath of a laugh. “Not an – Italy person.” 

Jack’s brows furrowed. He didn’t really know what an ‘Italy person’ entailed, but he didn’t like how it sounded in your voice. 

You sometimes said things that made him want to burrow into your mind. They were little nothings, coinages, a whole private mint going on up there.

( It feels like a July day, when it was very clearly December and you were snowed in; he’s looks like a Tuesday guy, about a stranger at the DMV on a Friday; my feet are homesick, which turned out to mean you wanted to go to the beach, and also somewhere deserted sometimes, and a hike. ) 

He never asked you to translate. Half the time, it was impossible for you to do so, anyway; the words just arrived to you whole, and he’d learned to hold them up in the light until they made sense.

They always made sense, for there was always a ‘you’ inside of them. And he’d found that whatever came from you, it was worth keeping to dig into. 

( Sometimes, it made sense days later. Like when you’d said, one night in the car, engine off, “I like you when you park.” 

He’d laughed and asked, “As opposed to what?”

You’d had no answer, but he understood, days later, that you liked Jack in-between things. You liked him with the engine off, day done, night not started, with nowhere to be just yet.

He supposed it meant you liked the little pockets of nothing that every life has and nobody claims; idling, as opposed to mid-shift, the one where there was no overarching function making him do something. He’d found he liked those little pockets of nothing, too. )

He supposed that ‘Italy person’ would turn out to mean something exact, too. 

He waited, again, for the claws. What am I, then? with a finger at his chest, and he’d catch the finger and kiss it again and tell you what you were – everything – and you’d pretend it wasn’t enough, and demand he phrase it better, and he would.

Jack would phrase it better then better than that, mouth at your knuckles, your wrist, working up the arm between clauses. 

Mine, obviously, don’t be stupid. You’d hum, and he’d say it slower – mine, ob-vi-ous-ly – and you’d call him useless, and somewhere you’d end up bickering about whether Italy even had good food. He’d take your side on, traitor to decades in under a minute, and your sulk would die of neglect without either of you watching it. 

“I don’t know what that means, sweetheart,” he said, trying to force a casual smile through a small, chuckle. He shook his head confusedly. 

Your lips pressed together as you shrugged. “I don’t, either. Not really,” you said.

Before Jack could respond, you reached over and patted his chest twice and said, “Long night?” 

It took Jack a second. He heard actual sound, cogs audibly changing gears, because you’d been in Italy, and now you were in his shift, and the border between those two had been crossed with no warning. He’d been asked this normal question a thousand times; it was a fine question, a normal one. He’d answered it a thousand normal ways.

“Uh, yeah – middling,” he said, hand now coming to find your waist where you sat and tugging slightly, getting you back down into him. “Don’t wanna talk about the shift, though.” You landed against his chest and his chin fell to your head, some unscripted instinct in him kicking in. “Wanna talk about you.”

“Me?” You laughed slightly. “Nothing to report here.” 

“Disagree.” His hand started running over your spine, pressing his mouth to your hair for a second, breathing you in. “Missed you today,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Listened to your voice memo twice on the way back.” 

“Really?” 

His arm tightened around you, bring you up closer to his face, where he could reach your temple without any work. He pressed one, then another, and another kiss against them slowly, mouth lingering against your skin on the last one as he waited. For what? He had no idea. 

Your hand traveled up from his ribs to his jaw, cupping it, then running your thumb against the stubble once against the grain, the way you liked. It usually came with commentary (you’d make such a good beach, Jack; this is my favorite texture on earth; Jack, keep it like this always) and tonight he got none of it.

Jack turned his mouth to it on reflex and pressed a kiss to the middle of your palm, and felt your fingers curl slightly on the contact, gathering the kiss like you were keeping it. 

“Love you,” you murmured. “Go to sleep, Jack.” 

“Love you, too,” he said.

He couldn’t ignore how you’d practically shut off right in front of his eyes. So, he asked, “You tired?” he asked, feeling some base need to clarify.

“Yeah,” you whispered between your faces, and you did sound tired. Tired, Jack knew how to work with. 

“Good,” he murmured, softer, relieved to hear it was that. “We’ll be tired together, then we won’t be tired.” 

Your breath billowed softly over his mouth, something like a laugh, and his hand slid down to your arm to find your hand, tucking the whole laced knot of it down between your chests where it lived. Your head ducked slightly to go under his, burrowing in his neck, and he smiled as his chin came to rest at the top of your head. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, with all of the command he could muster whilst three-quarters gone himself. “We’re gonna sleep the whole day away.” 

You did. Sleep – that is. Or stayed in his arms until his breath went long and even and unmistakably out. When you were sure – when that deep untroubled weight of him told you he was really under – you extracted yourself out of the bed.

You didn’t want to, but sleep wasn’t coming easy with Jack tonight. It sucked; sleep always came easy to you with Jack. Getting out from under him, too, wasn’t easy. He slept like he meant it now, all of his weight poured over you, one heavy arm slung across you like a seatbelt. 

You lifted his arm by the wrist, an inch at a time, and slipped out from underneath it. He stirred and made a rough sound of protest and reached for the warm gap you’d left, patted once, then again, searching, and you winced at the sight of it.

You hurriedly fed your pillow to his arms and watched him gather it against his chest, watched him settle, thinking it was you. 

You should have gone outside now, like you’d planned, and instead you leaned in over the mattress, drawn back down by some law you had never once repealed.

Because – even now – you couldn’t leave Jack Abbot undecorated, you weren’t functioned that way.

Every time you left his vicinity, you’d paid a toll at the door; a kiss to the knuckles, the shoulder, the one time you pressed his closed eyelid so gently he’d told you about it during breakfast, thinking he’d dreamed of it, that it’d felt nice.

You picked the stubbled jaw and pressed the smallest kiss there for half-a-second, and he hummed just as you leaned away. His arms pulled the pillow tighter.

You felt heat build up behind your eyes at it. Jack was, somehow, reassuring you unconsciously, four fathoms down. You blinked at the ceiling, because this was just Jack sleeping with a pillow. Normal girls do not cry about things like this. 

When you successfully made it to the kitchen to make some coffee, which you didn’t end up making, you scrolled through your phone absentmindedly for a few minutes.

Your teeth were digging into your lower lip, and you were sure they could’ve left a permanent dent on them because of how long you’d been sitting on the countertop next to the coffee 

You were being mature. You were being so very mature about this.

Any second now, the maturity would kick all the way in and you’d feel it; the maturity, the security, the calm, grown-up ease that’d let you hear about your boyfriend’s beautiful doctor ex-girlfriend and their beautiful accomplished Italian holiday and simply nod. Maybe you’d be glad he’d had love before you, had something great enough it’d taken a tour across oceans.

You wouldn’t be this.

She was three years to your year.

You’d been counting since the bed, some sick little voice in the back of your head clicking away – that’s longer than you, so much longer, it’s double! and then one more!

She got a whole coast and you? Every time you tried to set the voice down, it just picked itself back up and started again.

You had – after a year – found the one proof that you’d always been, cruel-to-yourself, looking for. Jack Abbot had lived a life before you, several lives, and he’d had love.

So much time she’d had with Jack.

When you reached for your enormousness, for the claws, for the whole arsenal, you found your armor completely empty.

She predated you; you had no way to be big at her. You couldn’t bodyguard Jack from his own past, though you wished he’d have been a bodyguard to it from you. It was an insane thing to wish. All he did was answer your questions, because you’d come knocking.

An unfair, childish, foolish part of you wished he’d lied and decided the truth was too heavy for you and carried it himself. 

She had Jack, and she let him go. You could hardly let Jack go for the length of a shower. You’d have died.

What did she know that you didn’t? What was it like, being a woman who could afford to lose him? She’d walked away from Jack and was whole; if you’d lost Jack, there’d be nothing left.

You knew it was dramatic, that it didn’t work that way. It wasn’t true, but it sure felt like it. Jack had filled your life completely, and you didn’t ever want that space ever again.

Nothing about that is romantic. You’re just a girl who bet everything she had on the first big thing she saw. 

Jack had lived a whole entire grown-up love – the real kind, the serious kind – with her.

Your cruel brain wondered if there were others. You’d never heard about Diane before, what was one more name he’d never mentioned? He had decades you knew nothing about.

It all happened before you’d ever set your eyes on him and thought he was the only man that existed. It had happened before you’d seen him and thought he could be the one, then wished that he would be the one. He’d had that before.

You’d always known that, abstractly. But the idea of years and years of Jack being loved by great women who understood his work, women his own age, women who’d been there for parts of him you never got to meet. That a door swung open all the way tonight. 

You were the latest in a line you didn’t even know the length of.

You’d never even thought about Italy – it was so far away, and you didn’t even think you’d said the country’s name out loud until tonight.

Italy was – you always thought – a thing that happened to other people. It happened, you understood, to Jack. Not your Jack, another woman’s Jack, back when he was somebody’s whole future instead of their past.

He had been loved over there. He'd been to Maine with a family who’d probably thought he was the one.

You were holding the frayed end of a rope whose length you’d never wanted to measure, because you’d assumed stupidly, sweetly, that the rope started when you’d grabbed it, that Jack began the night he met you.

Stop. You’re being crazy – like always. A part of you always had known Jack liked getting a rise out of you, and you liked giving him one. Get a rise out of him, the petty, young part of your brain supplied. 

You laughed softly to yourself, clutching your arms around your waist as you folded over, forehead dropping to your knees.

With whom? If you looked for ammunition, you found no Diane.

The guy before the last guy whose last name you couldn’t even remember anymore; a handful of small-time relationships that had lasted one season and ended not because they were wrong but because they were nothing.

You had no great, grown love in your belt that you cold hold up to the light and make Jack ache over. 

You had Jack. Jack was your Diane and Jack was your Italy – your three years, your coastline, and your entire globe, probably even more – the biggest love you’d ever had by a distance so vast it was hardly a competition.

Jack knew about your entire life and every supplementary information about you that held no weight on you, or only very little.

Jack knew about your first pet’s name, and its cause of death, and the movie you still couldn’t watch because of it. He knew your worst subject’s grade and, worse, the teacher’s name, and had once gotten angry at that man on your behalf.

He knew the reason you hardly talked to your family; he knew it all by now, because you’d kept handing out pieces over this year, and somewhere around the eighth month you’d realized he knew the story completely now. 

He’d learned it all, greedily, like each fact was worth having. You’d hand him a dusty nothing – a camp story, a recurring dream since seven, your opinion on cilantro – and watch it get written down somewhere behind his eyes. Weeks later, he’d produce it at the right moment. No cilantro, she hates it.

It had felt like Jack had opened your junk drawer and thought of it as treasure.

Your life was small and short enough to fit into his hands entire. It was a carry on. He held all of it and had room left over for more. You just didn’t have any more to give him.

Jack had finished reading you.

You’d been collecting him, too, greedy in your own right, thinking you were getting, at the very least, to the hallway. Now, you were wondering if you’d only just walked up the porch to the door.

You could produce Italy in your brain now; Jack against some sun-warm railing over water; Jack driving a little car on the wrong side of the road with confidence; Jack looking longingly at a woman who was speaking a language he couldn’t understand, holding him up.

Some parallel-Jack, out in the corner of your mind, who’d married the doctor.

Jack who was, right now, in some other version of this morning, drinking coffee, happy, whole, entirely fine. Jack, who was talking about some case from a journal – in his fluent doctor-language with someone who never needed the glossary – never pausing to translate English into – well, English. He was never smiling patiently and having to shrink his work down to a bedtime-story size like he did you. That Jack’s wife could meet Jack in the dark after his bad shifts instead of standing at the edge with a flashlight, calling in.

You couldn’t even imagine parallel-Jack lonely with something missing at his table. Your imagination – which loved him, which had only ever been able to love him – refused to even draw him sad. It kept handing you Jack complete; a whole finished Jack, out there in the corner of your mind.

This Jack’s completeness had to require your absence. It needed you to put yourself out of this world and into the crevice of your mind that hated you.

You had to widen your eyes on the floor. Your heels knocked the cabinet.

No. No. Your Jack – the real Jack – was thirty feet away and had never once been anything but certain of you.

Jack had never once not been certain of you. You were sitting on the countertop in his sweatpants right now. Your fingers were curled into the cotton of the pants, holding it like it was his hand, because Jack himself suddenly felt like too much to deserve.

You were getting homesick of him, getting jealous of women in your own head, grieving trips that had already happened, creating an entirely one-girl production in your mind that was only cruel to you, and the man who’d done nothing to put it there.

Go to him, you tried to tell yourself. Go to Jack. Wake him up. Talk to him.

He never turned you away. You had come to him with nothing, a whole lot of nothings, and he had never once turned you away. 

( You’d had a terrible dream that your childhood house was empty. It was the whole dream. You’d walked through it, room-by-room, and everyone was gone and the furniture was gone and your voice didn’t work. It was classic dream-physics. You’d woken up with shaky breaths, body tensing up over, well, nothing. Over the fact that the wallpaper was gone. You’d lain there for four minutes being reasonable about it, then you’d poked Jack. 

Poked him once, then again. Then again – his hand caught your finger, eyes still shut, reflexes working. He folded your finger in his fist and kept it there, on his chest as one eye dragged open, looked at the little digital clock, looked insulted, then looked at you. 

“What?” At your silence and the sight of your small pout as your body went still, both his eyes opened, everything in his face shifting around not making this worse. “What happened?”

“Bad dream,” you said, and because he’d wait all night without asking, you added, “My old house. Everything was just gone. It’s stupid, it’s not even –”

“Not stupid.” His arm had come up to haul you down onto his chest in a drowsy motion, your ear landing conveniently over the slow bass of his heart as his hand rubbed over your skin. “Empty house,” he murmured, clicking his tongue. “Yeah. That’s not a great one.”

He always agreed with you. Then, he added, “This place has got everyone we both need in it. Go back to sleep.” )

Your mind had, finally, gone quiet. Finally. Even it knew overkill when it saw it. 

Fuck, maybe you were fucking crazy. Jack should have gone running. If he had any sense, he’d have looked at you and walked calmly in the other direction. He hadn’t. He had stayed.

This morning your enemies included a hypothetical, a memory, and Europe al-fucking-together. 

He hadn’t let you go, you had to remind yourself. He’d kept you. Had, a few times, put a foot on the door to keep you there.

You slid off the kitchen counter to make your coffee, almost distantly. You made it this time, too. By the time the machine started its slow gurgle, you’d forced yourself to wrestle the whole thing back where it belonged, blinking your eyes clear and dry. It was the deal you’d made with yourself, you supposed, when Jack had said Italy and that she was a doctor, just like him. 

You weren’t going to be the crazy, young girlfriend who spiraled over an old flame. You were going to be so graciously secure about all of it that Jack would never, ever know the morning had touched you at all.

You’d nearly convinced yourself of it, too, as you settled on the couch with the mug on the little glass table beside you as you scrolled through your phone. Then, you’d heard the bedroom door, and the soft knock of crutches against the floorboards as Jack shifted his weight. 

You felt your heart drop at the sound of it, and had to force yourself to look up at the ceiling for a few seconds before he materialized, because you had never – not once – felt that feeling in your body in the three-sixty-five and a few more days you’d loved him.

No, you had to tell your body. We don’t feel this way for Jack. There’s no need to start now.

He came around the corner a second later, crutches under his arms and squinting against the light, hair flattened up on one side of his head from all of forty minutes on the pillow. His eyes swept across the room quickly and landed on you, face easing slightly.

“There you are,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He stayed there for a second looking at you, head-to-toe, checking. “Woke up to a pillow,” he said, one brow going up, dipping his chin at you in soft accusation. 

“Jack –” You pushed yourself up off, padding over to him on instinct, because you were you, it was now nine in the morning and he’d hauled himself out of bed after only one tiny blink of sleep after his shift. Every single step he was taking on those crutches was a step he shouldn’t have been taking. “What are you doing up? Go back to bed –”

“Could ask you the same, baby. You’re never up this early.” When you got close enough, his eyes immediately came down to yours and stayed, moving over slowly. Then, he flicked his gaze to the entirety of the living room behind you.

“You get lonely out here? Something wrong? Should’ve come got me.” he fired off at once, so quickly that your mind had to catch up to process it.

“Not lonely. Nothing’s wrong. You needed sleep – ” 

False. False. True. You were a liar more than half the time today, and you knew you were making this bed all by yourself.

“I need lots of things.” His hand came up off the crutch grip – balancing himself there on one – and reached out to you, knuckles first, dragging down your cheek slowly as his head tilted to look at you. The touch was so, so tender it almost undid the whole act you had running. “Sleep’s like – fourth.” 

You leaned into his hand before you could stop it, and his face flickered for a second – relief, there and covered – and his thumb pressed in to hold it, keeping it. 

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you said into his palm, because half-truths were easier to say to his palm. “You can, though,” you said quickly. “You worked all night. I’d already slept before you came home.” 

He appeared to weigh this, and when your eyes finally moved back to his face, it was tilted slightly to the side, lost. Like a dog, hearing a new sound. It was a new sound, you realized the second it left you. It sounded like exactly what you had decided you were going to be – reasonable and considerate – and you had never once been reasonable about Jack going to bed. Sending him off to rest, so generously, without you, sounded – to you and him both – like another person’s girlfriend talking. 

He took in a small breath, a chuckle dying in his throat, and his head dropped closer, the stubble catching in the light.

“Counter-offer?” he murmured. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, settling there. “Couch. Both of us. Nobody sleeps. Nobody does a single thing.” 

“Like gremlins,” you murmured. 

The crease in his brow lost a little bit of its altitude. “Exactly like gremlins, angel,” he said gravely, instantly. 

Your lips moved hesitantly, and your hands came up to his bare chest, pressing slightly. “You’ve been up all night, Jack,” you said through a short laugh, fingers skating around the breath of his chest to sit at his ribs, trying to turn him. 

“Stop it – please, no.” He stayed put, eyes flicking down to where your hands had come up and lips twisting in, what you could only describe as a snarl. “I’m not tired.”

It was such a bald, indefensible lie that you visibly shook your head at him. The evidence was all over his pretty face, the pretty, lying face. The curls were silvering mess flattened on one side and standing at attention on the other, and you had to physically stop your hands from going to them.

The morning stubble had come in along his jaw in that salt-and-cinnamon scatter you’d once spent a full minute petting against the grain while he sat there letting you, patient as a trained dog. Still, tired lived well on him. Everything lived well on him. You’d told him once, and he’d thanked you, because he’d found himself tired a lot and hadn’t quite found a way to ease it. He’d tried.

“Jack,” you tried, voice warming a touch.

“What?” he drawled, shaking his head at you now, like he was deciding to show how scandalized he was now by all of this. “I’m not allowed to sit with my girl?”

He started moving to the direction of the couch – crutches finding their rhythm – without giving you any time for defense. “Man works a night shift and isn’t allowed to sit with the prettiest thing he’s ever seen?” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Come sit.”

You trailed after him, because what else could you do? Dig your heels in, tell him no? That would’ve been a tell the size of five fucking houses. The second you were in range, his arm left the cushion and hooked over your waist mid-step and hauled you onto his lap. Your yelp was swallowed by the drop, and you landed sideways across his thighs with his arm already snaked across your back. 

“Your leg, Jack – ”

“My leg’s thrilled.” His other hand collected your knees and folded them up toward his stomach, tucking you in closer, arranging you into the compact bundle he preferred, until you were sitting in the wide, warm bowl of him with nowhere to look that wasn’t him. His hand then came up to your back and pressed, instructively, until your cheek gave up and landed against his shoulder. He let out a long, slow breath at the contact, chin coming to rest on your hair. “There we go.”

You breathed in a lungful of air as you settled against him, his presence like fire and water over you right now. You were so scared of someday losing this, this exact thing. His chest hair scratching at your cheek; the weight of his head – carrying so much – on your head; the way he smelled like your soap because you’d asked him to once and he’d never gone back, and now this man walked around his emergency department smelling like pink fruit all day and let everyone at work deal with it.

It was so, so unbelievably simple to be with Jack, to be in this flowery presence of this gruff man, being his. Jack had come along and he’d made you put everything down – the checking, the second-guessing – and you had, you’d put everything down, and dumped both arms around his neck instead. 

“How do you wanna use our nights off today, hm?” he asked softly, moving his head to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. 

This was your event. You knew that was why he was asking, dangling it, because the planning was half the having for you and he’d learned to just hand you the whole day and watch you go. You always had opinions.

Before you’d tucked yourself into bed last night, you’d thought maybe you and Jack would go to the diner whenever you woke up, breaking fast in the afternoon like degenerates. 

Maybe the flea market afterwards, because Jack, at a flea market, haggled in such a nice, slow voice that made grown sellers fold like the lawn chairs they were selling. He’d followed you around from table to table for two hours, never once questioning why you were suddenly looking at doorknobs. You could’ve looked at gravel, and he’d have carried it. Then you’d come home, couch, a game on, his head in your lap – heavy, trusting, king of some small kingdom – while you messed with his curls.

It all seemed so unbelievably wrong now. It seemed nice at the same time, the same as before. But the diner. She probably never made him eat at diners. The flea market; she went to Positano. You had no idea what Positano even looked like, exactly. It was probably the most beautiful place on all of earth and Jack had stood in it, years before you existed to him, being well-loved, and you’d spent this morning secretly hoping it was ugly. 

You pressed your cheek harder into his chest and he hummed, appreciatively, and adjusted his arm to noodle you.

She got this, too.

You had to stop yourself from groaning at your own voice, from yelling at it altogether. The thoughts were just pushing you closer and closer to him, your cheek nuzzled against his chest, shifting slightly like the bare contact of his skin could just scrub it all out; your cure and disease were Jack. Every awful, awful thought sent you burrowing closer into his exact chest that had caused it, and he kept receiving you, warm and obliging, having no idea he, right now, was both your wound and bandage. 

You just wanted your day back. You couldn’t tell anyone how insane this was, least of all Jack. You’d have crawled inside his ribcage if it zipped.

You knew that Jack had been trying to get under your skin – you knew that he liked it – but you’d figured this game was one that was built for you to win. Every round was just Jack setting up an excuse to spend the afternoon demonstrating with his mouth, his eyes, his face, that there was no contest to even worry about.

Because you couldn’t very well go to Positano today, and because you suddenly felt like a kid handing over a macaroni necklace to someone who owned diamonds, you said, “I don’t know,” into his chest. “You decide.”

His thumb paused on your skin for a second, then it resumed.

“Me?” he murmured, chin tilting for a second to press his lips to the top of your skull again. “I wouldn’t have the first clue, angel.” 

“Try,” you said. 

He huffed slightly. “Alright, then. Bear with me – first day on the job. We stay here till noon, then the diner with your jams. Then that stretch by the river you like, lemonade from the good cart guy.” He squeezed your arm and pressed another peck to your head. “Home by dark and it’ll be the best outing in the world.” 

It sounded so perfect. You pressed your whole face down into his chest, even as you thought about how his outings were once grander, with people who’d done grander. With a doctor, no less. “Sounds perfect.”

For a moment, the two of you just breathed there. It may have been the fact that when it got quiet when you were with Jack – instead of quiet with just yourself – things seemed a little easier, but you found yourself saying, against him, “Jack?”  

“Yes?” he said instantly, chin lifting off your head and you felt his attention come down on you, whole and immediate, like he was summoned.

“Are you gonna get the coffee?” you asked. 

“Huh?”

“With her,” you said. “You know –”

Your words cut off as you shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid all over again. Saying it made it real again, and now you’d brought the topic to the couch. It happened on the bed, and you’d carried it to the kitchen, and now it was on this lovely couch. You were going to taint it all with it.

“You should probably go. To catch up.” You lifted your head up to meet his eyes, forcing your voice even. “I don’t mind.” It felt like it’d come out with steel; you almost winced at your own words. 

Jack blinked at you, then his head tilted, and the softest, most confused grunt left him. 

“Baby,” he started gently, amused, almost, reaching for the joke in it at first. His knuckles came up to brush against your cheek for one second. “I’m not going anywhere near that coffee – you’d have me chipped like a dog by Tuesday.” 

It was a gift, you could see his words wrapped and extended – him invoking your domestic insanity, holding it up like the reason the sky was blue – and all you had to do was accept it. The morning would become the, in all senses of the word, usual.

You would’ve preened at the portrait of you, and now you heard it from the morning’s new ears – he’s got an ex who speaks Italian and you think it’s fun to threaten him with 24 hour surveillance. 

“I wouldn’t, though,” you said quickly.

When his knuckles paused on your cheek, questioningly, you continued, “You should go. I won’t be mad at you.” Your lips pressed together for one second. “I promise.” 

Jack’s hands went to your hips and his jaw shifted from side to side, as he looked away from your face for a second. “Yeah. Okay. I’m not grabbing coffee with another woman.” 

“She came all the way. You guys are old –”

“Stop,” he interrupted with a laugh – disbelieving and no humor in it – as his head reeled back.

“Stop it – I don’t want this.” His hands flexed on your hips, then came up to wave in the general direction, then fell back down. He looked at you really, really upset, or baffled, or both. “Who cares how far she came? People fly places. I don’t want to have coffee with anyone.”

You shrugged, letting your head drop into his chest again. “If that’s what you want. You don’t have to do it because of me.” 

“I am absolutely doing it because of you.” His arm came around you, bringing you back close to him. “I’m not going ‘cause my girlfriend exists. That’s a whole reason. It’s a great one. So don’t talk me out of it.” He pressed his lips to the top of your skull. “Not your reason to give away. And you can get me chipped, if you like.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you even say to that? You felt him nod over you at the silence, felt some hesitance creep into his body, as he pulled you in. 

“Actually,” he said after a moment. “Let’s put a pin in the plan.” One hand lifted off you and made some small motion, you couldn’t see it but you felt the absence where it had been, before it came back. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Next week. River’s not goin’ anywhere.” His arm resettled around you, snugger than before. “Today we’ll stay in.” 

“Jack –”

“Blanket, couch, girl.” He counted your day off your spine, three soft taps of his fingers. When you made a sound of protest, his said into your hair, quieter, “I’ve got all I need. I’m not feeling the outside today. That okay?”

“No, it’s not – let’s go. I’m just tired right now. I’ll be up later.” 

You felt him breathe, then, the gust of air pooling into your hair.

“Then come to bed,” he tried weakly, and he sounded so broken you wanted to cry. You could hear him knocking at the door of you. “Sleep. Let’s sleep together, if you’re tired.”

“Not sleepy-tired,” you said, and heard how little it made sense even as it came out of you.

Then, you pushed yourself up off him, palms to his chest, trying to keep the motion casual. “I think I just need to wake up properly. Move around a little.” You stood, angling your face away, blinking fast as you looked at the dark TV screen. “I’m gonna get in the shower, if that’s okay?”

When you tried to look over your shoulder, he’d straightened up, palms falling down to his sides on the couch as he looked up at you. 

“Course it’s okay,” he said, hands following up then to settle for your hand, thumb passing over your knuckles. He gave your fingers the gentlest tug and pulled his head back, catching your eyes for a second before you could look away again, and the look on his face was so, so soft. “Do you want breakfast?” 

You nodded quickly. “Yeah – thanks.” 

He made a small sound, then pressed his lips to your knuckles, then let your fingers go one at a time. You made it four steps down the hallway with his gaze heavy on your back, and you couldn’t stand it.

There was a great, large, incessant bug in you that couldn’t stand Jack back there with his worried face and scared smile. So you half-turned over your shoulder, your eyes down at the baseboard, and called out, “Love you, Jack.” 

You’d told Jack you loved him at full speed, into his mouth mid-argument, into the phone before you’d even said hello, at grocery stores, at funerals, at red lights, six times a day minimum. It was the surest sentence you owned. This time, it went out like a paper boat, pushed onto the water with two fingers, and watched all the way across. 

“Love you, too,” he called back warmly, after what felt like a hundred years.

Jack had once spent a very, very long time to get you to believe that even if you held onto something good loosely, it won’t run away. He’d had to get you to believe that even if your grip on him loosened, even just for a second, even for a month, he would still be right there. Why was he feeling the need to hold you so tightly now? 

He set your plate at your spot, and his at his. He poured the coffee, saw the first coffee you’d abandoned on the counter, full and stone cold, and stood there looking for a second longer than the mug deserved.

He’d put on his prosthesis after plating the food, a part of him too large and hopeful – instead of its usual, content, un-worried hum – expecting you to come out of your shower wanting to do something, the diner, the river, after all, trying to change his mind.

He’d hoped you’d come out wanting to be carried somewhere on his back. He wanted to be ready, he always was now. He kept himself pre-approved for whatever you thought of next.

The inside of your head was a busy little harbor, boats coming in at all hours, and he’d been granted a standing spot on the dock. You’d let him become the first to hear about octopus, cats, furniture, which part of your body felt cold, warm, or lukewarm. A year of receiving your pretty cargo and he’d never once been bored. 

He, decades your senior, had seen the world be made interesting again by you just narrating it at him. He had the sneaking suspicion he’d follow your voice wherever it went, into traffic, a dock, into old age, and the shower.

The water kept running. He wasn’t the kind of man that’d track your showers, but years of working in emergency and emergency-adjacent situations had honed up his internal clock eerily well, smoothened out his pattern recognition.

He had to tamp down the urge to deploy it, to use this innate, terrible, awful instinct in his brain on you – you, who he felt more than monitored, who he’d only ever read with love, no grains of salt, no instruments. 

You were the girl who rearranged things in his cabinets by feeling and left in it a system he still couldn’t crack and refused to fix. Opening a drawer looking for a spatula and finding your hair ribbons had become one of the small startling joys of his one life.

He’d been a clinician for so long, and you’d built with him a corner of the world where he was just a man, holding a girl, and being completely in love with her.

Jack, bring me the towel even though it’s right there. Jack, come look at this bruise. Did I not wash out the conditioner out properly? Jack – Jack, Jack, come and just sit with me while I shower.

His knee bounced under the table, and he stopped it. 

Your eggs had gone cold, glossy, and began settling into themselves. The toast had lost its heat, and the jam sat unopened with its little lid on – the grape, the good one – and the jam was a small purple fact that he could not find himself liking to sit across from. You’d have opened it by now and started walking the length of the place, spoon in your mouth, talking. 

A year of you had taught him what mornings looked like when they were going right. He knew this one had gone wrong so quietly and terribly, that he’d been able to hold you the entire time it was happening. 

It was the bitter feeling of the surge he’d had in his chest this morning at the thought of your instincts.

He’d read a woman’s name off his screen and come home with it like it was a match to your pretty fire. He’d carried it into bed with you, and all Jack knew was that at this morning, his girl had been in his arms so sweetly, and minutes later, her fingers were hesitant to press into his skin. The only thing that happened in between was his own mouth, having fun. 

Jack wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he was walking to the bedroom now, to the ensuite bathroom. A year ago, this hallway had been a hallway. Now, it was a museum of you mid-motion, and he moved through it with his heart going at a pace he hadn’t earned sitting down, past the bed still holding the shape of the forgery you’d left him in, a pillow. He had to look away from it like the sun. 

He told himself that the bathroom door being closed was normal. Steam, privacy, nothing; all of it were real things. 

“Hey,” he said to the door lightly, knuckles going in two soft taps. It was the same knock he used with the you in the bath going pruny as he was happily serving you wine. “You fall asleep in there? S’been a minute.”

He tried to force his lips into something close to a smile even though there was a door between you right now.

Perhaps it was because Jack – even now, even morbidly confused – knew you, and knew that the door would be locked before he confirmed it with his shaky fingers. 

( You, who talked to him through the glass of the shower, sat cross-legged on the counter while he shaved – you missed a spot, no, the other spot, how do you have a medical license, genius – and stole his coffee between critiques and made him laugh hard enough he’d nicked his jaw and you’d gasped like the injured party, then kissed it before pronouncing him stable.

You, who had once flung the shower door open mid-rinse to tell him that you’d figured out what you both were in a past life. He never got to hear the answer. You’d seen him standing at the sink in his towel and lost the thread altogether, and the past lives were never mentioned again, and Jack had walked around for the next twenty-four hours unreasonably pleased about being distracting at his age to you. 

A door had, simply, never existed in your relationship. )

The key was right there. He’d put it there himself, two summers before he’d ever met you, the day the door had swung shut at its own draft and locked an empty bathroom. He’d forgotten it existed, but his hand went up and found it first try, blind, and came down holding this tiny cold thing. 

His fingers were unsteady fitting it in, which was new. He’d threaded needles into people in moving vehicles. Now, in his home, his fingers trembled over a privacy lock like a first year, because on the other side of the door was the whole of his one life, in falling water, hiding from him – him – and every second the key took was a second you sat in there believing you had to do so. 

“I’m coming in,” he said to the door, softer than an announcement this large should’ve been, like some part of him was afraid of the wrong reaction at your response to it. “Just me. I’m coming in, okay?” 

His chest caved – folded in on itself, turned over – because there you were, on the floor of the shower, curled up under the pour of the water, your knees to your chest and your arms wrapped around them, your face hidden down against them. His girl – the loud one, the strongest person he’d ever let himself love – made small and quiet and hidden on the floor of the shower. He had seen you in this place a thousand times and never once, not ever, like this.

“Oh – baby. No, hey –”

Your head snapped up at his voice, and just that sharp little movement of you made him tilt back slightly. Your face – wet and swollen, eyes red at the rims, gone raw and young and caught in a way he’d never seen it – did something terrible when it saw him in the doorway. It crumpled then hardened, both at once, a door slamming behind glass, and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your eyes like you could take back the last thirty seconds if you were quick enough about it.

“No,” you said quickly, the word cracking out of you with a sharp edge under the thickness. Your hand came up between you, a flat little barricade under the steam. “No – get out, Jack – I told you I’ll be – please, get out –” 

You didn’t push him. This wasn’t a thing that happened. You pulled – you reeled him in by the shirt, you climbed into his lap, you fought tooth and nail for every inch of distance he’d tried to keep, whose entire love was a set of hands hauling him closer, closer, closer.

He had spent all this time being pulled by you, gladly, helplessly, and he did not have – had never needed – a single instinct for being pushed. 

“Hey – hey, no – don’t –” His hand came out to the glass, pushing slightly. “It’s just me. It’s me. Look –”

“I don’t want it to be you right now,” you said, and the words were so awful and completely jagged.

You turned to face away, like you were trying to push yourself out of his sight entirely. “Please. Please, just go and get out. I don’t want you here – please, Jack.” 

“No, don’t ask me that,” Jack said immediately, voice breaking clean in half as his eyes went glassy and desperate. “It’s me – you don’t hide from me – we’re not that –”

“Please,” you said, voice barely audible over the running of the water, and his nose burnt as he caught sight of you shaking. “Please, just give me a minute – a minute. I’m – I’m asking you to leave.” 

Jack’s hand hung empty in the air as he looked down at you, heart in actual pieces on the tile, and he understood – quietly – that the only thing you were begging him for was the single thing he’d have rather died than do, to turn around and leave you crying. 

So – because you’d asked, because pushing past a plea like that would only carve you open worse, because loving you had never once meant taking what he wanted when it wasn’t what you needed – he made himself.

“Okay,” he said, voice coming out in ruins. “Okay, baby. Okay. I’m going – I’ll go.” He reached up and took your towel off your rail and set it closer to the shower. “I’m right outside. I’m not far – I’ll be right there and you come get me the second you want me, you hear? The second.”

You stayed silent, so Jack, clumsy with grief in a way his body never was, made himself turn his back on you. At the door, he paused, eyes pinching shut to make himself not look over his shoulder. Instead, he said, “I love you.”

He pulled the door behind him, left it breathing half ajar with the steam sighing out through the gap, and pulled himself to sit at the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom. Like you were going to run from him, like some part of him needed both feet under him and the door in his eyeline needed to be ready. For what? He couldn’t have said. To catch you, he supposed. To get you the second you’d let him. To not be caught sitting down when you finally opened the door and needed him standing. 

He sat there with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands pressed together against his mouth and waited, and it was the longest ten minutes of his recent life.

Every second of it was stretched unbearably, because he was learning there is this particular hell in loving someone past all sense and being made to sit on the other side while they hurt. He didn’t know what to do with this feeling, had never had to think it was a possibility between the two of you.

When the door opened, Jack was on his feet before he’d decided to be. There you were, towel-wrapped, hair dripping onto your shoulders, face swollen and turned just slightly away, eyes on the floorboards. You crossed your arms over your chest, gripping the towel closed.

“Hey,” he said, breathing through it, his voice half-ruined, shaking. He caught it and hauled it down a register by force, into the very low, sure place his voice lived when everything depended on it.

He made himself stay planted – made himself open his arms instead of using them, wide, a whole doorway of him – while every muscle strained against its leash, because his body had exactly one theory about you crying and the theory was to go, and he stood on that theory with all his weight. 

“Come here,” he said instead, begging with a steady voice, a whole vacuum sealed into two words. 

Your eyes climbed as high as his chest and gave up there, arms tightening. You shook your head dimly, water flicking. He nodded to himself, made himself stay standing, without letting an ounce on his face where you’d have to carry it. 

“One step. That’s all I’m asking.” His arms turned palm-up at the ends of his open arms, still, though nothing behind his ribs was. “You don’t have to talk. Or explain anything. Not tonight, or ever. I’ll die curious – but I’m standing here figuring out I don’t work right until I know how you feel in my arms and I haven’t known for hours and I am asking you –” His voice strained, and the words came out bare, “ – Please, I am asking you to come let me hold you.” 

You let out a small sound, eyes pinching shut, and he watched a whole war happen on your face. Jack thought, uselessly, hopelessly, that he’d have stood there through a winter or as the building came down, holding a door ajar in himself for as long as doors took.

You crossed, though. Your body came to him hard, all at once, like you were dropped from a height, and Jack caught you with one arm crushed around your towel-wrapped back. The other flew to your wet hair, his palm rounding the whole back of your skull, pressing you into his heart, gathering you in and in and in, past where space existed, trying to find one more setting past where proximity itself existed. He let out a sound that was – dangerously – close to sob into your hair, finding himself completely undone for the first time in a very, very long time. 

“There you are,” he murmured, rocking you slightly as his mouth pressed to the top of your dripping hair. “I’ve got you. Got you now.”

You shook against him, and Jack winced at the feeling of it, gently reeling both of you down onto the edge of the mattress, then back, then over, until he had you sideways across his lap, your knees folded over his thigh, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms locked around you like a cage. The towel gave up at under your shoulder, so he pulled the corner of the blanket up over the bare curve of it – wrapping you precious – and then his arm closed the last of the circuit and locked. 

For a while, he simply let his hand move up and down your spine while you cried into his throat, and every shudder that went through you went straight through him, too. He pressed his lips to your temple and left them there and rode it out with you, breathing slow on purpose, loud enough for you to borrow the rhythm off of his nose, an old medic’s trick he was running on the only patient he’d loved past all sense. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, with your tears running down his throat and pooling at his collarbone,

Jack thought, helplessly, that even this was somehow yours and somehow beautiful; you cried like you did everything, with your whole body, holding nothing residual, generous, so generous, even in grief. You’d never given him a partial anything, and Jack tightened his arms around the full, shaking entirety of you and thanked the universe, genuinely, that when you’d finally fallen apart, you’d walked the few steps and done it on him. 

When your crying wore itself down, Jack made himself stay silent. The questions, fully formed, seventy versions of them and redrafted since the kitchen, he swallowed, because he had a feeling he had pushed enough for one simple morning. He’d pushed this morning smiling. He held you and let the question live in him like a swallowed stone and, apparently, he was less subtle about it than he thought.

Your voice came up out of his neck, waterlogged and small, as you said, “I know you want to ask.” Your fingers moved faintly against his chest, a fidget with no strength in it. “It’s okay. You can.” 

Jack had to close his eyes at your first full sentence being a door held open for him; you’d crawled out of your own wreckage to check on the driver. 

“I do,” he said into your hair, honestly. “But I’m not gonna spend your turn. So here’s mine first.” 

He felt you go still against him – attention gathering, a tiny tilt of your head at his collarbone – and he breathed in heavy, big enough to lift you where you lay, to pay up. 

“I got really scared today,” he said, voice going into a whisper as he leaned down to talk to you. “I woke up to you not in my arms and my whole chest felt – wrong. I do this for a living, I’ve got all the words. It wasn’t – wasn’t sick. It felt wrong, you not being somewhere you’re supposed to be. First time in – forever, if I’m being honest.” He tapped you skin twice, to hold himself. 

“And when I found you, I couldn’t reach you. And now – seeing you –” He felt you stiffen up at that, and he nodded in understanding, skipping over. “I’m thinking of getting rid of all our doors.” His hand kept moving down your spine, and he faced your head then. “Bathroom’s the priority. Bedroom might be load-bearing, but. Front door stays. Everything else is beaded curtains by Friday.” 

You made a small sound against his neck, and Jack had to stop himself from crushing you into the tightest hug at the bridge of a laugh. He pressed his mouth to your temple for a few seconds instead. “Another thing while I’ve got the floor. Telling me to go get coffee with an ex – don’t do that again. I’m not gambling with you. I’ve only got one of you. So, I’m never going to coffee with anyone else again.” 

“You’re allowed to cry,” he said, setting the joke aside. “I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t do it with me knowing about it. That’s mine, and I’m gonna find it and fix it if it takes me the rest of my life.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you protested, sounding wounded. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “That’s mine. That’s what I felt today. You don’t have to give me yours.” 

His arms adjusted, and some helpless, incurable corner of him – the one that had flirted with you through every disaster you’d ever handed each other – added, “But, if you wanted to trade, I can make it worth your while.” 

You laughed at that again, and the two of you stayed silent again for sometime. Your fingers crawled up his chest, up over his collarbone, curling loosely around his neck, your palm settling in like you needed contact to speak. 

“You went to Italy,” you said. 

Jack’s brain did one, full lap around the words, and came back with nothing. He did the only thing he could when you handed him a coin he couldn’t read, which was holding it up to the light and keeping his voice soft and not dropping it. 

“I did,” he said, carefully. “Long, long time ago, baby.”

“Was it nice?” you asked, the words coming out so small. In the same breath, like a small dam breaking, you added, “Do you miss it?”

Jack never had to look for a trap in your words, not like this.

There was none now, either. You’d asked about Italy like you asked him about bad days, ready to receive whatever came back, your thumb doing a nervous sweep against his neck like you were comforting him in advance. You’d found the one grief in the world with his fingerprints on it and your first instinct was to ask if he wanted it back. 

For an ugly second, he thought he could have lied. No, it was overrated, beds were weird, bad food. You’d have heard it, and Jack thought that it would’ve taught you that you couldn’t survive the truth. 

“It was nice,” he said quietly, hands moving up and down your spine. “I was young. Younger, anyway. Whole trip was –” He exhaled, shaking his head as he tried to hunt for the honest size of it. “It was a trip, baby. It was nice.” 

He pressed his lips to your hairline. “I don’t miss it. There’s nothing in there to miss. Like –” He clicked his teeth, searching for the words. “Driving past a house I used to live in. Half the time, can’t even remember which window was yours. You just keep going, ‘cause everything you own’s at the new place now.” His fingers tightened on you. “Think if I’d known what this was, back then, I’d have kept missing this, there.” 

Your breath shifted against his throat, and you nuzzled your face into his neck.

“What’s got you worried?” he murmured. He closed his eyes, letting his head lean to rest against yours, palms moving from your waist to your nape, then down. “I can get us to Europe by Thursday, just say the word. I’ve got PTO and miles I’ve been sitting on for years. I think they were for this.” 

“I don’t wanna go to Italy,” you said, smiling against his neck. “I think this is something I have to get through myself. It’s not anything you’ve done to me.”

Jack felt that familiar twist in his chest. It’d come to him for the first time today, and it kept coming up and up and up, and he couldn’t help but want to claw at his own mouth for his selfish, cruel little game, for every grinning careless word he’d dropped on you like they weighed nothing. And now you felt that you had to deal with it yourself, like it was yours to carry alone, off in a corner, someplace he couldn’t get to. Because he had done this. 

You were, simply, acting like the two of you weren’t the two of you; you had spent a whole year proving to him that ‘by yourself’ was a thing that, now, never existed. 

He drew you back, fingers threading through the back of your hair, trying to physically take you back from wherever – whatever – this by yourself was. He put your face in the light, wet-lashed, trying so hard to keep it together, and his thumb swept the damp while his own face did whatever it was doing, open and scared and thoroughly past the point of keeping it in check. 

“You don’t have a ‘yourself’ anymore, sweetheart. I don’t have that anymore. You woke me up at three in the morning to tell me how you fell off the monkey bars in third grade – remember? You didn’t think twice about it.” His forehead came down, brushing your nose with his. “And now you’re gonna sit here and tell me this – the saddest thing that’s crossed that pretty head all year – this one you’re keeping alone?” 

“Jack–”

“What is going on in that head of yours?” he interrupted, words soft but pointed, suddenly having given up all pretense of coaxing and gone straight to needling.

He watched you open your mouth as you took in a breath, and maybe it was the closeness or the way his thumb kept moving along your jaw, but you said, “I don’t know if I’m the real one.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, feeling heat build up behind his eyes as he looked at you with a pained, confused expression.

“I don’t know if I’m the one you do it for real with, Jack, or if I’m just – the young one. The one you get before – or after – I don’t even know how it works.”

Your hands came up between you, aggravated at yourself, at him, at the lack of vocabulary. 

“You’ve done so much. You’ve got countries. Experiences. So many of them. And I’ve got –” Your shrug came out tiny. “– you. You’re my biggest everything. You’re my Italy and I feel like I’ve been with you for three years and my – you’re all of it, Jack. I’m terrified I’m just the person that came after your big thing.” 

You blinked, and Jack’s fingers reached up to catch the little tear falling over your lashes, his own eyes blinking furiously. Jack wanted, so badly, to reach to you and press your kiss to your mouth to stop this, to to kiss this whole wilted garden you’d created in your head out of you.

He shook his head. “I hope I’m not your – her,” he said, a wince in the words, finding it difficult to even get them out. “Or your Italy.”

“You are –” you said, with so much conviction, chin coming up, ready to fight him for the honor of it, “you are – that’s what I’m telling you –” 

“I’m your Jack.” His hands tightened on your face, voice coming out slightly cracked. “I’d forgotten about this woman until this came up. I don’t want you to forget me. I’m your Jack and I’m the luckiest man for it everyday. So you pick a better word soon, and don’t take that title away from me.” He shook his head. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

You bristled slightly, your eyes shining into his as they went wide, the whole of you locking up at the words. He tapped his palm gently against your cheek once, then again, frowning as he thought he really ought to tell you this more, for a girl who kept a running tally of everything else.

You’d created a museum out of things he’d said, and somehow this one, the biggest one – the luckiest man of it – he’d been rationing. He’d been handing it over in the glances and over eggs, assuming it was arriving, that a girl who read him so fluently was taking what he’d said to you over and over again, so simply because it was just a fact. 

Never again. He’d tell you daily now, remind you of it while making you look him in the eyes. 

“I tried to make you jealous,” you said, the words coming out through a sad, shameful laugh. Something in his chest broke hearing you confess it like it was a crime. “I’ve got nothing, Jack. You won’t care about Sam, or Dave, or – I don’t even remember one’s name. That’s all. You had a doctor you went to Italy with.” 

His eyes fluttered for a second, the muscle in his jaw clenching as his fingers ran over your cheek. The nature of it all was too backwards. Jack had made a very sad sort of peace with himself – he’d known what he was – and somehow, at the end of all that, at the bottom of the ninth of his whole entire life, you’d walked into it glowing like something confiscated from heaven. You’d looked at the full of him, and decided you wanted him. You, dished out to him probably because of some fate-giver who’d been asleep at the desk, who had let the single best thing walk out to him.

If a single one of those guys had stayed awake one more hour, asked one more question, been at the right angle to see who was sitting across them, you’d be – Jack grimly, awfully thought – somewhere else right now. And Jack never would have known; he wouldn’t have known to miss you. You’d have been long gone and loved properly, early, by someone with the sense to do it. 

Jack would have worked his nights and run the bay, choosing every day to enter a new crisis, and never known the whole time that the best thing that would ever happen to him had happened to somebody else instead, on time, the way it properly should have. It was their loss, and he was going to make his entire life out of it. 

His arms moved before the thought even finished, hauling you in impossibly closer, resettling the whole, true warm weight of you against him. “Stay right here,” he murmured.

You did. Your lashes stuck wet in little points and your fingers resettled on his neck. You were wearing his shirt, drowning in it. Jack had been the steadiest set of hands in many rooms, he knew it without vanity. But nothing in his skill set covered you; steady hands didn’t win a girl who lit up rooms; being good in a crisis didn’t earn a woman who made every ordinary Tuesday feel like a celebration. He’d spent so long getting excellent at the exact things nobody falls in love with – triage, containment, blood – and you’d walked into his life and fallen for him anyway, for reasons he couldn’t successfully point to, and he’d stopped asking why out of superstition. You, he was not in the mood to reasonably place; Jack knew when a person was handed one, that they should keep showing up for a miracle, quietly hoping it stayed. 

Jack, falling apart at every seam of him, eyes hot and jaw aching, huffed. It was one, soft breath of a laugh, and your eyes snapped up to his, betrayed, and he shook his head fast, thumb pressing to your cheek to stay with him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, shaking his head softly, thumbs framing your face to tilt it up. “I promise. I’m laughing ‘cause you’ve got no idea what I’d give to have your problem.” 

You blinked at him, mouth curved into a frown. That one, he was sure, was aimed at him. His hands were shaking slightly against your jaw.

“I mean that I am very, very glad that you’ve got no Italy to wave at me. You think I want you to have another big grown love in your pocket? Some guy you crossed the country with?” His hands tightened on your face, eyes shining. “It would ruin me. I’d never sleep again. And I’m sorry for waving mine at you this morning, because I didn’t think it’d make you not sleep.” 

He held your eyes through it, taking his medicine looking at you. “I said it ‘cause I love you jealous. It makes me feel nice to know you care about me.” His lips curved into a sad smile. “I didn’t think what it’d do when I brought this up. I will be very, very sorry about that for a long time.”

When you smiled softly, eyes hooded as you looked down at his mouth, he nodded to himself.

“And I had a nice trip with a woman a hundred years ago, and it ended, and I have zero photos of it. That’s a thing that happened to me. You are not a thing that happened to me. You are what it was all for. All the years, the whole time, all the wrong turns. That was just me taking the long way to find you. You are my biggest thing – biggest one that’s ever happened to me – and I want you to know some pretty life-changing things have happened to me.” 

You stared at him, mouth open, tears going uncaught now, because Jack had gone completely still, needing you to see all his years on his face at once. 

He huffed, mind flicking through this haze of memories. He could reach back and find the years, the apartment, and it all came as nothing. He’d loved women, had meant it completely, with everything he’d had on hand, and he may not have been wrong. And now he can carry the tender knowledge that a person can feel absolutely certain there is everything to be felt and be off by a whole magnitude; he’d stood inside his biggest feeling and called it the biggest and had simply, innocently, not met you. 

“And since you told me yours,” he said, quieter, eyes going down because he found he couldn’t quite hold your gaze for this.

“I know what it feels like to think you’ve found what good love is, and then to find out how it is to love someone bigger. That the thing you could’ve sworn was everything was just – nothing, in the grand scheme.” 

He turned his face to the side as he held your face, suddenly finding the enormity of this simplicity pressing at the back of his eyes. Everything – he was sure of it – had just been the longest drive over to you.

“But you got this first. You’ve got nothing to check it against.” His thumb swept your cheekbone, and his eyes came back to you. 

“I know how big this is because I’ve got my whole life to look at it against. And you just have to take my word for it.”

He tugged his lip between his teeth, searching your eyes with question, checking whether the words were pushing through, whether they had the gap to push through. Your face was tilting toward him, listening with every feature at once; he could see the whole war playing out on your face you had never once been able to conceal from him. You had no poker face, at least to him, you didn’t.

“This is the one,” he said, nodding just barely. “There was never a morning I woke up and had to think about anything before you. You are the reason I know what you think is the big thing is small.” 

Your breath stuttered, and your chin trembled once before you caught it from gritting your teeth inside your mouth. 

“And sometimes –” He nodded, more to himself, as he forced himself to continue. “– I have felt a similar thing. I see you, and I wonder if you’ll think about some guy your own age, out there somewhere. Standard legs. Normal hours.” He shrugged. “No years of the stuff I’ve carried. And I think, someday, you’ll look over at me and think you settled for the –”

“That’s crazy,” you interrupted, the words shooting out of you instantly. Your fingers flew up to grip both his wrists. “That’s crazy, Jack – I don’t want – I would never. There’s no guy, I don’t want standard legs. I want your legs – leg – fuck, Jack.” Your voice broke off as you let out a small, pained groan. “I would pick you over any person who has ever lived.” 

“Yeah, see,” he murmured, a small smile coming up as he let the weight of your words land on him. “Can you see how it sounds crazy when it’s coming at you?”

He brushed his nose against yours at your stunned silence. “I feel the exact same way about what you said. It’s crazy.”

He had to blink over and over as he settled on the weight of your words, said so simply and furiously with no build up. The biggest sentences of his life just slipped out of you, unwrapped, and you had not the first clue what they weighed. Any person who had ever lived. God, you’d waved off the whole crowded history of the species in one breath to pick a tired man in Pittsburgh.  

“Let’s go,” he murmured, wrapping you up and pulling both of you back against the cushions, resettling you on his chest. Your ear was at his heart. The blanket was up to your shoulder. “We’re gonna lie here a while now. I think we both need it.” 

“It was a weird morning.” 

“Mhm.” His hand went to your spine. “Top five weirdest.”

And he should have let it be, but there was still something sitting in him. 

Jack pressed his lips together as he once again said, “I am sorry for this morning. I was –” He breathed in through his nose, fingers coming up to your head, tapping it twice to get you to look up at him. You did, chin pressing into his chest and your eyes tired yet focused. “Immature.” 

Your lips twisted slightly, then you tugged them with your teeth once and looked away, like you were trying not to agree. 

“I was,” he said, easily, agreeing for you. His thumb traced your hairline. “Good thing for me, I happen to be with a girl who likes getting her revenge. Even when I don’t think I did anything.” 

“You do –”

“I do. I do. You’re not wrong,” he said, the opposite of a complaint in it. “You know how to settle a score. And this morning I racked up a real big one. And you’ve just been sitting on it, being gracious.” His nose wrinkled, his fingers going to cradle the side of your face. “You keep that up, you’ll start minding your business and I’ll be living with a stranger.”

At your small, hesitant smile, Jack continued, “I know you don’t like the paintjob of my truck.” You nodded at that, honest as ever. “What I’m thinking is, you key it.”

Your eyes widened.

“Go nuts on the thing. Do some drawings. Write nice words. I drive it around after, everyone sees it. And when we’re good and done with that show and tell,” he continued, fingers threading into your hair, “we take it in. You pick a new color. Any color. Change the seats if you want, too.”

“People will think –”

“People will think a woman loves me enough to key my truck. Do we have a deal?”

But midnight ideas involving a ladder, a light bulb, and an unexpected vision hadn't proven to be a good combination. You'd been on the third rung, reaching overhead, when the familiar sensation hit. Your body had locked, your vision hazing as your mind left your apartment, and by the time the vision released you, your foot had slipped, and you'd fallen hard onto the ground. You'd blinked back to a shattered bulb beneath your palm and a sharp flare of pain where your head had clipped the coffee table. This was, unfortunately, an injury too severe for you to fix yourself. 

Now it's three a.m., and you're holding a soaked dish towel to your bleeding hand as you try to avoid eye contact with the spectres drifting past. It takes another twenty minutes of staring insistently at the ground before your name is called and you're led into a room. 

You sit on the crinkly paper, tapping your fingers against your pants as the door shuts again. Another five minutes pass before the door opens again, but you don't mind. At least, it's quiet in here—no ghosts following you. 

"Hi. Sorry for the wait." A man in black scrubs steps inside, smiling at you kindly. "I'm Dr. Henderson." He's got one foot on the rolling chair, about to sit down when the door opens again. 

"Crus." An older man interrupts, one hand on the door as he holds it open. He nods out towards the hallway, greying curls falling slightly forward at the motion. "Head to Trauma 1. You can assist with a lumbar puncture." He turns to you with a charming smile. "I'll take over here."

Heat rushes to your cheeks when his intense gaze lands on you, and you quickly avert your eyes. Instead, you watch as Dr. Henderson's face lights up. He sends you an apologetic smile, clapping the other man's shoulder on his way out. 

"Sorry about that." The door shuts behind him as he finally steps fully inside and draws the curtain. "I'm Dr. Abbot." He picks up the tablet left behind and scans your chart quickly. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he drops down onto the chair. 

"So," he says, eyeing the towel around your hand and the dried blood on your temple. "How bad did the other guy look?"

You blink. "What?"

Dr. Abbot gently tips your head toward the light to inspect the cut. His gloved fingers are surprisingly warm against your skin. "Whoever hit you got a decent shot in. Still, it's nothing we can't patch up."

"I didn't fight anyone."

"No?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he turns his attention to your hand, carefully peeling the towel away. His gaze flicks down to your heart-patterned pyjama pants. "I don't know. You look like you could be hiding a professional boxing career."

Heat creeps into your cheeks as you realise he's teasing you. "Oh. Ha."

His grin widens, and you find yourself watching the way his eyes crinkle. "So, what happened?"

"...I fell off a ladder."

His eyes flick up to yours. "Strange hour to be climbing ladders." He shifts your hand back and forth, testing your grip.

You shrug. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," he says. "That, I get." He rolls the chair back to gather supplies once he determines it isn't a severe cut. "There's a bit of glass stuck inside, so I'm gonna give you a shot for the pain, pick out the pieces, stitch you up and then send you on your merry way. Sound good?"

You nod, glancing down at your hand, expecting your stomach to roll, but feeling strangely detached from it. You guess you've seen worse in visions before. A surprising positive, you suppose.

He pulls off his gloves, throwing them into the trash behind him. As he leans forward to grab a new sterile pair, the chair suddenly rolls forward beneath him. The wheels squeak as it turns to face you, and Dr. Abbot's hands shoot out instinctively, landing briefly against the plush of your thighs to steady himself.

You both freeze. His eyes flick down to your thighs, then back up.

"Sorry," he says, pulling away immediately.

"No, that's—" You swallow. "That's okay."

Dr. Abbot rubs the back of his neck before turning back to the task at hand. The room suddenly feels too warm. Something metallic flashes beneath the fluorescent lights, drawing your attention to his wedding ring. He's married. Of course. A man like that doesn't go through life without attracting someone. You look away before you can wonder why that thought bothers you.

You focus on the ceiling tile above him instead. A faint crackling sound brushes against your ears before disappearing. Your attention snaps to the corner, but no one is there. The sound comes back, like an old radio searching for a station. Your skin prickles, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise in warning.

You're not alone, but no one appears. No one speaks. It's just that crackling sound, continuing for another minute before it disappears again.

Dr. Abbot reaches for your hand again, oblivious to it. He administers the shot as you try to look around the room without him noticing.

"So, what were you doing on the ladder?" he says, breaking the awkward silence. He moves to clean your forehead as he waits for the lidocaine to set in.

You huff a laugh. "Putting in a new light bulb. I've been putting it off for weeks. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn't have waited that long." Your chin lifts, a sense of pride filling you when his lips twitch. You get the feeling that he isn't that easy to get a reaction out of. 

"Not handy, I gather?" he says as he finishes placing the butterfly stitch on your forehead.

You glance down at your hand. "What gave it away?"

He huffs a laugh.

The saline feels odd, but not unpleasant, and you barely notice as he plucks out the glass pieces. The silence that settles over the room is comfortable, and for a moment you believe the ghost has left you alone. Maybe it has finally decided you're not worth bothering. But as Dr. Abbot dresses your wound and turns to write follow-up instructions on a notepad, the crackling starts again. Then, his pen flies off the desk.

"Oops," he says, not sounding particularly surprised. He ignores it and turns back to you. "The stitches are self-dissolving, but come back if there's any swelling or irritation." He hands you the note, his mouth curving into another teasing smile. "And no more fights, at least until you're healed."

"No promises." You grin. "Thank you."

He gives you a small nod. "You're welcome."

You slip off the bed, clutching the note in your good hand. At the door, you glance back without really meaning to. He's still looking at you. For a second, neither of you says anything, then you leave. There's a slight pull, almost as if something is trying to keep you in the room, but you push forward without placing much thought on it. Whatever ghost is trying to communicate can find you tomorrow.

The bookstore Cordelia's is located next to the park and has been yours for almost three years. It's small, but you've managed to make the most of the space. Tall shelves line almost every wall, some of them old enough that you constantly worry they'll fall apart at the slightest touch. There's a little reading nook tucked beneath the front window, two mismatched armchairs beside a low table, and a counter near the register that has been scratched and dented by years of use. The bell above the door has a slightly different ring depending on how hard someone pushes it, and the floorboards creak in places you've long learned to avoid. 

It's comfortable. Warm. The kind of place where people come in intending to browse for ten minutes and somehow end up staying an hour. 

Ethan is similar in that way. He never dreamed of working in a bookstore, and somehow, he's gone from a part-time worker to being here more than you are. He's always liked books—even has a minor in English literature—but he'd always imagined himself doing something more. Maybe teaching or being a famous author—something that involved people knowing his name. Definitely not standing behind a counter for eight hours a day arguing with customers about whether a particular first edition was worth what the internet claimed it was. And yet, he loves it. 

He hadn't at first, but that was before his roommate started haunting him.

Ethan had been drawn to the store, and you'd found him overwhelmed in the back row, head in his hands. Somehow, without even meaning to, he had divulged it all to you, and you hadn't been even a little bit unnerved by the strange things he'd told you. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't suggested he was imagining things. Instead, you'd asked him what his roommate's name was, and then you'd revealed your abilities. 

You were able to see and speak to ghosts.

Ethan had laughed at first—right up until his bathroom mirror had smashed in his face and the pieces spelt out his name on the ground. After that, he was a true believer. And with his roommate crossed over, Ethan put his plans on hold to follow you. He'd offered to work in your store, which was closed more often than not with you out dealing with your ghostly companions. He'd expected it to be temporary. It wasn't.

The bookstore came with its own companions. Lydia and Delia, the couple who had owned the store before you, who had apparently decided that death was no reason to leave. It had taken Ethan a while to get used to them. It had taken them even longer to get used to him. Now he can't imagine the place without them. Even if he does wish they'd stop throwing the books they dislike at him.

Still, it's nice to have some company, even if he can't see them. Especially since he never knows exactly when you'll be in or for how long. He knows it's one of those days where you disappear for hours when you enter the shop with two coffee cups and an already apologetic smile.

His attention immediately catches on the stitches on your forehead and the white dressing covering your hand. "What happened to you?"

You shrug casually. "Ladder. Light bulb. Ghost. It was an accident." 

Ethan's brows pinch together. He reaches out, fingers catching lightly beneath your jaw in an attempt to get a better look at the cut, but you duck away before he can inspect it properly and push one of the coffees into his hand instead.

"I think I figured out who it is. Is it okay if I—?" You tilt your head towards the door.

Ethan worries his lower lip for a second. It's not the first time he's seen you hurt by a ghost, but he still doesn't like it. He knows better than most how casually you treat your injuries. If it weren't for him reminding you, you'd forget to eat during cases. "Be careful. This ghost doesn't seem too happy with you."

"This was just bad timing." You brush it off. 

He stares at you. You stare back. Eventually, you sigh. "...Fine. I'll be careful."

"Good." He nods. "Call me if there's anything."

You hum, already halfway across the store again. "Sure. Thanks!" The door slams shut behind you.

Ethan sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He knows you can take care of yourself. It's just that the two of you have very different ideas of what that means.

He steps behind the counter again and slumps down onto the chair. A few boxes are waiting to be unpacked and placed on shelves, but they can wait until he's finished with this cup. He's got at least another hour until the first customers filter in, so he leans back and grabs his notepad. His novel won't write itself. He stares at the blank page, then writes two words. Deletes them. Takes a sip. Writes another sentence. Deletes that too. He sighs. Maybe he should've stuck with teaching.

The bell rings again, barely a minute later. 

"Forget something?" he calls out, still staring at his paper while chewing on the end of his pen.

"I don't think so."

The male voice makes him look up.

Ethan shoots to his feet, notepad clattering to the ground. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else." He bends to pick it up, cheeks burning with embarrassment, before his flustered gaze meets the eyes of an older man.

Scrubs. Tired-looking. Handsome. 

The man looks around the store, almost confused, as though he's not entirely sure why he's here. Seeing that, Ethan's customer-service persona finally clicks into place. "Looking for anything special?"

The man hesitates, frowns, then shakes his head.

 "Okay. Well, we've got a bit of everything." Ethan gestures to the aisles. "Give me a shout if you need anything." He logs onto the computer to give the man some space to explore, but keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.

The man wanders slowly between the shelves, fingertips occasionally brushing over the spines. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. Eventually, he stops at one of the displays and picks up a book. "How long have you had this store? Don't think I've seen it before." 

"Oh, I'm not the owner; she's out at the moment—" The light flickers above him, and he looks at it with a frown. It's not like Lydia or Delia to interrupt when there's a customer. "It's been here for about three years now."

The man nods, puts the book down, then takes a step toward one of the aisles. A book flies off the shelf next to him.

Ethan freezes. The man doesn't. His shoulders rise, tensing, but not in a way that suggests surprise. It's more like resignation. Another book flies from the shelf on the opposite side. Then another. It lands directly in front of him.

Ethan's certain now. There's a ghost attached to this man. But it's the man's reaction that unsettles him most. He barely reacts. No startled jump. No nervous laugh. No frantic glance around the room. He simply looks down at the books, bends down, picks them up and puts them back.

Ethan watches him carefully. He's seen people react to ghosts before. He knows the usual responses. Fear. Confusion. Denial. This man looks like someone who's seen this before. Before Ethan can say anything, the stranger nods at him and hurries out of the store. 

Ethan stares after him, waiting for something else to happen, but the store is quiet again. "If you're still here, I can't see you, but my friend can," he calls softly. He looks toward the aisle. "She'll be back later."

He waits for an answer, but nothing happens. No books fly out. No lights flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. Even after years of seeing you interact with ghosts, he can't help his instinctual fear when he's alone. At least when you're around, he has an idea of what the ghost wants. On his own, he's completely clueless about their intentions.

He looks toward the door again. Who was that guy? 

Ethan wanders over, fishing out the books that had been pushed half-hazardously back between the others. His fingers brush the spines, reading the titles, then he crouches to retrieve the last one. The theme is clear, but the one that landed closest to the man says it best.

The Art of Dating.

Ethan stares at it. "Well," he mutters, putting it back on the shelf. "That's subtle."

It's close to midday when you enter the store again, but instead of this morning's excitement, there's a dull headache throbbing behind your eyes. It sits stubbornly at your temples, refusing to ease no matter how much you rub them. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep that's finally catching up with you, the hit your head took last night, or the disappointment of your visit, but either way, you feel drained.

"Hey, how'd it go?" Ethan calls from somewhere between the shelves. He emerges a moment later, a book tucked beneath one arm, and takes one look at your face. "Bad, huh?"

You don't bother pretending otherwise. "Yeah..." You sink onto the plush chair behind the counter, letting your head fall back against it with a sigh. "I'm gonna try again tonight. Maybe I'll get a read of something."

Ethan hums, leaning his elbows against the counter. He studies you for a moment, his expression telling you he's considering arguing before apparently deciding against it. "I'll come with you."

You close your eyes and shake your head. "You don't have to."

He shrugs, completely unconcerned with your refusal. "It's good research for my book."

Your eyes open again. "Oh! How's that going? When can I read something?"

"I'm nowhere close to that," he groans, his head dropping dramatically. "I've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours now."

You blow a raspberry at him. The sound earns you a look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Lunch then?" you suggest, sitting up slightly. "We could try that new place down the street?"

He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. "Yes, I'll go get it. Some fresh air might get rid of my writer's block."

You lean back again, closing your eyes once more as he heads toward the door. You hear him rummaging around for his wallet, then the soft jingle of the bell as he pulls the door open. "Oh," he calls out, the door halfway open. "Some man came in earlier with a ghost attached to him. I told it you'd be back later."

"Did you get a name?"

"No, he ran out before I could ask. He was in scrubs, though, so maybe a doctor or nurse?" He shrugs, then shuts the door behind him, leaving the store quiet again.

Scrubs?

You frown. For a second, your mind supplies the image of Dr. Abbot before you can stop it. The kind man from last night. His warm fingers against your skin as he'd examined your forehead. The crooked smile when he'd teased you about fighting someone. The flash of his wedding ring beneath the fluorescent lights.

You shake the thought away. The hospital is across the park, and you've never seen him here before. The chance of him coming into the bookstore afterwards is low. It was probably just an odd coincidence.

You let your head fall back against the chair again.

"He was real handsome, too," a warm voice croons from your right.

You don't even open your eyes. "You say that every time a man walks in here."

"I do not," Lydia protests. You crack an eye open, finding her beside one of the shelves, arms folded across her chest, looking deeply offended by the accusation. She turns her head to Delia. "Do I?"

"...You do," Delia says, wincing when Lydia turns to glare at her. "But"—she points a finger at you—"this time she is right."

You roll your eyes before closing them again. "Mm," you hum. "I'm not looking for anything." You settle deeper into the chair. "You know that."

There's a pause before Delia clears her throat gently. "Honey, maybe it's time to—"

"No," you cut her off, opening your eyes just enough to look at her. "But thanks."

You close your eyes again before she can start arguing, effectively ending the conversation. The two ghosts sigh in unison. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Lydia moves, followed by Delia's faint scent of roses. Then a rush of cool air brushes across your skin, signifying that they're gone.

You let out a slow breath as the bookstore settles around you again. You know they're trying to help. You know they have the best intentions. But Lydia and Delia have been together for decades, including the years after death. They've managed to find the kind of love that survived everything—life, death, and apparently even the refusal to cross over. 

You're happy for them. You really are. But sometimes, when they talk about love like it's something inevitable, something that simply arrives and stays, you can't help wondering if you're the exception.

Because you've already been given this gift. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe you're simply meant to spend your life helping other people find their way to the other side while you stay back. The thought shouldn't still bother you. You've told yourself that often enough that it shouldn't, and yet, when you do think about it a little too seriously, it aches and pulsates somewhere deep down. 

So, you try not to. And with the embers of your last relationship still burning after its fiery end, it's becoming easier to believe. Your ex, John, had made it clear how he thought you were crazy for believing in things nobody else could see. You'd loved him. That had been the worst part. You'd finally trusted him enough to open up, and that was his response. For a long time afterwards, you'd wondered whether he had been right about everything. Maybe you were too strange. Too difficult. Too much. 

You stare at the ceiling through half-lowered lashes. You don't doubt it anymore. It's easier that way. Easier to believe you're not meant for love than to risk it all again. 

You don't think you can handle it. 

Considering that you've been involved in ghost activities since you were a little girl, you should know by now that nothing is ever a coincidence when ghosts are involved. You'd seen it, following your mother around, fingers clutching her skirt as she got roped into ghostly schemes, openly parading her abilities—right up until your father had her committed when her visions took over.

You learned then and there that what she had considered a gift was best left hidden. That it wasn't everybody who understood. That, at times, it was more a burden than a gift. 

Despite having all that experience, you don't think much of it the first time you see Dr. Abbot again. You see him in the supermarket, his hand reaching for a bunch of bananas as you turn into the fruit aisle. Your eyes meet across a display of apples, and for half a second, both of you stare at each other, until recognition flickers across his face. You send him a brief, polite smile before ducking into the nearest aisle and pretending to become intensely interested in a selection of tinned tomatoes. You stay there until you're reasonably certain he's gone.

The second time could be coincidence. The third is harder to explain. By the time you see him in the park, you've stopped counting.

It's late evening, the last rays of the sunset shining across the park and through the store windows. You'd sent Ethan home earlier, telling him you'd deal with the odd technological error that had somehow deleted all your online orders and the ones you'd placed for new books. Once that is sorted, you close the shop, a little later than usual, and head home.

But rather than taking the fast way, you turn right at the park entrance, choosing the scenic—and considerably longer—route. An unexplainable feeling guides you, but you're too tired to examine it. 

You walk past friends sprawling across picnic blankets with half-finished drinks between them, couples walking hand in hand along the paths, and children chasing one another through the grass while their parents call after them. Then you hear laughter. Your attention drifts toward a group of scrub-clad people gathered beneath one of the trees, several cans of beer scattered between them. You take another step, let your gaze fall forward, and then the sight of a familiar face registers.

Your eyes snap back.

Dr. Abbot's already looking at you. His lips twitch when he sees your surprised expression, and he lifts his beer in greeting. Your mouth lifts in an unwitting smile before you can stop it, and you give him a small nod in return. A few of the people around him follow his gaze, curious eyes turning toward you. You immediately look away and hurry down the path before any of them can catch your gaze properly. You try to ignore the heat that's flaming under your skin. 

It's a coincidence, you repeat to yourself. Just a coincidence.

That assumption promptly gets thrown out when he shows up at the store. Now you're certain that something is going on. 

It's just you this time, with Ethan having been given the day off after you'd closed your last case. The death had been accidental—a slip and fall down a flight of stairs—but things had remained dramatic until the very end. Things had been thrown before your ghost was ready to listen, and the family was ready to talk. You'd been caught in the crossfire, leaving bruises scattered across your arms and a particularly ugly one blooming near your elbow.

Still, books needed to be placed on shelves and with Ethan out, you were forced to make your aching arms comply. You bend to pick up another box, already mentally calculating how many more trips you'll need to make before you can finally sit down. Maybe you should order a take-out for lunch to celebrate? 

"Do you need help?" A gruff, familiar voice says from behind you.

You huff, half amused, half annoyed. You're used to ghosts appearing without warning and asking for help at the worst possible moments, so you don't bother turning around immediately. "And how would you do that?"

Warm fingers brush against yours as he takes the box from you. "I may be older than you, but I'm not decrepit."

You gasp, your eyes snapping up to meet Dr. Abbot's warm, teasing hazel gaze. For a second, you're too surprised to say anything. "I'm so sorry, I thought you—" You shake your head and gesture toward the cart. "Never mind. You can just put that there. Thank you."

Your gaze follows the box as he sets it down, lingering despite yourself on the way his arms barely strain beneath the weight of the heavy books you'd struggled to lift just moments earlier. Without a word, he picks up the remaining boxes and sets them down beside the first.

You stare at him. He glances at you. "What?"

You smile awkwardly. "Nothing."

When he turns back, his eyes fall down the length of your arms. They narrow slightly.

You snatch the cardigan you'd abandoned on the counter when you'd gotten hot earlier and tug it on, trying to make the gesture look casual. "So, what can I help you with?"

He frowns, but decides to leave it alone as his gaze turns to the aisles. "One of our med students just landed a residency, and I offered to get the gift for her."

"And you have no idea what to get her?" you ask.

"Yeah." He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You step out from behind the counter, your arm brushing against his. The contact is brief, barely anything; still, heat sparks through the fabric. You ignore it. "Do you know what she likes?"

"Uh... She's big on social media and very into astrology." 

"Ah." You nod, moving with certainty to the cart. You grab a box cutter, slice through the tape, and fish out a book from the box. "Get her this. It's been sold out for months, and I just got it back in stock." 

You hold out a book with astrological signs circling the cover. He takes it, turning it over once in his hands. "You're lucky you came in now. I was gonna update our socials after I'd finished shelving the books. They'd probably be gone in a few hours."

He hums as he follows you back to the counter, scanning his card without glancing at the price. "Guess my intuition proved me right."

Your fingers pause against the wrapping paper, glancing up at him. "Intuition?"

"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck again. "I don't really believe in it, but I was here a few weeks ago, and I just had this feeling that I would find what I was looking for here."

Your fingers still for the briefest second before finishing the bow. When you look up at him, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I see." You put the book into a bag and hand it over to him, forcing a smile onto your face. "Guess you were right."

He nods. For a moment, neither of you moves. He hesitates, swallowing down whatever he was about to say before settling on a soft, "See you around?"

You nod, smiling. "I'll be here." 

He smiles back, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave before turning toward the door. The bell gives its familiar little chime as the door swings shut behind him. The grin on your face falls the second you can no longer see him through the windows.

He's the scrub-clad man Ethan told you about, and after all these encounters, you're forced to admit that his ghost has proved more persistent than you thought. You're just not sure what it wants.

"Handsome, right?" Lydia grins as she appears beside you.

You roll your eyes and move to roll the cart toward the shelves.

"Oh, ignore me all you want, sweetheart. You have a tell."

"I do not." You turn to glare at her.

Her smile widens as she shrugs. "If you say so." She disappears before you can argue.

A second later, Delia appears in her place, softer around the edges. She winks at you before following Lydia's path through the shelves.

Ghosts.

It's early morning when you settle onto your usual bench in the park, thermocup warming your hands as the last rays of the sunrise fade over the horizon. The air still carries the faint chill of the night, drops of dew clinging to the blades of grass. 

You take a slow sip and lean back against the bench. It's been a nice couple of days—ghost-free and able to fully focus on the store without somebody dead demanding your attention.

A blur materialises out of the corner of your eye. It was too good to be true, you suppose. 

You sigh lightly, then turn to face it. "Hi."

A woman blinks at you. Water drips steadily from her clothes, darkening the fabric around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and she looks incredibly confused. "Where am I?"

"What's your name?" you ask her instead.

"I—I'm—" She spins around, sending droplets of water in every direction. You cover yourself instinctively, even though none of it can actually touch you. "What's going on?"

"Hey, it's okay. I can help you."

She frowns. Her mouth pulls into a tight line, but just as her shoulders begin to loosen, a figure steps straight through her. She disappears immediately.

You bite back a groan. You were just about to reach her.

"Sorry..." A low voice pulls your attention away. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but... are you okay?"

You glance up to find Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, one hand half-raised like he wasn't sure whether he should approach. Of course.

You look toward the empty space where the woman had been. "Sorry. Just a second." You hold up a finger to him and turn your head slightly, pretending to listen to something only you can hear. "I gotta go. Yeah... Bye."

You turn back to him and pull out your headphones, feigning confusion. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

He studies you for a second longer than feels comfortable. His eyes move briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "Nothing. Sorry."

You smile awkwardly at him, thanking your past self for the foresight. 

Dr. Abbot leans slightly to his left, an expression of pain flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you gesture to the space beside you. "Do you wanna sit?"

He hesitates, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench before lowering himself onto it, leaving a polite gap between you. Silence falls for a second before he speaks. "My resident loved the book."

Your face brightens. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," he says, his mouth curling slightly. "I'm apparently her favourite attending now." He nods in your direction. "All thanks to you." 

"You're welcome!" You grin. "Next time you need a recommendation, you know where to find me." You take another sip of your coffee. "Is she the reason our page is popping off?"

He hums. "She did say something about posting it on her TikTok..."

You smile at the unsure grimace on his face. Clearly, he's not an avid user of the platform. "Give her my thanks, then. The store's been buzzing the last few days. The coffee corner's been packed since."

"Oh, you have coffee now?"

"Yeah! New addition. Ethan thought it would be good."

"Coffee's any good?"

You shrug. "Depends who's asking."

His mouth curls. "I am."

"Then I'll say yes."

He huffs a laugh.

Silence falls between you again, but this time it's more comfortable. You find yourself noticing that with him, silence doesn't seem to demand anything. You don't have to fill it, and neither does he. He just sits beside you, looking out across the park.

You lift the crinkly paper bag beside you and take out a croissant. You break it in two and hold out one half to him. He looks from the pastry to your face, as though checking whether you're serious.

You nod. "Take it."

The corner of his mouth lifts before he accepts it. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does. The reminder sends a quiet swoop through your stomach, though you're unsure why. 

You take a sip. "Feel free to bring your wife with you," you add. "We get lots of couples coming in."

"Oh..." His expression changes almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his hand. His thumb brushes over the edge of his wedding ring. "She passed away a few years ago."

The words are simple. There isn't a dramatic pause afterwards, no visible struggle to say them. Just a quiet fact placed between you. It explains the weird feeling you've gotten each time you've seen his ring—you must've picked up on it subconsciously.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "Don't be."

You glance at him.

He looks down at the croissant in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "I was lucky to have her."

You smile softly. It's clear from his voice just how much he loved her. "She must've been special."

His own smile appears, small but genuine. It's still wider than any you've seen from him so far. "She was."

You've seen enough death to know there's no right thing to say afterwards. Sometimes people want sympathy. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they just want someone to acknowledge that it happened and then let them breathe. So you don't try to fix it. You just sit beside him.

After a moment, Dr. Abbot takes another bite of his croissant and changes the subject. "So, was it always in your plans to own a bookstore?"

You breathe out. "No, I actually stumbled on it a few years ago." 

You don't tell him about Lydia and Delia making life hell for the new owners, or how their refusal to move on had eventually led to the place being sold to you for barely a dime. Instead, you tell him, "I've always loved books. So, it just felt right to share that love with others."

He hums, smiling slightly. "That makes sense."

"What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"

"Couldn't afford college, so I joined the army. Lost my leg." He pats his right leg, but doesn't make more of it. So you don't either. "Then after that, I entered emergency medicine. And that was that."

You glance at him. "That was that?"

He shrugs. "Seemed like a reasonable way to spend the rest of my life."

You snort. "Most people would say they wanted to help people."

"Well, I try to keep the inspirational speeches to a minimum." 

You laugh. The conversation drifts again. It's strangely easy. You talk some more about the bookstore. He tells you about some of the residents who have passed through the ER, right until a yawn interrupts his words. 

You fight back a smile. "I'd better get going," you say, standing and brushing pastry flakes from your jeans. "The store's not going to open itself." Well... it might. But the last time Lydia and Delia tried, it hadn't ended particularly well.

Dr. Abbot's eyes flick briefly to the fading bruises on your forearms before meeting yours again.  He opens his mouth, hesitates, then simply says, "Take care of yourself."

You smile. "I usually do."

"Thanks again for the book recommendation."

"Anytime," you say, smiling at him. You give him a small wave before turning towards the path. 

The tension in Jack's shoulders eases the second he steps into Cordelia's and is met by the familiar smell of paper, ink and coffee. The bell chimes softly above him as he swipes his wet feet at the mat. 

"Oh no, poor you." You emerge from the back, taking in how the rain clings to his hair. 

He waves his hand. "It's not that bad. Just a light—" A loud boom of thunder interrupts him, followed by rain pelting hard against the windows, "—drizzle. Huh." He leans slightly to his left, trying to place more weight on his good leg, but even that one is hurting today. 

He can feel your gaze on him, so he turns back to you with a charming little smile in place, trying his best to avoid letting you know how bad it is. 

"Go sit." You nod towards the armchair, an air of resolution over you as you head for the coffee machine. Somehow, you see right through him every time. 

Jack doesn't have the energy to argue. He settles into the armchair, propping his leg on the ottoman that appeared after his second long visit. He's not sure when it became tradition for him to show up after shift. It just did.

You're not even open yet, so most mornings you sit with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. It's nice. You've become an unlikely friend, someone who he looks forward to seeing after shift. It certainly beats going home to an empty apartment. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia's had become part of his routine.

"Here." You reach over, bringing him his cup. He lets his hands warm against the porcelain before taking a long sip. 

"You've done it again," he breathes out. "You really are magic."

You shake your head. "I thought we agreed not to call me that."

"You agreed. I didn't." He shrugs. "You always find the best books and, somehow, make this coffee taste good. Magic."

"Uh-huh." You roll your eyes, heading back towards the counter with your own mug. Jack rests his head against the chair, letting the quiet rustle of the bookstore and the sound of rain wash away the beeps and shouting voices still ringing in his ears.

His eyes follow you as you lift a box up onto the counter. "What'd you got there?"

You grin widely. "One of our customers left us a few boxes of vintage books." You slice cleanly through the tape. "I mean, look at this." You pull out a gorgeous green-covered book, holding it carefully in both hands, your entire face lighting up.

Jack can't help the little smile that tugs at his lips. You're cute when you're excited. He looks away before you can catch him staring, spinning his ring around. He's not sure where that thought came from.

"It's beautiful," you say, running your thumb carefully along the spine. "Look at the binding."

The bell rings again as Ethan drags himself in through the door, shaking his umbrella and leaving it at the entrance. He waves to Jack before immediately slumping down behind the counter with a yawn.

"You look like a wet rat," you tell him.

"Oh, thank you." Jack hears the offended tone in Ethan's voice as he stands up, shaking his wet sleeve at you. 

"Hey!" 

Jack chuckles quietly to himself as the two of you begin bickering.

"What's all this?" Ethan asks, finally noticing the box. A low whistle escapes him. "This might be worth a pretty penny."

Jack watches the two of you fall into your familiar rhythm. You inspect every book before Ethan checks the condition. You argue over whether certain editions should be sold or kept. Ethan reads out the occasional title with a laugh. You keep nudging books toward him for him to look at.

Jack mostly stays quiet. He doesn't mind. That's one of the things he likes about the store. He doesn't have to perform here. He can sit with his coffee and listen to the two of you bicker about books while the morning slowly settles around him.

His gaze drifts back toward you. Your hands are scratched. Again. He notices immediately. Fresh little cuts cross your fingers and knuckles, some still pink around the edges.

At first, he worried someone was hurting you. Ethan had been the obvious possibility, if only because he was the person Jack saw you with most often. But a little careful observation—and a few questions asked in the casual way only a doctor can manage—put that suspicion to rest.

You trust Ethan. Completely. There is nothing between you that suggests otherwise.

So now he's left with another question. What's happening to you? He doesn't like the thought. You've always been a little accident-prone. He knows that much. There was the initial fall from the ladder. The bruises. The scrapes. And now this. He could ask. He should probably ask. But he doesn't. Not yet. You aren't his patient. You aren't even—

He doesn't finish the thought.

Instead, he takes another drink of coffee and watches you laugh at something Ethan says. You're both leaning over the same box, shoulders nearly touching. For some reason, he finds himself smiling again.

Then you pick up another book. It's blue, covered in tiny butterflies. "Oh, this is so pre—"

You stop. Completely. The change is so sudden that Jack sits up. Your fingers remain frozen against the open page. Your eyes stare somewhere beyond the book.

"Magic?" He says it lightly at first, his eyes roaming over your frozen figure. You don't respond.

Ethan notices at exactly the same moment, but unlike Jack, he doesn't move toward you. Ethan moves toward him, stepping directly into his line of sight, and blocking you from view. "You want another cup?"

Jack frowns. "I—" He leans sideways.

Ethan shifts with him. He tries the other way. Ethan follows.

"What are you doing?"

Ethan's face is neutral, but the tightening around his eyes reveals his true position. He doesn't want Jack to see you for some reason. "Offering you coffee."

Jack looks down at his still half-full cup, his frown deepening. He shifts forward, planting his good foot firmly on the floor. Ethan still doesn't move. Jack pushes himself upright, his prosthetic taking an extra second to cooperate. By the time he's standing, Ethan has finally stepped aside.

And it's like nothing happened. You're fine. You're flicking through another book with the same casualness as before. Jack stares. "Hey, you okay?"

A smile immediately settles over your face. "Yeah." It arrives too quickly, too smoothly.

He doesn't believe you. You know he doesn't. For a second, something passes between you. A silent acknowledgement that whatever just happened, you both know it did.

Ethan clears his throat. "So, coffee?"

Jack looks at him, then back at you. "I—no. I should head home."

You frown. "So soon?"

He pauses. 

Your expression changes the second you realise what you've said. "Sorry, go on. You're tired," you add quickly. "You should sleep."

He smiles faintly. "Yeah." He looks at you for another second. "See you tomorrow, Magic."

You roll your eyes, waving him off.

The bell jingles softly behind him. Outside, out of sight from the store windows, he pauses on the pavement. He barely takes notice of the rain, his mind busy running through everything he's seen. Bruises. Scratches. Lethargy. Disassociation. The way you froze just now. His thoughts begin sorting possibilities automatically.

Anemia. Thrombocytopenia. Something autoimmune.

He discards some almost immediately. Others linger. His stomach twists. He knows better than to diagnose someone from a handful of observations. He knows better than to let his mind run ahead of the evidence. But his brain doesn't care. It keeps circling back.

Cancer.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Not again.

You've only seen Jack once this week, a significant enough break in your routine that you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You catch yourself wondering whether he heads straight to bed instead of coming to the store, whether he's been working more shifts, whether he's okay.

You'd made Ethan leave him a note after you'd missed two mornings in a row. Somehow, the two of you have never exchanged numbers, so you don't even know he's seen it. Maybe he hasn't even come by, and you've been worrying for nothing. He's a busy man, after all. 

You hope he doesn't think you're avoiding him. The last time he came by, you could see the questions swimming in his eyes. Questions you had elegantly sidestepped, but the doubt was still in his posture when he left. 

You're just not sure what to tell him. Oh, that? That was just a vision. I get those sometimes—ghosts like to talk to me through them. What? Yeah, I talk to ghosts. It's no big deal.

He'd think you were crazy. 

And you're genuinely busy. The vision from the blue book has led you through one dead end after another, the child ghost attached to it proving considerably harder to cross over than usual. Every time you think you're getting close, something changes. A new location. A new clue. Another fragment of a memory that sends you in the wrong direction.

So the bookstore has been running mostly without you. Ethan has taken care of most of the day-to-day things, with you dropping in whenever you can. Long enough to check the register. Long enough to unpack a few boxes. Long enough to make sure Lydia and Delia haven't started another argument over which section needs reorganising. Then you're gone again.

You push through the bookstore door late in the afternoon, the bell giving its familiar little chime above your head.

Ethan looks up from behind the counter, his eyes trailing over you. "You look awful."

You drop your bag onto the counter. "Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean." He closes the book in front of him and crosses his arms. "You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?"

You shrug, already heading toward the boxes stacked in the back. "I'll sleep after."

"After what?"

You crouch beside one of the boxes and start digging through it. "After."

"There's no after with you." His brows pinch together. "You can't help anyone if you're not taking care of yourself."

You ignore him, pushing aside a stack of paperbacks. "You sound like my dad."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"Still taking it."

You finally find what you're looking for. The blue book. You pull it free and hold it against your chest. You stand again and turn toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? Close the store early if you want."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Your hand closes around the door handle. "I'm sorry for leaving it all to you. I'll make it up to you."

He waves you off. "You know, I don't mind... Jack's been asking for you."

So he has been by. Not directly after shift, because Ethan doesn't open that early. He's taken time out of his day to actually come by, disturbing the little sleep he gets. You stop, the bell above you giving a tiny jingle as the door shifts beneath your hand. "What did you say?"

"That you were busy." He leans back on the counter. "He's worried about you."

You swallow. "Well, tell him I'm fine."

Ethan's eyebrows lift. "That's it?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Maybe ask why he's been asking about you."

You give him a flat look. A faint thump comes from somewhere behind the shelves. Ethan's eyes flick toward the sound, but you keep yours straight ahead. 

"Tell him I'm fine."

"You could tell him yourself, you know."

You pause. For one brief, stupid second, you're tempted. The temptation is sharper than it should be. You could stop by the store one morning, let this ghost wait a little longer, but the wide-eyed, fearful gaze of your ghost reminds you that this is a little more important.

Jack can wait. Besides, it's not like the two of you really are anything to each other. He knows what you like to eat at breakfast, the books you prefer to read, and how your mother died when you were young. You know how he likes his coffee, the way he walks when he's trying to hide how his leg is hurting, and the passing of his wife. He'd even told you how his mother passed just a few years later and how he hadn't coped well with it.

Normal things. Things friends know about each other. Nothing that meant anything. 

You push it down. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Ethan watches the door swing shut and sighs. Delia and Lydia join him from their hiding spot behind the shelves. 

It's yet another early morning when Jack heads toward Cordelia's. He's stopped telling himself he's only going for the coffee by now. At first, it had been an easy excuse. He liked the place, the coffee, the books, and the quiet.

And, admittedly, he liked seeing you. He liked the way you made the silence feel comfortable. He liked that you noticed when his leg hurt even when he tried to hide it. He liked that you never made a big deal out of it.

That last part had been easier to ignore when you were actually there.

Now it's been over a week since he last saw you. Still, every morning after a shift, he finds himself turning down the same street, parking in the same spot, and walking toward the same little bookstore with the faint hope that this will finally be the morning he catches you. His hope grows when he sees the lights are on, which normally doesn't happen this early unless you're in.

Ethan looks up when the bell rings. His smile is polite, almost apologetic. "Morning."

Jack steps farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ethan is fiddling with something in the middle of the store, adjusting one of the little displays.

Jack leans against the counter, watching him for a moment. He doesn't bother pretending he's here for a book. He stopped doing that after the first two times. "...You talk to her?"

Ethan glances over. "Yeah, she came in yesterday."

Jack's shoulders ease slightly. "And how was she?"

"Fine." The answer comes too quickly. Ethan turns back toward the display.

Jack watches him. "Fine?"

"Yeah."

Jack nods slowly. Something about it doesn't sit right. He's seen you. Not properly, but he's caught glimpses. Once through the hospital window when you'd been crossing the street. Another time when he'd been driving past the bookstore and spotted you leaving through the side entrance.

You'd looked different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. He'd wanted to ask if you were okay, but each time he'd tried to get your attention, you'd climbed into your car and driven away before he could reach you. He'd told himself you were busy. Then he'd told himself you were avoiding him. That thought had bothered him more than it should have. Then he'd wracked his mind for a reason but ultimately landed on none.

"Is she sick?"

"What?" Ethan's head turns sharply.

"Is she sick?" Jack repeats. The words sound worse spoken aloud. "I've been seeing her around. She doesn't look well."

Ethan's expression shifts.

Jack's stomach drops. "She is sick."

"...No."

Jack catches the hesitation immediately. "Then what?"

Ethan looks away.

Jack's pulse starts beating harder. "She's been exhausted. She's lost weight."

"She's busy."

"She looks pale."

"She's been busy."

"She keeps leaving before I can talk to her."

Ethan sighs. "Jack—"

Jack watches his face. He's a doctor. He knows what people look like when they're trying not to tell you something. He knows what hesitation means. His mind starts filling in the blanks before he can stop it. Bloodwork. Imaging. Specialists. Treatment. His stomach twists. He pushes away from the counter. "Please."

Ethan finally looks at him.

"I'm a doctor. I can help."

"You can't."

"Please."

Ethan's expression softens.

Jack swallows. "If it's money, I'll take care of it." The words come out before he can think better of them.

Ethan blinks. "Jack—"

"I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "I'll pay for whatever she needs. Tests. Treatment. Whatever."

He doesn't explain why. The memory is already there in his mind. A hospital room. A diagnosis he'd wanted to believe wasn't serious. A woman he loved telling him she was fine when she wasn't. All the little things he'd missed. The things he should have noticed. The things he should have done differently. He'd promised himself he'd never make that mistake again. Not with someone he cared about.

Ethan stares at him, then shakes his head. "...She's not sick."

"Then what?"

Ethan bites his lip. For a moment, Jack thinks he's going to tell him. Instead, Ethan looks down at the display. "That's not for me to say."

Jack's jaw tightens. "Ethan."

"I'm sorry."

"Please."

"I can't."

Jack stares at him. There is something desperate in his own voice now, but he doesn't really care. "You know something."

Ethan doesn't answer.

"You know what's wrong with her."

"I know she's dealing with something."

"Then tell me."

"I can't."

Jack exhales sharply. His hand curls against the edge of the counter. "She doesn't have to know I'm asking."

"Jack."

"She doesn't even have to know I can help."

Ethan shakes his head. "It's not my secret."

Jack looks away. For a moment, the anger drains out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Right. Of course. He can't demand this. You aren't his patient. You're not his responsibility. You're—

He doesn't know what you are to him. He grabs his keys from his pocket. "Okay."

"I'm sorry."

Jack nods once. "Yeah." He turns toward the door. 

"Jack?"

He pauses.

Ethan's voice is gentler now. "She's okay."

Jack looks back.

Ethan gives him a small, reassuring smile. "She'll be okay."

Jack searches his face. He wants to believe him. He wants to believe him more than anything. "Right." He steps outside, the door closing behind him.

He stands on the pavement for a moment, staring at the bookstore window. His chest feels tight. He should go home. Sleep. Forget about it until tomorrow.

He thinks about the first time you'd met. The stupid heart-covered pyjama pants. The cut on your forehead. The way you'd laughed at his terrible jokes. The coffee you'd started making exactly the way he liked it. The bench in the park. The croissant you'd split with him. The way you'd listened when he'd talked about Rachel without making him feel like he was saying too much. The fact that he'd noticed your absence almost immediately when you stopped coming around.

He'd told himself it was because he'd grown used to seeing you. That was all. Just routine. Except now he has to admit how much he misses you.

Jack exhales slowly. Because whatever you're dealing with, you're dealing with it alone. And for reasons he's not ready to examine, Jack really, really doesn't like that.

You feel like you're losing your mind. 

Your ghost won't leave you alone. She's there when you wake, when you eat, when you try to work. Barely a second passes without seeing her somewhere in the corner of your eye, hovering close enough that you can hear the quiet hitch of her breathing. When you try to sleep, she cries because she's scared. When you're at the bookstore, she cries because she's scared of Lydia and Delia. When you tell her to stay away from the shelves, she cries. When you tell her you'll help her, she cries harder.

For your own sake, you need to cross her over. Soon.

But it's not proving easy. She doesn't remember anything. Not where she lived. Not how she died. Not even where her mother is. You know exactly one thing about her. Her name is Poppy. That's it.

You've tracked down the customer who left the blue book behind, hoping there might be some clue in where they'd bought it or who had owned it before them. Nothing. You've searched. You've asked questions. You've followed every lead Poppy has given you. Every single one has ended nowhere. You're completely lost. 

One lead keeps bringing you back to the same place, though. An old house on the edge of town, where you've felt the presence of more spirits than you can count. Not the lost, confused ghosts you're used to. These are different. Angry. Territorial. The kind that makes the air feel heavy before you even cross the property line.

The first time you went near the house, something had whispered your name from inside before you'd even reached the door. You hadn't gone back alone since. You're not sure what Poppy's connection is to these spirits, but she always seems more frightened after you've been near the house. You haven't been able to figure out what they want from her.

So, trying to change your surroundings in the hopes that it might clear something up, you head to the park. You sit on your usual bench, which you haven't done in a long time, with a thermocup warming your hands. For once, there's no one around. No customers. No Ethan. No Lydia or Delia. No Jack. Just you.

And Poppy sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away.

"I miss my mommy," she whispers.

Your eyes close. "I know."

"She'll find me, right?"

You swallow. You don't know. "Try to see if you can remember something."

Poppy looks at you. "I'm trying." Her voice is louder this time.

"I know." You keep your voice gentle, trying to soothe her. "But—"

"You're just trying to get rid of me," she accuses.

"What?"

She stands. "You don't want me here."

"Poppy—"

"You don't want me!"

You lift a hand. "I want to help you."

"You want me gone. Just like they said." 

The words catch somewhere in your mind. They? But Poppy is crying again before you can ask.

"You need to cross over," you say, more firmly now. "This isn't where you're supposed to be."

Her face crumples. "You don't want me," she cries louder. "I want my mommy."

"I am trying to find your mommy."

"I want her!" Her voice rises.

You wince. "Poppy—"

"I want my mommy!"

The sound tears through you. You press your fingers against your temples. "Stop."

She freezes.

You breathe hard. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."

Poppy's lower lip trembles. "You don't want me."

The anger drains out of you immediately. You rub a hand over your face. "Wait. Poppy, I didn't mean it like that."

She's already disappearing.

"Fuck." You stare at the empty patch of grass, your chest rising quickly. You don't notice the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice speaks beside you.

"Hey."

You look up. Jack. He's standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across his face. Of course. Of course he's here now.

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes. "It isn't what it looks like."

Jack's eyebrows lift. "No?" He gestures toward the empty grass. "Then what is it?"

You stare at him. Your heart starts pounding. You can't do this. Not with him. Not after everything. You remember Ethan's words. He's not like John. You swallow. "I—"

This is much harder than when you meet the family members or friends of ghosts. You can show them proof—hand them something that assures them you aren't crazy. You can't do that with Jack. He might have a ghost attached, but his mother hasn't tried to reach out to you in weeks. You haven't seen or spoken to her. You have nothing that will convince him.

Jack doesn't interrupt. He simply sits down beside you, leaving enough space between you that you don't feel trapped.

You fiddle with your fingers. He waits patiently. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe Jack isn't like John. "This is gonna sound crazy."

"Okay."

You glance at him. His expression doesn't change, but he reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours.

With another deep breath, you finally say, "I can see ghosts." The words sound ridiculous the second they're out. You stare at your intertwined hands and wait for him to pull away. He doesn't.

When Jack doesn't say anything, you look over at him. He's watching you. His eyes are kind and curious. Not horrified or pitying like you suspected.

"I've always been able to," you continue quietly. "I help them cross over. Go into the light. Like my mom." You swallow. "Do you believe me?"

Jack nods. "I do."

The relief that moves through you is almost painful. You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. He doesn't ask for proof. Doesn't ask you to demonstrate. Doesn't ask whether you're sure. His thumb brushes over your palm, then he looks at you again.

"Would you be willing to come to the hospital with me?"

The relief stutters in your chest. "Why?"

The warmth in his voice remains, but concern slips into it. "You're thinner than when I met you. You show up with random bruises and scratches."

Your stomach sinks.

"You're tired. You freeze up sometimes, and just now you were talking to the air."

Your other hand curls around the thermocup, holding it tightly. You stare at him, tears welling up.

He squeezes your hand. "I want you to get checked out."

It's like it all processes at once, the air in your chest rushing out of you. "You think I'm crazy."

"No." He shakes his head immediately. "I think you're sick, sweetheart."

The words hit harder than they should. For a second, you're back somewhere else. Not the park. Not Pittsburgh. Years ago. John sitting across from you. A much different expression but that same certainty. You're imagining things. You're crazy. You're just like your mom.

And now Jack—

Jack, who you'd thought was different. Jack, who had listened. Jack, who had made you feel normal. Jack, who has a ghost attached to him and has seen strange things happening around him. Who acts like it isn't unusual—

He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're sick.

You shake your head. "I'm not."

"Honey—"

"I'm not." You stand so quickly your coffee nearly spills.

Jack rises with you.

"I'm not sick."

His brow furrows. "I'm worried about you."

"No." You shake your head. "You're worried because you think there's something wrong with me."

"There could be." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it all worse.

"I don't understand. You should know better than anyone that I'm not crazy. You've experienced things you can't explain—I know it."

Jack goes still.

Your eyes burn. "I know what I'm seeing."

He takes a small step forward. "I believe that you believe you're seeing—"

You flinch and move backwards. "Don't."

Jack's face changes. He realises too late what the words sound like. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm not sick." A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.

Jack's expression twists. "Magic—"

"Don't call me that." You look at him through teary lashes. "I thought you were different."

His face falls.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then you turn away. "I need to go."

"Please." His voice is suddenly unsteady.

You shake your head. "I can't do this. Don't come to the store again."

His expression breaks, and his lips form your name, but nothing comes out.  You turn around. You don't wait for him to say anything else. You walk away, and for once, you don't look back.

You hole up in your apartment after that day. Steer clear of anything that could lead to a ghost finding you. You don't go to the park anymore. Jack doesn't come to the store. Ethan checks in every day, but you keep your replies short and insist you're fine. He eventually decided to stop asking, but you feel his eyes following you in the store constantly.

Poppy also doesn't show herself again. Part of you is relieved, another part of you worries that you've made things worse. You don't have the energy to figure out which feeling is winning.

You're sprawled across the couch sometime after midnight when the crackling starts. The sound grows louder. Your hands fly to your ears. It doesn't help. The static crawls through your skull, sharp and distorted. Your vision blurs at the edges. You squeeze your eyes shut. The crackling rises. Louder. Louder. Then—

It quiets.

You slowly open your eyes. A woman is standing in front of you. She's watching you carefully. You stare back.

"Can you see me?"

You let your hands fall into your lap. "...Yes."

Her eyes widen as her face lights up. "Finally!"

That's not the usual reaction you get from ghosts.

She grins. "You have no idea how long I've been trying."

You blink as the pieces connect. "You're Jack's ghost, aren't you?"

Her smile wavers a bit. "Yes."

His mother looks younger than you expected, with kind eyes and an expression that's almost painfully patient. Frail. It's the lack of hair that surprises you most—her head is entirely bald.

"Is he okay?" The question comes out before you can stop it, even as your stomach twists.

Her smile returns, softer this time. "All things considered, yes."

You look away. "Good."

"He's worried about you." 

You stand immediately, turning toward the kitchen. "I mean no disrespect—I know, he's your son—but I don't really care."

A burst of laughter follows you. You turn around slowly.

The woman is laughing so hard she's doubled over. She wipes beneath one eye. "Oh, no, I'm not his mother."

You frown. "Then who are you?"

She straightens. "I'm his wife." Rachel.

The words move through you strangely, hollow and sharp at the same time. "Oh." You make it three steps. "Wait." You look over your shoulder. "It's been you this entire time?"

Rachel appears next to you in the kitchen. "Yes."

You exhale slowly. "You've been here for a long time, then."

She hears the question behind it. "I can't leave yet." Her expression softens. "Not until he lets his guilt go."

You turn to her fully. "Guilt?"

She sighs. "He blames himself for my death."

You lean against the kitchen counter. "Why?"

"By the time we found the cancer, it was too late. Jack thought he should have seen it as a doctor, but—" She looks down at her hands.

No one could have known. Sometimes life is cruel like that. You know that better than most. Sometimes people die. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes the world simply decides that someone isn't getting another day.

You fill the kettle. "So you want me to help him?"

"Yes..." She hesitates.

You narrow your eyes at her. "What else?"

Rachel gives you an innocent smile. "Well... We thought maybe you could help each other."

You stop filling the kettle. "We?"

"Us ghosts."

You stare at her.

"We talk."

"You talk."

"Yes."

"About me?"

"Sometimes."

Your eyes close. "Wonderful."

"I followed Jack into the park one morning and met Lydia and Delia. They told me about you. We thought you might understand each other."

You stare at her, then the realisation hits you. Your mouth falls open. "What?"

Rachel's expression turns sheepish. "We thought..."

"You thought what?"

She doesn't answer.

"You guys thought you could set us up?"

She has the decency to look embarrassed. "I—well..."

"I can't believe this. This is insane."

"We didn't mean to hurt you."

"You're his wife! Why are you involved in this?"

"His dead wife!" she counters, voice rising slightly. "He deserves more than this. He deserves to be loved. I want that for him. I want him to be with someone who understands him—and you do. You get it. You know what death does to a person. You understand what it means to carry someone with you even after they're gone. And he'll understand you if you just let him. If you give him another chance—"

Your voice is hoarse as you cut her off. "Please, get out."

Rachel looks panicked. "Please, we didn't mean—"

"Get. Out." You tell her, pointing toward the door. "I won't ask again."

She looks at you for a long moment, then she nods. "I'm sorry."

She disappears without another sound. For several seconds, you don't move, not until the kettle pings. You blink back tears, cursing out Delia and Lydia in your mind.

Maybe they'll be able to hear you. You hope so.

Weeks later, the bookstore has been quiet. Not just quiet in the ordinary sense. Quiet in the supernatural sense. No books flying from shelves. No lights flickering. No crackling static in the middle of the day. No Lydia appearing beside you with unsolicited advice. No Delia whispering things you absolutely didn't ask to hear. After your last conversation with Rachel, you'd made your feelings very clear to everyone involved. Apparently, they'd listened. For once.

Ethan is behind the counter when you emerge from the back room. He looks up, then does a double-take. "You look pretty."

You glance down at yourself. You've traded your usual jeans and cardigan for a dress, slipped into a pair of heels, and touched up your makeup. You put in one earring. "Thanks."

Ethan continues staring. "Got a hot date or something?"

"Yeah."

He straightens, the teasing tone disappearing from his voice. "What?"

You laugh. "Yeah."

"Really?"

"Is it that unbelievable?"

"No," he hurries to say. "I just thought..."

You pause. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me."

He sighs. "I thought you were in love with Jack."

Your fingers still around the clasp of your earring. For half a second, you don't say anything, then you scoff. "I was never in love with Jack." 

Ethan raises an eyebrow.

"We were friends." You grab your purse from the counter. "And now we aren't." You check that you've got your phone, wallet, and keys. "End of story." 

There is also some stubborn part of you that wants to prove to Rachel, Lydia and Delia, and every other ghost who'd decided they knew better, wrong. You and Jack don't fit together. Whatever they thought they'd seen between you was wrong. 

"Right, sure." His tone is carefully neutral. "So, where are you going?"

"Uh… that restaurant that serves that pasta dish you like—Angelo's!"

"Damn, I'm jealous." He shakes his head. "Where you'd meet this guy?"

"Hinge."

Ethan makes a face as he fiddles with a piece of paper. "I thought you were over dating."

"Boyfriends," you correct.

"There's a difference?"

"Obviously." You check yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. "A boyfriend gets to know everything."

"Everything?"

You shrug. "About me."

Ethan watches you.

You adjust one of your earrings. "A date doesn't. We can just have fun and let it be that."

"If you say so," he replies.

"You're the one always telling me to get laid."

"I didn't mean this."

You give him a warning look.

He raises both hands. "Fine. Have fun. I'm a phone call away if anything happens."

You send him a small smile and sling your purse over your shoulder. "Got it. You have my location. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow."

Your dating attempts all go down the drain. Every single one. Even if it starts promisingly enough.

The first guy is named Daniel. He's handsome in an unassuming sort of way, with dark curls, a charming smile, and the kind of manners that make you able to imagine going home with him. He holds the restaurant door open for you. He compliments your dress without making it sound like he's expecting anything in return. He even listens when you talk.

You make it through appetisers without incident, then the wine glass beside his hand tips over. It spreads over his shirt, soaking into the fabric. You don't suspect that it was anything but clumsiness until the dessert, and his plate shoots sideways, landing straight in the lap of the woman sitting at the next table.

You don't see anyone, but you know exactly who did it.

You haven't forgotten what happened by the second date, but after forty spectacle-free minutes, you've relaxed. It's pleasant. There's no sparks flying, but you don't need that. You don't want that, actually. The pleasantness comes to an end when his salad bowl jerks sideways, launching dressing straight into his eyes. And that was that.

The third, fourth and fifth go exactly the same. One man receives a drink he didn't order and has it thrown directly into his face. Another finds his phone repeatedly dialling the same number despite the fact that he hasn't touched it. One poor bloke gets locked in the restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes while you stand outside listening to him insist that the door "just won't fucking open."

No one shows themselves, but you feel their presence, that tell-tale feeling of ghosts being near. Delia's perfume drifts past your nose one time. Lydia's laugh echoes another time. You even hear Rachel's voice in between other ones that you don't recognise. It seems like your matchmaking ghosts have made all their friends part of their schemes. You can't even blame your dates for leaving. You'd leave too. 

And the worst part is that, even before the ghosts got involved, none of them had felt right. Daniel was charming. The second was funny. The third had made you laugh so hard you'd snorted wine through your nose. They were all perfectly nice. Perfectly suitable.

None of them is Jack.

You hate that your mind keeps making the comparison. Jack's dry humour. His crooked smiles. The easy silences between you. The way he's never made you feel like you had to perform or explain yourself. With everyone else, you find yourself waiting for something to click. Some spark. Some feeling that tells you this is worth pursuing. It never comes. 

By the time you finally stomp into Cordelia's, you're furious. You slam your purse onto the counter. "Show yourselves." You fold your arms. "I'm not in the mood for this." You glare toward the shelves. "I know you're here."

Slowly, three figures appear across the room. Rachel at least looks apologetic. Lydia doesn't. Delia looks like she's trying very hard not to smile.

You stare at all three of them. "You need to stop."

Lydia opens her mouth. "But dear—"

"No." You hold up a hand. "Nothing else. This stops now."

She looks offended. "We're only trying to—"

"I don't care." Your voice cracks through the room. "You've ruined every date I've been on."

Delia winces as Lydia folds her arms. "They weren't right for you."

"You don't know that!"

"They were boring."

"That doesn't mean you get to throw food at them!"

"We didn't throw food at them," she argues.

You stare at her.

"We threw the plates." Lydia gives you a tiny shrug. "Technicality."

You breathe deeply, eyes flaring. "Are you serious?"

Delia loops Lydia's arm in between hers, holding her back.

"If you do this again, I'm selling this place."

All three look at you. Delia hesitates. "Dear—"

"I mean it."

Rachel takes a hesitant step forward. "We only wanted you to be happy."

"You don't get to choose for me." You look between them. "Are we clear?"

Rachel nods first. Slowly, reluctantly, the other two follow.

"Good." You grab your purse.

You're over dating. Completely. It's not worth it anymore. Unfortunately, that leaves you with a lot of extra time to think. To think about Jack's face when you told him to stay away.

So, you start seeking ghosts out deliberately. Cemeteries. Old houses. Anywhere you hear rumours of someone who hasn't crossed over. It's easier when you're busy. If you're talking to a ghost, you don't have to think about Jack. You don't have to wonder whether he's angry with you. Whether he hates you. Whether he still thinks you're sick. It also means you're spending more time around hospitals than you used to, but you've been careful around PTMC. You tell yourself that's enough distance. 

Until the ghost in the park finds you. He's flickering badly, his form disappearing every few seconds before snapping back into place. He begs you to tell his family he's fine—that they don't have to worry about him. You promise you will.

You reason with yourself that there's no reason that you'd meet Jack. It's daytime. Jack works nights. Even if he's here, he's an attending in the E.R. You're not heading there. Ergo, you're not going to see him.

You really should have known better.

The elevator doors open, and as you step in, you find Jack already inside. His expression changes the second he sees you. Surprise first, then something softer, something that looks painfully close to relief.

"Hi."

Your breath catches at the sight of him. He looks tired. More tired than you remember. You manage a small nod. "Hi." 

You stand beside him, folding your arms and fixing your eyes on the numbers above the door. He glances at you. You can feel it without looking. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.

The ghost stands in the corner beside you, watching the two of you with open curiosity. "Is that Jack?"

Your head nearly snaps to the side. How does this random ghost know Jack? Does the entire ghost community gossip about you? You stare straight ahead. 

The ride takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of Jack standing close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you. Thirty seconds of remembering what it felt like when that same closeness had once been comforting. The doors open. You step out immediately.

Jack's brows rise when he registers the floor. Oncology. His expression changes.

"Wait—" 

You keep walking. You don't turn around.

That was just the first awkward meeting. The next time, you're sitting in the waiting room for bloodwork with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll while a ghost whispers in your ear.

You're tired. You're always tired lately. You haven't slept properly in days, and your body feels like it's made of something heavier than bone. You rub at your temple, trying to ease the dull ache behind your eyes as you listen. A familiar pull makes you look up, and your eyes meet with Jack's.

He's standing across the waiting room. His eyes travel over you. Your face. Your hands. The dark circles beneath your eyes. His expression tightens, concern flashing across his face. As he takes a step toward you, you finally regain control of your limbs. You stand immediately and leave before he can get any closer.

Somehow, he's everywhere you go. 

Hallways he has no business being in. Elevator rides that you were certain would be clear. Waiting rooms you thought would be empty. Once, you even catch sight of him through a glass door just as you're leaving. 

And every time, his expression gets worse. More worried. More confused. He tries to talk to you more than once, but you don't want to listen.

The more you see him, the harder it becomes to keep your walls up. Every time he looks at you like that, some small part of you wants to stop running. Wants to tell him everything. Wants to let him explain. Wants to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe he really would understand if you gave him the chance.

And that's exactly why you start avoiding the hospital again. Because if you keep seeing Jack, eventually you're going to stop running. And you're not sure if you can survive another rejection. 

It's another lonely afternoon again. You're sprawled across the couch in an old sweatshirt, a carton of takeout balanced precariously against your stomach. Some terrible rerun plays on the television, the kind you've seen often enough that you don't really have to pay attention. You take another bite. For once, you're not thinking about ghosts. Or Jack. You're just tired. 

The lights flicker.

You sigh. The television crackles. You slowly lower your fork as the lights flicker again. A cold gust sweeps through the room, lifting the edge of the blanket pooled around your legs.

The air shifts, and Poppy appears in front of the television. Her eyes are wide. "Help me!"

"Poppy?" You stand, moving toward her. You haven't seen her in weeks. Her hair is tangled around her face, her little body flickering so badly that pieces of her seem to disappear before snapping back into place.

She takes a step toward you. "Please."

"What's going on?"

"They're gonna get me." Her voice breaks.

"Who's going to get you?"

Poppy looks toward the front door, seeing something you can't. Pure terror crosses her face. "Hurry. They're so angry."

"Poppy, wait."  

For a second, she's gone. Then she appears beside the front door. 

"Who is going to get you?"

She doesn't answer. She just looks back at you. "Please." She disappears through the door.

You stare after her. "Goddammit." You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, shove your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and snatch your keys from the counter. You barely remember to lock the door behind you.

You hurry down the steps, shivering slightly in the cold autumn weather. Your jacket is too thin, but you don't care; you just need to find her.

You don't know what has changed, but it's enough that she was terrified enough to return to you.

Jack can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It starts small. A nagging sensation in his gut that he can't quite explain. He's spent weeks trying to convince himself that you're fine. Ethan said you were fine. You told him you were fine. He should leave it alone. Instead, by the time he's getting ready for work, the feeling has grown too large to ignore. So he calls Robby and asks him to cover his shift.

He doesn't even know what he's going to do when he gets to the bookstore. He just knows he needs to see you. There's something restless in the back of his mind. Not a thought exactly. More like a pressure, an insistence he can't quite place. It eases as he nears the store. 

When he pulls up outside, Ethan is locking the door with frantic, fumbling motions, panic written across his face.

"Hey," Jack calls as he steps out of the car.

"I don't have time to talk right now." Ethan hurries past him to his car.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing I can explain right now."

"Ethan."

Ethan keeps moving. "I'm serious. I don't have time for this right now."

"Why? What's going on?"

Ethan slams the car door, but Jack opens the passenger door before he can pull away. "Ethan."

Ethan sighs, clearly conflicted. "Just—get in or close the door."

Jack hesitates.

Ethan turns toward him, anger flashing on his face. "Get in the car or stay here. I don't care. I need to go."

A gust of wind rushes past Jack, and he stumbles into the car, more pushed than moving under his own power. For a second, he could swear someone shoved him. 

Ethan hits the accelerator so hard that Jack is thrown back against the seat. "Jesus, Ethan."

"Put your seatbelt on."

Jack buckles himself in. "You could've mentioned that before you launched me."

Ethan doesn't respond. 

"What happened?"

Ethan glances at him out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road. "I don't know."

"Ethan."

His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm not sure you want to know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ethan swallows. "I got a message from Lydia and Delia."

Jack frowns. "Lydia and Delia?" He's heard the name before in the store when you and Ethan have been whispering back and forth, but he's never put a face to them.

"The ghosts in the store."

Jack stares at him.

Ethan keeps his eyes on the road. "They said she's gone somewhere she shouldn't be. They're scared."

"How did they tell you?" Jack forces himself not to dismiss Ethan outright, even as his mind starts searching for a rational explanation.

"They wrote me a message." Ethan sighs. "I told you she wasn't sick."

Jack breathes out. "Ethan."

"No." Ethan cuts him off. "I told you. She told you. I thought you were different." His jaw tightens. "I was wrong, apparently."

Jack's brow furrows.

"She's not sick. I need you to trust me—or her, or whatever you have to trust—when I tell you she was telling the truth."

"I—" Jack starts carefully.

"No." Ethan's grip tightens on the wheel. "I need you to have an open mind, or you need to get out of this car. She's in trouble, and I can't help her if I have to worry about you."

"...Okay." Jack is silent for a moment. His worry for you wins. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere bad."

The sun has set by the time Ethan and Jack pull up to the house. The place looks abandoned from the outside. No lights. No cars. Nothing to suggest anyone is inside. Then a light flickers behind one of the windows.

Ethan's hand is already reaching for the door.

Jack gets out after him. "Ethan, wait—"

But Ethan is already heading for the front door. Jack follows, every instinct he'd learned in the army and SWAT kicking in as he crosses the threshold. He scans the room automatically, checking corners, doorways, anything that could be a threat. Then he sees you, and everything else disappears.

You're standing in the middle of the room with candles surrounding you. Dozens of them. They're arranged in a perfect circle, their flames flickering wildly despite the fact that there isn't a breeze. Your head hangs forward. Your arms are loose at your sides. You don't move.

He breathes your name out quietly.

Ethan takes a step toward you, calling out for you in a louder voice. You don't react.

Jack's pulse hammers against his throat. "What's wrong with her?"

Ethan doesn't answer. He looks just as horrified. Then the air changes, a sudden rush of cold tears through the room. Every candle flame bends toward you. Your body jerks harshly.

Jack takes a step forward, calling out for you again. 

Another shudder runs through you. Your head snaps back. Your feet leave the floor. Jack freezes. For one impossible second, he simply stares.

You're floating.

Not stumbling. Not being lifted by anything he can see. Just—floating. Your hair shifts around your face as though you're underwater. Your eyes open, two black pools staring back at him. 

Jack's heart stops. "What the fuck—"

Ethan lunges forward. Jack follows before he can think. He steps straight through the circle. The instant his foot crosses the line, something slams into him. He staggers. It feels like walking into a wall. "What—"

He pushes forward anyway. The pressure bears down against his chest, trying to force him backwards. He grits his teeth, taking another step. His entire body strains against whatever is holding him there. Finally, he reaches you. His hands close around your waist. You're cold. Far too cold. "I got you."

He pulls. For a moment, nothing happens, then the resistance changes. The pressure eases. Jack feels something tugging at you from the opposite direction, but it's no longer trying to keep you there. It's almost as though something else is helping him. "Come on."

He pulls again, and your body suddenly tears free. Jack stumbles backwards, dragging you with him. The candles go out. All at once. He doesn't stop to wonder; he keeps moving and gets you through the doorway and onto the grass.

He drops to his knees, keeping one hand beneath your head so it doesn't hit the ground. He calls your name, fingers pressing against your pulse point. It's weak.

"Call 911," he orders Ethan, without looking away from you. Ethan is already reaching for his phone, but Jack barely hears him. His entire world has narrowed down to you.

"Come on." Jack brushes your hair away from your face, his hands shaking. He checks your eyes for any reaction, but there's still nothing behind your eyelids but that unnatural darkness. He's never seen anything like it before.

"Don't do this. Come back." He bows his head over you. He thinks about the last time he'd seen you. The way you'd looked at him. The hurt in your eyes. He'd been so sure. So fucking sure. His eyes burn.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've believed you. I should've believed you." A tear drops onto your cheek, followed closely by another. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it." His hand cups the side of your face. "And I still—" He can't finish, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry." He repeats it again, and again. Until the words barely sound like words anymore.

Ethan kneels beside him. "Come on," he murmurs, taking your hand. "Stay with us."

Neither man notices the figures gathering around them. A woman with kind and patient eyes. Two ghosts who have spent years watching over you. A little girl who had been frightened into trusting the wrong people. Ghosts from the hospital. Ghosts you have helped, even if they didn't want to cross over.

They gather in silence. One by one, their hands link, until they form a circle around you. Together, they turn toward you. The darkness inside you pulsates, but the ghosts hold their ground. The air grows colder as the darkness recoils. It fights. The candles inside the house flare back to life one by one.

You arch violently in Jack's arms, and your mouth opens. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as black smoke pours from your mouth. Thick and unnatural, it twists through the air before disappearing into the darkness of the house.

Your body goes limp again.

Jack catches you against his chest. For one terrifying second, there is nothing. You're completely still. Then your chest rises with a shaky, shallow breath.

Jack presses his forehead against yours. "That's it. Come on, baby." His voice is barely audible.

Your eyelids flutter, opening slowly. They're normal again. Your gaze struggles to focus, then finds him. "Jack?"

He nods. "Yeah. I'm here."

Your mouth parts again, but before you can say anything else, your eyes roll back, and your body slackens again.

Jack immediately checks your pulse. He pulls you carefully against his chest when he's certain it's there. "I've got you." He holds you tighter. "I've got you," he whispers again.

Ethan can't remember much of the past day.

The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and clipped voices. The E.R. is worse. People moving around him, asking questions he can't seem to process. Someone taking you away from him. Jack refusing to move until someone physically makes him. Then the ICU. Monitors. Machines. A bed that makes you look impossibly small. It all blends together into one long stretch of panic and fear.

There had been a moment in the ambulance when Ethan was certain they were too late. You'd been so still. So pale. He'd watched the paramedic work on you and thought, you're going to die.

He'd thought he'd failed you. That he'd found you too late. That the last thing you'd ever hear would be him telling you to hold on. He'd never been that scared in his life.

Now he's sitting in the ICU waiting room with a cup of coffee he hasn't touched, staring at the wall. You're still unconscious, but you're alive. That's all that matters. Ethan looks toward your room. Jack is there. Of course he is. The man hasn't left your side once. Not when the doctors explained what they knew. Not when they explained what they didn't know. Not when Ethan finally went downstairs to get something to eat and came back to find Jack sitting exactly where he'd been before.

He's barely spoken. Ethan can see how he's trying to wrap his mind around it—trying to find a medical explanation for what happened. Ethan knows there isn't one. He doesn't know what happened inside that house. He doesn't know what took hold of you. He doesn't know what drove it out of you, but he knows you were dying. And he knows Jack brought you back. Or at least helped.

Ethan and Jack haven't talked about the ghosts. Not really. There hasn't been time. But Ethan isn't angry with him anymore. He'd seen Jack's face when he found you. He'd watched him walk straight into something impossible without hesitation because you were on the other side.

Whatever Jack had believed before, Ethan knows he believes you now. That's enough for him.

Ethan stands and looks into the room. Jack is sitting beside your bed, one hand resting over yours. His head is bowed. He looks exhausted, dried tear tracks still visible on his face.

Ethan knows that look. Maybe Jack doesn't. But Ethan does. Because he's watched the two of you for months. The way Jack always showed up at the bookstore. The way his face changed whenever you walked into a room. The way he'd ask Ethan how you were doing and pretend he was only making conversation. The way he'd worry. The way he'd look at you when he thought no one was watching.

Ethan glances through the glass again, watching as Jack lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.

The room is quiet when you wake. Not silent; there are always noises in a hospital—the steady beep of the monitor beside you, the faint hiss of oxygen, footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door—but quiet enough that you can hear Jack breathing.

He's asleep in the chair beside your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, even in sleep. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched across his face. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

You squeeze his fingers weakly. He doesn't wake.

Your eyes drift shut again. The lights flicker, sending different shapes across the back of your eyelids. When you open your eyes, Poppy stands at the foot of your bed.

She's crying. Not the frightened, angry crying you've grown accustomed to, but a silent, guilty outpour. Her shoulders shake as tears stream down her face. "I'm sorry."

Your heart aches. "Poppy."

She takes a hesitant step toward you. "I'm really sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

"They said if I brought you there, they'd help me find my mom."

You swallow. "They were lying to you."

She nods, tears dripping from her chin. "I'm sorry"

"It's okay."

"Are you mad?"

You shake your head. "No."

"But I hurt you."

"You didn't mean to, sweetie." You reach a hand toward her, even though you know you can't actually touch her. "You were scared. They used that."

"I'm really sorry."

"I know."

Her crying finally quiets, and you give her a tired smile. 

She takes another step closer. "I found my mommy."

Your breath catches. "You did?"

Poppy nods. "The others helped me." A smile slowly appears through her tears. "She's waiting right there." Poppy points toward the corner. "Can you see her?" 

You smile back, only able to see the light warming Poppy's face. "I can't."

"Oh. Maybe you will later?" Poppy looks toward the corner of the room, then back at you. "Can I go now?"

You nod, blinking back tears.

She smiles. And for the first time since you've known her, she doesn't look frightened. She turns toward the light and steps through. 

You breathe deeply, fingers tightening around Jack's. You take a moment before turning your head toward him. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now." 

Jack's eyes open slowly. 

"Hi," you murmur.

"Hi."

"I'm guessing you heard that?"

He nods.

You bite your lip. "Still think I'm sick?"

His face falls slightly. "I'm sorry. I should've—"

"It's okay," you interrupt. "I know it's a lot."

"It isn't," he hurries to say. "I just... I saw you getting thinner. I saw the bruises. You were exhausted all the time, and then I found you talking to someone who wasn't there."

He swallows hard. "And all I could think about was Rachel. I watched her get sick, watched her get weaker and weaker, and kept thinking I should have noticed sooner. I'm a doctor. I should have known something was wrong. So when I saw you doing the same things…" He blinks wetly. "I thought I was watching it happen again. I thought I was losing you."

"I was scared," he says. "But that's not an excuse. I hurt you. I made you feel like I was just another person who thought you were crazy." His voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry."

You have faint memories of what happened that night. Jack coming to get you. His voice breaking as he apologised. Tears on his face. But memories aren't enough. You need to hear it from him. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice. "Completely."

You study his face for a long moment, searching for the doubt you'd spent your whole life learning to recognise. You don't find it.

Jack shifts closer, careful not to disturb any of the wires attached to you. "I don't expect you to forgive me yet." His fingers tighten around yours. "I just want the chance to earn your trust back."

You stare at him for a long moment. "I missed you." The confession slips out before you can stop it.

Jack's face softens. "I missed you, too."

You look down at your joined hands. You aren't ready to say everything is okay. Maybe you won't be for a while. But you don't pull your hand away.

Three days later, after you've been discharged, Jack joins you in the store. You sit on the edge of the armchair opposite him, your hands wrapped tightly around a mug you haven't touched.

For several minutes, neither of you speaks.

You'd thought about this conversation constantly since waking up. You'd imagined telling him everything in a dozen different ways. Some versions were angry, some were tearful, some were calm enough to make you wonder if they were even real. None of them prepared you for actually sitting across from him.

"I don't know where to start."

He shifts in his seat. "You don't have to start anywhere in particular."

You look at him. He's not rushing you, not filling the silence, just waiting. There's a familiar shift in the air as space refits itself around two new forms. Lydia and Delia stand near the shelves, their expressions softer than you've ever seen before. There's an apology in their faces. No excuses, no teasing, no insistence that they know what's best for you.

Just sorry.

You let out a slow breath, then you nod. Delia's eyes fill with tears; Lydia gives you the smallest smile. You watch them disappear again, then turn back to Jack. Somehow, it feels a little easier to speak after that.

So you tell him everything. About your mother and the visions. About your father deciding that what she called a gift was an illness. About the hospital, and how young you were when you learned that some truths were safer kept to yourself. You tell him about the ghosts you've helped, about Lydia and Delia, about Ethan. And eventually, you tell him about John.

That part is harder.

Your voice gets quieter as you explain how you'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth and how he'd used it against you. How he'd looked at you like you were broken. How, for a while afterwards, you started wondering if he was right.

Jack doesn't interrupt. Not once.

When you finally run out of words, the store is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the coffee machine behind you. "That's everything," you whisper.

Jack looks at you for a long moment. "Thank you for telling me."

Your throat tightens. "I was scared you wouldn't believe me."

"I know."

You swallow. "I don't want to hide it anymore."

His expression softens. "You shouldn't have had to in the first place."

Your eyes burn, and you look away before he can see.

Lastly, you tell him about Rachel. His face settles into a quiet understanding as every strange thing that has happened to him finally falls into place. 

The air beside the window changes. You know the feeling before you even turn. Rachel is standing there. She smiles at you.

You glance at Jack. "She's here."

His expression changes immediately. "Rachel?"

You nod.

He sits straighter. "Can she—"

"She can hear you."

Rachel moves closer. For a moment, she simply looks at him. There's so much love in her expression. 

"What does she say?"

You look at her, then back at Jack. "She says you've spent enough time blaming yourself."

His jaw tightens.

You translate as Rachel speaks. "She says none of it was your fault."

Jack looks down. "Tell her..." He stops. "I should have known."

Rachel shakes her head.

"You couldn't have known. You did everything you could."

A tear rolls down Jack's cheek.

Rachel steps closer. "You loved her." You repeat the words softly. "And that was enough."

Jack closes his eyes. His shoulders shake quietly. 

You keep your voice gentle. "She doesn't want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving her."

You look at Rachel. She smiles sadly at him before looking at you.

"You're good for him," she says.

You sigh.

"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I see. And life's too short for this. Be brave."

You bite your lip. "Rachel."

"Let yourself have something good."

Jack looks at you, his eyes wide. "What'd she say?"

You keep this to yourself, breathing out before repeating her next words.

"To tell you that she knows and that it's okay." You don't know exactly what Rachel means, but whatever she said reaches something in him that nothing else has. "She wants you to keep living."

His face crumbles. "Rachel."

She moves closer to him, sitting on the corner of the armchair. "It's okay, Jack." Her hand brushes against his cheek gently. 

Jack's eyes close, his head tilting toward a touch he can't really feel. A long breath leaves him, and for the first time, something in his face seems to loosen. Years of grief don't disappear in an instant, but the fight against it does. "Okay."

Rachel's smile widens, then the light begins to gather around her.

Jack sees the change in your expression. "She's leaving?"

You nod. "She's ready."

He looks toward her. "I'll be okay."

You squeeze his hand. "She knows."

The light grows brighter. Rachel takes one final look at Jack, then at you. She mouths two words, thank you, and disappears.

Jack stares at the empty space for a long moment, then he turns toward you. He looks down at your joined hands. For years, he's carried the weight of losing Rachel like a punishment. Now, for the first time, he lets himself put it down.

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. "Thank you."

You squeeze his hand.

After that, things are slow.

Jack starts coming back to Cordelia's. At first, he asks if you're sure he can stay. You tell him he can. Then he starts bringing coffee, and you start saving him the chair he likes. Some mornings you talk. Some mornings you don't.

You don't call it anything. You don't need to. Little by little, the distance between you disappears.

Weeks later, the bookstore is thriving. Not just surviving but thriving. The shelves are stocked, the front window is decorated for Halloween, and there's a steady stream of customers throughout the day. The little bell above the door seems to ring constantly now.

Ethan is unbearably smug about it. Not just because of the bookstore and his coffee corner idea, but mostly because Jack is once again the store's most frequent customer. 

"Morning," Ethan calls from behind the counter as he spots him.

You look up from the books you're sorting through. Jack stands in the doorway, two coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other. By now, the sight barely surprises you. 

"Morning." His eyes find you immediately.

You smile. "You know, I'm gonna get spoiled enough to expect this every morning."

Jack grins. "Wouldn't hurt anyone."

Ethan makes a noise of disgust. You ignore it and grab your coat. From somewhere behind you, Lydia makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. You shush her.

Jack pauses, then glances toward the empty space beside the shelves. "Someone disapprove?"

Delia appears between the shelves, giving you an enormously delighted smile.

You roll your eyes. "The opposite, actually."

Jack lets out a pleased hum, grinning as he opens the door for you. The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of rain from somewhere nearby. You walk beside him toward the park and finally reach the bench. Jack sits first, stretching his leg out slightly as he settles. You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his. He hands you the bag, and you break the croissant in half and hand him a piece. Silence falls as you watch the people passing through the park. Your shoulder brushes Jack's lightly as you eat.

His hand rests on the bench between you, right next to yours. Your fingers touch. You glance down. Jack does, too. His pinky hooks around yours gently. A second later, his hand shifts, palm turning upward, and you slide yours into it. Neither of you comments on it.

You lean your head against his shoulder after a moment. His cheek rests lightly against your hair. For once, nothing is demanding your attention. No ghost asking for help. No mystery to solve. No fear. Just Jack. His thumb moves slowly over the back of your hand. 

You turn your head when his cheek lifts. He's already looking at you. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"

You smile. "You don't have to ask."

Jack huffs, his expression softening. He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

You don't.

His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. His hand lifts to your cheek as your eyes close. When you pull back, neither of you goes very far. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, after a moment, your lips again. 

For once, you don't wonder whether this is a mistake. You don't wonder what the ghosts think. You don't wonder what comes next. 

You trust him.

He was looking forward to nothing more than driving home, taking a scalding hot shower, and slipping into bed where he hoped you would still be sleeping peacefully, entirely unaware of the chaos he spent his nights wading through.

Keeping your relationship a secret had been your idea originally, though Jack had agreed without much resistance, knowing precisely how protective and intensely possessive your older brother could be.

Robby was a brilliant physician, but he viewed the emergency room, and everyone within it, through a lens of strict, professional compartmentalisation, and he guarded his family with a fierce, almost suffocating tenacity.

Jack knew that if Robby discovered his close friend and colleague was quietly slipping out of his younger sister’s apartment in the early hours of the morning, the fallout would destabilise the delicate balance of the entire department.

So, you had kept it hidden for four months, snatching quiet moments in empty breakrooms, lingering hand-brushes by the elevator banks, and long, warm nights wrapped up together away from the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital.

The sudden, piercing blare of the telemetry alarms and the sharp, urgent rattle of the double doors being thrown open shattered the low hum of the morning shift change. Dana looked up instantly from her desk, her brow furrowing as the paramedics burst through the entrance, pushing a stretcher at a dead sprint.

Jack didn't think much of it at first, traumas rolled through those doors every twenty minutes, until he caught the sheer, pale panic on the lead paramedic’s face, and the distinct, sickening crimson pattern soaked into the white sheets draped over the gurney.

Jack stepped forward purely out of muscle memory, his voice raspy from a long night of shouting over sirens. "What have we got, guys?"

"Twenty-eight-year-old female, victim of a aggravated burglary at her residence forty minutes ago," the paramedic rattled off at breakneck speed, her heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. "Neighbour called it in after hearing a struggle and glass breaking. Stab wound to the left upper quadrant, deep laceration to the right forearm, massive blood loss at the scene."

Jack took two paces toward the stretcher to take the chart, his eyes dropping casually to the patient’s face to assess her airway, and in that split second, the entirety of his world shattered into jagged, unyielding pieces.

The color drained from his face so rapidly that Dana actually reached out a hand, thinking he was about to faint. The woman lying pale and motionless beneath the blood-soaked trauma blanket was you.

The breath left Jack’s lungs in a harsh, strangled gasp, his professional distance evaporating so violently that he stumbled forward, his hands trembling uncontrollably as they hovered over your bloodied, chest-stained clothes. "No... no, no, Jesus Christ—"

"Jack? What the hell are you doing?" Dana barked, her eyes widening as she grabbed his elbow, shocked by the total collapse of his usually unflappable demeanor. "Get back, let us transfer her! Shen, I need a trauma team right now! Call down to blood bank, give me four units of O-negative on the rapid infuser!"

Jack didn't hear her. The sterile, controlled world of the Pitt was completely obliterated, replaced by a terrifying, primal panic that choked the throat right out of him. He grabbed the side rail of your stretcher, his knuckles turning stark white, his eyes wide and wild as he looked down at your face. You were barely conscious, your eyelids fluttering weakly, your lips parted as you sucked in shallow, wet breaths.

"Look at me, hey, look at me," Jack begged, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of his usual calm authority as he reached out and cupped your ice-cold cheek with a hand that was shaking like a leaf. "I'm right here. You're at the hospital, you're with me, you're going to be okay. Please, sweetheart, stay with me, stay open for me."

You turned your head toward his voice, your eyes unfocusing as you tried to track him through the thick, terrifying haze of shock. "Jack?" you rasped, a tiny, frail sound that nearly brought him to his knees right there on the blood-spattered floor. "Jack, it hurts so bad..."

"I know, I know, I’ve got you," he sobbed out, not caring in the slightest that half the nursing staff was staring at him in utter shock. He pushed alongside the paramedics, helping to physically lift your limp body onto the trauma bed.

The scene erupted into controlled chaos around him. Clothes were being cut away with shears, cardiac monitor leads were being slapped onto your icy skin, and the metallic thump of suction devices filled the small room.

Jack stood at the head of your bed, his gloved hands cupping your face, his head bent low so he was inches from yours, whispering desperate, broken promises against your hairline while Shen sprinted into the room, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves.

"Abbot, what is going on with you? Step back, I need space at the airway!" Shen yelled over the shrill, alarming beep of the heart monitor, which was ticking at a terrifyingly rapid rate. "Who is this?"

"It's... it's her," Jack choked out, his eyes never leaving your face. "It's Robby’s sister. Shen, please... "

Before Shen could even process the devastating weight of Jack's plea, the door to the trauma bay swung open with a bang, and Robby walked in, holding a tablet and adjusting his stethoscope around his neck, looking fresh and prepared for his morning shift.

"Hey, what's the noise down here? Dana said we had an unstable stab—" Robby stopped dead in his tracks. The tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hard floor. His eyes swept over the blood-soaked trauma shears, the bags of crimson red blood hanging from the IV poles, and finally landed on your pale, bruised face surrounded by monitoring wires.

"Y/N?" Robby’s voice was barely a whisper, a hollow, disbelieving sound that shattered the room. In three long strides, he shoved past a nurse, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror as he grabbed the edge of the bed. "What happened?! What the fuck happened?!"

"Robby, listen to me—" Shen tried to interject, stepping between him and the bed.

"Get off me!" Robby screamed, his voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of grief and rage as he looked at your open, bleeding abdomen where Shen was applying heavy, firm pressure with sterile gauze to slow the massive internal hemorrhage.

"Why was she brought in like this?!" Robby’s eyes swung wildly around the room until they landed on Jack, who was still standing at the head of the bed, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.

Robby froze, his mind racing through the dark, frantic puzzle of the room. He looked at the way Jack was holding you, not like a doctor holding a patient, not even like a friend holding a colleague's relative, but with the terrifying, desperate agony of a man watching his entire life bleed out on a stainless-steel table.

Robby stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal fury. "Jack... why are you holding her like that? Why are you touching her like that?"

Jack didn't look up. He couldn't take his eyes off your face, watching your oxygen saturation levels dip dangerously low on the overhead monitor. "Robby, please, not right now," Jack pleaded, his voice thick and broken. "She's bleeding badly, she needs to go straight to theatre—"

"I asked you a fucking question, Jack!" Robby roared, lunging forward and grabbing the front of Jack’s scrub top, pulling him away from the bed with such violent force that the cardiac monitor cart rattled. "Why are you looking at my sister like that?! What is she to you?!"

"Robby, stop it!" Dana yelled, stepping boldly between the two grown men, her hands slamming against Robby’s chest to keep him from shoving Jack into the wall. "She is in hemorrhagic shock! Look at the fucking monitor, Robby! Look at your sister!"

"I love her!" Jack snapped, the secret ripping out of his chest like a jagged blade, his voice echoing loudly over the frantic, rhythmically failing beeps of the cardiac machine. "We’ve been seeing each other for months, Robby! I fucking love her, and she was attacked in her home while I was sitting here doing paperwork! So hit me, tear me apart, do whatever the hell you want, but do not make this about us while she is dying on this bed!"

Robby reeled back as if he’d been physically struck, his hands dropping from Jack’s shirt. His face twisted into a complex, ugly storm of betrayal, shock, and profound, terrifying panic. He looked from Jack’s blood-stained hands to your quiet, still face.

“You... you were lying to me? Both of you?" Robby’s voice shook, a bitter, wounded sound. "You were sleeping with my sister behind my back while—"

"Robby, her blood pressure is insane!" Shen yelled, his voice cutting through the rising argument like a scalpel. "We don't have time for a surgical team to come down, we need to open her right here or she goes into cardiac arrest in minutes!"

The harsh reality of the medical emergency slammed back into the room like a tidal wave. Robby blinked, the anger in his eyes instantly drowning in a wave of sheer, unadulterated terror as he watched your heart rate spike, the waveform on the screen flattening out into dangerous, erratic rhythms.

“No," Robby breathed, his voice small, vulnerable, and completely stripped of his usual arrogance. "No, no, no, look at me. I'm right here. You stay with me, do you hear me?"

"I need a thoracotomy tray and a laparotomy kit, right now!" Shen shouted, his hands working furiously to pack more gauze into your side. "Someone get on the suction! Robby, you need to step out!"

"Like hell I'm stepping out!" Robby yelled, shoving his way back to the side of the bed, his hands trembling violently as he reached for a pair of sterile gloves. "She's my sister! I am operating!"

"You cannot touch her, Robby, you know the protocol! You’re not doing shit either, Abbot," Dana sternly intervened, putting her body directly between Robby and the instrument tray. Her face was set like granite, though her eyes were filled with deep, maternal sympathy. "You will freeze or you will make a mistake, and she will die because of it! Out! Both of you, get out of this bay right now!"

"No!" both men barked in unison.

"I am not leaving her!" Jack yelled, his knuckles white as he grabbed a pair of gloves, his eyes fixed on Shen. "Shen, let me assist! My hands are steady, I swear to God my hands are steady!"

"Jack, look at yourself, you're shaking so hard you can barely stand!" Dana snapped, taking Jack firmly by the upper arms and physically pulling him away from the head of the bed. She looked at Robby, then at Jack, her voice dropping into a fierce, commanding tone that left no room for argument. "If you two care about this girl, if you love her at all, you will get the hell out of this room and let Shen and the trauma team do their jobs! Every second you stand here fighting like children is a second she doesn't have! Move!"

She didn't wait for them to comply, she aggressively pushed both men out of the sliding glass doors and drew the blue privacy curtains shut with a sharp, definitive snap.

The waiting corridor outside the main trauma suite felt like a cold, sterile tomb. The morning sunlight was just beginning to bleed through the high frost-tinted windows, casting harsh, pale light across the linoleum floor, but inside the hallway, time had ground to a complete standstill. The only sound was the distant, muffled shouting of medical commands from behind the blue curtain, punctuated by the steady, terrifying rhythm of automated alarms.

Jack stood leaning against the far wall, his hands buried deep in his curls, his body slumping down until he was on the floor. His scrub top was ruined, smeared with bright crimson streaks of your blood that had already begun to dry into stiff, dark patches.

Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt like glass, his chest tight with a crushing, suffocating guilt. He should have been there. He should have insisted on driving you home after your shift two days ago, he should have checked your locks, he should have protected you. The image of your bruised skin and the frail, terrified sound of your voice calling his name kept repeating in a horrific, endless loop behind his eyelids.

A few yards down the hallway, Robby was pacing like a caged beast. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging drawn blood into his own palms. Every time he turned around, his furious, bloodshot eyes landed on Jack sitting against the wall, and the bitter, hot rage inside him flared back to life, offering a brief, desperate distraction from the sheer, paralyzing fear that his little sister was dying on the other side of that glass.

Robby marched over, stopping directly in front of Jack. "Get up," Robby spat, his voice trembling with venom. "Get up and look at me, you coward."

Jack slowly lifted his head. His face was ghastly, his eyes hollow, dark, and utterly deadened by grief. He didn't offer any resistance, didn't raise a hand to defend himself. He just looked up at Robby with a hollow, broken expression. "Go ahead, Robby. Say whatever you want. It won't be worse than what I'm already telling myself."

"You lied to me!" Robby shouted, his voice echoing down the empty, quiet corridor, causing a few passing nurses to flinch and walk faster. "For months! I treated you like a brother, Jack! I trusted you with my life in this department, I took shifts for you, I let you into my home, and the whole time you were sneaking behind my back with my sister! You manipulated her!"

"I didn't manipulate anyone!" Jack rasped, standing up slowly, leaning his heavy back against the cold wall to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. "I love her, Robby! I didn't plan for this to happen! It started off slow, and then... Christ, she became the only good thing in my life! She asked me not to tell you because she knew you'd react exactly like this! She was terrified you'd make her feel guilty for just wanting to be happy!"

"Don't you dare put this on her!" Robby barked, stepping directly into Jack's personal space, poking a harsh, rigid finger into Jack's chest right over a dark bloodstain. "She is my little sister! My responsibility! She was hiding things because of you! You put her in danger!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Jack suddenly roared back, his composure snapping entirely as he grabbed Robby's wrist and shoved his hand away, tears spilling freely over his blood-stained cheeks. "You think I'm not sitting here wanting to tear my own skin off because I wasn't there to protect her?! I would have taken every single one of those fucking knives for her, Robby! I would lay down on that table and let them cut my heart out right now if it meant she gets to wake up! So don't you dare stand there and pretend you're the only one who cares whether she lives or dies!"

Robby stared at Jack, his jaw working as if he wanted to scream, but the sheer, raw agony in Jack's voice hit him like a physical blow. The anger drained out of Robby just a fraction, leaving behind the hollow, terrifying reality that neither of them had any control over what was happening behind those blue curtains.

Before Robby could fire back another bitter insult, the double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Dana walked out alongside Shen. Both of them looked thoroughly exhausted, their blue gowns splattered with blood, but their faces were calm, settled into that weary, professional relief that both Robby and Jack knew so intimately.

Jack was across the hallway in a fraction of a second, grabbing Dana's forearms with desperate, trembling hands. "Is she... is she alive? Please, Dana, tell me she's alive."

Dana looked down at his hands, then up into his terrified, bloodshot eyes, her expression softening into a gentle, reassuring smile. "She's alive, Jack. She's stabilised."

A long, ragged sob burst from Jack's chest as he slumped against the wall, covering his face with his hands as the suffocating weight lifted off his lungs. Robby let out a shaky, desperate breath of his own, running both hands over his face, his shoulders slumping in profound, overwhelming relief.

"The blade missed the important stuff by less than a centimetre," Shen explained quickly, pulling off his surgical cap and wiping his damp brow. "Park and the guys are finishing up her sutures right now. She's going to be okay, guys. She's strong."

"Can I see her?" Robby asked immediately, his voice thick with emotion, stepping toward the trauma bay doors.

"She's being moved up to a different unit in a few minutes once she comes round from the anesthetic," Dana said gently, stepping smartly into Robby's path and laying a firm hand against his chest. She gave him a stern, motherly look that made even the senior attending doctor pause. "And before you step foot into that room, Robby, you are going to take a long, deep breath and leave your ridiculous ego at the door."

Robby blinked, taken aback. "Dana, I—"

"I don't want to hear it," Dana interrupted smoothly, turning her cool, unyielding gaze between Robby and Jack. "I have watched the two of you act like absolute idiots for the last forty-five minutes while that poor girl was fighting for her life. Robby, your sister just survived a horrific, traumatic assault. She does not need to wake up to her brother screaming at the man she loves. She needs peace, she needs rest, and she needs both of you to pull yourselves together and be adults."

Robby looked at Dana, his mouth opening to argue, but the sheer authority in her posture held him silent. He glanced over at Jack, who was still standing by the wall, wiping his face with the back of his wrist, looking entirely drained, hollowed-out, and deeply ashamed.

"Go up to the fourth floor," Dana added softly, her tone loosening into something kinder. "Clean yourselves up. Change out of those ruined scrubs. By the time you look like proper doctors again, she'll be awake in her room."

Your room was quiet, illuminated only by the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp and the gentle, rhythmic pumping of the IV drip monitor. The harsh smell of the trauma bay was replaced by the clean, faint scent of lavender soap and fresh linens. You lay propped up slightly against two large pillows. A thick white bandage was wrapped securely around your right forearm, and beneath the heavy hospital blanket, your abdominal dressing sat quiet and intact.

When the heavy wooden door pushed open, you turned your head slowly toward the sound. The heavy pain medication made your head feel light, floaty, and distant, but the moment you saw Jack and Robby walking into the room together, the fog cleared just enough for your heart to ache with sweet, overwhelming relief.

Both men had changed into clean, dark scrubs. Robby walked in first, looking hesitant, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his usual confident posture replaced by a cautious, quiet guilt. Behind him stood Jack. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his eyes were bruised with dark circles, his jaw tight with anxiety, hovering near the doorway as if he wasn't entirely sure he was permitted to be in the same room as you.

"Hey, kiddo," Robby whispered softly, walking over to the right side of your bed. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his face softening into a look of pure, unadulterated big-brother affection. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a very large truck," you rasped, your voice scratchy and dry. You offered him a weak, tired smile. "Dana told me that you were making a scene down there, Robby."

Robby let out a soft, wet laugh, dropping his head for a second as a fresh wave of emotion hit him. "Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me. I thought, God, I don't even want to say it." He took your uninjured hand, holding it tight between both of his. "The police caught the guy, by the way. He was a petty burglar who panicked when he realised the apartment was occupied. He's in custody. He won't ever come near you again."

"Good," you murmured softly, squeezing his hand weakly. Your eyes drifted past your brother's shoulder, locking onto Jack, who was still standing quietly by the door, staring down at his shoes, his posture heavy with guilt. "Jack, come here."

Jack lifted his eyes, looking at you with such a raw, desperate tenderness that it made your chest tighten. He glanced cautiously at Robby, then slowly walked around to the left side of your bed. He stopped a few inches away, looking as though he wanted to reach out and touch you, but was terrified of breaking you further.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered, his voice cracking on the words. "I am so, so sorry. I should have been there. I should have stayed with you last night, I shouldn't have taken this shift—"

"Jack, stop," you interrupted gently, reaching your left hand out toward him. "Stop that right now. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

Jack lowered himself to the floor, wincing at the discomfort. He brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles, tears slipping quietly from his eyes and wetting your skin. "I thought I lost you," he choked out, ignoring Robby's presence entirely now as he leaned his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. "When they brought you through those doors... I've never been so terrified in my entire life. I don't care about anything else. I just need you to be okay."

You ran your fingers through his curls, feeling the heavy, frantic racing of his heart slowly begin to settle against your side. "I'm okay, Jack. I'm right here."

Across the bed, Robby watched the two of you. He saw the way Jack held your hand not with possessiveness, but with a deep, reverent care that was entirely selfless. He saw the way your face relaxed the moment Jack touched you, the way the lingering fear in your eyes melted away into complete, absolute safety.

Robby let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up at the ceiling. "You two are absolute idiots, you know that?" he said softly, breaking the quiet emotional tension in the room.

Jack lifted his head from the mattress, looking over at Robby with a guarded, wary expression. You offered your brother a small, pleading look. "Robby, please don't be mad at him. It was my idea to keep it quiet. I didn't want you making things complicated at work."

"I am mad," Robby admitted honestly, though the harsh edge in his voice was completely gone, replaced by a weary, warm acceptance. "I'm fucking furious that you both lied to my face for months. I'm furious that I had to find out while my sister was bleeding out." He paused, looking directly at Jack, his dark eyes firm. "But... I saw you down there, Jack. I saw how you looked at her."

Jack stood up slowly, keeping his hand firmly wrapped around yours, meeting Robby's gaze across the bed without flinching. "I love her, Robby. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry for lying to you, but I am never going to apologise for loving her."

Robby stared at Jack for a long, silent moment, before a small, dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, leaning over to kiss the top of your head before stepping back from the bed.

"Well... at least I know if she ever gets hurt again, the attending doctor will be too terrified of failing to let her die." Robby walked toward the door, turning back with his hand on the handle. "I'm going down to the cafeteria to get some decent coffee. Real coffee, not that shit in the breakroom. Jack, you're staying right here until I get back. And then we're going to have a long talk about boundaries."

"Understood," Jack said softly, offering a quiet, respectful nod.

Robby looked between the two of you one last time, his expression softening into pure relief. "I'm glad you're alive. Don't do it again." With a final, gentle click, the door swung shut, leaving the room in a warm, peaceful quiet.

Jack immediately leaned in close, wrapping his arms around you with extraordinary gentleness, careful to avoid your bandaged abdomen as he buried his face in the warm crook of your neck. You wrapped your uninjured arm around his back, pulling him as close as you could, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You really scared me, sweetheart," Jack whispered against your skin, his hands smoothing down your back with a soft, desperate rhythm.

"I know," you murmured, kissing the side of his neck, breathing in the clean scent of soap and his familiar, comforting warmth. "I'm sorry. But I'm safe now. You've got me."

"Yeah," Jack breathed, pulling back just enough to look down into your eyes, his face lit by the soft golden light of the bedside lamp. He leaned in, pressing a slow, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips that tasted of salt, relief, and quiet promises for the future. "I've got you. And I'm never letting you go."

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You groaned, coughing and choking on your own blood for a bit, while Trinity Santos walked by you said and rubbed your arm, “Breathe, breathe.” she kept reminding you. 

“Really guys…I–I can wait like everyone else.” Que another coughing fit, this time with some of the blood landing on the doctors around you, “If you could just point me to the waiting room.” you looked up and around hopefully to the physicians around you, “..Please?” 

“Please?” the husk voice of the man to your right made your throat dry up, with sharp features grey hairs peaking you couldn't help but gulp at his gorgeous face. “You’ve definitely got more than a few broken bones, possibly a punctured lung, and a concussion. Trust me you're right where you're supposed to be.” 

You let your head fall back onto the gurney, seemingly giving up the fight, but not before letting out a whispered murmur, “Whatever you say Dr. Handsome.” you were then out like a light, with your eyes rolling back into your head. 

With no time to spare Dr. Santos placed her fingers onto your neck's pulse, only letting out a quip after she felt a live beating, “Who knew Dr. Abbot was such a hotshot.” As they enter room twelve, she turns to Lena, “Is he always this popular?” 

Lena laughed, as respectfully as she could as she placed an oxygen mask over your face, “Oh you have no idea.” 

────

The next time you would see Jack Abbot would be nearly eight hours later. Groggy and on three different pain killers, you rolled your head side to side, blinking twenty miles an hour. As you registered where you were, you started breathing harder, mouth opening up to speak only to realize your throat was being restricted by something. Clawing at your throat you started to panic, way too hazed to even register the voices around you. 

Jack Abbot watched in discomfort as you couched and gagged at the tube placed in your throat. He softly gripped your chin, trying to catch your eyes, he repeated your name firmly. “I know, I know it feels gross but you needed the tube to breathe better, alright? You were coughing up a lot of blood.” He tried for only a few moments before deciding you were doing way too much damage to your throat. 

He shook his head, turning to Lena as she closed the door behind herself, "I'm taking the tube out,” Lena was on your side in an instant. 

He kept talking throughout the process, although you were in no state to listen. 

Only a minute later the tube was out and you were spitting out blood into a bedpan. Jack rubbed your back soothingly. “Yeah,” he mumbled, watching you practically throw yourself back onto the bed. 

“Yuck.” you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, while Lena handed you a plastic cut full of water. “Thank you.” 

“Course sweetie.” she gave you a smile before heading to the corner of the brightly lit room and starting to type (incredibly fast) on the computer. 

You threw your head to the other side of the room, facing a man who was giving you a small smile. It all came back to you at once. Stumbling into the emergency room, insisting on waiting like everyone else, and of course, calling that handsome doctor well–handsome. 

“Oh no,” you groaned, grabbing your forehead with an embarrassed look on your face, Jack tried to purse down his smile, Lena made a poor attempt to stifle her laughter. 

As professional as ever, Jack didn't waste any time waving you off, “I’ll chalk it up to a strong case of delirium. No harassment claims just yet.” He snapped his gloves off, and it took an awkward moment for you to laugh at his joke. 

He gave you another dazzling smile. “Alright, first things first. Can we get your name?” 

You blinked. Oh yeah huh. You didn’t come in with a wallet or anything, in fact you remember leaving your…items in an alley a couple blocks down. 

Still in a haze, you muttered your name. He gave you his hand, “Jack Abbot, I was your primary physician when you came in.” 

You weakly took his hand. “Thanks…” you looked down at your body, you could stretch a mile with the amount of bandages you had. “Looks like you did a good job.” You muttered. Definitely better than the at home fixes you do yourself after bad nights. 

“I have a good team.” He brushed off your compliment, “Could you explain how you got these injuries? Do you remember?” 

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Lena turn from the computer, giving you her complete attention.

Right. You couldn’t exactly explain that you got into a bad altercation with bank robbers after trying to stop them. Then you would have to explain that yes, you were the friendly neighbor spiderwoman. A title given to you almost a year ago when you first started making headlines. 

It would be better to avoid that conversation altogether.

“I fell down the stairs and through a window.” 

It didn’t take a mathematician to know they didn’t believe you. But it also didn’t take a mathematician to know that they didn’t have to. You just had to lead them as far away from the truth as possible. 

“Right.” Jack cleared his throat. “Was this at your home?”

“Yeah. I live on the second floor. Fell right down and through the window all the way down.” 

Jack gave a glance to Lena, who when you turned to look at you, gave you a comforting smile. 

“A couple of your injuries were a couple days old. The cut on your leg was infected. And your arm has been dislocated for at least a week.” 

Okay maybe the bank robbers had gotten more then a couple hits in. Or maybe it was the hostage situation from last week. You could barely keep your head straight. 

All you could struggle out was, “Yeah, I’m um clumsy.” You scratched your forehead with a grimace. 

You avoided his gaze. He could obviously tell you were lying. It was all over his face. 

“Alright.” He sighed, leaning closer to the bed, by instinct you leaned back. “A social worker will be in here to talk to you, is that okay?” 

Suddenly you felt awful. They thought you were a victim of domestic violence, you were wasting whatever small resources they had. 

You looked between the two medical professionals, mouth opening and closing, “Oh! No—no really that’s not—no, really?” Is what you could get out. 

Jack and Lena simply took your exasperation as another reason for you to talk to the social worker. 

“She’s not gonna pry, and you don’t need to talk about anything you don’t want too.” Lena jumped in, and you felt so much worse, “we just want you to know that help is available, if you need it.” 

Oh god, you were an awful person, bottom of the barrel awful. 

You came into the hospital, disturbed the peace, cut in front of everyone in the waiting room, harassed your doctor, and now you were using domestic violence resources, when there was probably someone in the very hospital who actually needed them. 

You were awful. More so because you knew at this point there was nothing you could do. You couldn’t say the truth, that would destroy everything you’ve built. It would destroy your protection and safety. 

So you did what you had too. You sat there and listened to the social worker talk for thirty minutes, you accepted the pamphlets she gave you, and you took her phone number. The whole time you felt like a fraud.

────

Jack leaned against the triage desk, not so discreetly looking into room twelve. Watching you discuss with the social worker. 

The doctors and nurses said nothing to him, although they all noticed how off he was acting. That was until he damn near broke his back leaning towards the room, eyes steady. 

Lena reached over with a huff and landed a clean smack on his arm. Jack snapped his head back with a dramatic look. Lena pointed a stern finger at him, “Stop staring. It’s creepy.” 

Jack mediocrely rolled his eyes, waving her off, “I’m checking in. That’s what doctors do.” 

“Good doctors let social workers do their job without someone creeping on them.” 

“Creeping is not the same as staring.” 

“Okay. You’re not staring, you're creeping.” 

Lena went back to charting. Only to slam her hands down onto the desk after feeling Jack stare into the side of her face for what felt like eternity. 

“Do you need something Abbot, or has my beautiful face mesmerized you again?” 

Jack ignored her quip, looking around conspicuously before leaning in and whispering, “This isn’t a domestic thing. I’m sure of it.” 

Lena made a face, “You really believe that story about falling down stairs? Did you hit your head or what?” 

Jack ignored her, “I'm serious Lena.”

Lena leaned back into her chair, “So am I Abbot. You saw those injuries. They weren't from falling down the stairs.  All signs point to a domestic situation.”

Jack sighed, “I know, I know. And any other day I would agree. But Lena, that look on her face when we were talking about the social worker?”

“I know Jack, she looked scared.”

“No. She was guilty.” 

Lena only stared at the doctor for a moment before shaking her head. She didn't understand why Jack was so set on this, but she knew he was wrong. She'd seen too many of these cases to think otherwise. 

“All victims react differently when confronted with help. Jack, you know this.”

Jack peaked back into the room, where the discomfort was clear on your face. “This is different.” He genuinely couldn't explain why this one situation was so different. He'd been in this position one too many times. He knows. He really does. But the look on your face earlier was different. It was riddled with guilt, for what? He wasn't sure. 

He turned to Lena, desperate to have her believe him, “You noticed how quickly she healed right? I mean, she's good to leave today. Injuries like that should have her bedridden for a month.” 

Lena paused. He made a good point, it was astonishing how well and quickly you had healed, the bleeding and purple wounds she came in last night with were now practically scabbing over. Hell, your dislocated arm was now perfectly fine. It had in fact shocked everyone last night. The usually sure physicians didn't have an explanation for the medical students who were watching in awe as you healed in real time. 

But Lena sure as heck did not want to indulge Jack, so she quickly changed the topic, “How about instead of conspirating, you call the number she gave you so she can leave this depressing place.” 

Jack glanced down at the crumpled paper he held in his palm and frowned. You didn't have a previous record with the hospital so before leaving the room, he asked you to give him a name and number of something that could pick you up. 

Clark Kent 312-586-293

Jack stared down at the paper with a thoughtful look on his face. Although he didn't believe that you were a domestic victim, part of him thought he was being stupid and the reality was that you possibly were, and he questioned whether this Clark Kent was the one who did this to you in the first place. 

He shook the thoughts out of his head and reminded himself that you gave him this number. He was under obligation to do what you asked of him. 

“Well I would if you gave me the phone to call.” 

Lena gave him a sarcastic smile, which he returned, and she pushed herself back from the desk. “It's all yours Abbot,” she presented him with the desk. 

As she walked off, Jack rounded the desk and sat down at the chair, rubbing his knee slightly. He picked up the phone and punched in the number. It didn't ring more than twice before he heard a voice on the other side, “H-hey, hello?”  

It was clear this is so called, “Clark.” had just woken up from slumber. 

“Hello,” Jack straightened and glanced back into room twelve where he caught you staring down at a pamphlet that read ‘You are never alone’ that same shameful look on your face. He tore his eyes away, “This Jack Abbot from the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center,”

He heard frantic shuffling from the other side, “What? It is my ma, my pa? What happened?” 

“No, no, Mr. Clark. Nothing like that.” 

He could feel the relief through the screen. He said your name, “It's her I'm calling about.” 

He huffed through his nose when Clack interrupted once more, “Is she okay? Oh no what happened?”

“I'm calling to let you know just that. She came into the emergency room last night, in a, um, poor state. She gave me your number to call. We're discharging her soon, and she needs someone to, um, take her home and care for her for a bit.”

Clark, once again interrupted. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, could you let her know? I’ll be there.”  

Jack paused, with all things considered, this most likely was not the person who beat you black and blue. He’d had calls like this one before. Where a wife would give them their husband's phone number, and it was clear that they were the ones who sent them to the hospital in the first place. Ten times out of ten the husband on the other line sounded bored, or mad that their victims had the gall to show up at the hospital. This was a three sixty, and it simply confirmed the suspicions he already had.

He cleared his throat, “Yes, yeah, I’ll let her know.” He winced, knowing what he was about to do crossed the line, “Just to um…put it in the system, what is um,” he paused before his mind took over, “your relation to her?”

Clark didn't hesitate, “Oh we're very good friends. Thank you so much for the call. I'll be there soon.” 

The call beeped over. Jack stared down at the desk in uncertainty. What the heck was it about you and your secret that had him crossing lines he never had before? 

That question didn't nearly nag him as much as the other one. What the hell were you hiding? And who was the cause of your trip to The Pitt? 

He had a feeling it would be a while until he found out.

────

You watched the social worker leave with heavy eyes. Guilt and nausea consuming your entire being. Lena was right, she didn't push, and she didn't badger. 

You rubbed your eyes with a sigh, you have only been to the hospital for around thirty hours, and eighty percent of that you spend unconscious. You glazed down at the scabbing injury, wondering how many of the doctors who tended to you noticed your odd healing time, the only thing that comforted you was that no one brought it up. Neither Lena or Jack, so maybe they just hadn't noticed. 

Truth be told, you didn't feel as awful as you looked. Quite the contrary, the hours of rest did wonders. You felt fantastic. But you couldn't exactly show or tell anyone that. So you had to act achy and in pain whenever you thought someone was looking. Therefore you couldn't walk out of the hospital with a pep in your step, and you couldn't argue your way out of having someone take you home. So your hand was forced and you gave Jack the only number you could think of. 

Clark Kent. Secret superman Clark Kent. Your best friend Clark Kent. 

You hated to bother him, but you practically had no choice. You could almost imagine the look on his face. The sad worried puppy dog eyes he would give you. You felt nauseous all over again. 

A sensitive knock woke you up from your thoughts, you snapped your head up and saw Jack standing up the door, Clack looming over him from behind. He gave you a concerned wave. 

“Hey,” Jack walked into the room softly, Clark following him in like a lost duck giving you a look over with a grimace. He squeezed past Jack and hurried over to your side.

Jack let out the tiniest frustrated sigh. As promised, the so-called ‘Clark’ showed up in exactly ten minutes. And he had not shut up since. Question after question the giant didn't give Jack a moment of rest since his arrival. 

Although it did officially solidify something to Jack. Clark was definitely not the one who beat you to a pulp. A small victory in his mind. 

“Youre all ready to be discharged..” Jack trailed off, heading to the computer in the corner and logging into his credentials, to start the official discharge process. 

After a few seconds, he glanced to the bed, where Clark was looming over you with wide eyes. Both of you whisper suspiciously to each other. Jack slowly and quietly rolled over the computer stand. 

He didn't get much, but after a few minutes of listening in, he came out with “Bank ... .fifth avenue…five guys ... .bigger then ... .fine now.” from your end. 

He saved that in a special spot in his mind.

He cleared his throat, and tried not to laugh at the way you both snapped your head over to him with the widest eyes he had seen. “You’re all cleared in the system. You're good to go home if you're ready.” He grabbed a wheelchair from the other side of the room and rolled it over to you two. “Some pain medication is ready for you at the pharmacy you picked. They should get you the instructions there.” 

He watched Clark practically carry you into the wheelchair, letting you down without as much as a strain. He tried to not roll his eyes.

“Thanks again Dr. Abbot,” you called back to the doctor as he started to walk you out of the room, with Clark behind the chair and pushing slowly. “And I'm sorry about that,” you cleared your throat and avoided eye contact, “...Handsome thing.” 

Jack smiled cheekily, “Just doing my job,” You couldn't help but fidget at the way he said your name. “And no harm no foul right? Take care. I don't want to see you anytime soon.” and with a final wave, he walked away. Your eyes glanced down to his leg, which carried a not noticeable limp. Well, not noticeable to anyone with you. Call it spidey senses. 

Clark leaned down to whisper in your ear as he rolled you further and further away from the hospital, “Are you staring at his butt?” 

“What?” you yelped, turning your neck straight as quick as possible. “No weirdo. God. No.” 

Clark huffed, “Sorry for assuming.” He looked around the area, before whispering again, “Can I stop rolling you now? This is making me feel more guilty. Someone could've actually used this wheelchair, you know?” 

You huffed, turning in all directions before you declared the coast was clear. You practically jumped from the wheelchair and immediately rolled into a stretch, “Was I supposed to deny the wheelchair? Sorry I know I'm battered and bruised and my leg is practically broken but I'm fine walking?” You and Clark broke into a brisk walk, Clark throwing the wheelchair into a dark alleyway and wincing. “Dr. Abbot was already suspicious, I saw it on his face.” 

Clark laughed, having to break into a slight jog to catch up with your fast pace. “I think he just liked you. You know, like liked you.” 

You didn't pause, turning a few corners as the hospital becoming distant in the background, “What are you, twelve?” 

“Oh, I'm sorry. I think he had romantic serious adult feelings for you–Hey where are we going anyways?” Clark questions, making a full turn, “This isn't the way to your apartment.” And yet he continued to follow after you. 

“Are you just realizing that now?” you asked, making a sharp turn into an alleyway, and letting out a relieved sigh at the sight of your backpack laying near the dirty dumpster. Exactly where you left it days prior. 

“What are you?-” Clark watched you practically run to the random backpack lying on the ground, “You probably shouldn't touch that, it’s…it's next to the dumpster.”

“It's mine.” you sighed, ripping the backpack open and tilting it over so he could see the contents, inside laid your suit. Red and Blue body fitting spandex with the now memorable black spiderweb design. Clark let out a sound of recognition. “What's it doing..here?” He looked around the dirty and honestly smell alley. 

You huffed, closing the bag and flinging it over your shoulder, “I threw it here after the bank robbery. I realized that I was in a worse shape than I could fix. And I couldn't exactly walk into the hospital with it on.” you shrugged. 

“You should've called,” Clark murmured. “I would've come to help.” 

You gave him a small smile, “I know you would've. I think I seriously overestimated how many burglars I could take on at once. At least I know better now, you live and you learn right?” 

Clark didn't look amused. He never did when it came to his friends being hurt.

You huffed, nudging his shoulder, “C’mon big guy, give me a ride home? I’ll order takeout.” 

Clark tried for a couple seconds before breaking out into a smile and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Up, up and away!” your voice faded and you flew higher and higher into the sky.

The second time you came back into The Pitt, it was much less dramatic, and it wasn't because of something big like an alien threat, or a burglary. But because of your own true clumsiness. 

After training with Yelena for hours, and getting beat for the majority of those hours, you decided it was time for your training to get better and longer. 

So you set down a small yoga mat in your more than small apartment and got to work. You didn't even finish your stretches before your foot caught the end of the mat and you fell straight down. Hard. You heard your right arm crack in the worst way. And after lying on the ground for ten minutes, you decided it wouldn't be the worst thing to visit Jack Abbot once more. 

Oh, salt and pepper Jack Abbot. You obviously wouldn't be going to the hospital only for him, you probably would've gone regardless. But he was definitely an added bonus.  

It was odd the way he was occupying your mind. You thought of him at the most random times, like when you were stopping a robbery at a jewelry store, you peered into one of the cases and thought, ‘Oh I wonder if Dr. Abbot would like that watch?’ And when you were grocery shopping and wondered how he liked his steak. 

It was very very odd. And when you looked up your feelings on google, the first reddit post was, "Congratulations! You have your first crush!” 

Crush? Seriously? 

You were in denial for days, until you broke and confided in Bob, the newest new (not) avenger. He gave you a look that said, “Yes, it's a crush,” and for Bob, Bob, of all people, to give you that look. Yeah, you listened. 

After spending most of your teenage years fighting crime and stopping alien invasions, it felt nice to lay and daydream of a possible relationship at night. But that's all it was, just a daydream. You couldn't put Jack in that position. It was the same reason you didn't have any friends who weren't superheroes, or vigilantes, or mutants! 

You couldn't bear putting someone who couldn't defend themselves in danger. Not after Aunt May. 

So just a daydream it would stay. 

But him staying daydreaming didn't mean you couldn't enjoy talking to him once and a while. And what better place to do so then at his place of work? Where he had to be professional and nice. 

It was perfect–he couldn't ask for any too personal information and (although you felt awful saying it) the worst he would think is that you were in a domestic violence situation. He would never find out the truth. 

Hearing your name ring out through the waiting room, you snapped your head up and stood quickly. Your left arm holding the right one up. You walked towards the door with an embarrassed grin. The long curly haired nurse eyed you as you walked closer to him. 

“Broken arm right?” He led you towards an open room, holding the curtain open for you. 

“Yeah, um at least I think so. I heard a pretty loud crack so..” You sat on the bed while explaining. 

He walked over and grabbed your working arm, wrapping a white band on your wrist, “Could you confirm the name and day of birth?” he asked, walking over to the computer in the corner of the room. 

“Yeah, that's me.” You gave him an awkward smile. He shot you a dazzling one back. 

“Hey you were here a couple weeks ago right? I think I remember you.” he asked mindlessly. “You had a broken…well everything.” 

You laughed slightly, “Yeah, yeah that was me.” 

He shot you a glance “Looks like you made an awesome recovery.” 

Shit. Was that tone one of genuine astonishment, or suspicion? 

“Yeah I, um, bought tea from a..lady. It worked very well.” one of your worst lies.

The nurse–who introduced himself as Jesse, nodded after a second. Clearly not caring enough to ask any follow ups. “Alright, we'll get a doctor in here in just a moment..” he trailed towards the door. “Give me a shout if you need anything.” 

Before you could even think about asking if you would be graced with the presence of Jack Abbot, the sexy nurse slambed the curtain shut.

────

After making his rounds once more, popping into rooms and making sure everything is orderly in order, Jesse trailed over to the hub walking beside Dr. Abbot, who seemed to be working on charts, leaning on one leg. 

“Hey, have you checked in on the broken arm in South Ten?” He leaned on his arm. 

Jack paused, seemingly racking his brain, before letting out a small sigh. “No, no, I haven't. Broken arm?” he closed the chart. 

“Yeah. Well, I mean, suspected. I know I'm not allowed to legally diagnose or whatever..” he mockingly rolled his eyes, leading the older doctor to the designated room. 

Jack huffed a laugh. “How long have they been waiting?” The two men paused on the other side of the curtain. 

Jesse glanced down at his Apple Watch, wincing a bit, “...an hour? An hour and a half?” 

Jack groaned a bit. Jesse didn't bother staying for long, giving Abbot a sympathetic pat on the back and trailing off. 

Jack gave himself a small mental pep talk, ready to walk into the room and be berated for taking so long. He held the curtain in for a second before quickly ripping it open, mouth already open, ready to introduce himself, before he paused and took a small stumble back. 

Inside the room was not the grown man with a twisted arm he was expecting. No. It was you. 

You. The woman his brain would constantly go back to whenever he had a quiet moment. You. The woman he was a hundred percent sure was hiding something much bigger than an abusive home. You. The woman who was staring at him with a small, awkward smile. 

“Do I have to get the social worker back in here?” He tried to joke. But it came out more snappy than anything. 

Your face conveyed shock, and you shifted uncomfortably on the table. “No! No, definitely not.” You watched the doctor snap gloves over his large hands and walk over to you. 

He hummed, “A broken arm only weeks after you came into the hospital with multiple bruises and other broken bones? You know how this looks, right?” 

You sighed, refusing to look him in the eyes, choosing to glance around the room instead. You knew he was suspicious, and it seemed he didn't care for beating around the bush anymore. “I know. But you seriously have to believe me. I don't have an abusive alcoholic partner at home.” You winced as he grabbed your arm. Choosing to look down at your injury rather than down at you. 

He only hummed, which you took as him not being convinced. "Seriously, I don't even have a boyfriend or whatever…I haven't,” you suddenly realized how much you had revealed when you looked up at you with a clearly shocked face, “...even gone on a date since college...” you practically mumbled.

Which definitely wasn't a lie. Ever since you got bitten and one day woke up shooting spider webs out of your wrist, you hadn't really had time for anything romantic. Not that you ever really bothered. 

Jack eyed you, realized that for one of the first times ever you weren't lying. You didn't hold that guilty look in your eyes; you just seemed embarrassed. And he liked you being embarrassed more than you being guilty. At least then you weren't lying. 

But he knew he could get more information out of you if he prodded, “What about that kid, Clark? Big man like that..” he let out a low whistle. “He could do a lot of damage.” 

He saw your demeanor change in an instant. “Clark would never lay hands on anyone! He literally couldn't hurt a fly.” You almost rolled your eyes, scoffing at the idea, although the look on Jack’s face told you he wasn't convinced. “Plus, he lives like five hours away. I only see him occasionally.” Occasionally meaning when he wasn't buried in his Superman duties, or reporter ones for that matter.

Jack paused, recalling how quickly Clark was able to get to the hospital that night he called, five hours away, but he was able to make it to the emergency department in nearly ten minutes? “He got here pretty quickly the other night.” He commented offhandedly, slowly and carefully placing your arm back down. Definitely a broken arm. 

You froze, clenching your eyes shut for a split second. How was it that you kept getting caught in lies? Although this one wasn't technically a lie, Clark did live five hours away in Metropolis; he just had an incredibly fast and efficient way of getting places. Flying.

“He was visiting me then.” You nodded. 

Jack didn't hesitate. “Why didn't he bring you into the hospital?” Jack didn't need any more confirmation. You were lying. No doubt about it. But why? You weren't covering up a domestic situation, so what exactly were you hiding? 

Suddenly you felt a wave of anger overcome you. If he thought he knew something, why didn't he just come out and ask, “The social worker didn't even ask these many questions,” you gritted through your teeth. 

“Would you like me to go get her?” 

“God no! Could you just patch me up or whatever so I can leave?” The excitement you felt before entering the hospital over the potential of seeing the doctor was long gone. Instead, you were left with the bitter resentment of knowing you would never allow yourself to see him again. He was obviously too curious for his own good, and curious doesn't mix well with a hidden identity. 

“Can't exactly just patch you up, sweetheart. A broken arm means at least a couple more hours in this place.” The obnoxious smirk on his face was enough to push you off the edge. 

“Then could I get another doctor? Preferably not a nosey one.” You would look back on this moment and cringe; definitely not the way to go if you didn't want him to think you were hiding something. 

Jack's face didn't change. It read, ‘I caught you in a lie. We both know you're hiding something,’ and it just angered you more. “Please,” you gritted out. 

Jack started for the curtain. “Sure thing. Someone should be back in a minute.” he gave you a sarcastic smile, and before he shut the curtains he held back, “Should I call your friend? Clark?” 

You huffed, “No. He's back home.” 

“So he can't pick you up?”

“Nope. Hence me saying he’s back home.” 

Jack stared for a flip second before huffing and walking out. 

────

A few minutes later, Jack was sitting at the nurses' hub, swinging back and forth lightly on the chair, fiddling with a pen and eyeing the phone. 

His best friend and day shift attending, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, walked up to him slowly, eyeing him from above his glasses. He was supposed to clock out hours again, but like most days, he ended up staying longer than expected. Here he was, nearly four hours after his shift. “What's with the look?” 

Jack startled, staring up at him with a blank face, “Hm?” 

Robby set down the iPad he was holding and leaned further into the nurses' station,” You look off.” 

“Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

Jack hesitated; he had brought up your situation to Robby a few nights ago, and he was basically brushed off. He said your name slowly. 

Robby's eyebrows shot up, "What does she have to do with the face you're sporting?” 

“She's the reason.” 

“The reason you look equal parts aroused and vindicated?” 

Jack threw his pen at the taller man, who laughed. “She's in South Ten with a broken arm.” 

Robby hummed, glancing that way briefly, “Did you get the social worker yet?” 

Jack huffed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “No. I'm not calling her.” 

Once again, Robby looked confused, “...Why not?” 

“Because it's not a domestic thing. She doesn't even have a partner.” 

The look on Robby's face made a flush of annoyance start in Jack; maybe this was the reason he wanted to learn what you were hiding so badly. Maybe if he found out the truth, his coworkers wouldn't look at him crazy when you were brought up. It was infuriating knowing the truth and not having anyone believe you. It was driving Jack crazy. 

“Jack–” Robby tried, but was immediately cut off.

“I know it sounds crazy. I know liars exist. Alright? Spare me the lecture, Robby, I've heard it enough.” 

Robby leaned back in slight shock, raising his arms in defense. Obviously, the topic of you was a sore one, and he did not want to indulge. “Alright, man. But if she's in South Ten, then what are you doing out here?” 

Jack shifted on the chair uncomfortably. “She requested a different doctor. I already sent Whitaker in there.” 

Robby simply stared for a moment. “Okay, listen.” he held up a hand when Jack tried to interrupt. “Whatever you have going on and whatever you believe about her, it can't affect how you treat her, alright? She's just another patient” 

“Jesus, Robby, I know.” 

“I'm serious, Jack.” The two men stared at each other. “I can't deal with another complaint today. Ogilvie already got three.”  

The two huffed a laugh. Jack took a deep breath before nodding, "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll stay away…I just–I don't know. Something about her, I guess.” he shrugged. 

Robby leaned over and gave him a soft pat on the back before reaching back. “Alright,” he cleared his throat, "I'm clocking out. Seriously this time.” They both laughed before Robby treaded off with one last look. 

The conversation alone was enough to convince him of what he was about to do. He wasn't crazy, and he was about to prove it. Even if it's just to himself. 

He picked up the phone and dialed the phone, it didn't ring for more than a minute before he heard the husky voice on the other side, “Hello?” 

“Hello Clark, this is Jack Abbot from Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center, I’m calling about..” he said your name, and Clark sighed from the other side, mumbling, ‘not again,’

“She came in with a broken arm and asked for you. Would you be able to–” 

“Yeah, yes, of course. Give me ten minutes.” 

“Ten minutes?” Jack confirmed with a small smirk. 

“Ten minutes,” Clark repeated before the line went dead. 

Jack put down the phone with a satisfied smile. 

────

Ten minutes later, Jack watched Clark walk into the hospital, with that stupid pep in his step. He walked over with a smile and led him to south ten. 

“How have you been, Dr. Abbot?” Clark asked. Jack ignored him and chose to practically rip the curtains open instead. 

Inside the room were you and Dr.Whitaker, who had an X-ray propped up and was seemingly explaining it to you. You both jumped, and your eyes went wide as saucers when you saw who was looming over Jack. 

“Clark?” you gasped. Quickly, you glanced at Jack, who was staring at you with a smirk. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Okay. Now he was definitely suspicious. He knew you were lying, and a million thoughts started running through your mind. 

Before Clark could even mumble a greeting, Jack was patting him on the back. “Yup. Clark Kent. Your friend, who lives five hours away? Couldn't pick you up? Got here in ten minutes,” he started for the door. “Ten minutes,” he hummed before walking out, not bothering to close the curtains. Not knowing that would be the last time he saw you for nearly a year. 

Dr. Whitaker glanced between you and Clark, and you and the door. “Um,” he started, “I'll get everything ready for the cast.” he quickly dashed out. 

As soon as he passed the curtains, you were jumping from the bed and picking up everything you brought with you, “Go, go go! Clark, now we have to leave.” 

Clark looked around the room frantically. “What? Why? What's going on?” 

You paused briefly. “Why are you here?” 

He stared at you, confused for a moment. “Dr. Abbot called, he said you needed me?"

“Shit!” you whispered, “I told him you weren't in town, that you lived five hours away.” 

Clark stuttered for a moment, “So?” 

“So this is him calling my bluff! He knows I lied.” 

Clark still didn't understand, "But you didn't lie. I do live five hours away.” he tried to grab you as you frantically tried to take him out of the room.

“And how quickly did you get here?” His silence was the loudest thing in the room.

“So–so what do you think he knows?” 

You shook your head. "I don't know! I–maybe? He at least suspects, and his calling you here tells me that. And since you got here so quickly, he's probably connecting the dots right now! Go, we have to leave!” 

You pulled him out of the room, not bothering to look around the hospital before you were practically dashing out of the hospital. 

“What about your arm?” Clark asked, running after you. 

You shook your head. "I'll go somewhere else. I can't go back there again.” 

The third time you rolled into the pitt it was not by any means voluntary. There was an issue with a train, going 200 mph towards a straight dead end. There were hundreds of people on that train. And you, in full spiderman gear, shot two webs onto the nearby buildings and used yourself as an anchor to hold the train back. 

After a few grueling minutes the train came to a complete stop, only a few hundred feet from the wall. You swung away before anyone could look twice. 

You had used more force and strength then you ever had, and it had clearly taken a giant toll on your body. The physical exhaustion was immense. And when you tried to climb into your apartment and failed, falling to the ground from three stories you decided it was time for a hospital. But it seemed as more time passed, the worse your pain became. And as you walked towards UPMC Presbyterian (because like you promised yourself, you would never step foot in The Pitt again) the exhaustion and pain became too much. You fell to the ground unconscious. 

Since the moment he last saw you, Jack Abbot never went a day without thinking about you. 

At first it was simply thoughts about what you could be hiding. A secret underground fighter. A firefighter. A witch. A demon. A supervillain. A superhero. Then his thoughts trailed more to you as a person. And when he realized the mistake he made calling Clark that day.

He started to think of you doing random things such as sleeping, getting ready in the morning, grocery stopping and so much more and it seems like the more you were out of his life the more he thought about you.

He never thought that by calling Clark and proving that you were lying, you would practically run out of his life and never look back.

But by the six month mark, Jack had come to accept that he would probably never see you again, and it was his own fault.

He couldn’t blame you. It was clear that you were hiding something important to you, something that could probably hurt you if it came out and he still dug and dug until you couldn’t handle it. 

On the other hand, it was incredibly embarrassing for him as a nearly 50-year-old man to practically run a patient out of the hospital. And nothing Robby could do kept him away from a disciplinary hearing where he had to explain why one of his patients ran out right before she could get a cast on her arm.

And how for a couple weeks after he couldn’t look Whitaker in the eye. Or any of his coworkers for that matter, they knew, and he knew that he had taken it too far and the worst part was that he couldn’t explain why.

Why was he so obsessed with you? Why did he feel the need to know every single thing about you? Why an entire year later was he still thinking about you daily?

Maybe it was because he was in love with you. 

At least that’s what his therapist suggested. He called it bull. He barely knew you, proven by the fact that you were hiding so many secrets. How could he fall in love with someone he didn’t know? 

Que him cutting off the therapist for two months only to realize one random afternoon that maybe he was right, maybe he was in love with you and maybe the reason he wanted to know why you were lying and what you were lying about was because he was in love with you. 

Or at least liked you in some large strange adult way? It was weird because Jack Abbot was never one to believe in love at first sight. 

Jack chose to believe it was like at first sight because loving someone without knowing a deep part of their soul, felt unreal. 

So he stuck it as a strong like towards you. 

Although it didn’t really matter because he would never see you again. 

Or so he thought. 

It was another random morning, a shift change in particular when an ambulance called that they were bringing in a disoriented, badly injured female and that they were going to need all hands on deck.

And then they rolled you in. In worse shape than he had ever seen you, he was able to hear his own heart beating from how loud it was. 

You were on the gurney, “Take me to Presbyterian, please I don’t wanna be here” you were mumbling in your delirium “Please”

Jack felt his throat close up, and Robby glanced back at him. “Jack, you're not on this case. Go home.” It was a direct order. This wasn’t Robby, his friend. This was Robby, the chief of emergency medicine.

And for the first time ever, Jack listened, he backed away and hurried into the break room. Ignoring everyone’s eyes on him.

It was there in the break room where he would later tell you it all clicked.

The TV was playing as a low sound, sort of like quiet noise. He glanced up and saw a special emergency news report on the spider woman incident at the train station. Jack didn’t know if it was just his regular doctor brain, but it was something he found himself thinking of often. When he would see an injury happen on screen or on the news, he would automatically connect the incident to what type of injuries they would have. 

In spider woman’s case she would clearly have exhaustion, severe muscle, tears and deep tissue bruising with shoulder dislocation, and possibly spinal compression. 

He shook his head and quickly put his mind back to you and the fact that you were here only a few feet away. And then it all clicked.

In a few seconds, he was able to look at you. He knew the diagnosis, exhaustion, severe muscle, tears, and deep tissue bruising, shoulder dislocation, and possibly spinal compression. Exactly like spider-woman.

Was it a coincidence that you had come in exactly after the train incident with the exact same injuries, spider woman would have? 

He thought back on the first time he met you. He had been watching the new station then too, a few moments before there was a burglary a few streets down with spider woman saving the day. Then you came into the hospital with the same injuries, spider woman would’ve had. 

Shit. 

────

The last thing you wanted to see when you woke up a few days later in the hospital bed was Jack Abbot. He was in the corner of the room, sitting in a visitor’s chair, not in hospital gowns or wearing gloves, instead in a black T-shirt and pants.

In your days, you shuffled around the bed glancing everywhere before you registered where you were. Jack perked up, not speaking, not asking anything, simply watching.

You watched him back. Both of you didn’t speak for what felt like eternity. The look in his eyes was one you recognized. Aunt May had the same looking in her eyes then too. 

Then, after what felt like forever, you croaked out,”I don’t want you here.” 

And Jack felt his heartbreak. 

“I’m sorry.” was all he could get out. His eyes were red rimmed and his eyelashes were wet.

He felt stupid crying over someone he had only known for a total of maybe a couple of hours, but it had gotten to the point where he didn’t care. He didn't care if nobody (including himself) understood why he was so hooked on you, and he didn’t care if anybody walked in and saw him there in the hospital room. You had to know he was sorry. 

“Jack—“ 

“Seriously, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for chasing you away and making you feel unsafe. I’m sorry for calling Clark that day. It’s not an excuse— but, I’m so prideful and I just wanted to prove that I knew you were lying.” 

You shuffled and turned your head away from him. 

“But I don’t care anymore. I don’t care that you’re lying. I don’t care what you are. I don’t care about what Clark is cause he’s definitely not human, I mean, seriously no human is that big.” he tried to joke.

You hide your smile from him. 

“I don’t care anymore, but I care about you and I care about you getting the help you need,okay? You can come here anytime for whatever reason.” He sniffed, “whether you’re falling from a building or you get beat up by a bunch of masked men, come here we will help you, no questions asked.” 

“No questions asked?” You turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 

“No questions asked,” he confirmed before getting up from his seat with a grunt. He walked towards the door. “ Seriously, don’t go to Presby. They’re abysmal at best.” You couldn’t help the smile that returned to your face.

He gave you one last look before turning towards the door. Before he turned the knob, you called out, “You know, don’t you? My secret.” 

He turned for only a second. “I think I do, yeah.” 

You winced. 

“I’m not gonna tell anyone. Seriously, I don’t think anyone will believe me anyway…And I might be wrong, just…don’t worry about that.” He turned the door. “I’m sorry,” and walked out.

────

True to his word, Jack Abbot did not once look at you oddly throughout the rest of your days at The Pitt. 

Aside from a smile here and there, you didn’t see much of him at all. Which in an odd way was disappointing although you knew it was for the best. You couldn’t raise your hopes over him.

He now possibly knew the truth and you definitely had to stay away from him. Every time you even thought about pushing things further and what your life could be like with him by your side, your mind involuntarily flashed to Aunt May and what you could’ve done to save her. 

“So what he just knows now? He knows about the webs and the spy gear and everything?” Clark gasped from his side of the couch, where he was huddled under a pile of blankets with warm soup in his hand.

It had been not even a day since you were discharged from the pit and you were now in your apartment with Clark by your side, watching some comfort movies that you so desperately needed.

You thought for a second, “I mean, I guess? I asked if he knew and he said yeah, but I didn’t ask what he knew. I’m assuming he just knows about the spider woman thing.”

“But how do you—do you think anybody saw you?”

You shook your head, “I don’t think so.” you took a sip of your soup “he’s always had his doubts. I mean from the first day we met I knew that, so I’m assuming he eventually just connected the dots.” 

“Does he know about me?” 

You shook your head, “he commented on it. Said there was no way you were human.” 

Clark pouted, “I think I look perfectly human. Thank you.” 

You laughed before shaking your head,”I don’t know. It was weird, not having him down my neck the entire time. I don’t miss that, but…”

“You miss him?” 

You sighed. “I miss his face. There’s not much else I know about. I’ve seen him maybe three times and one of those I literally ran away. I know he’s a good doctor.”

Clark stared at you for a moment, “Why don’t you try to get to know him? I don’t think he’ll oppose that. He clearly likes you.” 

Immediately you shook your head. “No.” 

Clerk side and kicked your feet lightly from under the blanket, "I'm curious what you expect from this life. Are you just going to be alone forever?” 

His question hit harder than you expected. You swallowed thickly, “I won’t be alone, I have you and I have… Yelena, Bob—“ 

“I’m serious. I know you’re still hurt from what happened. But you can’t be alone forever. I don't want that for you.” 

It was hard for you to admit that you didn’t want that for yourself either. You wanted a happy life with someone to come home too and talk to. 

“Look it was hard for me too, okay?” Clark tried one more time. “Letting in Lois, but genuinely it’s been one of the best things I’ve ever done, and I want that for you.” 

You shook your head, taking another sip of your soup and stretching your legs slightly, “how is she by the way?” 

Clark immediately perked, maybe he realized it was you changing the subject or maybe he just really wanted to talk about Lois but he dove right immediately, “She’s great! She just started on this article—“ 

It was hard listening to Clark talk about how much he loved Lois and it was even harder to pay attention knowing there was someone only a few miles away who could fill that gaping hole in your heart. 

True to your word, you started going to the pit often. So often that the doctors and nurses automatically redirected you to Jack when you walked in. 

Whether it was a scar or another broken limb, Jack didn’t ask.

You could tell he wanted so incredibly badly to reach over and ask, “who did this to you?” but every single time he restrained himself.

It was around the two month mark where you came to the realization that you were no longer setting your feelings aside for his protection. He knew what you were. 

What difference would it make if you started a relationship? He knew now and he would know then. 

But then it was just so scary to ask him, “would you like to go on a date?”

You knew Clark was right back then, when he was still curious and he didn’t know your secret, he might’ve harbor some feelings for you? But what if that’s all it was? Just the thrill of the chase. What if he didn’t want you anymore? 

And that’s what kept your feelings aside. You were no longer hiding them for his protection. You were hiding them to protect your heart.

You chose friendship over love. And you resented it almost every single day. 

“How is my favorite patient doing today?” he asked, closing the door behind him and snapping on some gloves the routine you knew very well.

“My leg hurts.” You pointed down at your very healthy leg.

The truth is you’re fine. You don’t have a broken leg or any pain for that matter. You just wanted to see Jack, and for some reason the moment when you needed some burglars to beat you up, they were nowhere in sight.

“Hm. Let’s take a look.” He sat on the chair and rolled over to you. Taking your leg and pressing down on certain parts.

You were so dazed by him you forgot to wince. 

He gave you an odd look putting your leg down slowly, “Looks like it’s fine to me, sweetheart.” 

You shook yourself out of it, swinging your leg back-and-forth gently, “Hm. Weird. it was hurting earlier?” 

“Yeah. Weird.” he chuckled before snapping off his gloves. "Is that all?” 

You honestly couldn’t explain what came over you in that moment. Maybe you were tired of being alone and being a coward. 

Or maybe it was that dream of Aunt May you had the previous night, where she held her hand and told you that you needed someone. Someone to keep your heart safe. And that she wouldn’t want you to be alone. That was the last thing she wanted.

You had plenty of dreams of aunt may. And without fail, after every single one, you would wake up with a broken heart, and tears running on your face. 

This one was different, you woke up exhilarated.You felt capable of everything and you felt like she was there, supporting you.

You cleared your throat softly, “Are you busy later?” 

Jack walked over to the computer thinking for a moment, “No. No plans.” 

Here goes nothing. You could do this, you told yourself. This wasn’t putting him in danger you told yourself. He already knows.

“Would you like to go on a date?” 

The silence in the room could be sliced with a knife. 

He dropped his pen, you looked anywhere but him. After a few moments of him, simply staring into the side of your face and you looking straight ahead, he squeaked out, “Really?” 

“…yeah?” 

——-

Jack couldn’t believe it. He had thought his chances flew out the window when he made you run away from the hospital nearly a year ago. And here you were asking him out? 

Don’t get him wrong. He would’ve gladly asked you to a nice dinner date if he thought he had a chance. But he really didn’t think so.

He hadn’t been this nervous since his late wife, and here he was standing outside of your apartment, a bouquet of roses in one hand he kept wiping his shaky, sweaty hand on the side of his pants, hoping that you wouldn’t grab it and notice how nervous he was. 

He was practically new to all of this. It was almost 2 decades since his wife passed and he knew how much everything had changed. Not only based on social norms, but also you.

You were different. literally. He was 99% sure you were spider woman and he didn’t know how to approach that. Was he allowed to ask you questions? Was this your full-time job? Was Clark human? 

But he decided he would tackle that at a later date, he didn’t care if you kept everything a secret. You could keep him in the dark as long as he got to hold your hand in it.

He could deal with the unknown. As long as he had you. 

After a few minutes of waiting outside the door slowly creed open, “Sweetheart?” he called and he hesitantly. 

The door was open, but there was no sight of you. 

Panic shot through Jack, he stepped into the door and peaked side to side before looking straight ahead. There you were. In the spider woman suit.

Arms to your side, body straight, no doubt, giving him the awkward smile underneath the mask. You called out, “I'm spiderwoman.” 

He dropped the flowers, “I fucking knew it!” 

A/N: this is entirely self-indulgent and was definitely supposed to be wayyy shorter and lighter, but then I just kept adding things and this came out. sorry if some paragraphs are too long but the 1000 block limit is a pain in the ass. the moments are not in chronological order! hope you’ll enjoy!

OLD MAN!ROBBY AND HIS WILD HIGH SCHOOL DAYS

Dinner is usually one of the few moments of the day when neither of you touches your phones. It’s an unspoken habit that settled early into your relationship: no television humming in the background, no scrolling through emails, or social media. Just the two of you sitting across from each other, talking about your day over whatever you had managed to throw together right after your study session, given that Robby is more often than not needed at the hospital well beyond the end of his shift.

Which is why now he looks back and forth from his plate to you with mild curiosity, because you keep glancing down at your screen between bites, your brows pinched together as message after message clog the group chat you have with your friends from university.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He speaks after swallowing a piece of chicken and some peas.

You hum distractedly.

“Everything okay?” 

You finally look up with wide eyes, as though you’d forgotten he was even there, then immediately lock your phone and abandon it on the table with a tired sigh. “Maybe.”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “Wanna tell me about it?”

You prop your chin in your hand. “There’s this local politician who’s supposed to give a speech at an economics conference tomorrow, and half the university wants him gone before he even sets foot there.” You wave your fork around. “For obvious reasons, of course.”

Robby smiles faintly. “That bad, huh?”

You stab at a tomato with an affirmative hum. “So now nobody knows if classes are actually happening because there are rumors there is going to be a big protest outside the main building, and our group chat has been exploding for the last hour. Some professors are saying lessons will go ahead, but most of my classmates are convinced campus is going to be inaccessible, so my friends are trying to figure out whether we’re joining the protest or just waiting to see what happens.”

Instead of answering, Robby lets out a quiet snort into his glass, causing your narrowed eyes to land on him.

“What?”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Nothing, sweetheart.”

“Michael.” You purse your lips in what resembles a pout.

“It’s just... you kids haven’t changed much.”

You grin. “Oh? Enlighten me then, old man.”

He points his fork at you, “Careful,” but then shakes his head, amused at your palms raised in mock surrendering, before leaning back in his chair.

“When I was in high school, we’d organize sit-ins whenever we wanted to protest for something, which… was pretty fucking often.” A tired laugh escapes his chest.

“Sit-ins?”

“Oh, baby.” His smiles softens. “We didn’t just skip class. We’d occupy the school.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You what?”

“We’d stay inside the building. Overnight, sometimes.”

“Michael.” 

“I’m serious.” He chuckles at your shocked expression.

You stare at him in silence, waiting for him to tell you he was just kidding, but that never comes. “How?”

“I honestly can’t tell you. Somehow somebody always knew how to get the doors open after everyone had gone home.” He shrugs innocently, betrayed by the smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t ask me who.”

“You definitely know who.” You squint your eyes at him.

His head bobs side to side vaguely. “Eh, I might.” Your lips press into a thin line in a poor attempt to hide your grin.

“It turned into a whole production at some point.” Robby adds, now with both elbows leaning onto the table. “There was always a guitar, food…” His eyes stare emptily at his glass before an amused grin brightens his face. “Someone managed to drag a television into the school once.”

“A television?”

“I still don’t know where it came from.” 

You shake your head in disbelief, not really convinced.

“And then there was David, our student representative.” Robby rubs his beard, already smiling.

“What did David do?”

“Every single protest he’d climb onto the roof with a megaphone.”

You blink. “I’m sorry, the roof?”

“Like a fucking mountain goat.” He nods.

“Why?”

“To make speeches.” He shrugs as if that was the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh, okay, that’s—”

“And mock teachers.”

You nearly choke on your water. “Excuse me?”

“Oh yes, he’d spend ages doing impressions. The principal, the vice principal…” He shakes his head lightly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “Our chemistry teacher had this incredibly dramatic way of calling attendance, and David copied him so perfectly even Mr. Greene was in tears.”

“So the teachers just…”

“They were standing below yelling at him to come down.”

“Hm.” You tilt your head slightly, observing him with a smirk. “And where were you in the middle of this chaos, Mr. Robinavitch?”

He scoffs. “On the roof with him, of course.”

“I genuinely can’t picture this.” His eyebrows quirk up in confusion. “You want to tell me that you, the incredibly respected, grumpy emergency physician of the PTMC,” you point your finger at him, almost accusingly. “Spent your high school years sleeping on classroom floors and encouraging rooftop performances?”

“Well, I never said I encouraged them.” He shrugs defensively.

“Oh, you absolutely did.”

“I was there as… emotional support.” You nod sarcastically. “And I clapped.”

“You clapped.” You repeat skeptically.

“Hey,” he points his index finger at you. “There’s nothing bad in being politically engaged.”

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts. “No, baby, you were just a menace.”

His expression is so earnest it only makes you cackle harder. “If being a menace means being an active citizen then yes, your Honor.” He dramatically opens his arms. “I’m guilty.”

“Oh, shut up.” You affectionately throw your bunched napkin at him, but it only ends up falling sadly on the table between your glasses before it can even reach his chest. “You and your buddies just wanted an excuse to skip classes.”

“What a time.” He nods at some point, staring absently at the window behind you with his arms crossed, lost in the reminiscence of the good ol’ times. “But David made some very compelling arguments when he wasn’t busy leading chants.”

That’s when you decide to reach across the table and wiggle your fingers for his hand, still grinning. “I love hearing you talk about your teenage years, especially if it involves stories of how you used to be a little troublemaker.”

“Hey now, little lady, I was a good boy.” He corrects you, his fingers immediately intertwining with yours.

“You occupied schools.” Robby presses his lips together, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile.

“For democracy.”

That finally earns him a snort, your eyes following him as he gets up and gathers the empty plates before you can stand, brushing away your automatic attempt to help with a gentle, “I’ve got it, baby.”

As he walks back to retrieve the rest, though, Robby pauses long enough near your chair to press a lingering kiss on your head.

“I’m glad you care enough to show up for the things you believe in.” His thumb brushes your temple before cupping your face. “The world needs people who stay engaged now more than ever. Just…” His smile softens at the edges, and it transforms his whole expression, gentle and patient as ever. “Promise me you’ll keep your eyes open, okay? Crowds change very quickly, and protests can sometimes turn violent. I’d like to see my sweet girl at the hospital only when I forget to bring lunch. Okay?”

You promptly wrap your hands around his wrists, leaving a peck on the soft skin. “Promise.”

“Good.” He kisses your forehead, before taking the glasses with him. “And text me if plans change.”

“I always do.” You roll your eyes playfully, getting up as well so you can put the leftovers in the fridge.

He smiles to himself as he opens the water to rinse the dishes. 

“You’ve trained me well.” You add jokingly.

From the sink, you hear his quiet laugh.

“I’d argue it’s the other way around, angel.”

OLD MAN!ROBBY WHO STILL CARRIES CASH AROUND

It takes you a surprisingly long time to realize that Robby never lets you pay when you’re together. The first few dates, you assume he’s just trying to be a gentleman and make a good impression. By the fifth time, you’re reaching for your wallet before the check even lands on the table, but his hand never fails to find your knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve got it, sweetheart.”

“Michael,” You reprimand him jokingly, even if you feel a little uncomfortable sting at the foreign feeling that comes with being spoiled without an ulterior motive. “You got it last time.”

“And?” He raises his eyebrow at you.

“It’s my turn.”

Robby simply smile, but not mockingly, like a man his age would normally do in front of young stubbornness. “We’re not keeping score.”

At first, you fight him on it every single time. You insist on splitting the bill, you try to beat him to the register—one time you even excuse yourself to the restroom just so you can secretly pay before he has the chance. It never works. No matter how determined you are, he always manages to get there first, smiling to himself as though he’d expected nothing less from you. Whether it’s coffee before your lectures, movie tickets or groceries, his wallet is already out before the cashier even tells you the total.

The only exception he ever makes is when he’s not there, if you’re grabbing lunch with your friends after class, or stopping by a coffee shop to study. But every single time, he makes sure to remind you that his card is saved on your phone, casually telling you to use it if you need anything. The first time it happens you recoil like he’s grown a second head. Robby earns more than enough to be comfortable, you know that, but the thought of spending his money without him even being there opens a hollow pit behind your ribs.

You never do and Robby notices it immediately. See, he is always infuriatingly perceptive when it comes to you, and after months of watching you hesitate every time the subject comes up, he finally sits you down one evening and, with all the patience only reserved for you, explains something you’d never thought about before. For most of his adult life, there simply wasn’t anyone to take care of. He worked impossible hours, built a career he was proud of, paid his mortgage, put money aside every month because that’s what responsible adults do, and then… that was it. There wasn’t a wife to give flowers to after a rough week, nor children asking for new shoes or ridiculous birthday presents. His paychecks came in, his bills went out, and whatever was left quietly accumulated in a savings account because there wasn’t much else to do with it. Loving you changes that in ways you don’t think he even realized it would, because now there is a beautiful girl texting him that she’d done well on an exam and wants pizza for dinner to celebrate; a girlfriend whose face lights up over something as simple as him buying her favorite pastries on the way home after a night shift.

Insisting on paying for your meals, replacing the headphones you’d complained about for months without saying a word beforehand, making sure you never have to check your bank account before ordering dessert—none of it is about proving a point or making you feel indebted to him. It’s simply the way Robby loves. He belongs to a generation that tends to show love through practical things, and your heart doesn’t waste a second to remind you that every time he moves to walk on the side of the pavement closest to traffic, or when he checks whether you’ve got enough gas before handing your car keys back. Somehow he also notices dumb, insignificant things before you do, such as your shampoo running low. Because that’s what it all is about: looking after you, which comes as instinctive as breathing for him.

Taking care of people has been the center of his entire life for decades. Before you, that was put to good use almost exclusively for his patients. Now, for the first time, he has someone waiting for him at home, someone he gets to fuss over in ways he’d quietly wished for without ever having the courage to admit it to himself.

“Sweetheart, you’re missing the point.” He reaches for your hands where they’re nervously fidgeting in your lap, threading his fingers through yours. “I know you can take care of yourself. Believe me, that’s never been in question. But looking after you makes me happy. It’s just—that’s what loving somebody is, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s making you soup when you’re sick, and listening to you vent after a rough day at university. Sometimes it’s making sure you can walk into a bookstore without worrying whether you should save money for something else instead of that book you really wanted. Let me give you that, please.”

It doesn’t mean that guilt doesn’t claw at your chest every time you use his card; or that you don’t shift your weight uncomfortably from foot to foot whenever you offer to pay and he gently shakes his head with that amused lift of his lips. But if making sure you are looked after is one of the many ways Robby says he loves you, then learning to accept it is one of the ways you say it back.

The first time you actually catch a glimpse of how naturally that instinct lives inside him happens on one of Robby’s rare days off. Rare, at least, until you came along. Since then, he’s become surprisingly good at protecting his peace, because for the first time in a very long while, there’s a life waiting for him outside of the ED.

He picks you up outside campus just after your last lecture, smiling the moment he spots you walking through the gates with your heavy backpack slipping off one shoulder.

“Hey, pretty girl.” You barely have time to close the car door before he’s leaning across the center console to steal a kiss. “I thought we’d stop for groceries on the way home,” Robby continues, brushing his thumb over your cheek before pulling away. “I’m cooking tonight.”

By the time you reach the checkout, he has started packing the bags with quick efficiency, making it look so easy: heavy things on the bottom, bread at the top, eggs tucked safely into a corner. Nothing like the erratic, messy way you pack your own stuff while still having people behind you huffing impatiently.

You reach for your phone the moment the cashier announces the total, but before you can even unlock it, a pair of warm hands settles on your hips.

“I’ve got it, honey.” 

The touch is gentle, barely enough to guide you half a step to the side, but you go without thinking, never failing to feel a little dizzy whenever his big hands find their way on your body. Robby reaches then for his pocket and… pulls out a folded stack of dollar notes.

The cashier doesn’t bat an eyelid as he counts them with practiced ease before accepting the change, slipping the few coins back into a small pouch. You watch the entire exchange astonished, then as he hoists the two grocery bags into one hand with a quiet groan, the other reaching for your back while glancing over at you with that easy smile you’ve fallen hopelessly in love with on your second date.

“Ready to go?”

You can only nod.

The walk to the car is unusually quiet. He is too busy rearranging the bags in the trunk to notice, but once he lowers the hatch with a solid thunk, you are throwing yourself at him as he turns, arms around his neck and lips crashing into his. The force of it makes him laugh in surprise, yet his own arms instinctively circle your waist, keeping you securely anchored to him.

The kiss is warm and eager, with too much fervor and tongue for a supermarket parking lot, but Robby doesn’t mind one bit as he melts into you without a second thought, barely able to contain a grin against your lips. When you finally pull back, beautiful and breathless, Robby touches your forehead with his.

“I’m definitely not complaining here,” he murmurs, his smile stupidly big. “But what prompted the sudden makeout session?”

“You still pay with cash.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, definitely not expecting that answer.

“Yes?” His voice is hesitant.

“That’s fucking hot.”

For a beat, he just blinks, before laughing so hard he has to duck his head against your shoulder.

A happy sigh escapes him, almost relieved. “I’ve spent weeks looking for good wrinkle smoothing creams to make myself look more attractive,” he shakes his head at his own ridiculousness. “But turns out all I needed was a couple of bucks in my pocket.”

You roll your eyes at him, shifting back on your heels so you don’t put all your weight on his poor back. 

“And the little coin pouch, let’s not forget about that.”

A dramatic groan tears out of his throat, head thrown back and all. “You noticed the coin pouch?”

You nod, humming. “Very… vintage.” Your lips press once again to his before you make your way to the passenger side with Robby promptly at your heels. “And you don’t need all those products on your skin to be attractive, Mikey.” You turn at last, pleased to have his body pressed so close to yours you can comfortably kiss his cheek. “You know I love your handsome face, especially the wrinkles and white hair.”

“Damn right I do.” His brown eyes briefly fall on your mouth, before his chin tips down enough for his nose to brush your ear. “Think that was pretty fucking clear after the mess you made all over it last weekend.” He whispers, your neck going hot as your core throbs at the mere memory of that night.

You go to bite his shoulder, but Robby is faster, already tickling your sides. You squeal, trying your best to twist away from him, but your body is trapped between his strong frame and the car, his arm hooked firmly around your waist. 

“Michael!”

“This is what bad girls get when they don’t respect their elders, sweetheart.” He is laughing with you.

“Oh, fuck off Mic—no no no, not the waist!” Still shrieking and with tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, you eventually give up trying to escape and settle for poking at the middle of his chest instead, sagging completely against him the moment his fingers finally give you a break. His palms drift softly up and down your back, soothing the last of your giggle as he smirks down at you.

“Can’t believe I’ve just been tickled by a man who still carries cash around.” You mumble, still out of breath.

His brows shoot up mockingly. “Don’t sound so staggered, baby. Someone told me it’s fucking hot.”

With your cheeks flaming hot, you decide to shift your focus on the front of his jacket instead, smoothing the fabric you wrinkled while trying to escape his tickling attack. 

Robby observes you for a moment with mirth dancing in his eyes. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“I’m just a little confused.” You shrug. “I mean, you have used cards before.”

“Yeah,” Robby’s thumb lazily stroke your waist. “But what if the reader suddenly goes down?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “Baby, when has that ever happened realistically?”

His hands pause just long enough to think about it, the crease between his brows deepening in thought. “During medical school.”

You stare at him for a long second. “Michael, that was in the nineties...”

He gives one small shrug, completely unmoved by the objection, and instead reaches to cup your face. “It’s still a perfectly reasonable concern.”

Your shoulders shake with a chuckle, kissing him once, quickly, right on the mouth.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I like knowing I’ve got backup.” He corrects in a flash, automatically chasing your lips for another kiss.

“Hm, adorable.” 

Robby sighs with all the long-suffering dignity he can muster. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Absolutely not, handsome.”

OLD MAN!ROBBY AND THE WEATHER

Once Robby turns the engine off, he leans forward enough to glance through the windshield at Lake Erie shimmering beneath the unforgiving sun, only to let out a sigh deep enough to make you peek at him from the passenger seat.

“It’s thirty degrees.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt. “It’s July, Mike.”

“Thanks for the reminder, sweetheart.” He answers flatly, opening his car door and almost recoiling at the wave of scorching heat touching his skin.

“So?”

“So this isn’t normal.”

You chuckle as you get out of the car as well, having already heard the spiel he’s going to throw himself into.

“When I was a kid summers weren’t trying to kill you.” He gestures vaguely toward the sky, reaching into the trunk for the beach umbrella.

“You’re sounding very middle-aged.” Your comment is punctuated by a grin as you appear at his side.

“I know you often forget it with the way I fold you in half every night, but I am fifty-three, sweetheart.” You roll your eyes at his salacious wink, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as he lifts the cooler with one hand, the folded umbrella hooked beneath his arm before the two of you make your way across the sand.

“Back then,” he continues. “The evenings cooled down so you could open the windows and actually breathe.”

“Mhm.”

“You had to bring a jacket at night.”

“Yeah?”

“The sky was blue.”

You finally look up at him. “It still is.”

“It used to be a clear blue sky.” He shakes his head. “Now it looks like dirty dishwater most of the time.”

You dissolve into laughter, letting the man grumble until you finally find a nice, not really crowded spot to spread your towels out. Robby is still muttering something about climate change and how people used to survive without air conditioning when you crouch beside him while he wrestles with the big beach umbrella he personally bought a few weeks ago after you had expressed your wish to go to the beach.

“Need help?”

He glances up immediately. “No, baby.”

“You sure?” Your eyebrow lifts skeptically. “You look like you’re losing.”

“I’ve got it.” He mumbles, but you lean in anyway. Before your fingers can even reach the fabric, Robby gently nudges your wrist away. “Go cool off.”

“What?”

He nods toward the lake. “You’re going to melt standing here with me. Go for a swim while I finish setting this bastard up.” His brows furrow at the pole.

“What about you?” Your shoulders sag worryingly.

“Eh, I’ll survive.”

“You’ve spent the last twenty minutes complaining that your sweat has sweat.” You retort with your arms crossed in front of your chest.

“I’ll just keep complaining later.” He shrugs easily.

Worry still lingers somewhere in the back of your mind; the heat is unbearable, and the last thing you want is for him to spend another twenty minutes standing in the blazing sun wrestling with this thing. Still, you know that once Robby decides he’s made up his mind, arguing only makes him dig his heels in deeper. He has never been particularly good at admitting when he’s pushing himself too far, so with one last skeptical look in his direction, you reach to remove your sundress. But before you can even touch the light fabric, Robby catches your wrist, finally looking up at you.

“Don’t go too far.”

“I won’t.” You lean down with a sigh, brushing a quick kiss on his cheek. “And you don’t stay too long here, I can help you set it up later.”

He shakes his head and simply turns back to the stubborn slipcover with the same concentration he puts into inserting chest tubes as you turn and make your way toward the shoreline.

When you come back, with water still dripping lazily from your features, Robby is in the middle of removing his polo.

“... at least you didn’t walk outside feeling like you’d opened a fucking oven—” His little angry soliloquy dies on his tongue the moment he turns around.

You slowly come to a stop in front of him, the corners of your mouth curling upward just barely as you notice his eyes falling directly on your bikini.

“What?”

His eyes flick up to yours for the shortest of seconds before betraying him completely by wandering back down again. “Nothing.”

You fold your arms, definitely pleased with his reaction, and that only accentuates the gentle curve of your breasts, the shape of your nipples hard to ignore because of the sudden change in temperature. His eyes solemnly follow the movement, before noticing the tiny droplet sliding down your shoulder and disappearing in your cleavage.

“Weren’t you busy giving your annual lecture about how summers were better in the twentieth century?”

Your teasing voice is what gets him back to reality. He smiles to himself, finally looking you in the eye. “Yeah, and then my girlfriend got out of the water looking like a goddess.”

You shake your head but still giggle at his cheesiness, and Robby reaches for you before you have a chance to step away, his hands settling around your hips with familiar ease once he takes a seat on his own beach towel.

“C’mere.”

You let him pull you between his knees, the movement bringing you close enough that he can tip his head back and press an adoring kiss on your hipbone, just above the hem of your bikini.

Your fingers leisurely comb his hair. “What are you doing?” You murmur.

“Worshipping the goddess.” He mutters back without actually moving his mouth away from your damp skin.

Heat creeps up all the way to your neck, a quiet titter escaping your lips as your fingertips idly massage his scalp. Lazy, reverent kisses are peppered across your lower abdomen, his salt-and-pepper beard tickling your skin with every small brush of his lips until a pleasant shiver works its way up your spine. There is something so effortlessly adoring about the gesture that you stop pretending you want him to quit.

One of his hands eventually slips into your beach bag just beside the towel, emerging with the bottle of sunscreen he had personally packed up yesterday night, and gives it a little shake.

He pats the space between his legs without a single word, but you tilt your head at him. “I’m still wet, it’ll slide off.” 

His hands stills at once, realizing you are right. “Alright, just five more minutes then.”

“Deal.”

You decide to sit beside him on your own towel, staying tucked comfortably against his side while the sun takes care of the last traces of water on your body. Robby has slipped on his own sunglasses, one arm lazily hooked behind you while the bottle of sunscreen sits forgotten beside his thigh. Every now and then he brushes the back of his hand over your arm, checking if your skin is still too damp.

A few yards away, an inflatable flamingo bobs happily across the shoreline after escaping from somebody’s beach setup for what has to be the third time that afternoon.

“There he goes again.” 

You perk up, eyes immediately finding the same poor man who is jogging after it. Again. “Did you see him too before?”

Robby hums, his sunglasses having slipped halfway down his nose as he follows the wave carrying the flamingo further away. The man makes one final heroic dive, but misses by inches. You both suck in a sympathetic breath.

“He waited too long.” your boyfriend murmurs, still watching the unfolding disaster. “Once it turned sideways he should’ve just cut it off.”

You tilt your face toward him, mirthful. “Listen to yourself.”

His chin tips enough for him to look at you over the rim of his sunglasses. “What?”

“You sound like—I don’t know, one of those dads who always have an opinion about what strangers are doing.”

A smile tugs lazily at one corner of his mouth. “I’m just sayin’,” he gestures vaguely toward the water. “The flamingo doesn’t know where it’s going, it only follows the wind, so just go where it’s going to end up.”

You stare at him for a second before chuckling at his serious analysis. “Have you genuinely been thinking about this?”

“Long enough to become invested.”

Right on cue, a little girl—probably not older than eight—runs straight past the poor man and into the water and scoops the flamingo without breaking stride. She marches back toward her family like she’s just completed a military operation, leaving the man to contemplate the horizon with both hands on his hips.

Robby clicks his tongue.

“Ouch.” You murmur, leaning further into his shoulder to hide your face and laugh freely against his skin.

“See? She anticipated.” Robby watches the defeated father make his way back to his towel, shaking his head to himself. “He’s never living that down.”

“I mean, of course.” You grin. “If I’d been his wife, I’d have brought it up at every family gathering for the next twenty years.”

He nudges your knee lightly with his own. “You’re so cruel, baby.”

“Excuse me?” Your eyebrows shoot up in mock offense. “I’m funny—no, matter of fact, I’m the funniest person you know! I’m always making you laugh.”

“Mh.” His mouth twitches. “The line’s thinner than you think.”

You scoff jokingly, ready to move your towel away for good measure, but your shoulders deflate instantly as Robby’s arm travels between your knees, his fingers finding your thigh to absently trace slow circles. His gaze wanders from the water to the families scattered along the shoreline. He has a habit of settling into silence like this, never making it feel awkward, and as much as you love talking, you’ve grown to cherish these little peaceful moments in which you simply get to exist together.

Leaning more comfortably against his side, you bask in the breeze rolling in off the water that pleasantly caresses your warm skin. Around you, the beach hums with the lazy rhythm of the early afternoon. A couple not really distant to you has a portable speaker playing the local news just loud enough to drift across the sand, a group of children is digging an elaborate moat around a sandcastle that’s almost certainly going to lose the battle against the tide, and every few minutes a seagull swoops low enough to make somebody yelp for their sandwich. 

“Why don’t you go take a swim, Mike? You’ve been under the sun for too long.” You mumble with your temple pressed to his arm.

“After sunscreen.” His lips press a peck on your forehead and you wrap your arms around his, dragging it closer to your chest before closing your eyes in contentment.

That’s when a little boy races past your towels with an ice cream twice the size of his hand. Two seconds later, you open your eyes just in time to watch it slip from the cone and land upside down in the sand.

You and Robby wince at the same time.

“He looks devastated, oh my God, Michael.” You coo sadly his name as if your boyfriend could do something about it, the kid now walking to his mother with a big, trembling pout.

“I’d be crushed too, sweetheart.”

Your eyes look up at him. “Really? Doctor Robby would cry over a vanilla cone?”

“Angel,” he doesn’t even hesitate. “At the beach? On a day like this?” He turns towards the boy, sitting on his towel with his little arms folded to his chest while his father tries to comfort him. “I’d probably have a moment too.”

You chuckle under your breath. “You’re so adorable, honey.”

“Occupational hazard.”  

“Mhh, don’t think emergency medicine is what did that to you.”

He only answers with a smile, lightly running the back of his fingers over your leg. “There we go,” he announces quietly, more to himself than to you. “Finally dry enough.” You also glance down at your body before rubbing your other leg with your fingertips, but he’s already reaching for the sunscreen, giving it another little shake.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

You promptly shift between his legs, removing the strings from around your neck so Robby can take care of your whole back without obstructions. His hand settles briefly at your waist to steady you as you adjust, smiling privately to himself.

“Good girl.” He murmurs while squirting a generous amount of lotion into his palm, warming it between both hands.

A shiver runs down your back at his low voice directly in your ear, his touch warm and soft as he spreads the sunscreen across your shoulders with slow, careful movements. He’s impossibly thorough; you’ve already accepted that there is no point pretending you’ll be done in less than two minutes. He always treats your body with something bordering on reverent respect, never taking for granted that he gets to care for it. His broad hands pause at every freckle, never wandering too impatiently but instead pausing like they are learning you all over again with every little stroke.

Robby makes sure he doesn’t even miss the tops of your shoulders and the little spot just beneath the strap digging into your spine that you somehow always manage to forget.

“Turn your head a little.” His thumb lingers on your shoulder blade enough to smooth away the last white streak. His fingertips spread the sunscreen right on your nape, and a moment later, you feel his lips brush the sensitive patch of skin just behind your ear. It tickles enough to make you squirm.

“Michael!” You gasp in surprise, trying to duck away.

“What? I’m multitasking.” You don’t need to turn around to know his lips are probably stretched into a smug grin.

“Alright, time to lie down.”

You stretch out on your towel with an exaggerated sigh, adjusting your bikini so you don’t accidentally flash anyone while Robby reaches for your ankle first and draws your leg comfortably across his thigh.

“You know I could have done this myself?” You throw him a smirk, propping yourself up on one elbow as you put your sunglasses on with your other hand.

“Oh, I know.” He doesn’t even look up, his hands sliding carefully from your calf to your right knee. “That’s why you almost got sunburned last August when you came here with your friends.”

“That happened only once.” You roll your eyes. “I’m still in my twenties.”

“And?” He lifts an eyebrow as he regards you with barely concealed amusement, gently lifting your foot.

“And my skin can handle a little sun.” You shrug dismissively.

Robby snorts quietly, moving on the other side for your left leg. “You know ultraviolet radiation has never stopped to ask anyone how old they are?”

Your shoulders shake at his unexpected answer. “Mh, so no ID check first?”

“I’m afraid not.” He chuckles. “I’ll bring it up at the next meeting.”

“The annual convention of sunlight?”

“Exactly.” You grin to yourself, watching him finish with your other leg in silence before he gives your butt an affectionate squeeze.

“There,” Robby says with pride written all over his face. “Protected.”

After an hour spent intertwined in the water just like those corny couples you used to roll your eyes at from behind your sunglasses, the complaints have mysteriously stopped. Robby is now stretched out beneath the shade, his Moscot Billik sunglasses perched on his nose and one arm folded beneath his head.

See, he has spent so many years believing that standing still was a luxury he hadn’t earned. Every free day carried the uncomfortable feeling that there was somewhere else he should be, someone else who needed him more, another problem he could solve. Rest always came with cruel whispers that somebody else was still carrying the same weight while he sat at home with nothing to do.

And look at him now, spending entire afternoon stretched out beneath a beach umbrella with salt still drying on his skin, one hand absently wandering over your waist and his eyelids growing heavy to the rhythmic sound of the waves meeting the foreshore. The corners of his mouth are softened into that drowsy little smile he only ever wears when he’s truly at peace, and in that moment, you can’t help wondering whether he’d forgotten how beautiful ordinary days could be until they slipped through his fingers.

Or perhaps he’d simply forgotten that he, too, was allowed to stop running for a while.

You turn your head to properly face him.

“You seem pretty relaxed.”

“I am.” He mumbles sleepily.

“Thought this weather was inhumane.”

“Still is.”

“But I don’t hear you complaining anymore.”

“I’m conserving energy to do it later.”

You burst into an involuntary giggle, causing his mouth to automatically twist up at the sweet sound.

“I’ll admit,” he starts after a moment, giving your hip a light squeeze. “It’s become marginally more tolerable.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrows shoot up curiously. “What changed?”

This time Robby does turn his head toward you, lowering his sunglasses just enough to meet your eyes.

“I remembered I get to spend a whole day looking at my beautiful girl in a skimpy bikini.” 

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his shameless smugness.

“Cheesy.” You mumble without a single trace of annoyance in your voice. “So now the weather’s okay?” You try again.

“Fuck, no.” He scoffs. “The world is still burning.” His fingers lightly tap the skin of your hip, before he leans over to kiss your nose. “But the company is excellent.”

OLD MAN!ROBBY WHO ACCIDENTALLY ADOPTS YOUR FRIENDS

Robby has learned to recognize the signs of your exhaustion during exam season from nothing more than the way your texts become shorter as the afternoon wears on, and how you eventually stop replying altogether because you’ve become so absorbed in your notes that the rest of the world ceases to exist.

That evening is no different. The campus library is overflowing with students trying to survive finals week. Every table is occupied, every outlet claimed by somebody’s laptop charger, and every available surface is buried beneath color-coded notes and enough empty coffee cups to suggest that nobody in that building has slept in days.

Your own table isn’t much better, with Emma’s highlighting the same paragraph for what has to be the fifth time while muttering under her breath. Chloe has abandoned any attempt at good posture, practically folded over her laptop with her cheek squished against her palm and her bloodshot red eyes fighting to stay open. Even Maya, who usually keeps the rest of you on track, has been staring blankly at the same page of her textbook as if the information will magically appear in her brain. 

Your phone vibrates beside your notebook just as you are trying to decipher the chicken scratch your past self wrote, along with a series of abbreviations that seemed like an excellent idea at the time but now are only wasting precious minutes.

The smile that appears on your face is tired but relieved nonetheless.

Have you eaten today? ❤️

You unlock your phone beneath the table.

Kind of

Robby’s reply comes almost instantly.

Kind of isn’t an answer

I had a sandwich

At lunch

A few seconds pass before another message appears.

What are you doing for dinner?

You glance around the table. Emma has started rubbing at her temples, and Chloe is muttering about searching for a restaurant on her phone.

We’ll probably order takeout and eat in the hallway, we still have a lot to revise and idk how late we’ll be here

The three dots appear and disappear for a couple of times.

I’ll come get you.

You frown at the screen.

??

All of you

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it, causing Maya to briefly glance up.

Michael there are four of us

My suv has five seats 👍

You bite your lip, definitely tempted.

We’d be invading your house

This time, the screen lights up with an incoming call and a selfie of you two kissing that you took when you went on a short trip to New York last month.

Emma immediately looks up from her notes and sees your screen. “Oh,” she whispers.

“Not a word.” You point your finger at her as you slip out of your chair. She mimes zipping her lips but you are too far away to notice the knowing grin she exchanges with the others.

Once you are standing in the hallway just outside the library entrance, you answer.

“Hey.”

“Hi, baby.” The warmth in his voice makes your shoulders relax instantly.

In the background, you hear the dull thud of a knife against a chopping board and the faint clatter of pans.

“Are you cooking?”

“I was about to.”

You almost sigh forlornly at the sole thought of a warm homemade meal cooked by your boyfriend. “What are you making?” 

“Haven’t decided yet. I was waiting to hear what my girl felt like eating.”

It’s pathetic how your heart gives a ridiculous little squeeze. “Michael…”

“Hm?”

“I told you, we’ll just order something here.”

“You need something with actual nutritional value, not some greasy pizza from a hole-in-the-wall with questionable hygiene.”

You gasp. “Pizza has carbs, protein, dairy, and vegetables if you order them—don’t you dare slander one of mankind’s greatest culinary achievements.” Your expression quickly softens into something far too teasing. “And weren’t you the one eating takeout every night until last year?”

You are meet with silence. It lasts only a couple of seconds, but it’s enough for your stomach to tighten. The smile slowly fades from your face as a dozen of possibilities rush through your mind. You just reminded him of one of the worst periods of his life. God, why are you like this? Why do you always blurt out the first thing that comes to mind? Why can’t you think before you speak for once? Why—

“Well,” Robby sighs theatrically. “I am a doctor. Clearly I’m the gold standard when it comes to taking care of myself.” 

The dry sarcasm catches you so off guard that a loud laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, but you are hastily clapping a hand over your mouth the moment a student stepping out of the library throws you an outraged look.

“I’ll come get you.” Robby exclaims out of the blue.

You lean against the wall, lowering your voice. “We’re going to be at it for hours.”

“That’s fine.” You can imagine him shrugging nonchalantly. “It’s not like I sleep in the living room.”

“But we’re going to be loud.”

“And? I have a dining room because people are supposed to sit in it, and it has a door that can be closed. Just like our bedroom. Which is at the very end of the first floor.” He reminds you gently.

Our bedroom.

There has never been a conversation where the room had stopped belonging only to him, no milestone, or dramatic declaration. One day you left a spare sweater in his closet and suddenly you had a drawer completely yours, the bathroom cabinet on the right filled with your skincare products, and your favorite mug permanently stored in his kitchen.

“I spent twelve hours at the hospital, I promise your friends aren’t louder than a trauma bay.”

“That’s exactly why we can’t come, you need to rest.” You frown, worried.

“But I am resting, baby—”

“No Michael, you are planning to cook for four stressed college students.”

“I’m planning to cook for my girlfriend,” he corrects gently. “And her friends, who are welcomed to tag along.”

Your eyelids flutter shut tiredly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” His voice softens into a murmur. “But I want to.”

Robby lets the silence settle comfortably before clearing his throat, clearly concerned. “I don’t like the thought of you sitting in that library until midnight eating cold takeout and calling it dinner.”

“‘S not the first time.” You mumble, shyly looking at your shoes.

“I know. What’s that thing you say? It’s a canon event for every student?” He smiles at your little chuckle. “But I’m here and I have a big house and water boiling for pasta. I’d rather know you’ve had a proper meal and somewhere quiet where you can just focus on studying instead of worrying about possible creeps or thieves if you doze off at some point.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the device.

“The campus is almost forty minutes away from your house.” You counter weakly.

“Okay? I’ll drive everyone home afterwards.”

“Michael!” It comes out as a protest.

“I mean it, I don’t mind.” You hear a cupboard door open and close. “And if they’re too tired, there’s a guest room.” You blink. “And an air mattress in the basement.” He adds with such effortless certainty that it’s obvious he doesn’t see what the fuss is about.

You sigh, rubbing your sore eyes.

“What is it, my love?” 

You chuckle quietly, shaking your head even though he can’t see you.

“You’re impossible, Doctor Robinavitch.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He hums. “So… are you going to let me feed you?” 

You look back through the glass door into the library. Maya is trying to stretch the stiffness out of her shoulders, while Chloe has given up entirely and is now using her textbook as a pillow. Emma is still fighting through, but the circles under her eyes are terrifyingly dark and deep.

“Let me ask the girls first.”

“I’ll leave in ten minutes.”

Your eyes squint at the certainty in his tone. “You already assumed I’d say yes?”

“I know my girl.” The clinking sound of his keys resound in the background. “See you soon, sweetheart.”

“Drive safely, Mike.”

When you walk back inside, three expectant faces are already waiting for you.

“Was that Doctor Dreamboat?” Emma’s eyebrows wiggle up and down, making you roll your eyes at her.

“Maybe.” You sit down, slipping your phone into your hoodie pocket and trying very hard to look unaffected.

“What?” You ask once you notice all three staring at you with different degrees of amusement.

Chloe lets out a snort from across the table. “Oh please, don’t even try that. You’ve been smiling like an idiot since you got up to answer his call.”

“Are those little pink hearts I see in her eyes?” Maya teases, leaning forward on her elbows.

Your neck burns slightly at their silly teases.

“Did he call to wish you goodnight?” Emma inquires, folding her arms on the table. 

You frown in confusion. “It’s not even nine.”

“Yeah, but nursing homes have curfews.” A tired sigh escapes your nostrils at her not-so-quiet laugh as Maya lightly smacks her arm followed by a whispered stop it.

“Actually,” you sit a little bit straighter. “He called because he wanted to invite us over.”

The three of them sober up in an instant, blinking at you almost in unison.

“Us?” Chloe points at herself.

You nod, extremely pleased by their surprised reaction. “He said he’s making dinner, so we should all go to his place instead of ordering takeout here. Apparently he’d rather know we’ve eaten something warm and healthy before spending another five hours staring at textbooks.”

Emma slowly closes her laptop.

“I’m sorry,” she breaks the stunned silence. “Your sugar daddy wants to cook dinner for the four of us because we’re desperate college students?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname she has been using for him since you told them he is way older than you. “Yes,” you smile. “He even offered us his dining room to study.” You look her dead in the eye. “And don’t call him that in front of him.”

You scrunch your nose. You don’t even know if he is aware of what it means.

Maya slams her book shut. “I’m getting my backpack.”

Robby’s SUV is pulled up to the curb outside the library, hazards blinking lazily while he stands beside the open trunk, and one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket. The moment he spots you walking down the steps, his face softens into a smile.

“There she is.”

You can’t help grinning back at him, your feet quickening on their own accord as you cross the last few feet between you. Four days of being practically locked away buried in textbooks suddenly feel a lot longer when Robby is waiting at the other end. As soon as you are within reach, he leans down to kiss you hello, one hand finding your waist while the other cradles your cheek with that familiar gentleness you’ve missed an embarrassing amount.

“Hi, pretty girl.”

“How are you?” You ask immediately, already massaging his shoulders.

“I’m good.” The subtle sigh doesn’t escape you but now it’s not the time nor the place to pry. “You look tired.” His eyebrows furrow as his thumb mindlessly strokes the apple of your cheek.

“Try exhausted.” Robby’s wrinkle between his brows deepens at your weak chuckle.

“Mh, I figured.” His fingers linger on you for a second too long to feel like mere habit, before reluctantly letting you go. His attention finally turns to the three girls standing a respectful distance behind you.

“So,” he starts with an easy smile, extending his hand toward the closest one. “You must be Emma.”

She blinks, clearly not expecting him to know her name, before quickly scurrying to shake his hand. “I am.”

“Chloe?” He points at your blonde friend.

“Exactly!” She replies with a pleased smile.

“And Maya.” 

She nods. “Nice to meet you, Doctor Robinavitch.”

That makes him wave a hand dismissively with a loud chuckle as he reaches for your backpack to put in the trunk.

“The pleasure is all mine, ladies, but Robby is just fine.” He asks for her backpack next and her eyes go comically wide.

“Oh no, I can’t let you—”

“You’ve been carrying these around campus since this morning.” He lifts it into the car as though it weighs nothing. “Humor an old man.”

The girls exchange an amused look at that.

“You don’t look old.” Chloe says ultimately.

Another deep laugh escapes him. “I appreciate that.”

“Don’t look that old.” You cough jokingly, squealing in delight when a pair of strong arms wraps around your waist from behind.

“I cooked you dinner, sweetheart.” He looks down at you with his eyes squinted, the same way they do when he forgets his glasses.

“And?” You rise your eyebrows at him innocently.

“And this is the thanks I get?” 

A grin brightens your face, and unable to resist, you steal a quick kiss before he opens the passenger door for you with a shake of his head.

By the time everyone has settled into the car, the awkwardness you’d half dreaded has disappeared almost completely.

“So,” he pulls away from the curb. “Which exam has everybody so miserable?”

“Biostatistics.” Chloe groans from the back seat, her head tipping back to the headrest. 

Robby winces sympathetically. 

“Biostatistics.” He repeats gravely, the single word carrying enough shared suffering to make all four of you smile. “I haven’t had to think about statistics in…” He huffs, head bobbing left to right as he does the math in his head. “Good Lord.”

A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest. “About thirty years.”

Emma’s head dramatically falls forward. “Please don’t say that.”

He glances at her in the rear-view mirror, still grinning. “Why not?”

“Because it makes the rest of us feel like we should still be in elementary school.”

That earns another laugh from him.

“Which doesn’t sound that bad right now.” Maya adds, exhaustion bleeding out of her words as she looks out of the window with half-lidded eyes.

“I’m afraid I can’t control the calendar.” He shrugs apologetically.

“No,” Chloe teases with a small smirk. “But you can stop reminding us how long you’ve been an adult.”

Robby hums under his breath. “I wish someone had stopped reminding me.”

“Really?” Emma blurts out. “You seem pretty comfortable with it.”

“Oh, I am now.”

“You say that,” you add, reaching over to straighten the collar of his jacket where the seatbelt has folded it awkwardly. “But every morning you make at least one comment about your back.”

“My back has earned the right to complain.”

“And your knees.” You keep going on unhelpfully. 

“They’re particular vocal before coffee.” He sighs, entertaining the girls. “But I’ve made peace with the fact that I own orthopedic pillows and have opinions about lawn fertilizer.”

“Lawn fertilizer?” Chloe asks confused.

“I have a lawn.” Robby shrugs easily. 

“That’s…” She shakes her head, amusement permanently carved onto her lips. “One of the most adult sentences I’ve ever heard.”

“That’s fair.” He nods. “I’ve reached an age where I’m no longer interested in pretending I don’t get excited when the hardware store puts mulch on sale.”

The back seat dissolves into another round of laughter and you look at Robby with a grateful smile, fully melting into the passenger seat.

The light turns red just as Maya is in the middle of venting about her microbiology professor, who somehow managed to cram the last six chapters into a single lecture. Robby slows the car to a stop, nodding along every now and then as his hand reaches across the center console and settles over yours where it’s resting on your thigh. His thumb brushes lazily across your knuckles, a gesture so instinctive that neither of you think about the three girls in the back seat observing with poorly concealed enthusiasm. You simply turn your hand over and let your fingers curl between his.

“... and then she had the nerve to say that they won’t be on the exam, but we all know she’s going to put at least four questions about those chapters.”

Robby lets out an amused huff. “They always say that.”

“See?” She exclaims, turning toward the other two girls. “I told you, you have to be a special kind of asshole to teach at university.”

The light turns green, and Robby gives your hand one last squeeze before moving it back to the gearshift.

The sudden silence behind you lasts exactly five more seconds.

“So…” Emma clears her throat.

You glance over your shoulder at the strange quiet that follows, finding your friends already staring at the two of you with a smirk.

“What?”

Chloe slowly lifts a finger, pointing first at you, then at Robby.

“Mama y papa.”

Your face falls. “Chloe.”

Maya has already buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking so hard with laughter that she is struggling to catch her breath.

“It’s a TikTok audio.” Emma explains, maybe taking pity on you.

“I know that audio.” You squint your eyes at her, the tips of your ears tingling with hot embarrassment.

“C’mon.” She drags the word out, gesturing helplessly between the two of you. “Look at you,” she points at Robby’s hand. “You straighten his collar every five minutes like you’ve been married for twenty years.”

“Oh my God.” You mumble mortified, sinking further into the car seat. Beside you, Robby is still trying to catch up. 

“... Is this because of the hand?” He glances down at your joined fingers as though only realizing he had reached for you again in the first place.

“Yes!” Your friends exclaim in perfect unison.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his lips. “Oh.” 

Then, lifting your hand for good measure, he brushes a sweet kiss across your knuckles before settling it back on your tight, his palm lingering there for a second longer.

“Well,” he squeezes your knee. “She is my girl.”

The back seat absolutely loses it.

“See?” Emma throws her head back against the headrest with the loudest groan possible. “He keeps saying shit like that!”

You hide your burning face against Robby’s shoulder as he comes to a stop at another traffic light, utterly incapable of looking any of your friends in the eye. Beneath you, you can feel the quiet rumble of his laughter, still thoroughly confused. Even so, his lips press a gentle kiss right over your eyebrow, letting his cheek come to rest against the top of your head, extremely pleased to have you so close.

“I feel like I’m missing something.” He mumbles as your friends keep talking animatedly.

“You are.”

“Hm.” He smiles to himself, briefly glancing at the girls in the mirror. “Whatever it is, I hope you’re still hungry.”

OLD MAN!ROBBY AND GEN Z SLANG

It’s a slow Friday evening, and you’re standing on a chair because Robby refuses to buy a step stool any time soon, not when he can effortlessly reach the highest places in his beautiful home. He is currently wiping down the kitchen counter, yet he can’t help glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure you aren’t about to fall.

“I can feel your eyes on my ass.” You eventually speak, stretching to shove the last new serving bowl you bought that afternoon together onto the top shelf.

“Just making sure you don’t break your neck.”

“I’m used to climb onto chairs.” 

“And gravity has never once cared.”

You huff a laugh and nudge the cabinet shut, rolling your eyes at the little sigh of relief echoing behind you when you finally climb down, before carrying the empty cardboard box towards the recycling bin.

“Now that I think about it, it would be a very embarrassing obituary.”

Robby reaches past you to take it from your hands without even asking, flattening it with practiced ease before dropping it into the bin.

“And an unnecessary one, too.” He dusts his hands together. “You know, one of these days you’re going to let me put things on the high shelves without complaining.”

“And rob you of the joy of watching me climb on furniture?” He simply shakes his head with a small smile as he goes back to rinse the rag. You take that chance to wander by his side, now watching him start sorting through the spice rack.

“So,” he starts as you steal a grape from the bowl he’d washed earlier. “How was your day?”

You shrug. “Pretty normal. Emma called before I showered, though.”

“Oh?”

“You remember Sophia?”

He pauses for a moment, frowning as he tries to put the name to a face. “From high school?” Robby eventually asks, turning to look at you for confirmation as he slowly puts on his readers. “Chloe’s childhood best friend who humiliated her at prom?”

“Yep.” 

He hums, eyes fixed on the little house-shaped jars. “What happened?”

You lean against the counter with your hip, pursing your lips. “Well… apparently her fiancé’s been cheating on her for months with her cousin, Mia.”

Robby’s eyebrows jump up in surprise, before shooting you a careful glance. “Oh, that’s…” He doesn’t dare finishing the sentence, waiting for what you have to say next.

“I know.” You lift a hand before he can continue. “I know, that’s horrible.”

“I feel like there’s a but…” He squints playfully.

“I’m just going to say that karma finally clocked in.” You throw your palms up, shrugging innocently as you turn back around and start fidgeting with a jar of paprika.

Robby blinks. “I’m sorry?”

You glance back at him. “What?”

“What does that mean?”

You frown, genuinely confused. “What?”

“The karma and the clock—”

You scrunch your nose at him, bewildered. “You don’t know what’s karma?”

“No, I—” He huffs out a laugh bordering on exasperation. “Yes, sweetheart, I know what karma is. I just don’t understand what you said.”

“Karma clocked in.” You repeat deadpan.

“Yeah, that.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen suddenly. “Oh, that’s like… you know,” you wave a hand vaguely. “When karma finally hits someone.”

He considers that for a second. “So… why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because that’s not how people say it.”

“People as in your generation?” He asks with an amused twist of his lips.

You squint your eyes at him but Robby simply lets out a thoughtful hum, going back to his task.

“I swear every month your generation collectively decides the English language needs updating.”

“Hey, it keeps things interesting!” You quickly retort defensively. “And every generation has its cringey slang, so why don’t you take a chill pill, dude?” You deepen your voice into an exaggerated imitation of someone who is supposed to be twice your age.

And now you suddenly feel like your dad when he is convinced he just said something incredibly cool.

At that, Robby completely abandons his little jars to sneak a strong arm around your waist, his free hand immediately going for your sides as you squirm and laugh in his hold.

“Did you just call me ‘dude’, little lady?” 

“Michael! Stop for fuck’s sake!” You throw your head back against his shoulder, your eyes prickling with unshed tears.

“Hmm, I don’t think I will.” He smiles down at you as you keep laughing hysterically.

“Sorry, sorry—baby! You are baby!” You manage to wheeze out, and thankfully Robby seems to be satisfied with it as he hums and eventually his fingers still altogether.

“Fuck.” You sniffle, still chuckling at the phantom feeling of his hand moving quickly and nimbly on your skin. “Damn me and the day I told you I was ticklish.”

“I would’ve found out eventually.” He shrugs, pressing a kiss on your forehead before focusing back on the spices.

Your fingers wipe the few small tears that spilled on your cheeks. “I’ll make you a glossary, by the way.”

He nods with all the seriousness he can muster. “I think I might actually need one.”

Your lips part as if you want to add something else, but your eyes suddenly fall on the oregano he’s just placed. “Oh my God this is so cute, I love this shade of purple.”

Robby sends you a fond smile.

“Anyway,” you slip the jar back into its place after tracing the little details on the house-shaped container with a careful finger. “Back to Sophia, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, but she was awful, Michael. She walked around like the world owed her something while looking like the Temu version of Regina George. But meaner.” You suddenly turn towards him, frowning. “Am I a bad person?”

Robby leaves the rosemary alone to look at you, eyes wide and mouth parted.

“She was a what?” He exclaims, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion before quickly adding, “God, no baby, no. Of course you’re not a bad person. After everything you’ve told me about her, I don’t think I’d lose much sleep over her getting a taste of her own medicine if I were you.” Robby shakes his head disappointed. “I still can’t believe what she did to Chloe on your first school trip.”

His arms are back around your hips, guiding you into the warmth of his chest. “You’re so good, sweetheart. But that doesn’t mean you have to feel for someone who spent years making your life miserable.” He gives a small shrug. “Sooner or later our choices catch up with us, and something bad happening to her doesn’t erase what she did to you or to Chloe.”

“Why are you always right?” Your finger wander absently beneath the collar of his half-zip sweater, playing lazily with the dark hair scattered across his chest. The movement earns you a contented hum, your arms winding around his neck and drawing him down into a slow kiss that’s more tongue than lips for a quiet evening that was supposed to be dedicated to re-organizing the kitchen.

He smiles into it. “Not always.” You only answer by letting your mouth drift to the side of his jaw, your lips brushing the warm flesh of his neck before leaving a playful little bite just below his ear.

Robby’s head falls back with a soft moan. “Baby?”

“Hm?” You mumble against his skin, busy filling his jaw with little pecks.

His hand slides up your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. “Who’s Regina George?”

The way your body instantly goes rigid against his has Robby’s heart fall to his feet. Did he say something wrong?

You emerge from his neck looking scarily serious. “What did you just say?”

“I—I asked who Regina George is.”

“Michael.”

“... Yes?”

“You know…” You try again, nodding in encouragement. “Regina George.”

He frowns apologetically. “Was she a friend of Sophia?”

“From Mean Girls.” Your voice overlaps his, horrified.

There’s a beat of awkward silence as he desperately searches his memory for something, anything. But he can only give you a small, almost tentative shake of his head.

“I… don’t think I know what that is.”

You stare at him as though he’s just admitted he’s never loved you. “What do you mean? You’ve never seen Mean Girls?”

He shrugs, genuinely baffled by your reaction. 

“Oh my God, you’re serious.” Your lips part in surprise. “How?”

Robby lets out a quiet laugh at the sheer terror in your voice. “You know I don’t really keep up with new stuff.”

Your gasp is so loud it almost hurts your throat. “It came out in 2004!”

He sputters. “I was thirty-one, sweetheart.”

“So?”

“I was working.” He eases back until his back meets the counter, bringing you with him. “I spent most of that year in scrubs. If I wasn’t at the hospital, I was asleep. If I wasn’t asleep, I was trying to remember whether I’d already eaten that day.”

Your mouth opens and closes, not really knowing how to answer to that when you know very well he was probably too exhausted to make his own bed, let alone keep up with pop culture. Still, he never even heard of it.

“So ‘on Wednesday we wear pink’ doesn’t ring any bell?”

A slow shake of his head.

“‘Get in, loser, we’re going shopping’?”

“Nope.”

“‘She doesn’t even go here’?” You try one last, desperate time.

“I’m afraid not.” He chuckles quietly at your mounting disbelief.

Your hand comes dramatically to your chest. “Michael,” you start gravely. “I don’t know if this relationship can survive.”

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, but instead of arguing, he decides to take on a far more effective approach by leaning down and pressing his lips to your cheek first.

“I can’t believe you’ve been living among society without seeing Mean Girls.” You shake your head, truly disappointed. “How the hell have you never even heard about it? You spend all day surrounded by people in their twenties—doesn’t Javadi have a TikTok account?”

“Hm,” his lips linger there for another moment before slowly making their way to your jaw. “I think I’ve managed surprisingly well until now.” His words are nothing short of a low murmur on your skin.

You scoff, undeterred. “You’ve been culturally deprived.”

“Baby, I had sixty-hour work weeks at best.” His mouth travels down to your collarbone. “I was a little busy.”

Despite your best efforts to maintain your scandalized facade, your resolve starts slipping embarrassingly fast. The wrinkle between your brows is stubbornly persisting, yet it becomes considerably harder when his smile brushes against the swell of your breast, pulling a soft gasp out of you.

“So,” he murmurs as he finally comes up to look at you, his mouth twisted into a smirk now that he has you all pliant in his hold. “Am I about to be educated?”

Your eyes widen imperceptibly. “You’ll actually watch it?”

“If it matters this much to my girl…” His thumb strokes the curve of your waist. “I’d say it’s worth finding out who this Regina George is.”

Robby has one arm around your shoulders, his hand resting against your upper arm while the other reaches into the bowl of popcorn balanced on his thigh every now and then. He has never looked more relaxed, with you stretched on his modular sofa and tucked against his side beneath the throw blanket, your cheeks pressed to his chest and one arm looped lazily around his waist.

The movie has barely been on for ten minutes but you have already glanced at Robby a total of six times. It’s not your fault you are curious, your eyes drifting automatically to him whenever an iconic scene comes up, waiting to catch his reaction as you wonder whether he’ll laugh at the same joke you did the first time you watched it.

The seventh time your gaze lingers a little too long, and Robby doesn’t bother hiding his amusement.

“Sweetheart.” He starts without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Hm?”

“If you keep looking at me with those pretty eyes of yours I’m going to kiss you and then I’m definitely going to miss the movie.”

“Just making sure you pay attention.” You cuddle closer, giving the side of his sweater a little squeeze.

“Oh I am, as a matter of fact I’m tryin’ to figure out why everybody is so terrified of that blonde girl.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Give it a few minutes.”

Robby barely moves for the next few minutes, settling a little deeper into the cushions and drawing you with him until your head slips more comfortably beneath his chin. His thumb resumes its lazy circles against your arm while he watches the movie with surprising concentration. He’s really invested, not just politely watching because it’s one of your favorite movies, or half-listening while thinking about tomorrow’s shift.

“So this one is Gretchen.” He suddenly points at the television.

“Mhm.”

“And the blonde one is Karen.”

“Correct.”

“And they’re all friends with Regina, right?”

“Uhh…” You consider the question with a grimace.

“They’re supposed to be friends.” Robby instantly corrects himself, smiling down at you over the rim of his glasses. “A friendship of convenience.”

“Yeah.” You exclaim, nodding along. “Let’s go with that.”

Five quiet minutes pass before his voice interrupts.

“Who’s Aaron again?”

“Michael!” You whine, sagging dramatically against his chest. “We just saw him.”

“Sorry, baby. I was looking at the teacher, can’t remember what’s her name.” He looks genuinely bothered by it, with the same deep furrow of his brows he gets whenever he recognizes a face in the grocery store but can’t quite figure it out from where, only to suddenly remember in the middle of a shift, because of course that was one of his patients!

“I swear I’ve seen her before.”

Rather than teasing him, you sigh with exaggerated resignation and pause the movie to retrieve your phone from the coffee table and look up the cast list, before handing it over. Robby adjusts his glasses a fraction lower on his nose, scrolling slowly as his lips unconsciously setting in concentration, and now you really want to kiss him and feel his body between your thighs, because why the hell does he look so hot with his old man mannerism?

His quiet ‘aha!’ makes his chest rumble under your cheek.

“30 Rock.”

Your head snaps up, your features scrunched in confusion. “You had time to watch a sitcom and not Mean Girls?”

“I’d watch the reruns at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs easily but his answer has you faltering. Because you know exactly what those nights looked like; an exhausted Robby, sitting alone in a dark apartment with the television on low, trying to make sense of everything he’d carried home from the hospital before another shift starts a few hours later.

Without really thinking about it, your hand finds its way back to the warmth of his stomach beneath the blanket while you draw one knee onto his lap, curling close until you are practically wrapped around him.

His gaze falls on you when you crane your neck to kiss his jaw. “What was that for, honey?” You shake your head with a small smile, this time leaning up to kiss his lips.

“Just keeping up with my daily kiss quota.”

Robby studies you for another second, as if he knows there’s something you are not saying out loud, but his arm just tightens around your shoulder, leading you back to nestle against him.

It’s when Regina kisses her ex-boyfriend in front of Cady at Chris’ Halloween party that Robby lets out a deep exhale through his nose.

“She’s exhausting.”

“That’s putting it nicely, but her character is still iconic.” You shrug, reaching for another handful of popcorn.

“I don’t understand why they just keep following everything she says.” 

“You don’t have to understand, you just have have to accept her.”

“I’m having a difficult time accepting Regina, sweetheart.” He looks down at you with a fond smile.

“You don’t have to accept her morally.” You correct this time.

“That’s for sure.”

“She was happier before.” The comment is so quiet you’re not even sure Robby meant to say it out loud.

“Who?”

“The brunette.” He gestures vaguely with his chin.

“Cady.” 

“Yeah.” His gaze never leaves the screen. “She’s obviously trying awfully hard to become somebody else. Give it enough time and she’s gonna turn into the very thing she hates about Regina.”

“You sure you’ve never seen this before?” You recoil a little, enough to blink up at him.

The right corner of his mouth lifts. “I work in an emergency department. I can usually figure people out faster than that.”

And when Gretchen starts crying in the bathroom, you’ve completely given up trying to predict his reactions.

“Oh.” He murmurs.

You glance up, and notice his brows have drawn together.

“She looks terrified.”

“You’re worried about Gretchen?” For the first time that night you temporarily leave the safety of his arms to properly look at him.

“Shouldn’t I be?” His beautiful brown eyes widen innocently and you feel the urgent need to hug him to your chest. The wrinkle between his brows appears almost immediately as his arms now lie uselessly beside him, his eyes looking at you before glancing back at the empty space beside him with betrayal written all over his face.

“I don’t know anyone who’s ever watched this movie and come away saying, ‘you know who I really felt for? Gretchen Wieners.’”

Robby frowns at you. “Really?” He looks genuinely surprised at your nod. “I thought that was where they were heading with her.”

“Hm.” You tuck yourself back beneath his arm, his chest unconsciously deflating at the feeling of your body pressed right back against his. “Well, she is insecure and she knows she’ll never be as popular as Regina yet still stays friends with her because being miserable but part of the Plastics still feels safer than being a nobody.” You pause abruptly, frowning at your own words.

“Damn. Now every time she comes on screen I’m going to feel bad for her instead of finding her annoying. Thank you, Doctor Robby.” You add sarcastically.

He sighs contentedly. “I suppose old habits die hard.”

Once the credits begin to roll, Robby is still sitting back with his thumb stroking your waist beneath the blanket.

“So?” You tip your head back.

He stays quiet for another few seconds, thoughtful enough that you wonder if he’s forgotten you even asked.

Eventually he looks down at you.

“I think they all seemed awfully lonely.” Your eyebrows quirk up. “And they’re horrible to each other.”

“But they’re also sixteen in the movie, right?” He adds gently, not as an excuse but as an observation. “I don’t think many people are particularly kind to themselves and others at that age.”

Your lips stretch into a small smile. “You really watched a completely different movie than I did.”

Robby simply reaches over, cupping your cheek with his free hand as the arm draped over your shoulders pulls you impossibly closer.

“Just couldn’t stop noticing the harsh reality.”

You lean into his palm, basking in the feeling of his thumb caressing your skin. “But…”

“But?” He encourages.

“Would you watch it again?” You give your eyelashes an extra little flutter.

A full smile slowly spread across his face. “With you?” You nod shyly, teeth catching your bottom lip. “I’d watch just about anything with you, sweetheart.”

You groan dramatically, dropping your forehead against his chest.

“That’s such an old man answer, so disgustingly sweet.”

His chuckle vibrates warmly beneath you as he kisses the top of your head, lingering there. “In my defense, I’ve reached a point in my life where I don’t mind being disgustingly sweet. Not when I adore my girlfriend.”

Three days later, Robby stops right behind you in the breakfast aisle as you reach for your favorite brand of cereal. 

“I’ve been thinking…”

You look up from the two flavors you are inspecting. “Hm?”

“Is butter a carb?” 

You stare at him as the words reach your ears, before you finally understand the meaning behind them. “Oh my God.” You almost choke on your own saliva.

“I’ve been waiting all week to use that one.” 

OLD MAN!ROBBY AND ROMANCE

Dating Robby means discovering that romance, to him, isn’t reserved for special occasions. Before him, you’d almost convinced yourself that love was supposed to look like grand gesture on anniversaries and Valentine’s day only, but polite indifference sprinkled with the usual old arguments the rest of the time, because that’s what many people around you seemed to settle for.

He reaches for every door before you do, and if you’re walking together through campus after he picks you up from class, he makes sure to fall into step beside you with one hand resting lightly against the small of your back whenever the pavement gets crowded, quietly steering you around people without interrupting the conversation you’re having. And when you thank him for it, Robby only smiles and looks faintly confused, as though holding a door for the woman he loves is hardly something worth acknowledging.

It also isn’t unusual for you to wake up and sometimes find a bunch of wildflowers wrapped in brown paper from the florist close to your favorite coffee shop, because he’d walked past it while buying breakfast for the two of you after a rare night shift, seen them in the window, and found himself wondering how they’d look like sitting in the little ceramic vase on your windowsill.

What surprises you the most, though, is how often music becomes part of ordinary evenings. Robby always has something playing in the background, whether it’s one of his old jazz records while he cooks, Bruce Springsteen humming softly through the speakers as he folds laundry on a free Sunday evening, or Pearl Jam drifting through the garage.

Somewhere along the way, his music becomes yours. You learn the songs he always reaches for after difficult shifts, while he starts asking what you’re listening to on the way back from campus. Sometimes you steal one of his records, other times he hums one of Rihanna’s songs under his breath as he walks down the trauma bay, only to act oblivious once the youngest residents stop him with wide eyes, because there is no way Doctor Robby listens to Umbrella in his free time.

And then, for your first Valentine’s Day, you finally decide to do something about it.

He unwraps his gift with ridiculous care, peeling the tape back instead of tearing the paper. At first, his smile holds a hint of confusion. He turns the jewel case over in his hands once, twice, marginally acknowledging the handwritten track list on the back before looking up at you.

“You made me a CD?”

You suddenly feel a wave of self-consciousness burning through you. 

“I know it’s old-fashioned.” Your tense shoulders rise a little, but Robby’s smile widens.

“Old-fashioned?” He teases.

“A little.” You shrug and he lets out a soft, amused huff as his thumb runs slowly over the handwritten title on the front in blocky letters, before tracing the little hearts and cute colorful stickers you have attached all over the plastic case.

Then he finally flips it over, eagerly reaching for the glasses he keeps in one of his many pockets, and starts reading the list of songs. His expression changes completely. The first few titles are his favorites, the ones playing when the two of you are driving together, windows down and one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel as the other touches your thigh. A couple of old rock songs he’d introduced you to during the first months of your relationship follow right after; that Duran Duran song that reminds him of his chaotic summers; the Tears For Fears’ song that he never actually listened to fully because he had bought their records at a sketchy market stall that definitely sold counterfeit goods, but teenage Robby wanted it so badly that he couldn’t care less.

The playlist gradually changes then, just like his life did. Artists you play while you get ready, songs that make you tear up for times you could only recall with a kind of warmth that never fails to make your chest hurt. 

He smiles to himself, because he remembers every single moment attached to them. 

“You made this?” He asks quietly, reaching the last track only for his eyes to go back to the beginning and bask in each title all over again.

You hide your shyness with a sheepish chuckle. “I used to burn CDs all the time, but not nearly as romantically. Mostly for long car rides with my parents, and then for my first car. It was an old model and it didn’t have Bluetooth.”

“I was wondering how you managed to make one.”

“I still have an external disc buried somewhere in a drawer.” You shrug vaguely, as if it’s not a big deal.

“You know,” Robby goes back to study the case. “The last time somebody made me a mixtape, it was in college.”

“Really?”

He slowly nods his head at the memory. “It was a cassette. My roommate decided I needed better taste in music.”

“Did you?” Your eyebrows lift playfully.

“Absolutely not.” You start laughing at his ridiculous answer and he soon joins you.

“We spent weeks waiting for songs to come on the radio. We’d be sitting in the apartment and all of a sudden he’d yell and then we’d hope the DJ wouldn’t talk over it.”

“And if he did?” You lean in, curious.

“You sighed dramatically and waited for that song to come on again.” He grins at your surprised expression. “Unfortunately Youtube still wasn’t a thing, angel.” His back sinks comfortably against the couch with a sigh. “Would have spared me days of waiting to catch that fucking Vanilla Ice’s song.” He grumps at last, to which you snigger, imagining a younger version of your boyfriend forced to listen over and over again to the same pop sensations his younger self despised with such a passion.

Robby’s eyes fall back again on the track list with a private smile, prompting you to look down at it as well as you cuddle into his side.

“I kept changing the order.” You mumble into his shoulder.

His eyes find you over the rim of his readers, glinting with a sparkle of glee. “You know I would’ve loved it even if the songs were completely random.”

You duck your head with a coy smile, your fingers worrying instantly at the sleeve of your sweater.

“I couldn’t just throw the songs together.” Your eyes stay on the case. “The first song is Stayin’ Alive for... well, obvious reasons. You told me your grandpa literally ruined the cassette with how much he listened to it, so it just felt right to start there. Then it sort of… follows you.”

Your voice shakes a little at the edges with all the doubts that have been haunting you since the moment you decided to go through with this idea. Will he like it? Are you overstepping? Will he laugh at it? Is this enough? Should you just buy him a perfume?

“There are the songs you’ve loved forever, the ones that have carved your teenage years, and the summer with your friends, your first apartment, your residency in New Orleans… and I kept thinking how strange it is that I know all those memories without having lived any of them.” You shake your head lightly. “But I guess they started feeling familiar to me too.”

Still unable to properly look at him, your cheeks burn under his undivided attention. “And then, little by little, the playlist changed. There are the songs we’ve claimed together.” You point out with a low, almost shy giggle at the thought of something meant just for the two of you. “The ones that we always end up singing when we’re stuck in traffic, the ones you pretend not to like until I catch you humming them while brushing your teeth—even if you always joke about me manipulating you into liking them.”

Your smile gradually morphs into a straight line as your teeth anxiously play with your bottom lip. “I don’t even know when that happened, I just realized one day that I couldn’t hear these songs anymore without thinking of you. And…” A slow huff escapes your nose, half frustrated with yourself because you can’t seem to find the right words. “I don’t know, I just wanted to give you something that… sounded like us.”

The room falls quiet with you, leaving Robby to sit there with his fingers curled loosely around the plastic case and his heart beating to the rhythm of a love he still can’t quite believe it’s finally his.

His gaze is settled on your face, or at least what he can see, because you are still looking at your knees as if admiring the most interesting thing in the world. 

Eventually, “You’re awfully quiet,” you murmur, trying to laugh it off. “‘M starting to think I’ve completely missed the mark.”

Your name comes out of his mouth barely above a whisper.

Another pause follows and this time you allow yourself to watch him from the corner of your eye. His throat bobs with an audible gulp, the faint smile on his lips trembling ever so slightly at the seams before his eyes flutter close, as if to collect himself. 

When the CD is placed safely on the coffee table in front of you, treated with the same utmost care he reserves for his old vinyl records, Robby makes sure to nudge it father away from the wrapping paper, just so it won’t slide off the edge.

His hands then find you. Warm fingers thread through yours, giving your palms a gentle squeeze before he tugs lightly.

“C’mere.” 

There isn’t a single universe in which you wouldn’t.

The cushion dips beneath your weight as you move closer, one of his arms slipping around your waist while the other comes up on your shoulder blades to guide you on his lap. Your bodies slot perfectly against each other as you tuck yourself beneath his chin, breathing in the clean scent of his laundry detergent mixed with the familiarity of something inherently his. 

His hand slides slowly up your neck, finally coming to a rest at the back of your head, his lips leaving a kiss right at the top.

“You have no idea—” Robby finally breaks the charged silence. His voice is rougher, and he has to clear his throat with a self-conscious chuckle. “You have no idea what you’ve just given me.”

It feels like his hand has directly sunk into your chest and squeezed your lungs, but it’s only when you hear a sniffle by your temple that you finally look up. The sight of his gentle eyes shining with unshed tears prompts you to instinctively reach for the hand resting on the back of your head, your fingers lacing together as you bring them to your mouth. The gesture makes him huff out an embarrassed laugh.

Robby studies your joined hands now resting on his belly, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles with a tenderness that borders on reverence, before finally meeting your gaze.

“I love it.” The hand on your waist guides you back to him, his lips moving against your forehead. “I love you.”

It’s impossible to keep your mouth at bay as it stretches into a big, pleased smile that leaves your cheeks hurting. 

“Love you too, Mike.” A delight little wiggle rakes through you while your body presses more insistently against his. “But you haven’t even listened to it yet.” Your words slur together under his gentle attention, unable to quite contain the warmth blooming behind your ribs.

“Don’t need to, I already know it.”

You eventually tip your head back just enough to look at his handsome face. “You should at least make sure I didn’t accidentally burn over forty minutes of static.”

That earns you a quiet chuckle, the sound vibrating deeply beneath your chin. “It would still be the most precious gift I’ve ever gotten.” 

Coyly grinning, you smooth the front of his sweater where your hand had unconsciously gathered the fabric.

“Now you have something for your car player.” Robby cups your cheek with the urgent need to see you, his thumb accustomed to caressing the skin under your eye. “So when you’re driving home after one of those draining shifts,” your voice lowers with quiet respect. “You won’t have to listen to the radio playing all that ‘shitty noise’.” You directly quote him with a smile.

His eyes roll playfully at that, by now resigned at your endless teasing about something he had unconsciously mumbled under his breath one day, exasperated at the umpteenth song with repetitive lyrics and massive use of auto-tune.

Maybe he is really turning into a boomer, he had to give that to Santos.

“And maybe the drive home won’t feel quite so long.”

The tenderness of his lips meeting yours makes your breath hitch, the fingers on his chest curling into the heavy fabric that covers it.

“I spent a long time driving home to an empty house.” His forehead comes to rest gently against yours. “Some nights I’d just leave the radio off. Now I find myself sitting at traffic lights hoping they stay red a little longer just to hear you talk about your day.”

Your throat tightens.

“Michael.” A watery laughs escapes you.

His smile turns bashful. “And you’ve somehow managed to put all of that into something I get to keep.”

Robby leans in before you can answer, kissing you the way he always does: slowly enough to make you feel like you’re the only person worthy of his time. His palm never leaves your face, guiding you unhurriedly as his tongue slips between your parted lips, his other hand tightening ever so slightly around your waist, as if affection alone never quite feels enough without the physical reassurance of you being really there, with him.

When the kiss finally breaks, your chest is heaving and your eyes are stinging.

“I don’t think you’ve ever going to understand how loved you make me feel.”

OLD MAN!ROBBY AND PICTURES

You have over two thousands pictures in your camera roll, and it actually makes perfect sense: your phone is a scrapbook of every coffee that looked particularly pretty, every sunset over Pittsburgh, of blurry photos of your friends and screenshots of messages you’ll never look at again but feel the need to keep because “who knows”. And then there are lectures slides that you couldn’t be bothered to copy down, recipes, receipts, outfits you considered cute but never actually bought. 

Your gallery is a timeline of your life, even of those moments that could appear apparently insignificant.

Robby’s phone is… well, a phone.

He uses it to call you on his way home from work when you can’t come over, answer texts from the hospital and from Jack, and check the weather before leaving the house. Occasionally, he’d search for the answer to a crossword clue that’s been bothering him for days. If you have him take a picture of something, he’ll happily put on his readers and use his index finger to take a few shots. But the moment you’ve sent it to yourself, he’s just as happy to delete it from his own gallery because, as far as he’s concerned, you’ve got the picture now.

Which is why he only has ten photos.

Ten.

Four of them are of you.

The first is from one of the very first afternoons you spent at his house. You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room rug wearing one of his old university sweatshirts, completely absorbed in a round of Cribbage after he ate you out on his couch until you made a mess on the cushions. You had never felt so mortified in your whole life, but Robby made sure you couldn’t have the time to wallow in self-pity as he grabbed your thighs with a broken groan and buried his face back in your cunt, making sure to leave a big beard burn that would remind you of how good he made you feel that day every time your legs met. And he came in his pants like a fucking teenager, your embarrassment dissolving the moment he looked up at you with his face covered in your slick and slowly licked his lips with a satisfied hum, before announcing you both needed to change now.

Your eyebrows are drawn together in concentration in the picture, one sock bunched at your ankle and your expression still a little dazed.

The second is from the beach, taken on a random Thursday just before going away. You’d thrown your oversized linen shirt over your bikini and walked back to the lake to take one last look at the sunset, the water caressing your skin just past your knees. It’s definitely not one of those aesthetically pleasing pictures one’d find on Pinterest, but the fact that Robby even thought about freezing that moment in time forever makes the photo priceless.

The third catches you asleep in the passenger seat after he’d picked you up from campus. Your backpack is at your feet, your headphone still around your neck as you’re curled toward his side of the car, exhausted after a day full of lectures. You remember waking up a few minutes after he parked in his driveway, your apologies promptly shut down by his lips covering your face in loving kisses. You never realized Robby had quietly entertained himself by reaching for his phone while waiting for you to wake up, because to him you had looked so peaceful that he wanted to be able to look at it whenever something took a bad turn at the hospital. A reminder of what was waiting for him at home.

The fourth is almost completely blurred. You’re laughing too hard for the camera to focus while trying to steal a handful of fries from his plate instead of eating your own. Most people would’ve deleted it immediately, but Robby kept it because, every time he sees it, he can still hear your laugh.

The fifth picture is the one he uses as both his wallpaper and lock screen; it exists solely because Robby looks down at his phone one day, and frowns thoughtfully at it, hit with the sudden realization that he can change his wallpaper to a picture of you now. The request alone is enough to leave you flustered—he announced it so bluntly, no beating around the bush, just him wanting to have you there every time he reaches for his phone. The fact that you don’t actually have a single picture together somehow makes it even worse, your heart already halfway melted before you’ve even opened the camera. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to convince him that, if he insists on replacing the default wallpaper with a picture of you, then you might as well be in it together.

However, what should have taken less than a minute somehow turns into nearly half an hour, because Robby keeps blinking at the wrong moments, or looking at the camera with that oddly solemn expression people his age seem to reserve for the lens. Every time you insist he needs to relax, he grows even more serious, which only makes you laugh harder. Soon you’re both laughing too much to hold the phone steady, the gallery slowly filling with blurry attempts and cropped foreheads.

Your favorite is the one where you turn at the last second to kiss his cheek, his smile unmistakably soft but real. Robby dismisses it almost immediately though, because half of your face disappears against his. He wants to see you.

The one you eventually settle on happens entirely by accident, neither of you paying attention anymore—not when his fingers are playfully poking your sides to make you squeak, and your lips end up on his after every shot. It’s imperfect in every possible way: you’re tucked against his side on the couch, still laughing over something you’d probably forget the next day. Robby isn’t even looking at the camera, his brown eyes completely focused on you as his mouth is twisted into that familiar smile that belongs to the walls of your home. You both happen to glance back at the phone only when your thumb taps the shutter.

The light is uneven, and your shirts are all wrinkly, as if you just had a play fight that both of you refused to lose. Robby doesn’t consider taking another. And now, every time his phone lights up, it’s the memory of spending his afternoon accomplishing absolutely nothing, except laughing with the woman he loves until his cheeks hurt, that makes him smile.

The remaining pictures are four different version of the group photo McKay insisted on taking after spending the whole shift explicitly hinting at a free round of drinks offered by Whitaker for his birthday. She probably refused to accept no for an answer, already holding her phone up while Dana stood beside her with her arms folded, informing Robby that after years of avoiding every staff picture, he was absolutely staying put for this one. His smile in the picture has the unmistakable look of a man who chosen to surrender with dignity.

And then there’s a screenshot. Of a comment section of Facebook.

You eventually discover he has absolutely no idea why it’s there. Apparently, your boyfriend has the masochist habit of checking the comments under medical articles, already knowing a bunch of people following Dr. Google’s advice are going to ruin his day with their presumptuous confidence about topics they don’t even know how to pronounce.

He probably pressed the wrong buttons and accidentally took a screenshot, only to completely forget about its existence. That somehow makes it even more endearing.

But at the end of the day, what really gets to you is not how few pictures he has, but how carefully chosen they seem without him even realizing it. Robby simply doesn’t think to take his phone out very often, he’s always been the sort of person who experiences things while they’re happening. Most moments pass exactly as they should, lived once and stored somewhere in memory.

The ones he photographs are different. He already knows he’s going to miss them one day, and somewhere along the way, you’d quietly become the centre of those moments. Knowing that means infinitely more than owning two thousands pictures of you.

OLD MAN!ROBBY WHOSE BACK IS ALWAYS HURTING

Although Robby’s back has you immediately check on him whenever he bends down to pick something up, waiting to see whether he’ll straighten back up or pause with both hands planted on his hips, it never stops him from doing the heavy lifting. Boxes, suitcases, cases of bottled water... Even the ridiculously heavy bookshelf you bought because it was too cute. It becomes a running joke between you: he carries, you worry, he tells you he’s fine, you remind him that he will groan about his joints getting out of bed in the morning.

But most of the time, his pain comes from an entirely different reason than simply helping you out.

To celebrate the end of your exams, you find a little Italian restaurant tucked away downtown, share a bottle of wine over a delicious dinner, and wander aimlessly through the neighborhood afterwards with your fingers intertwined, stopping every few minutes because you love watching people’s life unfolding from their windows. Sometimes you throw an instinctive comment about their decor, and Mikey, that lamp would look amazing in our living room that leaves Robby smiling helplessly at the fact that you have come to consider his house your home, his stomach somersaulting at the prospect of decorating a place you own together.

By the time you get back to his, you’re both pleasantly buzzed from the wine, still laughing over the elderly couple celebrating forty years of marriage who sent you dessert.

“They thought we were father and daughter.” He shakes his head trying not to smile, the waiter’s red cheeks still ingrained in his mind as he approached you with a sheepish smile, knowing very well from the kisses you had shared throughout dinner and the way you looked at each other that you were far from being related.

“Ohh c’mon,” you rub your eye, careless of the mascara you had applied mere hours before. “They were so kind, and what was I supposed to do? Give the tiramisu back?”

Robby shakes his head, fumbling with his keys when you slip your arms around his waist from behind, your cheek squished against his back.

“I was thinking—”

His lips lift faintly. “Dangerous.”

You promptly pinch his side. “I’m serious.” Your arms tighten briefly around him. “I like this.”

He glances down. “My shirt.”

“Uh-uh.”

“My belt?”

You giggle. “You, silly.”

At that he turns around in your arms, smiling with quiet curiosity. “What about me?”

You stare up at him with dreamy, unguarded eyes, glinting under the moonlight with a mischievous sparkle accentuated by the little amount of liquid courage you had sipped almost an hour ago.

“I like that you’re big.”

“Big?”

“Mhm.” You sigh. “Tall, broad…” Your palms caress their way down to his stomach, passing by his shoulders and chest first, ultimately giving the soft pudge a gentle pat. “And I like this.” The words are punctuated by a breathy moan that you don’t even notice, but Robby feels it in his bones as if your lips were pressed right by his ear. “Drives me fucking crazy every time, Mikey.”

The next silent seconds are enough for his ego to slowly swell, prompting him to bend, slip one arm behind your knees and the other around your back, before hoisting you clean off the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Michael!” Your eyes widen in shock.

“Need to keep it down, angel. People are sleeping at this hour.” He’s already chuckling at your little squeal, carefully pushing the door open.

“You’ve had wine!”

“Hm, so have you.” 

“I’m not the one lifting another human being!”

Robby completely ignores your words as he adjusts you more comfortably over his shoulder before climbing the stairs with infuriatingly steady steps.

“Oh my God, Mike, your poor back.” It sounds close to a whine, your body now slack in his strong hold. 

“My back is fine, sweetheart.”

“What do you mean fine? It has medical records!” Robby starts laughing so hard he has to stop halfway up the way, the fingers around the back of your thighs tightening instinctively while the other hand grips the banister until he is calm enough to proceed.

You feel him shake under you, pulling another little shriek to erupt from your throat as your hands tighten on the back of his shirt. “See!”

“Sweetheart, when did I ever let you fall?”

“Eh, you’re almost sixty.”

“Oh.” His mirth ceases at once, voice lowering into what should be a threatening baritone, but the raucous tilt only has your thighs squeezing together at the feeling of your panties getting wetter after this cute display of strength from your boyfriend. “That was a grave mistake, angel.”

“You sound like an old wooden staircase in the morning.” Your giggle turns into a gasp as his palm comes into contact with the bare skin of your thigh.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake dating someone this disrespectful.”

“No.” The word is dragged out, whiny and pouty. “Just telling the truth.”

Robby sputters. “How’s that even remotely the truth, huh baby? I’m barely in my fifties.”

“‘S the same thing.” You slur out eventually, now feeling a little bit dizzy from the upside down position.

“It’s not, little lady.” He smacks your asscheek this time, his lips stretching into a smug grin as you wiggle cutely on his shoulder, your breath hitching just right.

A deep, dramatic exhale escapes your nostrils. “Alright, but I’m serious Mike, put me down before you end up with a herniated disc trying to impress me.” You’re back at giggling too hard for the warning to sound particularly convincing, your hands already rubbing slow circles over the broad expanse of his back as if you could somehow prevent the inevitable.

Robby allows himself to bask in the feeling of your soft palms on him for a moment longer, before resuming his ascent to the first floor. “I’m just carrying my girlfriend, not moving a piano.”

You’re both laughing too hard to continue the argument, and by the time he reaches the bedroom, Robby sets you carefully over the sheets, quickly climbing between your thighs to hover above you, his hands cupping your cheeks.

“There.” His lips plant themselves on your forehead. “Happy?”

Your eyes appreciatively rake along his torso, your arms finally setting around his neck to bring him closer. “Definitely.” The tips of your noses playfully brush against each other, but before you can even think about tearing his shirt open, Robby goes rigid over you, his expression twisting into a tiny grimace. You gasp dramatically.

“I knew it!” You reach up to smooth the hair that’s fallen onto his forehead, trying very hard to look serious despite the endeared smile pulling at your lips. “Aw, my poor baby. C’mere.”

Robby gladly takes your hand and helps you guide him down until he’s lying on his back without arguing—mostly because the moment he stretches out across the mattress, you climb on top of him, his hands finding their rightfully place on your hips.

The smile you give him is so sweet it makes his heart ache, but before he can start singing praises about how pretty and sweet you are, it sharpens into a mischievous grin.

Confident and stunning and better than he ever dared to dream, you reach for the zip on the side of your dress, slowly pulling it down as your eyes stay firmly fixed on his. The moment it reaches the end, you are taking the hem and pulling the snug fabric off of you, abandoning it somewhere on the ground. His hands are already on your chest, greedily pawing at the swell of your breasts still covered by the cute lingerie you chose tonight, knowing very well the effect it’d have on his poor heart.

“Can you take care of these, baby?” Your fingers play with the hem of your panties, before letting it snap back against your skin. With a grunt, Robby is channeling all his strength into his arms, reducing your underwear to a sad little piece of ruined fabric.

It would be easier for him to just rip the bra off as well—that way he’d be able to finally get your nipples in his mouth. But you beat him to it, slowly unhooking the offending piece of lingerie and letting it fall on the floor with a wink.

Looking down at his flustered face, you lean in for another kiss that leaves him completely breathless and yearning for more. His hands sneak down from your waist to your hips, pushing them forward. You gasp at the sudden stimulation against your core as your palms make their way up to his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“Off.” You whine against his mouth, and who is Robby to deny you? He lets out an amused huff as he hastily removes the fabric, leaving it to lie sadly under him, too distracted by the feeling of your hands feeling up his arms.

His heavy, shaky breath pulls a giggle out of you.

“Wanna make you feel good, angel. Please.”

If his face wasn’t already full with your tits, he would have probably taken you right there. Most of the time it’s him who leads, making you come until you are shaking and whimpering from overstimulation, his pants still untouched but his erection painful and straining against the tight fabric of his boxers. Yet he’s not satisfied until he has you pliant and wet for him, coaxing orgasm after orgasm with his sweet encouragements that from another man would have probably sounded extremely condescending. With Robby, it’s too easy to lose yourself in him, knowing that he will always be there with open arms, ready to catch you.

Your kisses travel under his ear, allowing you to bask in the little gasps falling freely from his lips as his cock twitches behind you.

“Yeah?” His needy moan is muffled by your hungry lips. With his fingers digging into the skin of your hips, Robby tentatively thrusts up, huffing in protest when your hand firmly grabs his jaw.

“Control yourself, Doctor.”

“Please, sweetheart. Jus’ use me.” Robby’s breath hitches when your palms finally press on his pecs, your hips adjusting just slightly with you finally straightening up, looking down at him like a goddess with her loyal devotee, so lovely with your pretty grin and your sparkling eyes and—

Your wet folds land directly on the generous swell of his belly.

When you fooled around for the first time, Robby insisted his body was that of a man who had stopped taking care of himself. It took a lot of kisses and whispered reassurances for him to finally reach for the hem of his shirt, his movements devoid of that sharp confidence you had come to associate with him, as though bracing for disgust. When the fabric disappeared over his head, leaving him sitting in front of you with his gaze fixed on the mattress, you had taken your time to admire him. His chest and arms spoke of the strength that came from decades of pushing gurneys through crowded hallways, and his stomach rounded gently beneath his ribs. It was the kind of body shaped by years of skipped meals followed by hurried, processed ones grabbed between shifts, and exhaustion winning over gym memberships. His shoulders are still broad enough to make you feel impossibly secure when he hugs you, even if time had softened his muscles. But none of it ever struck you as something that needed apologizing for. If anything, that night you made sure to show him just how much it turned you on. Robby had never once hesitated again.

“Shit.” His breath matches the fast pace of your chest, heaving as you smile blissfully at him with your eyelids fluttering close as soon as your hips start rocking back and forth on his tummy. His cock aches at the sight, his jaw clenching at the cute sounds falling from your parted lips while he idly pinches and flicks your nipples.

“Michael.” You gasp, your clit throbbing once you pick up the pace.

“There we go. Keep moving for me... Just like that. So fucking perfect with your little clit rubbing all over me. Let me see how wet you are, sweet girl.” Two of his fingers are reaching down, gently parting your folds and moaning at the mess he finds there. His thumb briefly strokes your nub, the sensation of his finger gliding so easily over it pulling a pathetic whimper out of you.

“Fuck, I knew it. Good girl.”

A low grunt escapes his chest as your nails inevitably end up sinking into his skin, shivering at the sole thought that his body will bear your claim under his scrubs. Despite the light sting, his eyes blown out with lust never stray away from you, taking in the gorgeous sight of the same beautiful breasts he’d cover in kisses and drool when nightmares turn too realistic now bouncing rhythmically with the sensuous movement of your hips. Your lips part around lewd, breathy moans as your head falls back at each brush of your swollen nub against his flesh, your cunt warm at your orgasm approaching, fast.

“That’s it, lovely. C’mon, jus’ a little more.” Your hips cutely twitch at his coos.

“Feels so good, Mike…” And with a particular electrifying graze of his thumbs over your abused nipples, you whimper, making a mess on his belly. Your body falls against his, your hips stuttering through your intense orgasm as you hug Robby close, gasping into his neck.

“Fuck—fucking hell.” He growls at the wet trail you left on the dark, coarse hair covering his torso once you recover enough to straighten up, further spreading your legs to inspect your mess. His face is red, a bit sweaty, his flushed chest heaving as if he is the one who just came.

Robby stares up at you with something akin to reverence, his heart beating far too fast than usual. “I love you so much, thank you, thank you, my love.” He blurts out with his fingers still kneading your chest.

Your smile is tired but sated, your forehead glistening after working yourself up but Robby thinks you have never looked more radiant.

The moment you lazily crawl toward the other side of the bed, his body suddenly feels cold. You lie on your back and spread your legs for him.

“I love you too, baby.” You turn your face enough to look at him in the eye. “But now I need to feel you inside.”

A giggle claws out of your throat at they way Robby’s eyes light up in excitement, enjoying the sight of the ever grumpy and firm attending clumsily following your beckoning finger. His throat bobs visibly when his gaze meets your adorable little grin, your hands gently leading his strong body by his wrists until he positions himself between your thighs. His cheeks blush violently under the scrutiny of your lustful eyes, your tongue delicately peeking out as they languidly trace down his dark happy trail, until they reach the big bulge still hidden by his black pants. His cock must be hard and aching by now, the sole thought of his flushed tip shining with precum making you salivate.

Pressing your foreheads together, Robby kisses the tip of your nose, traveling down to your lips until his smile stretches too wide to kiss your properly. You shiver at his soft hands moving down to your thighs, his eyes finally meeting your glistening pussy. “So needy for me, my angel. Are you thinking about my cock? Look at her, all pretty and swollen for me.”

Robby lazily moves his mouth along the wet insides of your thighs, pulling a sigh out of you when he sucks on the sensitive skin. Finally, he takes a lick at your folds, always so careful. The taste of your slick makes him groan lowly into his chest, the vibrations a pleasant stimulation against your core as Robby eats you out like a delicacy. The sight of your hole eagerly waiting for him has the thought of filling you up with his cum and watching it drip out immediately resurfacing, a glint of possessiveness stirring hot in his belly.

His lips take your clit between them, sucking at a steady speed before letting his tongue playfully flick it until he has you whimpering loudly for him. Your hand shoots down, grasping his short hair and pulling as the other travels up to your tit, squeezing and kneading the soft skin under his hungry gaze.

“Feeling good, baby, hm?” He looks at you expectantly with his cheek resting on your thigh, waiting eagerly for your praise, his fingers leisurely caressing your hood.

“So good. Keep going, please, Mikey.” You sigh, and Robby is only a man. He quickly goes back to lavish your clit with his mouth. His eyelids slowly flutter close at the taste, a small, satisfied hum vibrating in his chest.

“Yes, yes!” A sharp gasp shamelessly echoes in the bedroom as his tongue slowly thrusts inside, his face grinding against your pussy just to further coat himself in your essence. 

At some point, you’re so lost in your own pleasure that you don’t notice how two of his fingers replace the appendage inside you. Robby knows by now how much your body can take, how beautifully you open up to his large size.

There’s no use fighting the desperate sounds threatening to come out as his fingers fuck into you at an even pace, taking care to curl them just right to hit that spot that always makes your eyes roll back. All you can do is squirm helplessly on the wrinkly sheets, one hand gripping the pillow under your head the moment he starts to nurse on your clit again.

“Fuck—yes baby, yes!” Robby increases the pace with each thrust, his dark gaze intensely locked on your fucked out expression.

“Oh my God, oh my God—another.” You whine. “Add another, Mike!” He immediately obeys, as eager as you.

“Love watching your pretty pussy cry for me.” He mumbles, his breath heavy and his fingers thrusting steadily. “C’mon, come for me, baby girl. Make your old man proud.”

You squeeze so hard around him it almost borders on painful, and with your back beautifully arching up, your thighs start shaking as your climax finally hits you. Robby tries to fuck you through it, hoping to make you come once again before giving you a break, but your grip on his digits is too tight.

As much as you both wished for it to last longer, you are soon turning into jelly against the mattress, already sensitive from your first peak. Your cunt is still weakly pulsating as Robby plays with it some more, observing the wet mess with parted lips.

“Michael,” he instantly looks up at the sweet sound of his name. You lazily extend your arm towards him. “C’mere.”  

Robby quickly crawls back up wearing your arousal all over his beard like a badge of honor, swallowing back down a moan as you palm his erection through his pants, the muscles of his belly tensing in a poor attempt to not come all over your hand.

“Mike, your cock, please.”

“Stop talking or I’ll come right now.” His voice is rough, his hands rougher as he gropes your ass. Your fingers slowly unbutton his pants, allowing your other hand to slide inside and leisurely stroke his firm length. His hips twitch forward without his permission, the light stimulation enough for his forehead to fall pathetically against your shoulder.

“Wanna make you proud,” his breath is heavy and warm against your bare skin. “Take every inch of you inside my little pussy and come just like that, with your thick cock buried deep inside me.” His eyes shut close, a shiver running down his back at your dirty whispers. “And then feel your cum leak out of me all night long.”

The groan tearing out from his chest is painful. “Fucking hell, wanna give me a heart attack, princess, hm?”

Your hold around his cock falters just slight as you laugh at his words, and finally Robby feels like his body can work again, his fingers reaching down to lower his pants and boxers in a quick, messy pull. He refuses to withdraw from you, making you giggle at his eagerness as you watched your boyfriend clumsily kicks his legs around, enough to discard his bottoms somewhere on the bed.

“You’re so silly, Mike.” Your smile has his head spinning, and just like that he’s on you again, his hold on your thighs possessive. Robby’s lips twist up as well, the words on his tongue dissolving into a low moan at the sweet fingers wrapping back around his length. You bite your bottom lip at the sight of his perfect cock resting thick and hard in your palm, the tip flushed just like you had imagined, and the veins you’ve grown fond to tease with your tongue disappearing into the unkempt, dark hair Robby keeps at the base.

Gaping, you are already guiding him to your folds, your eyes rolling back at the electrifying feeling of the head dragging against your soaked folds, but Robby stops you shakily before you can take him inside.

“Wait!” His fingers squeeze your waist once. “Let me…” His light tug is enough for you to help him flip you around.

“This okay, princess? Need you like this tonight, please.”

“Of course, baby.” You smile back at him, spreading your knees enough for Robby to gasp at your cunt still so ready for him. His trembling fingers are back again on your hips, lifting them just right and allowing him to comfortably line the tip with your entrance.

As much as he loves having you pressed against his front, your eyes locked together and his mouth attached to your nipples as you cry out with every graze of his pubic hair against your clit, sometimes there is a particularly primal need that claws at his chest with a kind of ferocity that leaves Robby drooling at the mere idea of taking you from behind, the flesh of your ass jiggling and slapping against his hips while his hands guide you back on his cock over and over again.

“Fuck me.” He growls out, hastily rubbing a hand down his face as if the act alone could make him regain even a crumb of control over himself. The stretch is overwhelming, his teeth gritting against each other in a way that will probably hurt his gums tomorrow, but he needs to control himself, needs to keep his thrusts slow, or else he will hurt you.

But you are so tight, so warm, so wet, your mouth falling open for all your little squeals and whimpers to fill the bedroom...

He is not going to last.

You giggle through your heavy gasps when his breath stutters loudly, clenching around him before he slaps your asscheek as a warning. 

“Fuck, you’re so big.” You sigh with a devious grin. 

“Biggest you’ve ever taken, hm?” He pants with a little sheepish smile, already knowing the answer. 

“Mm-hmm.” You nod with no hesitation, resting on your elbows as you let your head tip forward. 

He doesn’t waste anymore time after all the suffering you put him through, and starts properly pumping his hips, immediately finding a rhythm that works for the both of you. 

“Oh Mike, you’re doing so good, baby.” You moan at the feeling of his palm seizing your breast from behind and squeezing the soft flesh with a groan of his own. 

He whimpers at the praise, his hips eagerly jerking forward for a brief moment. 

“Closer, honey. Need you closer.” You blindly reach back with one hand, grabbing the fingers around your hips to pull forward until he is fully lying on your back.

“Shit—s’ so fucking tight.” He slurs out. “Nice and deep, just like how you like it, right sweetheart?”

“Yes, yes. Feeling so full, Michael. Love it, love you.” What comes out of his mouth next is a mix of messy moans and muffled curses against your neck.

“C’mon, baby.” You cry out softly. “Fill me up.” 

“But—”

“Mike please! Use me, baby. Make me yours.”

“Fuck!” He growls out at last. “Fine!”

The pace Robby sets is brutal. Between his sharp thrusts and the way he yanks your hips to meet his, your boyfriend chases his high with complete abandon as the sloppy sounds of his cock pounding your wet cunt competes with the shameless thundering of the headboard hitting the wall.

“You’re gonna make me come so hard, baby girl. Fuck, fuck,” his chest rises and falls faster. “You’re taking it so good, so good my baby—oh shit—” His balls draw tight, and with a loud grunt, Robby spills inside you, still thrusting hard into your pussy. Once his cum starts spurting steadily inside, you sigh in delight, mumbling soft praises that have him moaning for more. 

His face falls onto your neck, body melting against yours as he rides out the last bits of his orgasm, shaking and mouthing at your skin while you try your best to rub his leg in comfort. Robby doesn’t know exactly how much time passes, but when his mind clears, he is still catching his breath, subtly grinding into you with a slow circle of his hips, even if oversensitivity makes his breath hitch pathetically.

“Sorry—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He mumbles between heavy exhales. “I don’t know what came over me.” 

It upsets you every time he apologizes for coming before you, as if it’s not something you take huge flattery for. You’re always encouraging him to take what he needs, genuinely loving when he uses you to make himself feel good. But your boyfriend is such a caring, loving gentleman and refuses to accept it, even when his focus has narrowed completely to the wet heat between your legs.

“Hm don’t worry, Mikey. I still need you though, you know?” You mewl, interrupting him as his lips part probably with another apologize ready on his tongue.

His cock weakly twitches inside of you at your cunt clenching on purpose, before a strangled groan abruptly rumbles in his chest.

“Shit.”

You eyes widen at the strain coloring his voice. “Oh my God, Michael! Are you okay?” You quickly try to rise on your shaky arms, but he is still lying on your back.

“Sorry, sorry—’s just a cramp.” He mumbles reluctantly, eyes squeezing shut at the sharp sting at the back of his left thigh.

“Can you move?” 

“Yes but—wait.” His arms are suddenly tightening around your waist, keeping you still. “It’s fine, I can still go.” You hear him swallow thickly. “Let me just—”

“Michael, no.” You whisper sadly, frowning at the possibility of him further hurting himself.

“I said it’s fine.” His answer comes sharper than he means it to. 

The next protest dies in his throat, though, as you feel him shake his head against your shoulder. The sting flares again, enough to make him suck in a breath through his teeth. His grip around your waist loosens for a second before tightening all over again, like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality.

“Sorry, ‘m so sorry, sweetheart, I—” He suddenly bursts out laughing, the sound almost unnatural. There is no trace of humor in it, just a sharp taste of cold, bitter realization. “Fucking hell.”

It makes your stomach churn unpleasantly.

“Michael.” You call his name, now completely sobered up.

Robby’s answer doesn’t come as fast as usual. His fingers flex against your stomach before settling again.

“A cramp,” he clicks his tongue, forehead falling on your shoulder dejectedly. “A fucking cramp.”

“Baby, please—”

“No.” Another sardonic chuckle escapes him as he shakes his head. Slowly, you place a careful hand over the one on your belly.

“It can happen to anyone.” You whisper.

“I used—used to be...” His voice is far too distant for your liking. “I’m getting leg cramps while fucking my girlfriend.”

The animosity woven through the statement is like a punch to your guts. You can practically feel the poison spreading through his mind, turning one stupid, harmless moment into a monster that is gradually undoing months of therapy and late nights spent worshipping him.

His body goes still behind you, all you can hear now is his heavy breathing.

“It’s one thing after another lately.”

“Michael—”

“My knee hurts when it rains. My shoulder keeps locking up. I make noise every time I stand up like a fucking eighty-year-old with arthrosis.”

“Baby...” Your throat is closing on itself as you barely have any voice to whisper.

“I know what you’re gonna say.” He murmurs. “You’re gonna tell me it’s normal and that everybody gets old eventually and none of this matters because you love me.”

“Because it is true, I do love you.” You sniffle.

“What happens in ten years?”

You frown. “What?”

“What happens in ten years?” Robby repeats quietly. “Or twenty. What happens when all this gets worse?”

“I—”

“What happens when I can’t keep up with you anymore?” His words trip over each other, mumbled into your skin. “What happens when my knees get worse? Or my back gives out? Or I need help to stand up from the goddamn bed?”

“I can’t even get through one morning without something hurting.”

The quiet certainty in his voice hurts more than if he just shouted at you.

“You should be with someone younger,” he continues agitated. “Someone who can properly take care of you.” His hold tightens again in spite of the words coming out of his mouth, his own body fighting against his mind as if speaking them out loud could make the nightmare come true. “Not some… worn-down old man who can’t trust his own damn body anymore.”

Your eyes sting. “Stop.”

“One day I’m gonna be more work than I’m worth.”

The words land in your chest heavy enough that for a second you genuinely feel like you can’t breath. You spent months watching him get better—certainly, the healing process is never linear, and there are still days where Robby feels that gnawing guilt weighting like a brick on his chest, but he is still trying. And that of course reflected on your relationship as well: he stopped apologizing every time his shoulder protested after a long shift, he started laughing whenever you hid his reading glasses because he had once complained he couldn’t find them while they were sitting on top of his head. He accepted that needing you by his side didn’t make him any less of the man you’d fallen in love with.

You let yourself believe that the little voice in the back of his mind constantly measuring his worth by everything he could still do had finally started losing power over him.

And now, all of a sudden, it’s speaking again... louder than you’ve ever heard it in months.

When your arms resolutely push yourself up, his body tenses behind you.

“No.” The word comes out with pure panic latched on it, and your heart breaks all over again.

“I’m just—”

“Wait, wait.” He chokes out. “Don’t leave me.”

“I'm not leaving you, Michael.”

His body shudders.

He thinks you’re pulling away because you’ve had enough of hearing it. Because he’s ruining the moment.

Because he’s becoming too much.

“Oh, honey.” You try to shift again but his hold on your waist borders on painful. “I just want to see you, please? Please, my love, let me see you?”

For a long moment, Robby doesn’t know what to say but you can feel your words actually sinking into him as his body stiffens once again before gradually growing less rigid.

“Oh.” He mumbles.

You carefully untangle his arms from your body, enough to move into an upright position, and finally turning around to face him, still on your knees in front of him. When your eyes land on his face, your chest caves in, because the embarrassment in his voice was bad enough, but the fear in his beautiful eyes is way worse. Robby genuinely looks like some part of him expected to see disappointment on your face.

Instead, you reach for him, cupping his jaw with your shaky hands.

His gaze drops automatically.

“Hey.” You softly call out. “Can you look at me, please?”

“They barely work.” He mutters.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

“My eyes.”

Your shoulders sag. “Michael.”

His expression crumples. “I just want to take care of you.”

The confession comes out so roughly it sounds ripped directly from his heart.

He shakes his head, frustration creeping into his voice and eyes glistening with unshed years. “I want to be able to do things for you, but sometimes I can barely carry groceries when they’re too heavy without pulling a muscle. I want to know—no, I need to know that if something happens, I’ve got you.”

His gaze finally meets yours. “But lately it feels like you’re the one taking care of me.”

You slide closer until your knees are brushing his, your arms slipping around his neck before he can retreat any further into himself. His shoulders, which were locked so tightly it looked painful, sag beneath your hands as his forehead instantly finds the hollow space of your neck, his body knowing where safety is even when his mind is too clouded by fear to remember.

Neither of you says anything for what feels like a long time, the bedroom finally falling into a charged silence now that your sad pleas and his cruel words have stopped. Robby’s breathing is still uneven, warm against your skin, his lips pressed into a thin line and his hands spread across your back, holding on just a little too tightly, because letting go might allow every ugly thought he’s been swallowing to spill out like an uncontrollable river during a storm.

A few minutes ago your skin was being kissed by his laugh, your limbs intertwined in a way that neither of you could remember when one body ended and the other began. Now, Robby feels impossibly far away and for the first time, you genuinely find yourself not knowing how to guide him back to you.

“I’m sorry.” The words are barely more than a breath against you.

“No.”

“I’m always ruining ever—”

“Michael, please.” The loud desperation in your voice stops him at once.

You decide then to lean back just enough to cradle his face back in your palms before he can fully retract into his mind. Although he tries to resist at first, gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere on your collarbone, your thumbs softly stroke over the roughness of his beard, until, eventually, he lets you coax his chin up.

The sight of his damp lashes and his flushed cheeks steals the air from your lungs, but the image of the brown eyes you love so much now red around the edges and shining with pain feels like a knife twisting in your chest.

There is something so heartbreakingly ashamed in the way Robby looks at you that has your own vision blur instantly.

A tear slips before you can stop it. “Hearing you talk about yourself like—” Your voice wavers, forcing you to swallow around the knot lodged in your throat. “Like you’re some broken object ready to be thrown in the trash. Like you’re waiting for me to wake up one morning and decide you’re not worth loving anymore… Michael, why—”

Robby feels like the world just crumbled beneath his feet. His eyebrows draw together first, almost imperceptibly, before his mouth parts on a quiet breath. The shame is still there, but it gives way to something worse the moment he realizes you’re crying. Because of him.

His eyes dart frantically over your face, trying to work out when the first tear escaped him, when he missed it, how he let this happen. “I didn’t mean—”

Another tear follows the first, prompting one of your hands to forcefully brush at your own cheek in a poor attempt to collect yourself.

“But why would you say that?” Your voice barely above a broken whisper, filled with genuine confusion. “Why are you so cruel to yourself?”

Robby’s eyes shut close in something close to resignation. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” You sniffle tiredly but Robby stubbornly shakes his head. “You’re scared.”

His lips press together into a thin line, the miserable sob clawing at his throat still bouncing off the walls of his bedroom. 

“Yes.” He clears his throat, refusing to meet your gaze. “I’m scared that one day you’ll look at me and see what I see. You’ll realize…” His voice catches again. “Realize you could’ve—you could’ve someone who doesn’t come with all this baggage.”

This is the same man who makes you feel safe with a simple kiss on your forehead. The same man who hugged you tight to his chest and let you cry yourself to sleep after you bombed one of the most important exams, before waking you up with breakfast in bed and spending the rest of the weekend rotting in bed with you as long as you promised to get up on Monday and remember everything you’d worked hard for, because it won’t be a failed exam to define who you are and what you are capable of.

“But I don’t want someone else.” His eyes close. “I don’t want someone younger or—or who can carry every fucking grocery bag in the house without help. Why is it so fucking important, I don’t care!” You cry out.

Your thumbs stroke away the tears that have finally slipped free and disappeared into his beard.

“I want you, Michael.” Your own voice breaks completely. “I keep choosing you, every single day, and then you just sit here and tell me I’d be better off with someone else—”

The look of guilt on his face makes you choke on the next sob. 

“Sweetheart.” He reaches for you on instinct, both hands finding your face but his hold falters the faintest bit, almost hesitating, his thumbs hovering just shy of your cheeks as though he isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch you anymore.

The panic that had been directed inward a moment ago shifts entirely. “Please, don’t cry, please baby, it breaks my heart. I didn’t—” His voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“I know.” You sob out.

“God, I’m so sorry, baby girl.” His breathing stutters, and as much as you hate seeing him like this, your shoulders slump with relief when his arms finally wrap around your waist, carefully pulling you into his chest.

One trembling hand eventually comes up to wipe away the salty droplets with the pads of his fingers. “I’m sorry.” His own cheek softly rests on your head, but before he can pull his hand away, you catch his wrist, tugging it towards your lips. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want you to apologize, I just—it hurt me, Mike. You’re hurting the man I love.” His eyes squeeze shut in regret. “I won’t let you do that.”

Robby lets out a shaky breath, now crying for a completely different reason.

“You’ve spent months teaching me to be kinder to myself.” A watery smile flickers across his face as your forehead comes to rest against his. “But now it’s your turn.”

The silence is not as frightening now. It’s just... tired.

Robby has you tucked against him, one palm moving slowly up and down your back without really thinking about it—a gesture that he doesn’t even know if it’s necessary to soothe you or himself. His heartbeat thankfully goes back to normal as you feel the tension gradually leaving his body beneath your hands. Every now and then his lips press small kisses into your hairline, as though he still can’t quite believe that you’re here, that you stayed.

Your own tears have also stopped, finally, leaving your eyes red and sore. The skin of his chest right where your face is buried is still damp.

“I know you’re right.” Robby’s quiet murmur gently breaks the stillness. “I know you are.”

A deep exhale escapes his parted lips, and when you pull back to look at him, the first thing you notice is his clear eyes. He looks more alert now.

Shaking his head once, Robby gives you a small, sheepish smile. “It’s just... sometimes that voice—it gets too loud.”

Your fingers gently comes up to smooth the hair back from his damp forehead, your eyes carefully tracing his features.

“Then you tell me.” He nods instantly. “Please. Let me help you carry it.”

“I’ll tell you, sweetheart.” Your nose brushes against his. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you.” He whispers.

“Promise?” You ask feebly.

“Promise.” Robby nods resolutely once more, cupping your cheeks to kiss you properly before resting his forehead against yours, sighing.

“God.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip trying to hide a grin, your chest feeling so much lighter now that your boyfriend is smiling again.

“What?”

Robby looks at you with that crooked, self-conscious smile of his. “Just... ‘M so pathetic—crying all over my girlfriend at my age.”

Your eyebrow lifts up. “You know,” you start, arms wrapping around his neck to get him closer. “For someone who just promised to be kinder to himself, you’re not off to a great start.”

Robby closes his eyes, his head tipping back as he groans tiredly.

“That took, what? Fifteen seconds?” You keep teasing, brushing the pads of your fingers beneath his eye to catch the last tear still clinging to his lashes. You tilt your head. “No, maybe twenty.”

Robby lets out a long, theatrical huff, dropping his forehead on your collarbone. “I was doing so well during those thirty seconds.”

The sheer sincerity in the complaint catches you completely off guard, a laugh slipping out before you can stop it. Not even a second later Robby is joining you with a low chuckle of his own, the sound warm and quiet between the two of you.

It feels like finally coming up the water for air.

You play with the short hair on his nape, his eyes so full of fondness as he observes you.

“C’mere, angel.” He murmurs ultimately, even though there’s barely any space left between you. His hands squeeze your waist once, rubbing slow circles into your sides.

“Michael,” you smirk, drawing out his name with a playful tilt in your voice. “I’m already in your lap.”

“You know what I mean.” He whispers, his fingers softly squeezing your asscheek. “Humor me.”

Robby doesn’t have to repeat it twice, because you are eagerly leaning in the last inch. He meets you halfway, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the one around your waist keeps you firmly against him. The kiss you share is slow but intense, the soppy sounds of your tongue meeting renewing the flames of arousal in both of you. Robby groans quietly against your mouth when his cock gives a weak twitch under you, something he’s not really used to after coming once—not when he often needs a little medical help to fill his girl up.

It’s when he tucks his head under your chin that you feel your insides warming up, his lips slowly tracing your collarbones, only to reach your sternum and latch onto your nipple, his tongue lazily circling the turgid peak before the familiar feel of his suckling has your head fall back in bliss. Your squeaks only grow louder when his two of his fingers find your mouth, pressing on your tongue until they are nice and wet and ready to tease the neglected nub, their movements matching his tongue’s as a fresh wave of precum makes a mess on your thigh.

“Not so bad for an old man who already came once, huh?” You coo, thumbs gently stroking his bearded skin where your hands cradle his jaw. His heavy breath fans over your tits, his hazy eyes fluttering close at the feel of your bare pussy teasingly brushing his sensitive tip.

“Let me make you feel good, baby. Let me show you how much I need you.”

“Y—yeah, yes yes, please, sweet girl.”

And if this is the consequence of throwing his pretty girlfriend over his shoulder to impress her, Robby decides it’s probably worth hearing his back complain about it the morning after.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Sometimes, you were convinced your professors didn’t even want you to pass. Sometimes it felt like they were trying their hardest to make you quit, and sometimes it felt like it was working.

You were in your second year of a seven year PhD program. Studying with amazing, accomplished professors, spending hours in the library taking in every detail you could, and beginning to put fieldwork proposals together for research of your own, you were in a position you’d dreamed of almost your whole life. You’d studied and cried and sweated to be where you were, but it hit you every once and a while just how much more studying, crying, and sweating you had ahead of you.

“I can’t do it,” you said, the night before fall classes were due to start. “I can’t do it.”

You sat staring at your schedule, a monstrous piece of paper you’d just finished putting together. You knew you’d have lots of lectures, knew you’d be TAing, knew preparing proposals would take hours and hours, but you hadn’t seen it all together until just then. You were staring down a block of color coded scribbles with no breaks, a continuous wall of commitments. You groaned.

“You can do it,” said Iris. “You say that every year, and you always make it.”

Iris was one roommate of three. The four of you, you, Iris, Celia, and Jenna, all lived off of stipends from your university grad programs, and squished into a cheap, rundown two bedroom place not too far from campus. The “broke grad student” stereotype wasn’t really a stereotype, it was the reality for the majority of your classmates.

Ramen packets and dry PB&Js made up your food pyramid. You scrambled for loose change when you spotted it on the floor of the train station or behind the massive dryers at your local laundromat. You didn’t get girls nights out unless one of you fluttered your eyelashes enough to earn free drinks from drunk frat guys.

It was exhausting, but you were sure it would feel much worse to be one of those rich assholes whose parents paid for everything. You may not have bought new underwear in a soft two years, but at least you had your self respect.

“Office hours Monday all morning, then prep for Parson’s,” you said. “Then Theory Foundations that night, then more reading for Global Health Delivery on Tuesday before bed because god knows I won’t have time before class with teaching and my BCSM meeting.”

“Self inflicted,” Jenna muttered.

“Then Wednesday I’m working on grant proposals before Methods of Socio-Cultural Anthro,” you pressed on, ignoring her. “Then Thursday and Friday, more TA stuff, meetings, grading, reading, bullshit. Oh, and don’t forget the first colloquium of the semester, so I can waste two hours of studying trapped in a stuffy auditorium eating stale crackers and chatting up old geezers who only want to talk about their glory days! And I can’t even get drunk on the cheap wine because on Saturday I’ll have one million billion essays to write and volunteer commitments.”

You took a breath, sitting back in your lawn-turned-kitchen chair, arms crossed.

“I like the colloquia,” said Celia.

“That’s because you’re a giant nerd, sweetie,” said Jenna.

“Jen, we’re all nerds,” you said impatiently. “We are putting ourselves through this so we can keep learning. That’s nerdy.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said. “At least I have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, ’cause Dylan’s such a prize,” snorted Iris.

“He’s the captain of the crew team!” snapped Jenna.

“He’s the coxswain!”

“Guys, it doesn’t matter,” you said, rubbing your temple. “Just knock it off.”

“Fine,” said Jenna, swinging one leg over the other in a haughty manner. “As I was going to say, Dylan told me something that might just cheer your grumpy ass up.”

“Yeah, like what,” you grumbled, pulling your planner closer and beginning to scribble. You were doubtful anything Dylan the Dull had to say would pertain to you, let alone make you happy.

“His friend Jack has a class with you,” said Jenna. “You remember Jack, right?”

You surely did. He was an auburn haired Adonis from crew, with freckled skin and a wonky little smile. He hung around with Tyler’s group from the team so you’d met him a couple times. And a couple was just enough to make an impression, a good one.

Had you been in the market for a distraction, a family oriented, buff, sweethearted med student like him would probably be the one. But you weren’t looking for yet another time consuming extracurricular. Besides, you had barely talked to the guy, for all you knew he was a raging psychopath.

But there was another, more likely reason you kept your distance. Guys like him weren’t usually interested in girls like you. More than that, they usually had some nasty opinions. With your skin a patchwork of tattoos, and your face littered with piercings, a lot of people tended to find your appearance alarming. A polite, straight-laced, boy-next-door, future doctor jock type like him didn’t exactly mesh.

Evidently, you’d spent a lot of time thinking about Jack. More time than you should have spent thinking about a friend of a boyfriend of a friend. An embarrassing amount of time, in your opinion. So you just shrugged, and said, “Mhm, I think so.”

“Well, he’s in Pendanski’s class with you,” she said, smirking. “You better get a seat in the front.”

“Why’s that?” you asked.

“I just think it’d be hard to focus if he was in the corner of your eye,” said Jenna teasingly.

You began tracing over your words with your pen, just to have something to do. “I don’t think so,” you said. “I tend to find lecture material much more interesting than boys.”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Jenna giggled. “I know you know he’s gorgeous. Don’t lie!”

“Yeah, he’s — cute,” you said, shrugging again. “In an obvious, muscley kind of way. I guess.”

Jenna clucked disapprovingly.

“You need to broaden your horizons a little bit,” she said. “This is your last year being normal. After this, it’s all comps, and research, and dissertations. You won’t have a break like this again until you’re thirty.”

“A break?” you said incredulously, motioning to your planner. “Did you not listen to a word I just said?”

“You’re so dramatic,” she said.

“Dramatic, sure,” you scoffed. “Because I care more about my future career than getting a date.”

“I just don’t want you to wake up all dry and wrinkly one day and realize you wasted away your youth,” said Jenna. “You’re hot, and fun. It won’t last forever. So get a B minus and have one, singular hot, fun night!”

You opened your mouth.

“And drinking warm beers once every two months with us does not count,” Jenna added, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Especially when you bring AIDS and Its Metaphors to the fucking dive bar.”

You closed it.

Maybe you preferred a good book over a game of pool, and maybe you hadn’t had a boyfriend since high school, but by the time Global Health rolled around that Tuesday, you decided Jenna didn’t know what she was talking about. But you had forgotten how cute Jack was.

Because class was small, and you spent most of the time having open group discussions, there was no big, crowded lecture hall. Desks were organized in a semi circle around the blackboard, kind of like back in elementary school, which you usually liked but now caused a spark of dread. You couldn’t get a front seat and forget Jack was there. Especially when he bounded straight over to you the second he walked through the door.

It was hard not to smile back when Jack smiled at you, and he was always smiling.

“Hey,” he said happily, at a much louder volume than the buzzing that filled the room. He attracted some odd looks as he sat down.

“Hi,” you said, quieter.

You looked around. You were used to sticking out. Higher education tended to be populated more with buttoned up cardigan wearers with loafers and ballet flats than ink and metal, and you were no stranger to the mutters and glances, and even look-down-your-nose attitudes you received. But as you sat you realized, Jack wasn’t exactly fitting in, either.

For one thing, there were only two other men in the class. For another, they were both wearing turtle neck sweaters and eying his faded wrestling team t-shirt and worn jeans with disdain. Jack paid them no mind, however. He simply pulled out a pencil and pad, stuffed his backpack under his seat, and turned to you. Two sore thumbs on opposite ends of the spectrum.

The rest of the class resumed their buzzing, and you felt obligated to mirror Jack’s attentive posture. You pulled one foot up onto your chair and rested your armpit over the back of it so you were facing him.

“Hi,” he said again, and you were shocked his cheek muscles weren’t sore yet. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Jack. Abbot.”

He held out a large hand, and you stared for a few seconds before taking it. He had done the same thing the first time you met.

“I remember you, Jack Abbot,” you said, and he smiled ever wider. “Besides, Jenna reminded me a few days ago. She’s Dylan’s girlfriend.”

“I remember Jenna, she’s great,” he said. “I remember you, too.” “Really?” you said faintly, valiantly ignoring the flutter in your stomach.

“How could I forget?” he said earnestly. “You inspired me to take this class in the first place.”

“Oh,” you said, shocked. “Well, um… good. I think it’s important for doctors to learn about the social and cultural side of medicine.”

“Me too,” he said eagerly. “We hardly talked at all about the — the social determinants of health. You know, treating the person as a whole and not just their symptoms.”

“Right,” you said, amused. “Well, welcome to the anthropology department. I hope you like reading.”

“Love it.”

“And public speaking.”

“A favorite of mine.”

“And essays that make you wanna tear your hair out.”

He held out his hands.

“Try me.”

You raised a brow.

“If math is your usual forte, you might not like this class much,” you said. “Just a fair warning.”

“Well, I think it’s valuable enough to my career and patient care to suffer through,” he said. “Besides, I’m always looking to broaden my horizons.”

Jenna’s words rang in the back of your skull, but you were distracted by the entrance of Professor Pendanski.

Jack did prove to be a distraction, although not because you thought he was hot. At least, not entirely. Your mind kept straying from health policies to him, wondering about how he was doing, what notes he was taking, if he was keeping up. He kept mostly quiet during discussion, and more than once you caught him looking at you. If he hoped you’d give him a hint, he was wrong. There was no cheating in a theory class. No one right answer to whisper to your friend, or number of fingers to hold up. You had to learn to process information fast, and think critically about the situation presented to you. But this time, without lab values, test results, or any physical measurements. 

By the end of the three hours, he was looking rather overwhelmed, and the class had already been assigned a three hundred page book to read and a two page response due by the next class date.

As everyone began packing up, you extended your leg and tapped his knee with the tip of your boot.

“You still with me?”

“Yes,” he said after a while. “Just trying to mentally plan for when I’ll have time to read an entire book in a week. And then write about it. And then start over. How has your brain not exploded?”

You chuckled.

“Practice,” you said. “But truthfully? Sometimes I’m not sure it won’t.”

He shook his head, watching you throw your stuff back in your bag.

“And you have seven years of this stuff?”

“Well, not exactly,” you said. “First few, then I take comps, then I have to convince people to give me money, then I spend two years using the money to do a research project out in the real world, then another couple writing about it, and then all I have to do is present it to a board and if they don’t think I’m shit, boom, I’ve got my PhD!”

“That’s insane,” he said, eyes wide and locked on you. You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged. “It’s what I love. Even if I have to remind myself out loud sometimes.”

He laughed, eyes locked on you. 

“No, seriously,” he said. “Med students love to shit on a PhD, but that’s… way harder. I don’t think I could do it.”

You shuffled your feet around, pulling a threat on the strap of your tote, unsure how to respond.

“Thanks,” you said softly. “Um, I’m headed to South…”

With a jolt, Jack jumped to his feet, sweeping all his stuff into his back haphazardly and straightening up.

“I’ll walk you!” he said, throwing it on and waiting at your side like a dog on a walk. “I’m headed that way anyways. So, what kind of project do you want to do?”

“Uh, women’s health,” you said, moving towards the door.

He stared at you expectantly.

“What about it?” he asked. “Mother baby? Pregnancy? Puberty? Aging? Certain populations? Certain conditions?”

“It’s complicated,” was all you said.

“I’ve got time,” he said simply, jogging ahead to hold open the door for you.

“Alright,” you said, stepping through it. “What do you wanna know?”

“Everything,” he said.

You rolled your eyes.

“Not everything..”

He met your gaze piercingly.

“Everything.”

So you started talking. You expected him to trail off somewhere after ten minutes, but he didn’t. He asked more questions and blinked less times than anyone you’d told before. His gaze was intense, focused, and unbreakable. A little unnerving, even. You weren’t used to someone giving you their undivided attention the way he did. Not that you resented that; your friends were all as exhausted as you, your professors heard the same outlines from dozens of different students everyday, your classmates couldn’t care unless they had something to gain from it.

And that was the weirdest part. Jack didn’t have anything to gain listening to you go on and on, he wasn’t a mentor to you, he wasn’t in the field, he wasn’t even really your friend. In other words, why the fuck did he give two shits about your academic plan?

You pondered that as you walked through the halls down to the basement room where you would hold your meeting in fifteen minutes time. You could not come up with an answer.

“This is me,” you said, opening the door to the bleak, carpeted, windowless room.

He stuck his head in.

“What’s in here?”

“A meeting,” you said. “For a student org I help run. A local mutual aid thing.”

“Cool,” he said, like he meant it. “Need help setting up?”

“No, you’re fine,” you said. “My friend should be here soon. Doesn’t take much.”

“Right,” he said.

You expected him to wave and depart, only to be seen next Tuesday in class, but for the second time, you were wrong. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth from ball to heel, looking around. You watched him, unsure what to do or say.

“So, um,” you said, confused. “I guess I’ll… see you in class?”

He nodded.

“Yes, yeah, class,” he said, slowly stepping backwards.

“Thanks for… walking. And listening,” you said. “You’re a nice guy. Much better than Dylan.”

He laughed breathily, cheeks pinkening.

“So, we can be friends, then?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said, and his shy smile turned into a true one.

“Sweet,” he said, nodding. “Sweet. Cool.”

“Cool,” you said, holding in a laugh. 

He turned, got halfway past the door frame, then paused, hand resting on the slightly warped wood.

“Real quick question, no pressure,” he said quickly, “but, um, after class today, I don’t know, I was feeling a little… like, just a bit overwhelmed, and a little confused…”

“And like you’re drowning in a sea of knowledge, and there’s so much sitting on your head you don’t know where to start?” you finished, and he let out a breath and a smile. “I know the feeling well.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, hands moving to hold his backpack straps. “So, I was wondering, no worries if not, I know you’re busy, but would you maybe be able to meet up some time? I could really use an expert’s advice.”

“Ooh, yeah, I won’t be an expert for another six years yet,” you said jokingly. “But I’d be happy to help where I can.”

“Awesome!” he said, looking relieved. “Amazing! Great! So, how about tomorrow? Assuming you don’t have a club meeting, or a class, or – or anything.”

“Um, tomorrow should be fine,” you said. “My last class ends at five, and then I was just gonna get some reading done, so.”

“Perfect!” He made a motion, like he was raising his arms in the air to do something, forgot what it was, then settled on an awkward thumbs up. “Thanks. Um, do you like coffee?”

“Can’t live without it,” you said.

“How about Common Grounds, on main?”

“I can be there at six,” you said.

“Okay!” he said. “I’ll see you then, yeah?”

And only then was he gone, then, when he knew the next time he’d be seeing you was soon. When you heard the echoing slam of the main door shutting behind him, you had to let out a snort to the empty room.

What an odd little person, you thought to yourself. 

The following night, you arrived ten minutes early to find Jack reading at a cozy corner table, and a steaming mug of your favorite just waiting in front of your empty chair.

“You seemed like that kinda girl,” was all Jack said when you asked how he got your order right.

As the sky grew darker and the wind rattled the windows, you talked Jack through what to expect from the course. Vocabulary he would be hearing, frequently risen topics, and advice not to let Charlene bait you into a rage. But by the time you were on your second refill, he had gotten you talking. About why you chose the topic you chose, why it was personal to you, which turned into talking about your experience before college, and before you knew it, he had you naming your childhood pets.

“Bitsy, Maude, and Xena,” you said. “Xena’s the only one left now, but I don’t think she’ll ever die.”

You blinked at the man before you, staring at you with his chin in his palm, nodding like he’d never heard anything so interesting. You cleared your throat.

“So, what kind of medicine do you want to practice?” you asked.

“Emergency,” he said. You nodded. “That’s it.”

“Okay, why emergency?”

“Just because,” was all he said.

You narrowed your eyes.

“No, no, no,” you said. “You can’t let me go yammering on for god knows how long, and then give me ‘just because’.”

“Fine,” he laughed. “Specializing in emergency is kind of like specializing in a little bit of everything. It’s fast paced. You can walk in the door each morning and have no idea what your day will look like. And… I feel like it’s the closest to the general population you can get, you know? We take everybody, no matter what, and figure out how to help them. Doesn’t matter what they have, doesn’t matter if they have money, if they’re homeless, rich, young, old, whatever. When you need help, you come to us.”

And that was when you knew you were fucked. Because before you talked to him, he was just hot. Now you knew he was not only hot, but also kind, thoughtful, and with a strong as shit moral character? Interest became a full blown crush, and your discomfort became raging embarrassment. The best part? From that night on, you could never escape him.

Dylan and Jenna’s friend groups had been circling each other since the two started dating, but it seemed all they needed was one more link to send them crashing together. You and Jack were that one link. All of a sudden, Dylan and some buddies would be chilling on your couch when you walked through the door. All-you-can-eat brunch Sundays at the diner on the corner was coed. You could never be sure each time you rounded a corner that Jack’s smiling face wouldn’t be waiting to jumpscare you. He even showed up to your next BCSM meeting, a newly minted member.

You didn’t completely hate it, to be fair. Dylan the Dull might have been just that, but he had some surprisingly interesting friends. Jack’s closest, a man named Michael who told you to call him Robby, was probably your favorite. He was older, a senior, and treated Jack like a baby brother, with a healthy balance of teasing and advice. And Jack? Well, he was a dream. That was the problem.

He kept doing nice things for you. If he got to the cafeteria before you, it was, “They were running out of your favorite juice, so I grabbed one for you!” If he ran into you in the copyroom, he was paying for your pages. If he saw you struggling with your mountain of books, he said, “Let me grab those! We don’t want you pulling a muscle. Trust me, I’m in med school!” Two weeks before every crew race, he was hand delivering you a personal invitation, even though you never showed up.

But the overwhelming generosity and kindness weren’t the worst part. The worst part was that about a week into the new arrangements, you finally realized why he was so dead set on becoming your friend. Or at least, you thought you did. See, you might not have been Jack’s type, but Jenna certainly was.

She had sheets of black hair that fell over her back in shiny waves. She wore sensible flats, and mini skirts, and teeny tiny golf sweaters. The two of them could have posed for JC Penney catalogues and no one would bat an eye.

And you kept catching them whispering with each other when they thought no one was looking. The first time you got suspicious, you keyed into the apartment to find them with their heads bowed towards each other, muttering. When they saw you, they sprang away from each other. Jack jumped to stand so suddenly that he knocked his knee hard against the edge of the table and shifted all his weight to the other leg for a while. He was bright red, Jenna’s eyes were shifty. They wouldn’t give you a straight answer when you asked what they were talking about, and they were the only two home.

Maybe you were imagining it, reading into things that weren’t really there. Jenna did have a boyfriend, after all, a boyfriend who was good friends with Jack. And maybe you filled your mind with this narrative because some part of you felt some type of ownership of Jack. You weren’t dating, weren’t even close, but the idea of him going out with someone else still seemed to hurt a little.

By the end of October, the unfamiliar additional mental strain, along with all the hours spent in the library helping Jack with the midterm paper, was catching up to you. When you floated the idea of staying home from the usual halloween party, though, your friends exploded.

“You can’t not come!” said Iris, the night before. “You’re the Halloween queen!”

“Besides, Celia already started ironing your bloody dress,” said Jenna. “And you worked so hard on that costume, what are you gonna do, scare the trick-or-treaters? What a waste!”

You were excited about the costume, Carrie, so you agreed to go but not drink. They needed a designated driver, anyway.

You weren’t a big partier, never had been, but Halloween was usually the exception. This year, you stood in a stranger’s crowded kitchen, pressed against the wall and trying not to get stepped on. As it turned out, Halloween wasn’t nearly as much fun when you were sober.

It took three minutes for your friends to abandon you, and five for Jack to find you. It was like he had a radar or something.

“Hey!” he bellowed, forcing his way through the throng to get to you. “Carrie?”

“Yep,” you half smiled. “And you…”

“Michael Meyers,” he said, pulling the mask out of his pocket. “The mask is a little warm, though, so I guess I’m really just a railroad worker with a knife.”

“A murderous railroad worker,” you said. “So, like, Angel Resendiz.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Railroad Killer?” you said. “He was just caught. I don’t think he actually worked on railroads, but he used them to travel and get away, and he always murdered people close to the train stops.”

“Huh,” said Jack. “See, I never knew about him.”

“He was on the Ten Most Wanted list,” you said matter of factly.

“So it isn’t just fictional crime you’re interested in, then?” he asked.

“No, no, I love my true crime mags,” you said. “Jenna says that’s a sign I’m a secret serial killer. I’m not, but if I was, I’d last way longer than most of those idiots.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Jack with a smile. “What are you drinking?”

“Nothing,” you said. “I’m driving tonight.”

“Really? Jenna said you usually go crazy for Halloween.”

And she would have had plenty of time to tell him that during their secret rendezvous. You crossed your arms.

“Not tonight,” you said shortly.

“Oh,” said Jack, scratching the back of his head. “Well… how about a soda?”

Before you could answer, he was setting aside his full cup of beer and digging through the fridge. A second later he was placing a freezing cold can of Dr Pepper in your hand, and holding a rootbeer in the other.

“Thanks,” you said, staring at the can. It was your favorite.

“Want ice?” he asked. “I can put it in a real glass, if you want. This is Robby’s place, he’s not the cleanest, but he never empties the dishwasher, so I know whatever’s in the cupboards hasn’t been touched since he moved in.”

“That’s okay,” you said.

“How about a straw?” he asked, spinning on the spot. “I’m sure we’ve got some here… somewhere…”

“Jack, it’s fine,” you said firmly. “I can drink from a can.”

“Right,” he said, and he cracked open his only after you did yours. “Sorry.”

You sighed. You were being mean to him, and he didn’t deserve it. He was only trying to be polite. Like always.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you said. “I think I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed. And definitely tired.”

“Of course, why wouldn’t you be!” he said quickly. “I know how hard you work, you — probably work harder than anyone I’ve ever met.” He tugged his ear nervously. “Um, do you maybe wanna go somewhere a little quieter? Away from all this?”

You did. So you nodded, and he led you back through a deserted room filled with boxes and junk, opened the window, and stood aside to help you out. I was a little fire escape, rusty and cold like all of them were, but there was a threadbare blanket draped across the cold metal. You settled against it, adjusting the long skirt of your dress to cover your crossed legs, but the wind still reached you from between the little metal slots. You shivered. Without skipping a beat, Jack handed you a puffy jacket.

“Where did this come from?” you asked.

“I was out here earlier,” he said, looking around at the other buildings. “Left it behind.”

You shrugged it on. It was warm and smelled like him. You hadn’t even realized you knew what he smelled like.

For a second, all was quiet but for the faint base thumping from inside, the honking of traffic below, and the sound of slurping as you both sipped your drinks. 

“So, listen,” said Jack finally, and you turned to look at him, leaning against the brick. He was twisting the tab of his rootbeer can around and around, not looking at you. “I just… wanted to thank you for being so helpful this semester. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, nudging your knees together for a second.

His leg twitched when you pulled away.

“Yeah, it’s just,” he cleared his throat. “I think you’re a really, really cool person. I mean, watching you debate in class? I don’t even know why Charlene tries anymore,” he chuckled.

You stayed silent. You were never sure what to do when faced with a compliment. Jack shifted his position. Then he rested his elbow back against the exposed window sill. Then he drew it back towards himself. The rootbeer can squeaked slightly as he continued to fidget with it.

“I — I,” he started, then he cleared his throat again. “I don’t know if you… I mean, I — jesus christ. I — for the past few months, or, no — for — a long time, I guess —”

You watched him struggle, and even in the near total darkness, in just the faintest of glows from the street lamps and headlights, you could see the burning red color of his skin. From his cheeks, to his neck, to his ears. He cleared his throat a third, then a fourth time.

“I feel… I’ve been — okay, here’s what it is,” he said, taking a breath. “You are — and, maybe it’s been obvious, but I don’t — I mean, no it’s — it’s been obvious…”

You were in complete and utter confusion. You looked back over at him. His mouth was open, but the words seemed to be stuck. You leaned a little closer.

“Are you having a stroke?” you asked.

“No,” he chuckled, rubbing a hand down his face. “I mean, maybe. I mean, no, I just —” he sighed, staring at his knees. “You have become a really good friend to me this semester, and — the last thing I want to do is make things awkward.”

And your heart sunk down to your butt faster than an anchor in a lake. You turned back to face the city, away from the flustered mess next to you. So that’s what this was. He really had been playing the long game with Jenna, and now he was enlisting your help. Well, you weren’t interested.

“Jack, stop,” you interrupted him, a strange mixture of acidic emotions swirling in your waterlogged chest. “I know what you’re trying to say.”

“Shit,” he said. “So I was obvious, huh? I — fuck, Robby would be happy, he told me to be straight with it, but nothing I did ever seemed to be noticed, but I guess it was? I mean, unless… Jenna didn’t tell you, did she?”

“She didn’t have to,” you said coldly. “And I’m sorry, but whatever it is you want me to do or say, I’m not going to.”

There was a metallic clinking sound, and the soda tab finally popped off and landed next to your hand on the blanket. You crossed your arms. He was quiet for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice sounded a little rough and a lot disappointed.

“You — you’re not?”

“No!” you said indignantly. “And frankly, I’m disappointed that you would ever even consider doing something like this. And offended that you thought I would help you do it! She has a boyfriend, you know, one you claim to be friends with!”

You started gathering up your skirts to leave, but Jack stopped you.

“Wait, wait, wait, now I’m confused,” he said, holding out his hands to block the window. “Who has a boyfriend? Help me do what?”

You let out a harsh, impatient breath.

“Jenna!” you said. “I know you like her, and I’m sorry, but it’s not right! And I’m going to be having a serious talk with her about this. No one likes Dylan, but this is just fucked up.”

You lifted a foot to ease through the window, but Jack placed his hand on it and slid it shut with a snap.

“I don’t like Jenna!” he said, sounding desperate. “I never liked Jenna! Ever! And I’d never go after a girl with a boyfriend! Especially not Jenna!”

“Really,” you huffed. “And all the times you were whispering together? That was just about school, right? Because what don’t economics and med school students have in common?”

“That wasn’t anything!”

“And you showed up pretty abruptly, too,” you said suspiciously. “Playing the long game, huh? Shoulder to cry on and what not?”

“No!” said Jack frantically. “This had nothing to do with Jenna, okay? I like — I like you!”

In the ringing silence, the blush returned full force. You were shocked. You were hesitant. You were elated. You were confused. But you were already filled with anger, so it kept coming out.

“What the hell are you talking about?” you hissed. “You don’t like me.”

He grunted in frustration, tugging at his curls.

“Right, no, I like Jenna,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s why I talked to her friends to find out what kind of things she was into! And why I spent the summer researching her subject so that I would be able to talk to her about it without seeming dumb! And why I spent four hours at the registrar’s office switching my schedule around so that we could be in the same section of a class! And why I spent months trying to show her how much I cared about her, and asking her to come to my races, and committing everything about her to memory! And why I asked her to come out to this stupid fucking fire escape, to confess my stupid fucking feelings.”

Silence fell again, this time filled with his somewhat heavier breathing as he finished his rant. You were frozen as you watched him deflate the longer you stayed quiet. You wanted to speak, you just didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it. Maybe there were no words.

“Sorry,” said Jack, sliding the window back up. “I’m not trying to trap you here. I just needed you to know… I mean… I guess I wanted to put all my cards on the table.”

He leaned his arms on his bent knees, and his head against the brick, and closed his eyes. The window was open, a portal away from this horribly awkward, vulnerable moment. You stood, stretched your legs, then lined your shoes up perfectly opposite his so the toes were touching, and crouched back down.

This is crazy, you thought to yourself as you threaded your fingers through his curls. This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy.

His hazel eyes opened with shock and confusion. His lips parted slightly, but before he could talk, you were pressing your own against them.

This is amazing, this is amazing, this is amazing.

Your head went staticky, taking in only the softness of his lips and the easy, natural way they moved against yours. You used handfuls of his hair to pull him closer, and your teeth clashed for one second but you didn’t, couldn’t, stop. At least until you ran out of air.

You pulled back just barely, still close enough that you were sharing air, and muttered, “I like you, too.”

And there was that familiar, intoxicating smile.

“Really?” he asked in awe.

“Well, duh,” you said, pulling your hands back, but he caught your wrists.

“I like you a lot,” he said.

“You told me,” you said.

“Yeah, but like, a lot,” he said, tracing the ink on your forearm gently. “Like, more than I’ve ever liked anyone before, I think.”

You took a deep breath, then buried your face deep into his chest and muttered your requital so it came out muffled.

“What?” he asked.

You rolled your head to the side so your mouth peaked out.

“Nothing,” you said. “You’ll find out later.”

And he would. And walking home that night in his arms, somehow, the future didn't seem quite so daunting.

---

requests open!

jack masterlist

tucked away in a distance hazy memory shadowed by drunken missteps and brazen attempts at making his feet move one in front of the other in some form of a clumsy mishmash of polished shoes and unashamed movements.

now, he rarely swayed at any attempt to get him on a dance floor. the occasional rocking as he held you on the sidelines at the dive bars he and jack would frequent after a particularly rough shift was his excuse for ‘not wanting to embarrass you or himself with his sad dance skills’.

but in the privacy of his home was where he came to life, especially after he finally convinced you to move in with him. among the many new accessories added to his living area was a well kept record/cd player combination and a basket full of your favorite albums, ranging from classical all the way to old r&b that reminded him of his time as a med student in the bustling city of pittsburgh just trying to get by (and the late nights spent bar hopping with jack with just enough money for cheap beer and a good time).

he sat comfortably on the plush couch, flipping through his recent reread with his readers sat flush against the bridge of his nose, one leg crossed over the other, dressed for comfort in a cotton tee and his well worn gray sweats. the last rays of evening sunlight caught the silver whisps in his hair and highlighted the depths of his brown eyes, warming his skin just a touch against the cool ac that pumped through the house.

you padded around the kitchen, cleaning up a few dishes from an early dinner as you softly hummed along to a tune that had been stuck in your head for the last hour and a half, trying to pin point where it’s from as you placed each dish back in its respective spot with a slightly frustrated huff. you’d listened to this song many times before, you just couldn’t pin point the name, causing your slight frustration.

finishing up in the kitchen, you waltzed over to the basket housing your records and cd’s, scouring through the endless amount of physical media as you pulled a few cases out, spreading them out to the side as you read through each tracklist, trying to place the rhythm bouncing around your head with the song name.

robby turned his head at the sound of movement behind the couch, watching as you sat yourself on the floor by the table that housed your precious record player, chuckling softly at the determined expression that housed itself on your features, the furrow of your brow and the adorable pout along your lips.

marking his place in his book by dog-earing the well worn page, he turned to sit sideways along the couch, one arm thrown over the back of the couch while his full focus was now trained on your form as you sorted through each case.

“whatcha up to, sweetheart?”

“trying to find this song that’s been stuck in my head all evening- if i don’t find it i think i might actually tear my hair out.”

“well, we can’t have that now can we?”

robby chuckled slightly, the sound of rustling cases being placed back into the basket bouncing back at him. you had narrowed it down to three final contenders, two well worn vinyl records and a weathered cd you had picked up from a music shop in a neighboring town you had dragged him out to on one of your shared off days.

“i think it’s on this cd, if it’s not then i give up and the song will haunt me for the rest of my days!”

“well, let’s hope you’re right, and if anything i’ll try to help you find the song, baby doll.”

“my knight in shining scrubs, what would i do without you?”

robby’s face turned to look like he was actually thinking before breaking out into a wide grin as you laughed at him, shaking his head with a quick shrug.

“probably still be haunted by the song that’s stuck in your head. now, pop the cd in and let’s see if you solved your mystery.”

you gingerly lifted the cd from its case, fingers brushing invisible dust off of the material before turning the on switch up on the record player, face illuminated by the light of life that burst from the small digital screen.

slotting the cd into its respective place, you leaned back on your haunches, listening to the notes of the first track before shaking your head, pout still sat firm on your lips as your fingers slid along the protruding buttons, hitting the skip button on the first 3 songs.

robby had gotten up to go stand near you, watching as you continued to press the skip button like it was your mortal enemy, chuckling under his breath as you skipped another 3 songs.

“something funny, michael?”

“ooh, first name huh? am i in trouble or am i no longer your beloved boyfriend?”

“sorry..just getting frustrated. i swear it was this album-“

your words died off as you stopped on the last track. track 11. the smooth piano and drum accompaniment flooded the room as the lead singer belted a note, the guitar following suit. a wide grin spread across your face as you clapped your hands together excitedly.

“this one! i knew it was here!!”

you stood, jumping around before launching yourself into robby’s arms, a soft ‘oof’ leaving his lips before they wrapped around your waist, the coarse hair of his beard brushing against your forehead as his nose buried itself in your hair.

“dance with me?”

“baby..”

“please, mikey? one dance? that’s all i want.”

“fine, fine. but you can’t laugh at your old man okay?”

“no promises!”

robby’s hands slid further down to hold onto your hips, yours braced against his shoulders as his nose brushed against your forehead. swaying to the gentle caress of the vocalizing group as you spun the two of you around, robby’s feet following as your hands slid into his.

he lifted an arm, spinning you around before pulling your back against his chest, the back of your head tucked against the space between his neck and shoulder.